Dr. Harris vomited.

They were silent outside, the corporal and the others.

Dr. Harris had just been on a ship for four months getting out here.

One of them cleared their throat.

He could hear through the door.

Dr. Harris shook his head, vomited again, and wiped his mouth.

He had to clear almost a year of his schedule to fly out here. Clear it in two weeks.

Birthdays, vacations, his son would be 11 by the time he was back on planet. And to say that

they asked him to come out implied that he had any choice. He sat and caught his breath to take a

minute. In between hibernation sickness and

being thrown into whatever the reason he had been called onto asteroid Y3. Luckily, he could bill

hourly for time spent in hibernation. The door stuck as Harris slid it, haltingly open.

Harris nodded at the men in his wrinkled cotton shirt and his tweed blazer. It wasn't just the corporal now. He recognized the base

commander from the research he did on his flight up to orbit. Lieutenant's probably,

if Harris was being honest, he never really cracked the code of the hierarchy for the armed forces.

They didn't seem to care that he didn't know what they were. In fact, he treated them and they treated

him with the same level of disdain and distrust. It worked in its own way. He's right this way.

Westenberg, Corporal Westenberg, 511 kid from Detroit. He did

training about two years ago. They looked through the one-way glass at Corporal Westenberg.

He was just staring, staring forward, unblinking, unmoving. He does this all day. He's asked to be discharged. Harris face palmed.

Okay, so a kid from Detroit, what, goes into space and suddenly gets very meditative? This was

why he had to miss his son's birthday? It's not just that he's calm, doctor.

...