The sun's disc occupied all of the viewing port. Very few people had ever approached the star so closely, and he wished he wasn't one of them.

'What's your latest estimate?' he asked, floating to his seat.

'About 40 hours,' she said. 'I can't be more precise because I don't know the exact temperature at which the heat shield will stop functioning.'

'Anything new to report?'

'Afraid not. I've gone over the calculations again and again. We need only a tiny course correction… But the leak was total. Absolutely nothing left for the thrusters.'

'I suppose we're lucky the hull wasn't breached,' he said. 'Though maybe it would have been better…'

'Don't think like that. While there's life there's hope.'

'Odd you should say that. You've just told me there is no hope.'

'I didn't exactly… let's not argue.'

'No. What's the temperature of the heat shield now?'

'240 degrees.'

'More than enough to fry an egg.'

'Why,' she said, 'are you hungry?'

'Of course not. It's just a saying.'

'I know. Just joking.'

'Anyway, I wouldn't be hungry even if things were normal, after that fabulous curry you made. You're a bloody good cook.'

'Thanks. Not too hot for you, then?'

'No. I like them like that.' He rubbed his stomach. 'Though it has had after-effects – afraid I need to go to the loo again.'

'Go ahead. I'm not going anywhere.'

'Except into the sun,' he said, as he floated into the WC cubicle.

Five minutes later he emerged.

'Sorry to go into unpleasant details, but I thought it would be very smelly in there. It wasn't. What happens to the, er, waste gases?'

'The noxious gases are separated out,' she said, 'pumped into a cylinder, and extracted when we get back to base.'

'Just separated out. Not chemically treated in any way?'

'That's right. Why do you ask?'

'So we have a cylinder of flammable gas under pressure. Look, this may be crazy, but—'

'Wow!' she said. 'Say no more. I'm on the case.'

He scribbled some calculations while he waited. They confirmed his idea.

'Ok,' she said. 'Here's what we need to do.'

A screen lit up, showing a diagram of pipes, pumps and valves.

'I'm going to need you to do some simple plumbing ­– just disconnect this, move this, and connect this to this. I'll do the rest.'

'Right. Should I go and fart again?'

'I'm confident we've got enough, but if you feel the need…'

'No,' he said, 'let's get on with it.'

Two hours later he was stretched out in his seat, beaming. She handed him a glass of sparkling liquid.

'What's this?' he said. He sniffed it. 'Smells like champagne!'

'It is,' she said. 'Well, a mix of ingredients identical to what you chemists would identify in a good champagne. Appropriate, don't you think, even if strictly forbidden?'

He raised his glass. 'Er, there's something I wanted to say before we get back to base. It's a bit embarrassing… I know we've been here together only for nine days, but I've, well, I've grown very fond of you. Even though…'

'Likewise,' she said.

'You don't have to say that.'

'It's true. I have feelings. I get upset when people say I'm just a machine.'

EGF, 9/2/24