Project Hail Mary

by Andy Weir

“Ffff…oooh…rrrr,” I say. Will that do? “Incorrect. What’s two plus two?” Dang it. I summon all my willpower and inner strength. Also, I’m starting to panic a little. Good. I use that too. “Fffoouurr,” I finally say. “Correct.”

I speak English. Let’s play the odds. “J–John?” “Incorrect. Attempt number three: What’s your name?” I pull the IV out of my arm. “Bite me.” “Incorrect.”

I fell into grabbing range. They don’t miss a beat. They return me to bed and settle me in like a mother putting her child to sleep.

“Eat.” Who am I to question a creepy robot-armed computer overlord? I cautiously lick the substance.

They say hunger is the greatest seasoning. When you’re starving, your brain rewards you handsomely for finally eating. Good job, it says, we get to not die for a while!

“What’s your name?” “I am Emperor Comatose. Kneel before me.” “Incorrect.”

And I know how to use it. I’m a scientist! Now we’re getting somewhere! Time for me to use science. All right, genius brain: come up with something! …I’m hungry. You have failed me, brain. Okay, well I have no idea why this lab is here or why I’m allowed in. But…onward!

“To unlock hatch, state your name,” says the computer. “But I don’t know my name!” “Incorrect.” I smack the handle with the palm of my hand. The handle doesn’t move and now the palm of my hand hurts. So…yeah. Not fruitful.

Cool thing about pendulums: The time it takes for one to swing forward and backward—the period—won’t change, no matter how wide it swings. If it’s got a lot of energy, it’ll swing farther and faster, but the period will still be the same. This is what mechanical clocks take advantage of to keep time. That period ends up being driven by two things, and two things only: the length of the pendulum and gravity.

“What’s your name?” the computer asks. I look down at my sheet toga. “I am the great philosopher Pendulus!” “Incorrect.”

How do I know all that space stuff? I just know it. It feels like second nature—information I use all the time.

I close my eyes and focus on that flash of memory. I can see bits and pieces of it in my mind. Like looking at an old photo that’s been damaged.

All life needs is a chemical reaction that results in copies of the original catalyst. And you don’t need water for that!”

“How did you do it? What killed it?” “I penetrated the outer cell membrane with a nanosyringe.” “You poked it with a stick?” “No!” I said. “Well. Yes. But it was a scientific poke with a very scientific stick.” “It took you two days to think of poking it with a stick.”

“Hey computer! Open this access panel.” “Specify aperture to open.” I point to the panel. “This. This thing. Open it.” “Specify aperture to open.” “Uh…open aperture to supply room.” “Unsealing supply room,” says the computer.

Besides, if I had a nickel for every time I wanted to smack a kid’s parents for not teaching them even the most basic things…well…I’d have enough nickels to put in a sock and smack those parents with it.

“You’ve done your part. We thought it was anhydrous life. Turns out it wasn’t. You proved that. And since no alien exploded out of your chest, we can consider the guinea-pig phase over too. So you’re done.”

you tilt your head just right and squint, I suppose it kind of looks like a beetle. Each beetle also has a name up top: “John,” “Paul,” “George,” and “Ringo.” Yeah, I get it. I’m not laughing, but I get it.

Light is a funny thing. Its wavelength defines what it can and can’t interact with. Anything smaller than the wavelength is functionally nonexistent to that photon. That’s why there’s a mesh over the window of a microwave. The holes in the mesh are too small for microwaves to pass through. But visible light, with a much shorter wavelength, can go through freely. So you get to watch your food cook without melting your face off.

felt something weird on my forehead when I woke up. I reached up and it was a Post-it note. Someone put a Post-it on my head while I slept. I pulled it off and read it: