Project Hail Mary

by Andy Weir

Time to get a look at my fellow patients. I don’t know who I am or why I’m here, but at least I’m not alone—aaaand they’re dead.

don’t have any kids, but I like kids a lot. I don’t like where this is going…

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.

The diamond is connected by three thick rods (I don’t know what else to call them) to a wide trapezoidal base. That looks like it might be the rear. And in front of the diamond is a narrow stalk (just making up terms at this point) that has four flat panels attached parallel to the main ship axis.

I poke it with various things to get a feel for its hardness. It’s hard.

He waves to me with a free arm. He knows one human greeting and by golly he plans to use it.

I’ve gone from “sole-surviving space explorer” to “guy with wacky new roommate.” It’ll be interesting to see how this plays out.

The computer finishes its boot process and brings up a screen I’ve never seen before. I can tell it means trouble, because the word “TROUBLE” is in large type across the top.

“Fist me!” I push my knuckles against the xenonite. “It’s ‘fist-bump,’ but yeah.”

“This is happy! Your face opening is in sad mode. Why, question?”