Project Hail Mary

by Andy Weir

The situation was dire and deadly, but it was also the norm. Londoners during the Blitz in World War II went about their day as normal, with the understanding that occasionally buildings get blown up. However desperate things were, someone still had to deliver milk. And if Mrs. McCreedy’s house got bombed in the night, well, you crossed it off the delivery list.

Because they’re surely watching me right now. Probably counting my limbs, noting my size, figuring out what part they should eat first, whatever.

It’s not fast—just a few centimeters per second. Hey, for small spaceship velocities I think in metric! Much better than “cubits per fortnight” or whatever.

Then it contorts a hand into something resembling a thumbs-up. It’s just two fingers curled into a ball with the third pointed up. At least it’s not the middle one that’s pointed up.

“I don’t like little dictators in their little kingdoms,” she said. “Drives me crazy.”

“Good. Proud. I am scary space monster. You are leaky space blob.”

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

“Fist my bump.” I laugh and put my knuckles against the xenonite. “Fist-bump. It’s just ‘fist-bump.’”