|The Moon. If this story has|
taught me one thing, it's that
all of Space has a dark side.
Of course, that's wrong. Stars aren't hung, for one thing. Besides, it wasn't the sky they were in, and night is just a relative term, worthless in the endless expanses of space that enveloped our ship.
Max, as befits a man of his staggering Maxness, had acquired a job as a cook on a space-liner. Of course, such things don't exist, but you never complained when I wrote about Unicorns or Piranha-Bears, so shut up. The liner was pretty empty, to be honest. After all, who wants to cruise Space?
Yes, you probably do. Please stop interrupting.
We were in the cafeteria. It was one of those generic places you might see in Sci-Fi piece, all gunmetal grey with exposed framework and cold metal tiles. The tables were fixed in place, long flat surfaces with uncomfortable benches bolted down besides them. It was like a school lunch room, I suppose, except in space. All in all, a very depressing scene.
Max was sitting opposite me, poking at his space-gruel with a space-fork. We had a window seat, by the window. A huge, thick pane of something transparent, the window framed the open space that surrounded and oppressed us, and also served as a great place to stick up posters.
There were no posters on our window though. That would not be appropriate.
"I want to go home."
I looked up at Max, lowering my space-spoon from my mouth.
"It's too cold in space. And I feel so claustrophobic."
I looked outside. Around us, the emptiness stretched to infinity (and beyond, I understand). Max was right - the openness was oppressive, crushing and unending. I felt trapped.
Still, no point getting depressed about it all. The space-gruel was good anyway.
"Come on," I said with fake cheer, reaching out to pat Max, "We'll go and get some fleeces from the gift shop, then I'll take you home."