Finger in the sand

 

Ever since I took off, I've had the same dream over and over again. This never happened to me on Earth. I'm walking through a room full of faceless people. At the far end, I see a man lying on the ground because everything around him is blindingly white. The blood around him seems to be the only sign of life. And the people, I only know they're standing in groups, talking. I can't understand them, and as I get closer to the man, the more peace comes over me. I lean over him, but the people still pay no attention... and then I wake up. In three minutes, thirty percent impulse from the bow thrusters. This interrupts my thoughts for a moment. Sometimes I wake up with a strange feeling carried over from the dream. It's hard to define it, sometimes longer, sometimes shorter, I only know if it's positive or negative. The countdown to launch minus one

minute. When you approach such a ship, you think you're close, but the ship keeps growing and growing until, with time, you can't tell where it begins or ends.

Space travel is a flight through vast oceans of silence. It's shocking at first, but you only begin to appreciate it when you disembark in a huge

dock, where every noise seems like an unnatural element of the environment. I personally use bread pellets. That's why, after docking, I was so scared to death when, as

we were disembarking, a member of the crew suddenly grabbed my arm.

"Mr. Ber Nower, please hurry up, they had to start the operation without you." I nodded and followed him. He was a little surprised when I removed the pellets from my ears, but

he didn't say anything. He led me quickly down a white circular corridor, passing through

airlocks numbered with Roman numerals, then turning into the alphabet somewhere around the "R." People here were different; they stopped and pointed at me, and while this might seem cool to anyone because it's a sign of popularity, over time it helps you understand the angry monkeys at the zoo. Glass-paneled rooms began to appear in the corridor walls, revealing the medical staff.

"You'll have to go on alone," he pointed to the sliding door. "It was nice meeting you, will you find your way to the main corridor?

" "Don't worry, I was throwing candy behind me." "But he didn't hear me, I guess."

Then he said goodbye with a pat on the shoulder.

I quickly moved to the door. Behind it was room 24, and on the door were a multitude of warning signs about maintaining cleanliness in various languages. I burst through the door and immediately ran over a nurse. I apologized as I ran, thanking God she wasn't carrying anything sharp. Only one door had a sign above it that a surgery was in progress. First, a thorough cleaning, then a coat several sizes too tight, which, as I heard, had ripped in several places, and I entered the room. So this is what an operating room looks like. On the way to the table, I looked around carefully, because no one was actually performing procedures by hand anymore; everything was done by computer, and a scalpel was something you rarely saw in college, and rarely used for its intended purpose. Three people stood over the table; somewhere a newborn was crying. I only said, "Good morning," and I stood next to the oldest surgeon. Two were working, and one was just watching; his hands were clean. Seeing what was happening and that the cesarean section he had performed was a first-rate mess, I took the scalpel from the nurse that the senior doctor had demanded.

"Suck," I commanded, somewhat contemptuously, but I was listened to. The sight that

greeted me was horrific; blood was flowing everywhere. For the first time since the stadia, I didn't know where to begin. After four hours of surgery that lasted only four minutes, the hemorrhage proved unbearable. My lab coat followed the gloves into the trash.

I was smoking a cigarette, and I wasn't alone in the room.

All the witnesses of this shameful operation were with me. I didn't feel like speaking, but I wanted to finish my cigarette because it was the only place where it could be done legally. It was a completely different kind of silence. I don't usually go under the knife alone and don't speak first unless I have to. I stubbed out my cigarette

and, which is also rare for me, immediately lit another one. I stood up.

"I wish..."—and that was probably the shortest statement of my life, which almost immediately answered a question I hadn't asked yet.

"The magnetic turbulence that accompanied the first test run of

the Hoselman transit caused 70% of the ship's computers to be reset and reformatted. This percentage included the computer that performed all operations—the man who answered me was the one who helped me the most during the operation."

"Then, until we can get the computer working and conduct the test, we need to bring in a whole platoon of surgeons from Flisheman Station, which will delay the entire expedition somewhat because they'll have to be reminded what tampons are for." Everyone in the room looked at each other, then at me as if I were trying to understand how a light bulb works, which was precisely why I rarely made public appearances.

After a brief moment of near-silence, the man spoke again.

"I don't know how to say this most delicately, but that slight jolt you felt, or maybe you didn't, a moment ago was the prelude to the crossing. In 24 hours, we'll be in the field,

and then two months, and our planned destination will be reached. Then you'll celebrate with us, and you'll be part of the elite group of people who have made a historic breakthrough in space travel." I felt nauseous, and then suddenly someone turned off all the lights.