The woman strokes a strand of hair away from her face. Her eyes are green, and her features are unapologetic. It could be because she’s expecting a baby. A pregnant belly seems to me to be the greatest expression of female confidence there is. Growing something so huge and extraordinary before everyone’s eyes.
“Thirty-two weeks tomorrow,” says the woman. She’s caught me staring. “Not too much longer now. Have you got kids?”
“No, not yet.” My cheeks flush. Even saying that—“not yet”—makes me feel strange. The idea that I could be planning to do something as radical as become a mother seems so entitled. I think I’m good enough for that, do I? And—at the same time—I reckon I’ve got what it takes to be an astronaut? Wow. I must really rate myself. I pick up a sandwich triangle.
“Evelyn,” she says, giving her name badge a quick glance. “Evie.”
I’m eating, so I point at my chest.
“Solvig,” she says. “Scandinavian heritage?”
I put my hand to my mouth to conceal the food I’m still chewing. “My mum just liked the name. Said it reminded her of a bowl of soup.”
Evie laughs. I made another joke by accident. “It’s a Norse name,” Evie tells me. “Something to do with the sun. My husband would be able to tell you more about that. He’s a medieval studies professor.”
“What is it you do?” I ask.
“I’m a forensic botanist in Birmingham. Previously I worked in biotechnology, at a germplasm resources lab.”
I raise my eyebrows, as if I have not only understood the information but also found it compelling. I reach for another sandwich triangle. “What does being a forensic botanist entail?” I venture.
“Well, quite!” She gives me a conspiratorial look. “It’s a relatively new discipline. There are different branches to it. I’m involved in palynology. That’s the study of pollen. If there’s a rare plant growing near the scene of a murder, for example, then pollen presence on the suspect can provide a strong case for prosecution.” She pauses. “My botanical skills could be used differently on Mars. That’s where the biotech comes in. I’ve created a synthetic Martian soil in my greenhouse at home. Not a perfect replica, I grant you, but I’m using it to develop plants that are well suited to the Martian environment. I’m getting some promising results with radishes. Good news for space tacos! Anyway, listen to me rabbiting on. What about you, Solvig?”
For a moment, a nasty thought creeps into my mind: maybe Evie will die in childbirth, eliminating her from the competition.
“I’m a saturation diver,” I say. “North Sea-based. Oil stuff.” I decide to say something self-deprecating about my job, as a form of self-punishment, something about how there’s no oil in space, but then I remember that there is. Instead, I say piteously: “Pollen is more interesting than oil.”
“A saturation diver?” Evie says. “How marvellous.”
Before I have the chance to denigrate myself any further, I’m saved by a bichon frise, who bounds over and starts sniffing my paper plate, trying to snatch up my final piece of ham and cheese sandwich. I jerk away the plate but give the dog a pat on the head as consolation. It’s a shame Cola isn’t here. He’d love to lollop around a place like this, but the journey would literally kill him. At least he’ll be dead by 2030, so I won’t have to worry about leaving him behind.
I hear shrieking over by the picnic table and see that the steampunks are sharing some moment of great hilarity with the girls in tinfoil.
“Do you have to be crazy to want to go on a mission like this?” I ask Evie.
She follows my gaze. “Was Ranulph Fiennes crazy when he set off for the North Pole? I mean, I suppose he’s a bad example, because he cut his own frostbitten fingertips off with a fretsaw. Imagine that!” Evie winces and places her hands protectively over her stomach. “Solvig: if craziness means being brave and ambitious and spirited and even a little foolish, then yes, we are crazy to have applied for a mission like this. But thank God for insanity.”
“He cut off his own fingertips,” I say, crossing my arms.
“Look, when people started volunteering for the first manned space missions, everyone thought they must be suicidal or mentally ill. Or trying to escape some darkness within themselves.”
My skin prickles.
•
“Okay, guys. Listen up. This is where things get serious.”
A man in a red cap is standing at the front of the room. His name, which he’s told us three times, is Brodie. He’s got an English accent but with American intonations, as though he’s binge-watched too many episodes of Friends.
“This afternoon’s activities are going to last two hours, okay? You’ll be working with the people at your table.” There are six tables in here. Ours has five women and two men at it. I was hoping that Evie would be in here too, but she’s not.
“You’ve been assigned groups randomly, so no ulterior motives. I’ll be making notes while you’re doing the exercises. Make sure I can see your name badges, okay?”
As he speaks, Brodie strides around the room, never quite making eye contact with us, glancing furtively at the tables, the backs of our chairs, our jumpers. He’s desperate to be comfortable in this environment, and we’re desperate for him to be comfortable too. Unfortunately, he’s beginning to sweat. The sweat is gathering beneath the peak of his cap.
“The first exercise of the afternoon,” Brodie explains, “is a humorous twist on the classic balloon debate.” He freezes and points at the ceiling with a terrified expression. “Beware!”
Startled, I follow his gaze. I see an air-conditioning unit and a strip of fluorescent lighting.
“The transit vehicle that you and your group are travelling on is about to crash,” Brodie says.
I exhale, realising that we are only in imaginary peril. Some people laugh. I laugh too, in case I’m somehow being monitored.
“The only way to avoid certain
