Down Under Crater Billy

“End replay, Sorry,” she called. The image froze, faded.

But she hadn’t stopped it soon enough. I saw.

Tears in the eyes.

In the face of a woman who took how she felt about me very seriously indeed.

That all happened exactly one year and two days ago.

One reason I remember the date so precisely—and don’t dare forget it—is because we were married two days later. Her all in white—like anyone was going to tell her she couldn’t wear it—and me in a tux with one leg shortened because of my cast. Jenny was Maid of Honor, Jeff and Bob Best Men. Gabe, who had been sleeping-potioned by the same turkey pies which had nearly killed Jenny was ring-bearer. Sorry conducted the ceremony. He even got my name right.

I just got done talking to that moron Binkovitch.

We’re supposed to begin testing the new self-suiting airlocks in about five days. I’m forced to admit that the concept has some merit; the original lock enties have been modified so all you have to do is walk out the lock wearing a breather mask. No matter what you’re wearing—or not wearing—it suits you up as you pass through. The entie coating is also supposed to make regular and construction grade pressuits safer by making them self-sealing. Once again, a concept with some merit.

That ferret-faced weasel Binkovitch says they’re foolproof.

My darling wife can hardly wait to get her hands on them and begin testing.

Me, I hate them already.

We’ll fight about it, sure as my name’s Dove Murphy.

There are some things you can’t expect marriage to change. Not if you want it to work.