Blame Peter

I came in space, and the little globules of spunk got into the controls, shorting the air-conditioner.

"Matt!" yelled my colleagues, "You know there are special baggies for that." And they held theirs, pregnant and swaying before my eyes.

In shame I hang my head, muted. But I like to see my globules touch and smear the portrait in my lap, covering her black nostrils, her mouth.

Sixty weeks is a long time to restrain a harmless little fetish. And now I've shorted the display, so we don't know our Celcius - big deal.

During aphelion, Fyodor goes to take a walk. Now is a good time to fix the system. And his cable cranks out behind him.

Peter could not see him, as he gesticulated oddly, but normally the monitor would show the piercing in the life-line.

It was the size of a ball-bearing. We know they come from launches, often beaming 100 porn or fishing channels to the planet-lubbers.

But what we didn't know, is that the A/C monitor, was hooked to the airflow. Of course: warm air heats the cabin.

So the loss in Fyodor's pressure showed as "3kP", as usual, and till we dragged his corpse back we didn't know he was a shriveled prune.

We're all scientists, so we control our panic, until reason reveals the chain of flaws. Initially, we had blamed Peter.

Way to read.

Way to read.
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