russert has to grin. it's gonna drive him crazy and it's exactly what he'd do. before any of them can bitch and whine -
place is ragged coffee on the workstations, techs as unshaven and beat as the crew on mars.
low hum of conversation, a bunch of the workstations are vacant, techs sleeping in cots nearby. borokovski, in his best suit, 20 years old, comes in led by two nasa flunkies. unhooks his filtration mask. vindicated.
a messenger is escorted in and taken to borokovski. he's got a copy of windows, fifty years old, and still in the shrink wrap. borokovski rips it open, then peers at tech requirements on the box.
borokovski has listened in curiously to this exchange.
common viewscreen shows ground crew's projected position. darkside of the planet. estimated temperature of -20 degrees fahrenheit and falling. the room's downcast. and bewildered.
they stare up at the screen awaiting her return ignition.
they've figured out what's up. some are thrilled, others are freaked.
they're all stunned. and freaked. they've got a serious problem now.
schlissel nods. that'd work. as russert, lowenthal and the big guys start to talk this over, borokovski motions to schlissel and his new friend the tech.