By lamp, skin prickling in the air that cannot be warmer than 45 degrees, blow cupped palms warm. Rub the oiled rag against the scratches in the helmet's visor gripped between knees where the holograms fold and scatter unreadable starburst. This Summer, replace the whole damn thing. Scratches fill and smooth, no cracks.
Stand. Joints protest. Double over and stretch for cramps have no place in a day's work. Nerves strain to return anything more than sub-zero tongues of flame along body side and vertebrae. Caffeine pills and a cigarette lights, turning over twenty pound batteries wrapped and wrapped again in sun scorched black & orange insulation tape. A main and a spare.
Torn and patched gloves, steel sewn caps on their knuckles, pocks and divots glint winked time. Cuffs and seals, rubber beginning to harden and give, teeth of zippers blunt and hitch like they never did when they were arctic white, not gray. Lights pass tests and relays too. Switch checks and boards. Screws and panels fix tight.
Drink breakfast slowly. Vitals webbing harness. Sleeved underwear and pressure suit. Heat harness unplugged and donned. 65 degrees is the tropics this time of year. The commercial featured a talking tree frog. Radio check produces the necessary channels. The volume sequencer functions just. Rub eyelids still heavy, still cold, still not ready. The recycled air headaches inside the suit await beyond the airlock in Winter's hard light, teeth pop as they grate: "let's go."
