A Second Look

"Point six of a percent!"
"Actually, it's point five seven."

"Oh whatever, you're always being testy about these things."
"Not testy. Just exact. It pays in my line of work."

"Our line of work you mean. Just because you graduated higher than me doesn't mean that I don't count."
"Right, it just means I'm better than you."

"Hey-"
"Before you start sputtering, maybe you should remember who was the one who thought to try this method on moonrocks."

"Alright, alright, and it got you a frikking Nobel. I hope you choke on it one day. You're likely to if you talk about it much more. That is, assuming you even can talk about it much more. It already occupies what, ninety percent of your conversations?"
"Oh please. You're just jealous. And speaking of jealous, write those percentages down, I think we've got a new record for this strata. That little ton of rock will power Los Angeles for a year."

"Duly noted, mon capitan. Successful extraction of fissionable materials from substrata Delta Three. Point of origin: one one niner mark two by three five mark seven. Point six percent extraction rate."
"I told you, it's point five seven."

"Blah blah whatever. Slated for transport on the twelfth. Your granddad would be proud."
"Heh, he would at that. He always thought his theory had weight."

"Yeah, maybe they should've given him the Nobel."
"I tried to show it to him right after I got him. Went straight to his hospital room right after the ceremony and the hand-shaking was over. I swear he knew what I was talking about for a second there. Almost looked like he smiled at me. Nurse said it must've just been a reflexive reaction of some kind. Makes you wonder..."

"Wonder when you're ever going to be anything but depressing maybe. Seriously, I don't need a family history here, we all know your dad's dying. It's not the kind of thought one likes to linger on when the only thing keeping one from impending chilly death is a few meters of cel-glass."
"Space is serious business my friend."

"Right, which is why nobody takes it seriously. All the big things in life are like that. If we really stop to think about them it's hard to think about anything else. So we make fun of them, we treat them like they don't matter, like they'll never happen to us. Just like the guys in the caf all joke about spacing each other. None of 'em'd ever do it, hell, most of 'em never seen it done neither. But behind that joking they're all scared spitless just like us that we'll be the next Connor. Fixing a broken nut on the outer hull and BAM. Meteorite through the air tank. Freak accident, instant suit decompression. And off Connor floats, off into space as if he hadn't a care in the world. Makes you think, you know? How we don't know if we've got anything except right now. So we can't waste time worrying about things that might happen, taking things too seriously. Gotta live for what's here and now, cause that's all that's certain in this life."
"...Wow. Don't think I've ever heard you say something that deep since... well, ever. Didn't know you had in you."

"Just full of surprises ain't I? Look, how about we forget this death stuff and just be happy about a good day's work done here? With numbers like these, I might very well end up with my own Nobel!"
"Ha. Sure. Keep dreaming, my friend."