You argue, briefly, that closed doors might keep storm-heat out. Okonkwo does not throw a wrench. She is too professional. Her silence is the wrench.

“The storm is particles and a puffed sky,” she says. “It is not a campfire. A lid does not help. Infrared is how we throw the heat away. Closed lids throw it into the boxes.”

Bay temperature goes from caution to a hard warning. KILO’s voice acquires a tiny warble, like a phone left on a car dashboard. “Junction temp critical. Throttling processors.” Screens dim by themselves. The orbit page becomes a slide show.

Mira’s hand hovers over the radiator enable you did not touch. “Last chance to let the heat out. After that, we are flying a calculator that had a fever.” You can smell warm plastic. It is not mint.