Free Artemis by Andy Weir Page A

it wobbles a bit because of lunar libration, but don’t worry your pretty little head about that. Point is: Earth is fixed in the sky. It rotates in place and goes through phases, but it doesn’t move.
    The ramp pointed at Earth so Dad could face Mecca while praying. Most Muslims here just faced west—that’s what Dad had done all my life.
    “How will you use it?” I asked. “Special straps or something? I mean—it’s almost vertical.”
    “Don’t be ridiculous.” He put both hands on the prayer wall and leaned forward onto it. “Like this. Simple and easy. And it’s more in keeping with Qiblah than facing west on the moon.”
    “Seems silly, Dad. It’s not like Muslims in Australia dig a hole and face down. You think Muhammad’s going to be impressed?”
    “Hey,” he said sharply, “if you’re not going to practice Islam, you don’t get to talk about the Prophet.”
    “All right, all right,” I said. I pointed to the hooks. “What are those for?”
    “Work it out.”
    “Ugh!” I said. Then I grudgingly added, “For attaching a prayer rug?”
    “Correct.” He walked to a table near the cook nook and sat in one of the chairs. “I don’t want to poke holes in my usual prayer rug, so I ordered another one from Earth. It’ll be here in a few weeks.”
    I sat in the other chair, where I’d had countless meals throughout my life. “Do you have a shipping manifest number? I can arrange to get it here faster—”
    “No, thanks.”
    “Dad, there’s nothing illegal about pulling strings to—”
    “No, thanks,” he said, a little louder this time. “Let’s not argue about it.”
    I gritted my teeth but kept quiet. Time for a change of subject. “Weird question: Have you ever heard of something called ‘ZAFO’?”
    He raised an eyebrow. “Isn’t that an ancient Greek lesbian?”
    “No, that’s Sappho.”
    “Oh. Then no. What is it?”
    “No idea,” I said. “Just something I saw in passing and wondered about.”
    “You’ve always been curious. You’re great at finding answers too. Maybe you should put your genius to work on something useful for a change.”
    “Dad,” I said with a hint of warning in my voice.
    “Fine.” He folded his arms. “So you need welding equipment?”
    “Yeah.”
    “Last time you had access to my equipment it didn’t go well.”
    I stiffened. I tried not to break eye contact, but I couldn’t help myself. I looked at the floor.
    He took a softer tone. “I’m sorry. That was uncalled-for.”
    “No, it wasn’t,” I said.
    We had an uncomfortable silence—we’d mastered that art over the years.
    “Well…” he said awkwardly. “So…what do you need?”
    I cleared my head. I didn’t have time for gnawing guilt. “I need a torch, a couple tanks of acetylene, a tank of O 2 , and a mask.”
    “What about neon?” he asked.
    I winced. “Right, yeah. Neon, of course.”
    “You’re getting rusty,” he said.
    I didn’t need neon. But I couldn’t tell him that.
    When you weld aluminum, you need to flood it with a nonreactive gas to keep the surface from oxidizing. On Earth they use argon because it’s massively abundant. But we don’t have noble gases on the moon, so we have to ship them in from Earth. And neon weighs half as much as argon, so that’s what we use. It didn’t matter to me, because I’d be working in a vacuum. No oxygen to oxidize the metal. But I didn’t want him to know that. Also, I’d be cutting steel, not aluminum. But again—no reason to share that with Dad.
    “So, what’s this for?” he asked.
    “I’m installing an air shelter for a friend.”
    I’d lied to Dad more times than I could count, especially when I was a teen. But every time—every damn time—it tied my stomach in knots.
    “Why doesn’t your friend hire a welder?” he asked.
    “She did. She hired me.”
    “Oh, so you’re a welder now?” He widened his eyes theatrically. “After years of telling me you didn’t want to do it?”
    I