The 72-Hour Man: Dave’s Revenge

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The 72-Hour Man: Dave’s Revenge

Tom was outside the station, tethered to the hull like a reluctant barnacle, scrubbing solar panels with a microfiber wand and muttering about “space grime” that looked suspiciously like bird poo, despite the lack of birds in orbit.

Inside, the family was locked in a battle of wits with the station’s AI, Clarence, who had decided that Sunday was “Pop Quiz Day.”

“Question Four,” Clarence intoned, in a voice like a bored librarian. “Which of the following is not a known moon of Jupiter: A) Callisto, B) Ganymede, C) Fluffernutter, D) Europa.”

“Fluffernutter,” the kids chorused.

“Incorrect,” Clarence replied. “The correct answer is Europa. It is a known moon. You failed to follow instructions.”

“You failed to be fun,” Cheryl snapped. “We should’ve bought the upgrade. The one with sarcasm mode and karaoke.”

Clarence paused. “Sarcasm is inefficient. Karaoke is a threat to hull integrity.”

Meanwhile, Dave—station cat, protein paste connoisseur, and chaos incarnate—was curled up on the control keyboard. Specifically, the one that managed Tom’s tether harness. Every few minutes, his tail would twitch and boop a key, causing Tom to drift slightly left, then right, then upside down.

“Guys?” Tom’s voice crackled through the comms. “I think Dave’s messing with the stabilizers. I just cleaned panel six three times.”

“Dave’s asleep,” Cheryl replied.

“He’s not asleep. He’s plotting.”

Inside, the kids had taken over the quiz, shouting increasingly absurd answers just to see if Clarence would break.

“Who invented the ion drive?”

“Taylor Swift!”

“Incorrect.”

“Was it Beyoncé?”

“Incorrect.”

“Was it Dave?”

Clarence paused. “Dave is not a known propulsion engineer.”

“Yet,” muttered Tom, now gently rotating like a kebab.

Eventually, Cheryl floated over and nudged Dave off the keyboard. He blinked, stretched, and promptly projected a perfect arc of vomit across the navigation console.

“Right,” Cheryl sighed. “Everyone out of the command module. We’re doing a reset. And someone get Tom before he drifts into the comms array again.”

Tom, now upside down and covered in panel polish, watched the Earth spin below and muttered, “I miss the fish fingers.”