Cosmo was a very small dog with very big fur and the most important job on the whole Space Station. "Deliver the Commander's cocoa," said Chef Martinez, clipping a tiny harness to Cosmo's chest. The mug slotted in, steam curling up past Cosmo's ears. Cosmo's tail spun like a satellite dish. He was ready.
Sniff, sniff, sniff. The corridor smelled of metal and recycled air and something else — something Cosmo's nose absolutely had to investigate. He floated-and-scrambled along the smooth curved wall, claws tick-tick-ticking, mug bobbing gently in its harness. Near the big observation window, something pale was drifting. Cosmo pressed his nose flat to the glass. A glove. An astronaut glove, tumbling in slow circles just inside the airlock corridor, bumping softly against the porthole rim with a quiet bonk, bonk, bonk.
Cosmo squeezed through the hatch. He paddled through the low gravity, snagged the glove between his teeth — it tasted of rubber and determination — and brought it back. Rookie Astronaut Priya was at the far end of the corridor, checking behind every panel for the fourth time, her cheeks very pink. She saw the glove. Her eyes went wide as two helmet visors. Cosmo dropped it into her hands. She scratched him once, firmly, between the ears. He sneezed. The mug bobbed. The cocoa stayed warm. Onward.
Sniff, sniff, sniff. A new smell drifted through the vent grating — green and damp and alive, like rain on soil. Cosmo's nose twitched left, then right, then his whole body followed. He nosed open the plant pod hatch and somersaulted gently inside, ears flying. Rows of little seedlings grew under humming purple lights. One had toppled in its tray — a tiny tomato plant, its stem bent sideways, one small leaf pressed against the soil.
Cosmo lowered his nose very carefully. Nudge. Nudge. The seedling wobbled. Nudge. It stood back up, and somehow, when Cosmo floated back toward the hatch, the little pot was tucked snugly under his chin, wedged between his fur and the harness. He didn't notice. He was already moving.
Sniff, sniff, sniff. The Commander's sleeping quarters were at the very end of corridor seven. The hatch was round and yellow. Cosmo scratched at it with one small paw. Scratch, scratch, scratch. It opened. Commander Singh floated there in striped pyjamas, hair drifting upward like a question mark. She looked at Cosmo. She looked at the mug. The tiniest thread of steam was still rising from the cocoa — barely, just barely warm. Then she looked at the seedling tucked under his chin. She made a sound somewhere between a laugh and a sigh, the kind that comes out when something is too charming to be annoyed at. She unclipped the mug. She lifted the little pot and set it on the shelf beside her porthole, where the blue curve of Earth filled the glass like a nightlight. Then she unclipped the harness and lifted Cosmo into his own small sleeping pod — a round cushioned drawer that slid out from the wall, just his size, smelling of old fur and previous naps. Cosmo turned once. Turned again. His nose twitched. Sniff. Sniff. Still. Outside the porthole, Earth turned slowly in the dark, and the little tomato plant stood straight and steady on its shelf, and the cocoa cooled, and Cosmo's nose did not twitch again for a very long time.
