Rikhter

Rikhter’s fingers work dumbly, distracted. A washer drifts away. It always does that.

He ignores the figure hovering just beyond his field of vision, instead concentrating briefly on the Earth turning thousands of miles below. 

Rikhter grits his teeth reminding himself that he is alone on the station. It’s impossible anyone else could be out here watching him banging on a solar panel with a glorified monkey wrench. 

Yet he’s spotted the figure in the galley, the head, and here, on the aft array. 

Luckily he followed it, finding the propylene leak which, left dribbling into the HVAC unnoticed, would oxidize, and blow-out a hole which sucks him into space.

Now the figure lingers near his left ear.

Turn! He hisses to himself fogging his visor. He spins, once more finding the desiccated corpse of a cosmonaut. Rikhter’s eyes drop immediately to its name badge. It’s wearing his suit. Again!