Space rooms are usually cold. This one is somebody's home: eleven kinds of greenery and four potted plants against the deep blue outside, folded paper stars, postcards from Earth taped to a panel, a spacesuit hung by the door. Start with the bunk and the desk, then soften every hard surface until the cabin looks lived in rather than issued.
Put the plush on the bunk and it rides the bunk: move the bunk later and it comes along. That works for anything on anything, a mug clipped to the desk, a plant on a shelf. Drop a sticker behind the console and it goes behind, because the room knows where the floor is.
Tap the moon and the cabin goes dark around its fifteen lights. The screens and the amber lamps are real lights here: they cut through the dark and everything near them takes their colour, which is what a cabin at the far end of a long shift looks like.
Nothing is counted and nothing ends. One finished cabin is waiting if you would rather rebuild somebody's, sixty stickers, one at a time, each with its shadow.
