Michael's not sure astronauts are allowed to be messed up on dope, but supposes no one can tell you what to do when you're on a rocket to the fucking moon, so one theory is as good as another. His hand slides from Lee's back to her waist as she turns. She looks miserable. Naturally he wants to do something about that, but he's distracted by her next thought.
Vladimir Komarov: dropped from the void into the atmosphere, smashing against the Earth. Yes. He remembers that. Michael often wonders what Komarov felt as he fell. This planet was supposed to be his home, and it killed him.
“Yeah,” Michael says. “Sometimes I have dreams about him.”