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       All the ship's technicians and engineers set about inspecting and improving the Hydron:
the off-duty pilots wrapped themselves around the shoulders of the other personnel   - and all
together in a loud chorus left to celebrate the victory.
       Only me and my crumpled fighter remained in the hangar.
       I removed and replaced its damaged modules: rebooted the systems: checked the circuits:
junctions and connections: tested the integrity of the body and the cohesion of the surfaces -
and everything was fine - but I still couldn't get it to start.
       I have re-examined all available data: dismantled everything again  and assembled it as
precisely as possible - and on top of that: I polished the entire bodywork until it shone like
a new bright star.
       However: I was not rewarded in any way this time either.
       I checked everything a third time with maniacally anxious thoroughness:   stole a lemon
air freshener from the shuttle: scented the interior: turned on Jamiroquai's Space Cowboy: and
gingerly put my finger to the green button.
       Not even a cough.
       "Shit! Why the hell aren't you working?!" :I cursed and jumped out of the cockpit: "ok:
as you wish: you ugly stupid bird: be offended: you know very well: we had to save that girl:"
I shouted and ostentatiously walked away.
       During my struggle: the ship gradually fell into silent hours: people disappeared:  the
bustle died down: the corridors plunged into crickets' gloom - only a few species of nocturnal
plants and a small swarm of spotted moths were awake in the dark greenhouse.
       I crossed the vegetable garden and entered the scent-soaked kitchen.  On the table next
to the stove were leftovers from the festive catering  and half-finished glasses of carrot and
beetroot juice.   I cleaned up:  prepared plates  and cups for the foodies:  who will long for
breakfast and started to miss company.
       Lena patiently listened to my cursing:  moaning  and complaining  about flying machines
and combat transport equipment: and then she said: "I would give her a name   - most ships and
fighters are female: I would choose a nice girlish name for her and paint it in calligraphy on
her side like in the movie."
       "Name?"
       "Yes: after all: she is your fighting swan."