The coffee, he thinks. The Coffee's a concern.
Only one hundred single-serving pouches of instant were allotted for him on Expedition Six, stowed in the galley in a metal drawer with a black net stretched over its mouth to make sure the pouches wouldn't float away. But for all the care in the universe, it's been more than two months since the shuttle delivered him and his coffee to the International Space Station, and there aren't one hundred pouches in that drawer anymore.
Looking out his window at the orbital sunrise, Donald Pettit, the mission's science officer, finishes taking mental stock of the supply and decides, Jeez, this is the sort of morning coffee was made for. He puts on his glasses, pulls himself out of the sleeping bag that he's anchored to the wall, pushes his way out of his private quarters--about the size of a phone booth, in Destiny, the last link in the station's chain of modules--and finds his center of gravity. With it, he propels himself in clean, practiced mo...