The Love Machine & Other Contraptions by Nir Yaniv

somewhere in the depths of his Mess Tin collection, of all places. Flour, it turns out, is almost never free of the remnants of insects caught by the harvester, and Elijah’s toast, collected with much fuss and at the last moment, was not of good quality to begin with. With a sigh of relief we agreed to be considerate and let him eat our portions of baked beans. Schwartz and I didn’t care about the quality of the toast, and Elijah, to illustrate his gratitude, tried to put together some refried beans for us.
    You wouldn’t believe the mess caused by one pot of boiling oil in zero gravity.
    ~
    On the tenth day the baked beans ran out. This produced a sigh of relief from two thirds of the staff, while the remaining third seemed a bit disappointed. We suggested that he start eating crackers.
    For a week, the atmosphere was a little tense. We ate separately, because even the smell of meat drove the device insane—Elijah had to air out the bridge before every meal—and to block the croquettes and schnitzels from his view and to block our view of the crackers. The latter’s crumbs got everywhere, especially on everyone’s nerves.
    It seemed as if Elijah’s mood was gradually deteriorating, until one morning, as we sat down to eat, we found him smiling as widely as humanly possible, holding a small round tin. Preserved corn.
    Elijah told us how he had smuggled the tinned corn on board, and then provided us with a short description of his love for corn. Afterwards I also said how much I loved corn, especially of the tinned variety. Elijah countered by explaining that, although he highly appreciates the honest emotions I expressed toward corn, as far as this amazing vegetable was concerned, his love had neither contenders nor limits. In response, I claimed that, with all due respect to my old friend, corn was one of my oldest hobbies, ever since childhood, and that any smidgen of a rumor suggesting that my love for the Food of the Gods was even remotely comparable to someone else’s appreciation, was pure folly. Elijah responded that, despite our prevailing friendship, I lacked even the smallest notion of the love of corn.
    Finally Schwartz intervened, with typical impatience, and said, “You’re not allowed to eat corn here anyway.”
    Consequently a terrible row broke out. Elijah argued against the discrimination against corn, and Schwartz reasoned that you can’t eat granular food in zero-gravity conditions. I proposed that due to our sincere love of corn, we would eat it all without leaving any, and Schwartz inquired whether I loved corn so much I would be willing to sleep with it. Elijah proposed opening the tin in the lavatory centrifuge, and Schwartz told him that if he wants to spend a month and a half in a sealed spaceship with a plumbing problem, may he do so in good health.
    “Or maybe you prefer,” he added, “instead of going in the bathroom, to go into the airlock?”
    That settled it.
    ~
    A month post-launch, Elijah looked quite Robinson-Crusoeish. He had achieved this feat without ever setting foot on the soil of an alien planet. His hair had grown long, he had stopped shaving and his eyes stared into space while his tongue licked his lips incessantly. He had been eating nothing but crackers for a fortnight, after discovering that the liver-flavored eggplant pâté reminded him too much of meat, despite the happy “beep beep” of the VegeStuck.
    I put it plainly that the aforementioned consumer good reminded me of a failed high-school biology class experiment, while the smell reminded Schwartz, more than anything else, of boot camp.
    Elijah mumbled something about spoiling the environment, but we managed to convince him that space is infinite and that it would probably not take too much note of an eggplant or two, while for us, confined in a closed area, the issue was more critical. Thus a few pounds of liver-flavored eggplant pâté were thrown into space, where they probably cause a hazard to