I stretched as well as I was able in my hazardous environment suit, desperately wishing I could scratch my nose.

Reminding myself for the umpteenth time that what could not be cured must be endured, I set to work verifying the inventory. After I scanned each bar code, a bot carried the crate to a nearby storage shed. The boxes contained the surveying gear we needed for our work, and the supplies we needed to survive the next six months on New Harmony.

An hour later the job was finished and I cycled through the habitat’s airlock, scratching my nose as soon as my helmet was off.

Inside, I found the rest of the crew waiting in the common area, expressions ranging from shock to anger.

“What’s wrong?”

Sofie replied, “There’s only a month’s supply of food, if we ration. The crates were mislabeled. It’s all kitchen equipment.” She sat down and sobbed, “There’s no more food within two months of this place.”

As I looked around at my companions, I slowly realized that Sofie’s assessment was not precisely true.