Sergei has started wearing a hazmat suit all the time. I'm worried about his mental state. My impression is that he thinks the station is out to get him. He's had so many injuries, injuries that haven't healed. And now his face. I haven't seen it; he'd bandaged it before I got to him. But I think it's bad. Maybe more psychologically scarring than his other injuries. He's determined that we'll go to the Yellow, though. After that, I don't know what will happen. We found out over the radio that the relief is ready. The new researcher is at the military base, waiting to be dropped here. They'll come as soon as we've been out. For Xi, or Sergei, or both, the nightmare will be over. All of our preparations are done. We'll head out tomorrow, assuming there are no more accidents.

Last night, I had a dream, and a dream within a dream. In my dream, I went to Bob. Or to what was Bob. The swollen hemisphere was pulsing. A long, dark seam traced vertically down the centre of the bulge, like an old scar. I saw a vision. In my vision, I took the pistol from the door behind me and fired. The swelling burst apart, showering cloudy semi-solids over the room. Bob, whole again, climbed from the mess. My vision ended, and I was staring back at the fungus. I turned and looked at the gun. Then I walked away.