Tekla was thirty-one. She had been somewhat glammed up for her official cosmonaut photograph, with a stiff, outmoded Princess Di hairdo that didn’t suit her at all. During the most recent Olympics she had been rated one of the fifty hottest female athletes by a click-bait website, but she was buried in the back of the rankings. Dinah thought her comely, with the high cheekbones, the green eyes, the blond hair, and all the other attributes one would expect of a Slavic superwoman. But she understood why Tekla had been rated number forty-eight out of fifty, for she had a kind of chilly, strong-jawed look about her that forced the makers of the website to be selective about camera angles, and, Dinah suspected, to make some use of Photoshop. The sort of men who would browse that kind of website would find Tekla off-putting in a way they couldn’t quite put their finger on. They would be intimidated by the taut cords of her deltoids during the shot put competition. Dinah made a point of not reading any of the comment threads. She already knew what those would say.