Smoking on board was strictly forbidden.
Space travel had become pretty routine with ships flying regularly from planet to planet. He was just one of half-a-dozen technicians aboard the joint international supply company’s craft, sailing around the cosmos. He’d tried to give the habit up, time and time again; failed every time. The first few days in outer space were murder. He roamed the decks looking for a place to light up. Finally, he found a small room on C-deck that, despite smelling a bit off, gave him the privacy he needed. Considering the number of cigarettes he’d smuggled on board he could go there once a day until they landed on Phargus 9. You could smoke on Phargus 9.
He had just finished scraping the gunge off the filters in the main galley when he saw how late it was. Nicotine called. He made his way down to C-deck. Quiet as usual. It was always silent down there. He crept along the dimly lit passage. At the end, he silently worked the heavy lever, being careful not to touch the red fire-alarm button, and stepped inside.
It was only moments later that the cleaner strolled down the same corridor, checked the garbage disposal schedule on his hand-held screen and jabbed the button with his elbow.
There was no way on Earth, or in space for that matter, that he could know the Russian word for ‘Shute’.