Two hands swooped an open plastic collecting bag upward, and snared the raindrop.

"Gotcha!" Lizzie O'Brien cried gleefully.

She zip-locked the bag shut, held it up so her helmet cam could read the bar-code in the corner, and said, "One raindrop." Then she popped it into her collecting box.

Sometimes it's the little things that make you happiest. Somebody would spend a _year_ studying this one little raindrop when Lizzie got it home. And it was just Bag 64 in Collecting Case 5. She was going to be on the surface of Titan long enough to scoop up the raw material of a revolution in planetary science. The thought of it filled her with joy.

Lizzie dogged down the lid of the collecting box and began to skip across the granite-hard ice, splashing the puddles and dragging the boot of her atmosphere suit through the rivulets of methane pouring down the mountainside._ "I'm sing-ing in the rain."_ She threw out her arms and spun around. _"Just sing-ing in the rain!"_

"Uh ... O'Brien?" Alan Greene said from the _Clement_. "Are you all right?"

_"Dum-dee-dum-dee-dee-dum-dum, I'm ... some-thing again."_

"Oh, leave her alone." Consuelo Hong said with sour good humor. She was down on the plains, where the methane simply boiled into the air, and the ground was covered with thick, gooey tholin. It was, she had told them, like wading ankle-deep in molasses. "Can't you recognize the scientific method when you hear it?"

"If you say so," Alan said dubiously. He was stuck in the _Clement_, overseeing the expedition and minding the website. It was a comfortable gig -- _he_ wouldn't be sleeping in his suit _or_ surviving on recycled water and energy stix -- and he didn't think the others knew how much he hated it.

"What's next on the schedule?" Lizzie asked.

"Um ... well, there's still the robot turbot to be