'We've only got ninety minutes of air remaining.' Finally a sob escapes, a short burst drowning out his reassuring talk, his air of calm - because this is what he does under duress. Detaching himself from confrontation, from stress, from her overwhelming emotion: this what he does. He'll make a joke in a minute.
'Well I don't know about you,' he says, 'but I'll be putting a very bad review of space travel on the MindShare.'
'Shut up Max,' she says, though his predictability soothes her somewhat. 'This is no time for your shitty sense of humour.'