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Outer space is wet, apparently.

“Your–your hand isn’t exploding,” crackles Nixon over the radio. “Or freezing. Your hand isn’t–”

“No,” says Truly, frowning, waving it around gloveless. “I mean, it is pretty cold.”

“Of course!” giggles Nixon. “Nobody ever tried just sticking a hand out the window up here oh God!” Nixon is kind of cracking up.

“That fucker Hooke was right,” Truly murmurs. “He was right about aether! Which means…”

She takes a deep breath, closes her eyes and unrings her helmet. There it is: the Music of the Spheres!

Which, she notes with mounting suspicion, sounds like Skynyrd.