Abort

Our aborted mission to the moon was riddled with foreboding hints that we took to be mere nonsense. Weird cracklings over the interstellar radio were interpreted as fluctuations in the cosmic microwave background radiation. A large asteroid landed on the outskirts of Brevard County; it had tail fins. The whole Houston team wouldn’t stop humming Joan Jett’s “Roadrunner.” Then Doug Scott doubled in size.

Overnight. It was a shock to his wife. And none of his shirts fit.

After we got Doug a new spacesuit, we were all set to do the Press interview. And then, well…you know the rest.

As soon as we get the radios to work again we’re planning on building a big ladder that we can climb into the exosphere. It’s worth a shot. That way we can ask our new visitors politely if they wouldn’t mind giving us back some of our rock n’roll, or maybe a few watts of electricity.

The least they could do is shrink Doug Scott back to scale. His wife doesn’t seem to mind but it’s damn irritating when he keeps asking us if we need anything from the top shelves. I mean, really – we’re astronauts. We’re above that sort of thing.

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