Chapter 3. Stars by Their Inside
“What shall I make you for breakfast, Don?” I ask about an hour after we drank a fistful of enzymes.
“Whatever you wish it’s good for me, honey.”
“I already had mine. Guess that I’ll declare myself satisfied with just that.”
Surprised, Don halts his calisthenics, quits the patio to enter the kitchen, grabs both cheeks of my butt in his fine hands and exclaims. “Doris dear, don’t you tell me that a plain tablespoon of my best essence should be all that it takes for your breakfast. Sure, I am impressed, but come on…” After saying this, he impales his stick between my butt cheeks while his tongue licks my backside. “Do you wish another one?” For an answer, I moan shyly and, throwing him a sidelong glance and a smile, my hand brings his up to a slow kiss, then my lips give way to my teeth and my tongue seeks to taste the odorless end of his middle finger. “You are hungry still, my little bunny, eh?” He pulls his hand out of my mouth and uses it to press my back head over the kitchen counter. I’m an upside down reversed “L” banged by a “4” and I love it. Why do I? This is ultimately an aggressive masculine position, humiliating for the female. Not to say painful. Oh wait, most of the time, before my biological upgrade of yesterday, such a position would have been impossible for me, because of the sheer pain. How about now? I enjoy every position, every touch and any penetration! All of it! The pain is not a factor anymore. Pleasure takes over it almost instantly. My thoughts, in spite of rationalizing the imagery of my sexual desires, contribute to accelerate the moment of my climax.
Wiping the sweat off the counter with my breasts, I escape sideways from the fixation of his cock – had to do that because it turned me mad, I couldn’t even control my breath. Freed from his clenching, I kneel and begin fucking my own mouth with his rigid shaft. Yum yum, tasting like a mixed flavor between my nectars and his precum, plus the dull smell of the skin on his cock. Delicious…
Am I deranged or something? Who cares!
Let me try the glans-beyond-larynx method once again. Yes! He comes immediately, not before I could retire and have his penis discharge my second breakfast right on my insatiable tongue. I take my time to masticate, to spread the glue all around the palate of my mouth, relishing antithetical aromas, trying to make sense of them… Oh no, not that table of elements popping up again in my mind. Take it away! Hm, I never learned how to get rid of it. Actually I didn’t ask for it. So it has to be a default. Default of what exactly? No idea…
“Voilà! Darling, the second tablespoon of exquisite goodies for your breakfast.” He is still trembling and can’t actually regain his relaxation from the arched tension in his muscles. “If you keep doing this to me, I’ll resemble to a sheet of paper. But hey, couple of hours ago you told me that you’ll never fuck your throat down in my dick. How’s that?” To regain his dexterity, he executes a few jumps, like a monkey, between the counter and the sofa, where he plunges to rest, legs shamelessly wide open.
“I think I’m losing my mind, Don. There are moments when I cannot control myself. I’m scared.”
“Don’t be, beautiful bunny. It’s probably normal to find it difficult coping with your newly enhanced hormones. I have similar problems, Doris. Can you remember when was the last time I spurted two tablespoons of sperm at a two hours interval? Our bodies are changing.”
“I can figure that, Don, but I’m afraid it’s not just about our bodies. Remember your morning dream? That with Dor, Dag and Day? What you saw was the prequel of my wake up dream, half an hour earlier…”
I totally got his attention. No! I mean the intellectual attention. In three hasty leaps, he gets near me and, embracing me, he asks. “Tell me all about your dream, Doris.” Which I did, meekly discharging my soul. I have a short span of following the “maybe.” Cannot hide something from him.
“These were no dreams, Doris. These were clues. We’ve been given the pieces of a puzzle here. A new problem demanding a solution. Where’s my tablet?” Now he’s a retriever, sniffing for his birdie… “Got it! Let’s see.”
Looking at his fingers, poking the thin mist of the tablet, I wonder out loud. “Let’s see what?”
“Dunno, Doris. For instance, let’s see the temperature map of your brain, first, then of mine, second, then we shall look for matches in the Kelvin values of the tablet, for the estimated segments of time.”
“I mean that this tablet acts like a transmitter to our brains. Or a router, sort of… I’m tracking for patterns in the error logs so I can make some sense out of it.”
“Any news so far?”
“Are you kidding me? This can take a day or two… Huh…” Darn, I say to myself, think I’ll starve to death if he won’t feed me for a day or two… But I recoup boldly. My cooking talents and my kitchen will compensate. Most likely of a less sexy manner, but nonetheless. The apricots are ripe on the trees. Apples are almost there. Hope that I can survive until my man returns from his log files. How about getting some valuable and active rest in my garden? Look at those purple roses. I must have their petals cleaned up.
Two hours, forty-nine minutes and twelve seconds later (darn default timer), Don joins me in the garden. Tablet at hand. “I got news for you, Doris.” Standing up from my squatting, I smile to him in silent expectation. He goes on. “This tablet can work, among other functions, as a proxy relay to our brains. The effects are more intense during our sleep. Probably because we have the brains on standby then, just taking care of repairing our physiology, which isn’t as much as processing images or actual thinking.”
“What if I give myself up to meditation? Eyes wide open. Not sleeping.” I ask in all curiosity.
“Think that might be considered an idiotic way of relaxation. You won’t allow your brain to properly repair your body, like during deep sleeping phases, but you intentionally open up too many incoming ports.”
“Look, Don, I know that you wish to give me the machine comparison. Can you be more specific so I can understand. Compare the brain to a server please.”
He complies. “If my brain would be a web server and if meditation would be the method of opening up all the incoming ports available, then I’d rather not meditate at all. It’s like turning off the firewall on the server. Not recommended, my dear.”
“But so many meditate and relax through meditation. How’s that?” I wonder, a bit shocked by his firm rejection of this widespread practice.
“Maybe there’s no one wishing to talk to them. Thus they hear silence.”
“An open incoming port is listening. A port, when it is opened, is set to listen out there, to capture and transmit into the enclosed system any kind of signal that would bother talking through it. So when you instruct your brain to meditate, if you were a server, then any compatible signal would be listened and recorded by your brain. I find this to be irresponsible.”
“Because of the hackers, darling. That’s why.”
“Ah, so… the hackers, what hackers?”
“Whatever hackers lurking in the wild. Do you think that they roam only on the internet? They existed long before our computers got interconnected. Hackers were also the killers and deceivers of any society, computerized or not.”
“But how comes that many find peace through meditation?”
“They can only find what they listen to. If there’s silence out there, on their frequency, then their open ports will listen to silence. So far so good. But if there’s a hacker on the same frequency (or on the same protocol) as the listener, then his brain will get hacked, or hijacked, or worse.”
Seems that I stressed him enough with my leading questions. I’ll ask the one he loves best now. “Good, Don. I get the idea. What’s better than meditation then? Because we can’t keep our brains disconnected, can we?”
“Yes and no. It’s up to the brain bearer to decide how to keep his brain: connected or not. But for you and me, beings of the networks, we gotta stay online, that’s true. My take, as a server guy, is to pray! Because when you pray you dedicate a port for listening to a specific signal coming from a designated sender. It is that you know, or you should know, to whom you’re listening. This, my bunny, is a more balanced way to network your brain.” Proud to hear his words, he climbs the ladder and begins gulping unwashed apricots from the tree.
“Don! You monkey. The neighbors will see you naked. Come down!”
“As they haven’t seen me before… ha… ha… ha…”
I’ll give him space to exhibit and feed. After all, he must eat for two now… ahem… When I consider that he had enough apricots (he always overeats), I call him back to the matter. “Don dear, please correct me if I’m wrong. My guessing is that, courtesy of this marvelous damn tablet of yours, we got a weak glimpse of a unidirectional signal from outer space. I may also guess that there’s a Dag and a Day, two gals wanting to talk to us. Makes sense to you?”
“Lots of sense, Doris darling. Let me eat those four from the upper branch and I’ll come down to you in a moment.” I let him, what else. Fifty-seven thousand milliseconds later (I hate these defaults, seconds, milliseconds, my operating system laughs in my face) he descends below our neighbors’ visual horizon. “My love, remember the neutron stars of yesterday?”
“Yes, the pulsars. I do.”
“Well, I’ve already tracked the incoming signal to one of them. I even performed the used tyre garage testing with that pulsar…” I want to intervene but he cuts me off. “…Yes, yes, I know. Haven’t mobilized my oily module for this test. This totally amazing tablet can do more to our transportation needs than the cylinders. Only thing I had to add was a considerably thick plate of iron. Not wasting your attention with these technicalities anymore. Long story short, the tyre returned, crisp and icy, with a neat inscription on it.”
“I assume you deciphered the inscription, right?”
“I did. It says: LUV DAG.”
My soul freezes again in my heart. No metaphoring here. I can literally feel a chill in my chest. And along my spine.
“Was it in English?” I quiver.
“Aliens don’t speak English, my dear. This little lesbian of yours wrote her message to us in Aramaic.”
“Do we understand Aramaic then?”
“Thank to the tablet, yes. Works much better than the Google translator.”
“Don, is there anything else you want to tell me before we leave?”
“Sure it is. I love you and I thank the Lord for you. Will you join me for a ride to PSR J1903+0327, honey?”
“What’s PSR J1903+0327, dear?”
“The designation of our destination.”
“Good. Let me take my polar suit then. Oh, where’s yours? But… but… wait! You left them with Kronos, buried deep inside Saturn. We had no time to order new ones. Oh my…”
“No more need for polar suits, Doris. We’re gonna travel naked, like any respectable daemon.”
He often thanks God for having me and, when I hear him speaking, like this time, I have to thank the Lord at my turn, for giving me to a man that can be anything but boring. Although… but let’s not spoil the moment. “On we go, Don!”
I follow him in the garage. There, on the floor, besides our dusted car, he invites me to sit on a shiny stainless plate of steel. It is what we know as stainless steel and I remember very well what mom taught me, repeatedly, when I was a girl: don’t sit on cold things! So I open the initiative. “Are you serious? Do you want me to put my pussy on this cold plate?”
“Well, bunny, why don’t you try it first with your finger, like trying the water.”
I do that and find myself exclaiming. “Fourty Celsius degrees, wow!” Honestly, I feel like that Norwegian gal playing the character of Terminator X. She could taste the DNA of John Connor, she had a running list of UNIX lines superposed over her view, plus access to a huge database and so on. Shaming myself for comparing me to a killing machine, I take my place near the center of the iron plate. Don joins me, embracing me from behind, holding me tight with his left hand over my tummy and asking me to secure the tablet with my hands. Even if he holds it in his right hand, as a security measure, he wants three points of contact with the tablet.
“Ready for the ride?”
“Ready!” Say I and the garage is gone.
I thought that in the next second we’ll be landing in Dag’s green backyard. I was wrong! Unlike Saturn, PSR J1903+0327, the pulsating neutron star where we are heading, is situated many light-years away from Earth. Besides this, my brain has been trained (after our visit to Kronos) to think in milliseconds. Along with an enhanced retina, this makes my consciousness catch too much detail from a given sequence of occurrences.
In the cold center of our Sun we spend less than a second, true, but a whopping 233 milliseconds. I record a new frame of the surrounding reality every millisecond. That makes 233 images for me to compile, analyze and admire, my dear friends… Don’t know when I’ll have the time to sort them out. Until whenever, I’ll archive them deep under my cortex.
Curious how the Sun looks by the inside? It is whiter than snow and 273 Kelvin colder. Nothing special. Same conditions encountered in all of the eighty-two stopover stars of our 19106 milliseconds long journey from the Earth to PSR J1903+0327. If you like reading stuff for geeks, here we go with a Wikipedia stub.
“PSR J1903+0327 is a millisecond pulsar in a highly eccentric binary orbit.
The pulsar was discovered in an ongoing L-band (1.4 GHz) survey with the 305 m diameter Arecibo radio telescope.”
“The pulse period is 2.15 ms. Analysis of the pulse timing residuals shows a binary orbit with a period of 95.17 days, and a high eccentricity, e = 0.437. The mass of the companion is ~1 solar mass, while the pulsar mass is unusually large at 1.67 +/- 0.02 solar masses; the third largest precisely measured mass after those of PSR J1614-2230 and PSR J0348+0432. A near-infrared companion, KS = 18 (2.22µ), is observed in Gemini North images at its radio position, in 2011 radial velocity measurements made with the VLT confirmed this to be the companion to the millisecond pulsar; the first such system to be observed in the Galaxy.”
“Popular theories for the formation of binary millisecond pulsars require mass transfer onto the rotating neutron star from a white dwarf companion in order to spin it up to periods less than about 10 ms—a process expected to be accompanied by strong tidal forces, producing a highly circular orbit. The main-sequence companion and the eccentric orbit of PSR J1903+0327 do not conform to this expectation. The system is likely to have originated as a triple system. The remnant of the star that transferred mass to the neutron star (its original close companion) was later ejected by a gravitational interaction with the unevolved third member of the system; its present main-sequence companion.”
This is frontier science. What did you expect? Manuals?! Anyway, with not much to see from the outside by radio astronomers, the inside where we landed proved pretty stiff, to say the least. It was water, cold salty water! If not for the light, we could compare it with the bottom of the Pacific Ocean. Abysmal pressures would have had us killed if the force shield, encompassing our iron plate in a cushion of air, would not have been strong enough to produce an equilibrium. This was invisible to me all those about twenty seconds we had spent in the frigid cores of the other stars. Here however, under the immense pressure of the liquid element, the shield has defined and stabilized a bubble of air around our plate, saving us from an instant death.
“Are we still breathing the air from the garage?” I ask in all fear.
“We are, bunny. Can’t you pick the oily scent?” Never paid attention to this minor detail. I sniff in an attempt to identify the smell. Unaware at first, sorry eighty-nine milliseconds later: “# European Car Formula 100% Synthetic 5W-40 Motor Oil (AFL)” … Oh, how much I missed that note. Good that I’m alive and capable of getting angry at it.
Don has no time to waste with Diesel engines. He converted the tablet into a remote control. I can see an orange grid network over it. With his thumb he fixes an origin, like our current location, and, by stretching his index finger away from his thumb, he defines a direction that we follow at fantastic speeds. He later tells me that I was wrong thinking of distances and speeds. He just assigned new jump points where the “jumper” plate …err… jumped, right? Still can’t believe what I’m writing.
“Must be careful with all this hopping around, my bunny. One too long a hop and we may find ourselves on the outside of the neutron star. In truth, find ourselves dead because our little shield cannot stand the electromagnetism in the vicinity of a pulsar. Dead and disintegrated to photons.”
It took us 123945 milliseconds to finally jump above the surface of this immeasurable ocean. Go figure: twenty seconds to travel from our garage to the pulsar, light years away, and two minutes to move inside the pulsar, getting out of the water. Some people spend more hours in airport terminals than in flight. Sounds like the conservation law for time wasted in travel.
Wailing is not a constructive attitude. Especially when you hang out naked, on a stainless steel rectangle, at forty-two kilometers above the ocean. Not to mention that you find yourself staring at an encapsulated underworld, trapped inside a neutron star that keeps pulsating at a rate of two milliseconds — to give you an idea, compare it to the Earth rotation of 24 x 3600 x 1000 = 86400000 milliseconds. In other words, this star, estimated to be slightly over one and a half the mass of our Sun, should rotate more than forty-three million times faster than our Earth… Around its axis, that is. Well… as we may notice, it is not! Pretty calm inside here. Now really, consider the inertial masses at play. What would it be if all these had had to make a full circle in 0.002 seconds? Nonsense. That’s what I guessed back on Earth. This is what I see here, on the ground… or wherever that ground would be. The star has to rotate but not that fast. The 2ms pulsating interval is purely an electromagnetic phenomenon, not a gravitational one, no mass involved. Still have to unravel the secrets of this huge antenna…
Wait a minute… Why am I thinking all this Don stuff in my beautiful head? What is going on here? I turn to Don with a demanding stare.
“What?” He says.
I hesitate… “Nothing… We see no land. Where are we?”
“We are beyond my expectations. I have no idea. Bare with me until we’re gonna complete a few more circles.”
“Circles, what circles? Are we moving already?”
“Yes dear. Right after escaping the ocean, I chose this constant altitude to initiate a movement of translation relative to the surface of the ocean. We’re sailing straight ahead!” I seem to understand his experiment: he needs a circumference to deduct a diameter, to make a radius and a sense of something.
“How do you know if we’re over the equatorial line?”
“I don’t. This is why we keep circling this globe of water.”
“You’re telling me that we already completed a full circle?”
“Fifteen full circles, darling. Look over here.” Yes, better to show me trajectories above his tablet. Not much thus far. At the angle of our trajectory, the circles become smaller as we advance. This is an indication that we are heading North…
About two hours later, our last circle turned into a point. He have reached the North Pole of this sphere of water. No land so far. “Are we at the North Pole, Don?”
“Can’t be sure about that.”
“Our circlings have consumed the surface below.”
“They did but that’s no indicator that we are sitting on the top of it. What if we started at a ninety degree angle across the equator? Our circles would have been meridians not latitudes. And we’d find ourselves on the equator right now. The geometry of a sphere can be quite tricky, my love.”
“I know! We need a compass!”
“We have one. You’re holding it in your hand.”
“It’s useless. There’s no magnetic field whatsoever.”
“Wow! No magnetic field inside a radio pulsar? Is that possible?”
“Possible, as you see, and predictable. We are in a Faraday cage, honey.” I blush. I blush so hard that I can perceive my skin burning. Haven’t felt such a shame since the Hungarian pornographers had me filmed riding Don at Schönbrunn last week. I’m a capital goose! Stupid, stupid, stupid.
“Now what?” I gulp my words. Instead of an answer, he makes me look over the tablet. New orange trajectories, perpendicular on the previous, are described on it. He didn’t wait after me but he kept us moving all the time. “Are we under time pressure? Should I panic?” My voice shivers to his ear as my cheek wants to dive into his shoulder and disappear out of his sight. Yes, the shame came by surprise and won’t quit too easily.
“Don’t panic, Doris. At least a half an hour and we’ll have the geometry of this water sphere in our pocket, er… tablet. I doubt that we’re gonna find any island lost over this ocean. This is why I focus on a fresh hypothesis: as opposed to our Earth, a convex world, this one might be concave. You know about the horizon on Earth, it is where the distance falls below our position because we live on the external surface of the planet. In here, instead of a solid planet at the center of this pulsar, we encountered a ball of water. My presumption is that we’ll meet the solid lands situated on the inside surface of the pulsar, or of a greater, encompassing, core of this star.” My ears are breathing in every word of his. I wait not to interrupt. I make sure he’s done speaking and I then piously ask.
“In this world everybody lives on the ceiling?”
“Hah… hah… In Australia they live upside down but no one reported a headache for that matter. They don’t feel sleeping like bats because gravity pulls them to the surface exactly as it does with those living in Europe. Similar here, some reversed gravity, sort of centrifugal force, pulls them to the concave surface. This if my hypothesis can be proved.” I keep silent and wait for the skipper to exhaust his last round over this sphere. Not long and, done with orbiting, he steers us upwards into the blue sky.
“We’re speeding at 100,000 km/h away from the ocean, and accelerating. Hope you know what you’re doing… Don’t wish to have traveled all this way only to crash pathetically in Dag’s garden. Don?”
“Chase that panic away, Doris. We’re not crashing anywhere, for the time being, I guess. The sphere has a radius of seven thousand kilometers, much like our Earth. The whole pulsar’s estimated mass, 1.67 solar masses, can’t give us a precise approximation for its volume, given that our Sun has a radius of 695,500 km, the water sphere can weight a minor speck in the aggregate, then this vast atmosphere… I don’t know, but I’d give us at least 2-300,000 km of empty room ahead before fearing a forced landing.”
“Dear Don, you are so fascinated with your little marvel, the tablet, that you may have forgotten a trivial application so familiar with any cop out there…”
“You mean the radar?” I nod with a frugal kiss under his ear. “Can you convert your tablet into a radar? Let us see!” The radar idea reinvigorates my attitude. I feel more confident when noticing the new graphics sweeping across the tablet, left to right and right to left. No wall in sight. We’re good to accelerate!
“You know what’s the side effect of activating our radar app, my bunny, don’t you?”
“Not exactly. You tell me.”
“We’ve already rang the bell. If there are living beings down there (or up there, don’t even know where’s the top and where the bottom of things inside this peculiar sphere), it should be at least one who could scratch LUV DAG on a used tyre, then our noisy radar has got their attention.”
“Do you think that they have something like the NORAD?”
“No idea, maybe even a smarter intercepting system. Hello! We’re flying inside a neutron star, lotus sitting on a board of iron, looking for aliens that we were dreaming about this morning… Shall I continue with my reminders?”
“You forgot to mention that we’re also naked.”
“Ah, that’s not a factor. Normal people, and aliens, should be naked too.” Yes, why bother. I wish to nap a bit. I’m tired and hungry. We’ve been traveling for enough hours and the prospect is that… but wait a minute!
“Don, why don’t you make us jump ahead? Like we did between the stopover stars. Will that save us time?”
“Jump where ahead? What if we jump too far ahead?” I forgot about this. Think it was mentioned before. Now that’s a clear sign that I’m tired. I must sleep! But first…
“You know what! Next time please add some comfort to this iron plate. It’s very Spartan the way it is now. I can’t figure a proper way to relax. Gotta sit tight, legs crossed, like a Tibetan monk for so many hours, too many…” Rambling all of my discontent on him, like any reasonable wife should do, I progressively lower my voice. The eyelids turn heavier than lead so I allow them to close. Pressing my brow on his neck, I nap.
Was it a minute? Was it an hour? Or several?… He pitches me to wake up. “Good news, Doris. Our little radar has found a landmass ahead of us. Ten more minutes of fixation and then we may stretch our legs, and you will walk that cute butt of yours upside down, hah… hah… hah…”
In a harassed voice, I tell him to shut the radar down if he already has the coordinates of landing. It’s better for us to maneuver as invisible and not as an easy target to whomever might point a gun at our plate.
“Okay, bunny! I’ll evade this trajectory to fly about before landing. Good point you were making on invisibility.”
“Yes, do that, like a stork. Oh, by the way, why landing immediately, why not hovering the territory in search for something, or someone of interest to us.”
“Roger that!” And we hover, and hover. In ever growing circles at an altitude of fifty meters above the prairies. Oh, forgot to tell you: everything in front of our eyes turned green and we feel like immersing ourselves into the green because of the concave inner surface that we convened to call “land.” Well, considering the 500,090 km radius of this sphere, from the center of the oceanic globe to the grass level, we cannot actually notice where the horizon would raise. See? It’s not even a horizon because instead of going down it goes up. Anyway, our view gets lost in the evanescence of an atmospheric blue trying to pastel against the green of the grassland. As I told you, and keep telling you, to control my amazement: there is no line of horizon for us to distinguish. An edgeless tranquility surrounds us… “I need to pee.”
“All you had to do was scenting the freshness of the land and your body responds by activating the bladder function, eh?”
“Or possibly that last time I peed was in our bathroom, seven hours earlier. How about that for an answer?” Gotta be harsh with him or else he will ignore my needs, captivated by this outstanding gliding experience. “You must land now so I can pee, do you understand, Don?”
“To land? No. I’m just halting. Look, we have zero speed against the ground. We’re not hovering anymore, we’re hanging now. Please move your pussy sideways and pee. I’ll hold you in my arms, dear.” My crazy man is just that: crazy! A genuine solution, the simplest one, he proposed to me. And so it began: not with a small step on the inner ground of this neutron star (PSR J1903+0327 or whatever), but with my pee. I just felt like a cat marking her territory.
Done peeing, he makes us glide again, at low speed, easily taking rounds, sometimes halting, then rounding again. I get bored and ask him. “What are you doing? Why do we go round in circles?”
“I’m analyzing the wind patterns. Gathering data into the tablet. Look!” He makes a geometric model for me. I can see the pressure lines but don’t get it.
“What are you looking for?” I say out of apathy.
“We’re searching for hormonal scents.” The crazy man isn’t crazy for no reason. If we both dreamed of Dag and Day, two naked females, one of them my presumed lover, then sniffing the pheromones is an intelligent move. He reassures me. “Like honey bees do!” Indeed, my clever crazy caveman knows about bees and loves to emulate nature with his tablet.
“Nothing so far…” Two hours later and thousands of kilometers away from my first “and?,” I say again.
“Not sure yet, but I guess we’re about to sniff something shortly.”
“How’s that? Shortly? Are we or are we not?”
“The pheromone patterns are too weak and too dispersed at the moment. With every new round, the new collection of data helps me understand more about the whereabouts of the female. Here! See this orange cloud top right of the screen? It may indicate that we’re having a subject at two o’clock. On we go!” He cautiously pushes the plate at 500 km/h in that direction. My pulse is on the rise. What, or who, shall we meet on the inside top of the neutron star?!
Another hour later. “Nothing. The orange clouds are succeeding on our tablet’s screen. They come and go but it’s just that: a model against a devastating green silence. I’ll have to speed us up a bit.” Says Don tenaciously. “Just keep it below the speed of sound, will you? We’re better off not betraying our presence with a sound barrier bang. Do I make any sense to you?”
“Sure you do. On the other hand, please follow up my speculation: considering that a bee is two centimeters long and her operation range goes as far as 16 km, an approximately two meters long creature would mark her pheromones on a range of about 1,600 km. It can take us more than an hour and a half, flying swiftly at 1,000km/h, to reach the zone of maximal probability for an encounter. This only if we fly blindly, without the help of the radar. Will your bum be comfortable enough so much time on this plate?”
“Argh, darn distances. I’ll give in to another ninety minutes of this ordeal. If nothing, then the heck with camouflaging. Will allow you to start the radar.”
Couple thousand kilometers later. “Okay, you may start that darn radar now!” Which he does instantaneously. “Look, Don! There! Something is moving at nine o’clock, 10,768 km from us. Wow!” He veers as I wonder and unexpectedly breaks through the sound barrier. We don’t care anymore… Although we ought to: at such a low altitude, fifty meters, the shock wave trailing us after the sonic boom would harm, or kill, most mammals hanging around. But hey, the radar shows none!
Fifteen minutes later we notice a feminine silhouette roaming the green-blue pastel where the horizon line would have been. As we slow down cautiously, Don finds an elliptical trajectory for our first fly over. Oh my God! It was between me and the Doppler effect, he won: this silhouette is thirty-two meters high! To my hand grip hubby answers. “This is normal. You would expect to see giant females. I promised Kronos to find him a matching braud. For his thirty-six meters height, such a thirty-two meters high gal looks like the perfect match.”
“I know all that, you silly man. However, you’ll agree with me that if Dag – this braud should be Dag from our dreams in the morning – is thirty-two meters tall, then our corresponding blue blooded avatars – Dor and Don – were giant characters as well. Do you understand?”
“Solly shock! We were giants in another life… OMG indeed!”