The Moon is a boat tonight, afloat (if ever so slightly askew) on the midnight-blue sky, the bright hull under an oval, blue-gray sail. It's a wonderful angle, a crazy trip through the last of Winter's fury (there's yet another snowstorm before this week's abed) to come to rest, with skill and luck, at the first and nearest dock of Spring.
Or so it looked to me as I trudged across the parking lot, muttering to myself, "...And there's still not a Hilton up there." If there is any justice, both the folks running the hotel chain and NASA's head honcho are haunted each night by the ghosts of Robert A. Heinlein and Arthur C. Clarke, in alternation, asking Why.
T. R. MCELROY'S STREAMLINED TELEGRAPH KEYS
1 year ago