Log of the Tern. Day 212. Two days out from Venn Deep. Written for Ines.
Picked up a music station on the second watch. No ident, no schedule, only dance tunes older than the ship. I held off the lane and hailed, which I wouldn't usually do. A man answered. He has kept the transmitter running nineteen years, he said, because the old survey lines were drawn by ear, station to station, and half my charts are those lines copied forward.
It is late and the set is still playing. I used to think distance was a number. Tonight it is how long a tune takes to reach nobody.
Still flying.
