Alease Toomey sat at her dresser, putting on lipstick, getting ready to take her son up to see the electric chair for the first time.
“Born to eat, born to cook,” Slav Czesny, astrologer, sighed as he looked up from his ephemeris. “Any road you take will lead you back to food. Sun, Venus and Mercury in Virgo at the midheaven.” Slav looked up at me from behind his bifocals, shrugging. “For better or worse, from now on, your life is a soup bone.”
Far out in the uncharted backwaters of the unfashionable end of the Western Spiral arm of the Galaxy lies a small unregarded yellow sun. Orbiting this at a distance of roughly ninety-eight million miles is an utterly insignificant little blue-green planet whose ape-descended life forms are so amazingly primitive that they still think digital watches are a pretty neat idea.