It is autumn, a Thursday, nine kilometers above the target. Ball-bearing factory. Louis Yero can't see out of his left eye. Blood. Not his. Walter's. Burst of 20mm from 2 o'clock low, bad luck FO. The wind (1,800 kilometers per hour as it streaks across a pallid yellow face, impassive and cold) tears him away as the radio says— - Lodi finally reaches the silver sand desert. He slouches down a glittering dune. At its base, he sings a song about his dreams, illuminated by a lone light above, the crowd grinning with flashbulbs in his dark glasses. He is shown many things all in the face of a great approaching wave. He sees stars, their quivering yolks of nuclear plasma spilling out of a thousand-million-kilometer-long wound. Lodi sees red. He is flung back. The radio says— - "Lou, hang on. Don't fall out the damn bird." Frankie's (liquid hydrogen) is all over his hands. (Magnetic tape) spills out of Frankie's suit, and Louis can't stop it. "Tell me where to go, Lou. I'm flyin' blind. I need you to navigate, Lou." Louis cups the headset mic with a hand, and Lodi says, - "We were working on a way to preserve data for eternity—the bomb and all that. We started with punch cards. Then magnets and discs. Later, I understand, we used light. My favorite was the quipu: language in knots and cords. But that wouldn't survive the apocalypse." "What are you talkin' about, Specs?" "Your vision, Mr. Drifter. What the Nine showed you. I saw a piece of it as well. Transmission wasn't perfect, but it was enough. Let's get to work on your hunch."