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the darkened past—dozens of white-haired corpses lay piled
into the subterranean darkness, falling only a few feet shy
of the crisscrossing catwalks. How the Wigs had managed
to diminish the smell was no less a mystery than the Great
Darkness itself.
Forming the nucleus of the sprawling house of machinery
sat a lone examination chair, large and leather and made for
reclining. The contraption would have been right at home in
the alien headquarters of any 1950s science fiction movie,
where the hokum of past notions of the future enjoyed a
lengthy and well-deserved heyday. But here in the tangled
innards of a Wasting House-turned-tannery, it was a rarified
work of art.
“My, aren’t you the eager beaver, my fine gigantic
friend!” Doctor Coldglow’s dark cane swept my attention to
the comfortable looking chair, its silver top like the glowing
tip of a deep-sea predator’s organic lure. “Why, just sit down
right there and let the machine steal you away!” There was
no danger here, merely the opportunity of a lifetime—the
second such opportunity I’d been presented so far. I made
my way to the chair, eager to start my journey.
“Don’t do it, Vincent!” Mister Hide yelled, more out of
greed than genuine concern. “Don’t you realize what he’s
going to do?” He stood in shock, his neck craning and his
eyes wide. “My god, are you a fool?”
“No,” I answered. “Today, I’m an astronaut.”

328 | Mark Anzalone