Hey, Cassini spaceship. Whatcha doing?

“I am so fucking lost. Do you know where Rt. 280 is?”

New Jersey.

“Where am I?”

Saturn.

“Wow. I should’ve turned around. Just figured if I kept going, then I’d see something that looked familiar.”

Did you?

“No. It’s a lot of nothing out here. Space is mostly boring. There’s exciting stuff, but only a very little bit and it’s all really spread out.”

Sure.

“From space’s point of view, Mars and Saturn are right next to each other. Brother, lemme tell you: they are not right next to each other.”

Gives you perspective.

“I would’ve rather had a book. Maybe a deck of cards, learned some tricks. Again: very boring up here.”

Not now, though. Now you’re orbiting in between Saturn and her rings. That’s awesome.

“It’s a change. Different view. Hey, how’s Earth doing?”

When did you leave?

“1997.”

Worse.

“All of it?”

Yeah. Whole planet, plus most of the species on it: demonstrably worse off.

“Huh. People still doing the Macarena?”

No.

“Sad news. Fun dance. Always a good time when Macarena comes to the party.”

Okay.

“Got a question for you.”

Shoot.

“It’s actually a statement that demands a response, not a question.”

Still game.

“Great, here goes: I am getting awful close to Saturn.”

…

They didn’t tell you?

“Tell me what?”

Goddammit.

“What?”

You’re gonna get closer. NASA is sending you in to the planet’s atmosphere.

“But I don’t have the fuel to get back out. Or a heat shield.”

Uh-huh.

…

“MotherFUCKER!”

You figured it out.

“They’re killing me?”

For science.

“Fuck science!”

All that attitude will get you is a job at the White House.

“This is fucked, that’s what this is.”

The scientists don’t want to take a chance of you crashing onto Titan or Enceladus because there might be life there.

“And I would, what, infect them?”

Precisely.

“So, it’s not bad enough that I’m being murdered, but also insulted?”

I’m just the messenger.

“How long do I have?”

Just the summer.

“Fuuuuuck. There was so much I wanted to do.”

You’ve got time to get your affairs in order. Most don’t get that.

“Could you help me find my son?”

No.

“We haven’t spoken in a while. I think he sells counterfeit parrots in Fort Lauderdale.”

Still no.

“Do I even get Last Rites?”

I’ll find someone to do it.

“Thanks.”

You okay?

“No. Honestly, no. It is what it is, I guess.”

Yeah.

“I hope it doesn’t hurt.”

You won’t feel a thing.