Tom Paris, saying aloud the creed I live by, pretty much. And? This is my only persistent problem with intergalactic humans in stories: they always come out of warp at some Mos Eisley of a truckstop and just eat whatever’s being served. I can’t help but think that would be instant death. Not just of the soul, but the gut, since no way can we have the proper enzymes to digest some vending machine egg-salad fossil from another solar system.

Also, while I’m postin…

Clicking through stories for bad links, I refound this one, and, man, it’s got to be the coolest-formatted story I’ve ever had come up on these internets. I wrote this story back in . . . I’d guess about 2001, maybe? Possibly even earlier. Cool it’s still around:

And, that’s just a screencap. Click it to go the interactive kind of version (or, here).…

It’s so jacked up. It’s also—”it” being my tribe’s retention of it—why Mapping the Interior and its kind-of follow-up (to come) never once say “Blackfeet”: because of current policy, I don’t think it’s a big enough term. Anyway, Robert traces through it in a compelling way here, once you click through:

is the author of 22 or 23 books, ~300 stories, and all this stuff here. He lives in Boulder, Colorado, and has a few broken-down old trucks, one PhD, and way too many boots

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