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‘The shit’s about to match coordinates with the fan.’
While Khouri was asleep, winging her way across the light-years to Epsilon Eridani, Fazil was growing older, one year for every year that she flew.
Until that moment when the Ice Mendicant explained the situation to her, Khouri had never really given much thought to the slowness of light. There was nothing in the universe that moved faster . . . but, as she now saw, it was glacial compared to the speed that would be needed to keep their love alive.
In six centuries computers had assumed every shape and architecture imaginable, but something like a simple drawing slate - flat, with a handwritten entry-mode - had seldom been out of fashion for long.
