and only eight light minutes away. Hard and heavy as that Kruggerand chip I examined in a Leicester Square coin shop, back in my twenties. I had a plan to buy one per quarter, a stash for the zombie apocalypse of middle age. Another plan that passed in the night murk, a mile or two off my bow. And twenty years before that, in my grandfather’s workshop I held a pebble of gold in my gangrel fist, a first clutch at the sun metal. And the light in my eyes was already thousands of years old, the long struggle to escape the great star’s gravity tug and then the eight minute dash across the void. Pebble, Kruggerand, Buckingham sun.
