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The first time I saw Algol, it was pointed out to me behind the hills, already visible above the dying fire strip of twilight: it waited to dominate that area of the sky in the darkness.
The second time I recognized it in some illustrations: Foolish Cosmonauts (rash, unaware!) were approaching a massive antimatter mass called, in the "One Thousand and One Nights," the Demon Star. They prayed, but religion was meaningless in those remote regions of the cosmos.
The third time, finally, I observed it from the porthole of my ship. Travelers had never ventured so far, and in that Nothingness floated remnants of radio transmissions sent by our ancestors. The double luciferous star warped space-time, and slowly our ellipse, a geodetic of an incomprehensible space, led us towards Algol.
The eternal vinyl, launched into space on board NASA's Voyager, imagines nebulae too dark for Cosmic Couriers and particles too heavy. Along with Blown Out, it's already leaving the Solar System (vintage synthesizers adjust the rotational motions) on a trajectory that intersects and sometimes grazes those of Brian Eno, Tangerine Dream, and Pink Floyd. The probe ignores gravitons and general relativity but follows the simple laws of rarefied psychedelia.
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