Massless

www. stor.co .uk

There was, within the first few minutes, a quaint charm about his criticisms. "I mean Airline X really only has one thing going for it...it's West Coast schedule...that's it," he sniffed to his friend. The line in which we both waited stubbornly obeyed relativistic physics and my perceptions drew out minutes to a length that could not at all have been constrained by 60 seconds.

To save myself, I began to adopt his points-of-view, as an exercise. I agreed completely with it all. Of course there is only one good thing about this company. I could, with a little straining, dismiss the fact that they hurl a dense, xx-ton, metal object x0,000 feet into the air at speeds exceeding x00mph, xx times a day from dozens of different cities for distances ranging from 100 to 3000 miles, turn it in mid-air and land it at a specific location on a strip less than 100 yards wide with no more than .000x% of the people strapped onto this self-propelled catapult experiencing any injury worse than a foot, leg, or stomach cramp.

Just a parlor trick, I thought, straining a bit further. And not even an interesting one at that. Quite mundane compared to competitive scheduling strategy. Really. How banal, trivial and forgettable their making corporeal and everyday abilities that, for the lifetime of our species and only until quite recently, had been the stuff of dreams. I felt warm inside the cocoon of my dumb little intellectual game, safe from having to noiselessly respond to each point. I am so, so superior, I admitted.

And thus, bolstered psychically by my assent, he continued, bravely shunning any wonder or technical accomplishment in his rant against modern travel.

Eventually, after the ice packs melted and the core cooled, we departed.