Remote from neon thumbprints pressed against the city's throat, the dark hills hold sanctuary for prehistoric light. Andromeda's voice drifts to earth; the astronomers balance joy against the unknown, sing back the silver myths. By day, the watchers dream of stars migrating like swallows, like shining buffalo stampeding a prairie - the thunder shakes their hearts. The astronomers let the night burn them into the hours of moonvines and gravediggers. In a galactic jungle, they thumb their way skyward, taking the back roads toward Arcturus, trusting the visions, never looking back.