Next I race a reporter. Thought her
giant head was clown-wigged, but
"My hair's mundane back home." So
Not a Terran, though
she could (almost) pass.
Into a narrows--not stone or glass
but very space. Down a heron-throat,
to a pocket universe. Or is it mere
black belly of an asteroid? It's sure
not Earth--we gravilessly float.
I ask "Why'd you slide in here?"
"No extradition treaties" she grins.
"I came to interview a hacker who
infamously whistle-blew;
exiled now for his sins."
But we may be stuck! She's unsure
the dimensional gullet also spews.
Though we're not alone--an alien-strewn
Sargasso of outlaws, traders and worm-
hole support staff and a handful more
journalists after her scoop! They calm
my jittery black-hole blues:
we can't be event-horizoned
if we make the news.
Up floats the outlaw. Oh, I know
what they will not beg, but need:
privacy. Spacepaddle off. Time to go
slide! Where next will it lead?
