Death Comet Crew returns into the middle of an African street taxi jam. Shimmering traffic moves slowly ahead, shadows replacing shadows across the asphalt. There is smoke in the sky and in the street. Basslines pulse and weave through the jam. [Waves of heat through crack in window seen through infrared heat-vision from overhead.] Running down the left field of view, chrome flickers in slo-mo. License numbers crawl. A persistent scratching takes hold of the cars horn, indicators on perpetual loop. Through the haze, lightning Galacticoast Mosi. Up the well, the half dark space station hangs in lower orbit. Hybridized chimes ricochet past the main halls shuttered shop fronts. Ricochets turn to echoes, like misplaced dimensions. 7-4-3-1. The call and response of radio comms. Acrophonics re-interpreted by a hieroglyphic being. Re-membered trajectories. Re-entry.