Dig the lady's low-g thighs. She didn't heed the warning about leathery winged types harassing females on the moon. Thank the good lord she didn't wear her Gumby print underwear. Still, she has her dignity. Observe how she averts her eyes from the little bone pile.
I'm being carried off to who knows what kind of horrible fate, she thinks, and I'm catching a lunar chill, but I must not look at that skull. It isn't there. I'll do my breathing and pretend this is a yoga exercise.
With what does Satan's orbit intersect, exactly? For starters, I didn't know he was in orbit, which strikes me as a better place than down here with us. He was down once, of that we have proof, long enough at least to pen a novel under the name Ian Wallace.