David Bowie, “Starman”
Everyone remembers the day the starship came to Earth.
The ship had but a single pilot, and he was ancient. The product of billions of years of evolution, first natural and then self-directed, he had been driven to cross the vast gulf between the stars by an *idea*—a revelation that he knew he must communicate to any species that would listen.
In the years between the stars he had grown cold and lonely, but he knew he could not land. The mere presence of a creature so alien might overwhelm minds as limited as ours. Instead he took control of the airwaves. All over Earth, from our radios and our televisions, we heard his transmissions. Was it a hoax? Observatories worldwide released pictures of the vast, unimaginable ship to the media. Disbelief turned to hope. *We were not alone.*
What wisdom had this “Starman” brought for Earth? What urgent message had brought him across tens of thousands of light years to a world where he could not even stop to rest? A world held its breath, tuned in to Channel Two, and heard:
>Let the children use it
>Let the children lose it
>Let all the children boogie.
Later, an international team of astronauts kicked the Starman to death and stole his spaceship. Everyone agreed he had it coming.