According to a janitor's assistant at the Maximegalon University, who often loiters outside lecture halls, the universe is over sixteen billion years old. The supposed truth is scoffed at by a clutch of Betelgeusean beat poets who claim to have moleskin pads older than that (rat a tat-tat). Seventeen billion, they say, at the very least according to their copy of the Wham Bam Big Bang scrolls. A human teenage prodigy once called it at fourteen billion based on a complicated computation involving the density of moon rock and the distance between two pubescent females on an event horizon. One of the minor Asgardian gods did mumble that he's read something somewhere about some sort of a major-ish cosmic event eighteen billion years ago, but no-one pays much attention to pronouncements from on-high anymore, not since the birth of the gods debacle, or Thorgate as it has come to be known. (p. 6)
Completing a story that another author began is often a very controversial affair. When the estate of Margaret Mitchell contracted with Alexandra Ripley to write the s ...Read the full article