The sky at the minute you were born is a matter of public record. So is the sky next Tuesday.
The relationship between the two is not a mood or an opinion or a feeling. It is a calculation. It runs off the same tables observatories use, and it comes out the same every time anybody runs it — you, me, a stranger in Osaka.
That number is what Morgan was paying for. It is what Reagan ran a superpower’s calendar past.
It used to cost a seat at that table. Now it costs four fields and two minutes.
The next window is already on its way. The only question is whether you spend it pushing uphill again.