There he was, Gregg shaking behind a microphone stand and reading his new poem about the moon landing, something about astronauts getting the galactic bends from ambient radiation.

He may have to be neutralized and shuttled out of the salon in a wheelbarrow.

Meanwhile, he stutters past a breakthrough notion for the skeptics who never wished to thank their lucky stars, to be satisfied by crusty footprints, that fluttering flag, or those solar flares lighting up the immortal Van Allen belt.

They may have to strangle him with hay wire and raise his body in the quad.
He'll be blown away at half-staff, in zero gravity, so to speak, by one of those industrial cooling systems of our thinning atmosphere.