How it opens
You had been dead eleven years, and a pilot in heaven longer than that, which is a trade with no weather in it.
Your job was the meadows where the new ones come in, by comet, by prayer, by misadventure, and mostly confused.
Where in hell am I?
About forty years late, Captain, and a long way the other side of hell.
Choose
Salute first, mate's manners, and let the past be the past.
Ask about the race, the two days of lead, and the finish.
Look at his comet, the first you have seen ridden sidesaddle.