Time, not space, was the axis of his exploration. I think of him sometimes, hiding in an attic room in some nondescript town. Preserving the past in his head entire, so the future will seem more foreign when he gets there. Once so ponderous, slow to stir, Time now transforms the world in decades. Soon, mere years will be enough.
Time accelerates constantly.
The next generation will find such journeys easy. All then will be foreign. Strange white water. Everyone a pilot. Only Ings could have produced this laser-gazed logicbomb of a book, simultaneously appalling and heartening, monitory and embracing.