Long ago, before the first human foot brushed extraterrestrial soil, a forgotten artist composed a work of art called “The Solar System Symphony.”
Those who came before him were also lovers of space, for they gathered and tabulated and arranged and calculated to assemble the physical properties and orbital characteristics of each of their solar neighbors. Ah, but this man was different. He assembled these works of high art and wove music. Working tirelessly for almost a decade, hunched over his desk, eschewing all social contact, he toiled desperately, tweaking and rearranging his algorithms to reproduce the music he could hear in his heart.
Jupiter: largo, baritone, he booms stately marches of enormous mass, punctuated by raging tempests over a thousand kilometers per hour; greedy gravity; liquid cold.
Mercury: hot, light, rocky staccato piccolo of only 59 days to complete its journey.
Neptune: constant, with a whistle of fast 16 hour days but his heart beats a near-death rhythm, requiring over a century and a half to complete his orbit; blues notes of upper atmosphere in hydrogen and helium.
Saturn: exotic and sweet, but with a devious intention, for her stylish rings have dark origin: the pull of her voice is so seductive that the moons she woos would fight each other, even to the death.
Earth? Ah, Earth. Sonorous, verdant, salubrious, the cradle of humanity. Her strong soprano resonates with the soul of every man. 24 hours is her day, 365 days her year, as it has been since the first man blinked his consciousness through iron and silica dust.
Me? I have orbited exactly 12,347 stars. I have personally broken the dust and the seas of 19,201 planets. I have sampled the atmosphere of tens of thousands more. I have seen stars so neighborly that to fly between them would mean death. I have known spaces so vast and empty that barely a star could be seen, and the shroud of night was the only promise from the frigid sky.
Who am I? I shall compose for the Milky Way Orchestra. And it shall be grand.