He wasn’t exaggerating. He had flicked from 28.2°E (British BBC, the news) to 19.2°E (German Bundesliga, the roar of the crowd) to 13°E (Italian movies, the sighs of Sophia Loren). He had watched NASA TV from 13°E, Japanese sumo wrestling from 124°E, and a Peruvian telenovela from 58°W. His living room was no longer a room; it was a command center. The remote control was a joystick, and the satellites were his territory.
The receiver on Zayn’s desk was a graveyard of blinking LEDs. Four years ago, it was a magic box. Today, it was a plastic paperweight. The great satellite dish on his balcony, once aimed with the precision of a sniper’s rifle at Hotbird 13°E, now collected nothing but pigeon droppings and rain. cccam all satellite
He had it all again. All satellites.