Beef and the vacuum of space. At the interstate waypoint of Baker, California, I chomp—and chomp again repeatedly—on some Alien Fresh beef jerky. Baker is the LA-to-Vegas tourist trap where you can buy $8 four-ounce packs of dried beef amidst kitsch, UFO information and other modern road-trip “essentials” such as honey and stuffed olives. If interstellar travel is as austere as crossing Death Valley on a burro, then the expensive and overly durable Alien Fresh beef jerky is worth its considerable tack. But in my terrestrial car my tongue feels like it slept on a salt lick. My jaw muscles ache like they did push-ups. I chug bottled water. At $32 a jerky pound, I could mail-order two organic USDA Prime Niman Ranch ribeye steaks at a better value. Or I could send $39.99 to Mr. Ron “Ronco” Popeil for my own food-dehydrator and make my own less-salty jerky, plus some extra for any potential alien abductors.