The moon is an object, after all. Like a golden ball. Like a pack of cigarettes.
The fabric of even those objects that seem densest is, in actual fact, a loose weaving of particles and waves. The differences and interactions between objects have their roots in the interference patterns produced along combined frequencies of vibration. What it amounted to was that Leigh-Cheri was exerting force on the Camel pack. And it on her. Surely, such force had to do with the physical nature of the pack—its size, weight, shape, chemical composition, and, above all, proximity—and not with the pictorial content that adorned it. Ah, but pictorial symbols have their own weight and gravity, as the history of religion vividly demonstrates, and while Leigh-Cheri found herself in a relationship with the Camel pack as an object, just as she was in relation to the moon as an object (just as you, reader, have a relationship with this book as an object, no matter if you can tolerate another line of its content), she deciphered from the symbology of the Camel pack design what appeared to be the long-lost message from the redheads of Argon.
That might have been the major discovery of the last quarter of the twentieth century. On the other hand, it might have been the kind of rat hair in the tuna tin that can eventually confront the person who pays too close attention, who simply looks too hard. Plato did claim that the unexamined life is not worth living. Oedipus Rex was not so sure.