Twelve Hours...

"Well, I just wanted you to know dinner will be waiting for you. I know how much you love this dish at the Kiln, and I know what I've been doing wrong: too much camembert and not enough cranberries. You just need to warm it when you get here. Have fun with your computers and telescope. But I do wish Braxton had given you the night off. It's our tenth anniversary."

"Well, he won't budge and I've badgered him all week about it. He says tonight's presentation is too important."

"And our ten years isn't?"

"Not from his perspective. The planetarium will be full of all the big shots that fund my work. To quote Braxton: 'These people butter your bread. Celebrate your anniversary tomorrow; your wife will understand is she has any sense at all.'"

"He said that! Why, the arrogant…" she began, but then she stopped, sighed and said, "I'm sorry. I promised you I wouldn't let him get under my skin. It's too bad he's never had a life outside of his precious observatory. He'd understand, perhaps. Will you do me a favor when you get in?"

"Certainly."

"Have your chicken filo then wake me when you come to bed."

"Why?"

"Because we'll still have an hour or so before sunrise and I'm sure you'll want dessert, silly boy."

He told her he loved her and hung up. In seconds, the phone rang again. It was Michael's dire call.

"Anton, please tell me we missed something."

"We haven't."

"It must be wrong. It must be!"

"We both know it isn't."

"But how…"

"It's uncharted. It's coming from a blind spot. It's very dark, very big and hidden in the sun's glare."

"Two kilometers in diameter!"

"At least. Perhaps as much as ten."

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