The VOIP phone rang on the old laptop Neal used as a phone/stereo/TV resting on top of the slew of outdated and unread aeronautics and engineering magazines that cluttered his coffee table. It was 11:15am, and Neal had been sleeping off his Sausage McMuffin dinner/breakfast for two hours.

After a struggle to realign himself in bed so he could reach the PC and answer the phone, a red-eyed, unshaven Neal pressed enter. “Who is this?”

Out of his PC’s small speakers the stern voice of the Array’s site commander came, “Danielson, Colonel Milton, not a fan of that incident ID. Rename it. Anyway, it’s been a week and there is new data on our friend.”

Animating now, Neal swung his legs off the crumpled sheets and his mind’s eye tried to focus on the swathe of data and analysis he had prepared on the incident since its discovery. “Wait, so it is really coming? That is awesome. Is it as interesting as I have been telling you guys it would be?”

“We have several billion dollars of equipment up there that is about to come under assault by a hailstorm of interstellar rubble, I am glad this interests you.”

Neal frowned again. “Colonel, the chances of coming into direct contact with an interstellar object are phenomenally low. This is the first time we have ever detected, let alone crossed paths with one, and you’re worried about satellite TV. Scientists across the globe would kill to see what you are seeing right now.”

“Yes, well, wish granted. There is a small briefing at 1300 hours. Come in the main entrance by noon, a liaison will meet you there and bring you to the con so you can look at the numbers beforehand.”

“Wait … that’s in …”

“Be sure to bring your driver’s license and ANFPS ID, otherwise you will be denied entry, liaison or no.”

After objecting for a moment more about the short notice, Neal realized that the colonel had closed the call. “Fuck me,” he said as he stood up, and while sniffing for semi-clean clothes on the La-Z-Boy, he mumbled sullenly about the military, going into some detail about what Colonel Milton’s mother would apparently do if strapped for cash in Tijuana.

* * *

Neal looked around the large main control room and thought to himself that it was as far advanced from his cube in the civilian section of the building as Einstein was from George W. A single huge screen about twenty feet across showed a huge graphical representation of 3-D space. In many ways it was the same view Neal could see on the small screen at his desk only with vastly more information displayed, and in far higher resolution.