Franchie held the thoroughly toothed but whole bird in two hands, shaking her head. "He's mangled it. Every bite will have his mark."

"Bites within bites," Arthur said. "How recursive."

"Oh, shut up. Two days home and this."

"Blame it on me, go ahead," Arthur said. "I need a little domestic guilt."

Francine put the bird back on the countertop and opened the sliding glass door. "Martin! Where are you? Come chastise your dog for me."

"He's outside with the telescope." Arthur examined the chicken sadly. "If we don't eat it, that's one bird's life wasted," he said.

"Dog germs," Francine argued.

"Hell, Gauge licks us all the time. He's just a puppy. He's still a virgin."

Dinner—the same bird, skinned and carefully trimmed —was served at seven. Marty seemed dubious about his portion of leg and thigh, but Arthur warned him his mother would not take kindly to their being overfastidious.

"You made me cook it," she said.

"Anything interesting?" Arthur asked his son, pointing up.

"It's all twinkly out there," Marty said.

"Clear night tonight?" Arthur asked.

"It's slushy and cold," Francine said.

"Lots of stars, but I mean . . . you know. Twinkly like faraway firecrackers."

Arthur stopped chewing. "Stars?"

"You told me only supernovas would get bright and go out," Marty said seriously. "Is that what they are?"

"I don't think so. Let's go look."

Francine dropped her wing in disgust. "Go ahead. Abandon dinner. Arthur—"

"Just for a minute," he said. Marty followed. After hanging back by the service porch door for a minute in protest, Francine joined them in the backyard.

"Up there," Marty said, pointing. "It's not doing anything now," he protested.

"It's awful cold out here." Francine looked at Arthur with an unexpressed question on her face. Arthur examined the sky intently.

"There," Marty said.

For the merest instant, a new star joined the panoply. A few seconds later, Arthur spotted another, much brighter, a couple of degrees away. The sparkles were all within a few degrees of the plane of the ecliptic. "Oh, Christ," he muttered. "What now?"

"Is this something important?" Francine asked.

"Daddy" Marty said nervously, glancing at his parents, alarmed by the tone of their voices.

"I don't know. I don't think so. Maybe it's a meteor shower." But the sparkles were not meteors. He was sure of that much. There was one person he could call who might know—Chris Riley. Always Riley, a still point in the moving world.

In the darkened den, he dialed Riley's home phone. On the first attempt, it was busy. A few moments later, Riley answered, breathless.

"Chris, hello. This is Gordon, Arthur Gordon."

"My man. Just the man." Riley paused to catch his breath. "I hear you set up a meeting with Kemp and Samshow. I'd like to be there, but it's getting real busy here. I've been running out to the telescope and back. I should get a phone out there."

"What's happening?"