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02 The Star KeeperThe arc struck William Crawford in the chest at approximately nine forty-seven on a November evening in 1927. It was not a painful death, he would later learn. The human body is far more complicated than simple pain. What William felt was light—brilliant, impossible light, the kind of light that does not illuminate but obliterates. His last thought was not of fear or regret, but of a sentence...0 Comments 0 Shares 30 Views 0 Reviews
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Beneath the Star DomeThe champagne flute caught the light of the chandelier and threw a small rainbow across the wall of the Waldorf Astoria ballroom. Eleanor Whitfield watched it dance, half listening to the爵士 band in the corner, half thinking about the death of civilizations. "Dr. Whitfield, you must come and meet someone." Mrs. Vanderbilt's hand was warm on Eleanor's arm. "He works at Columbia. He studies...0 Comments 0 Shares 25 Views 0 Reviews
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Beneath the Star-DustReginald Ashworth was seventeen when the sky over Mafeking turned orange and he understood, with a clarity that would never leave him, that the world was ending. It was 1899. The Second Boer War had begun and Reg was a messenger boy for the Royal Flying Corps—which did not actually exist yet, so he was a messenger boy for whatever flew. At that moment, that meant observation balloons. Men in...0 Comments 0 Shares 17 Views 0 Reviews
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Children of the StarThe rooftop above the taxi dispatch office on Forty-second Street was where Tommy O'Brien came to think about the sky. It was a flat roof, covered in tar and gravel, with a rusted water tower that leaked onto his shoes every time it rained. But from that roof, if you squinted and let your eyes adjust past the glow of Manhattan's electric lights, you could still see the stars. "Every time I see...0 Comments 0 Shares 5 Views 0 Reviews
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Dark StarThe dead astronomer had blood on his wall and a lie on his desk. I stood in the doorway of his office, looking at the word painted in crimson across the white plaster: THE SUN LIES. The letters were sloppy, desperate—the kind of writing you do when your hand is shaking and you don't have much time. "Jack," Detective Rosa Martinez said from behind me. "You seeing this?" "I'm seeing it." "Think...0 Comments 0 Shares 28 Views 0 Reviews
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Dark StarThe rain in this place doesn't fall so much as hang, suspended in the air like someone forgot to turn off the tap. I stood at the viewport of the observation module, watching the shadows move across the surface below. They moved with the kind of purpose that makes a man reach for a drink he doesn't have. My name is Jack Morane. I used to write about war for the Chicago Tribune, which is to say...0 Comments 0 Shares 29 Views 0 Reviews
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Dark StarThe first letter appeared on a Thursday morning, slipped beneath the door of Room Seven at the Oak Cliff Sanatorium in Cambridge. Isabel Coolidge found it while dressing for breakfast. The envelope was thick, cream-colored, the kind of paper that cost more than most people earned in a week. On the front, in a hand she knew better than her own, were written her name and the date: October 12,...0 Comments 0 Shares 15 Views 0 Reviews
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Dr. Arthur Wintersbourne stood at his wife's bedside with an equation burning behind his eyes like a trapped star.Eleanor coughed again -- softly, as though apologizing for the disturbance -- and turned her face toward the window where fog clung to the gaslamps of Tavistock Square like the breath of a dying world. The fog had been persistent this November, thick and yellowish as though the city itself were exhaling some old, soot-laden sorrow. It pressed against the glass like a stranger seeking permission...0 Comments 0 Shares 25 Views 0 Reviews
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Dr. Arthur Wintersbourne stood at his wife's bedside with an equation burning behind his eyes like a trapped star.Eleanor coughed again -- softly, as though apologizing for the disturbance -- and turned her face toward the window where fog clung to the gaslamps of Tavistock Square like the breath of a dying world. The fog had been persistent this November, thick and yellowish as though the city itself were exhaling some old, soot-laden sorrow. It pressed against the glass like a stranger seeking permission...0 Comments 0 Shares 16 Views 0 Reviews
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Dr. Arthur Wintersbourne stood at his wife's bedside with an equation burning behind his eyes like a trapped star.Eleanor coughed again -- softly, as though apologizing for the disturbance -- and turned her face toward the window where fog clung to the gaslamps of Tavistock Square like the breath of a dying world. The fog had been persistent this November, thick and yellowish as though the city itself were exhaling some old, soot-laden sorrow. It pressed against the glass like a stranger seeking permission...0 Comments 0 Shares 13 Views 0 Reviews
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Dr. Arthur Wintersbourne stood at his wife's bedside with an equation burning behind his eyes like a trapped star.Eleanor coughed again -- softly, as though apologizing for the disturbance -- and turned her face toward the window where fog clung to the gaslamps of Tavistock Square like the breath of a dying world. The fog had been persistent this November, thick and yellowish as though the city itself were exhaling some old, soot-laden sorrow. It pressed against the glass like a stranger seeking permission...0 Comments 0 Shares 18 Views 0 Reviews
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