The Beacon: Hard Science Fiction by Brandon Morris (red white and royal blue hardcover TXT) 📕

you wouldn’t keep sending me out into the nightlife with a handsome, Spanish-speaking director! I think you want to get rid of me so you can trade me in for your stars for good!”

“Not at all, Franziska. Now you’re really exaggerating. You’ve been meeting up with Greta and José all the time.”

“Because you never have time for me! I can’t sit around every evening waiting for the amateur astronomer to return from his stalking. But what I do doesn’t even interest you. That’s the worst! I was away for three nights. A normal person would show a minimum of jealousy! I’d be jealous! And you don’t even ask me if I slept with José!”

What would happen if he told her about his strange dream? Franziska would probably explode, and everything would be over, because she wouldn’t feel taken seriously. Peter sometimes had such impulses. Better to end it that way... or not?

“And, are you?” he asked.

Hmm, maybe that wasn’t very smart either. He didn’t want to know the answer. But if it was important to her, then he had to ask.

“Am I what?”

Now she reminded him of his German teacher in elementary school, who always insisted on complete interrogative sentences. Was this some kind of game to her?

“Have you slept with this José?”

“Well, that’s a clear question at last. How nice that I was able to pique your interest after all.”

But that was not a clear answer, my darling. And at the same time, it is, because if it were, you’d admit it. Then it occurred to him. She must be frustrated because the director turned her down. He was either a faithful husband, or gay. Or, more likely, José had the hots for Greta. Her friend, who had been single since he’d met her, was ten centimeters taller than Franziska, and she was a master at arousing desire, whether in men or women, often without fulfilling it, as far as he knew.

Greta seemed indifferent toward him, perhaps because she knew he didn’t like her, or because she simply wouldn’t have it any other way. This José, however, must have fallen for her, especially since Greta was also blond, which, at least according to the usual clichés, should fit his prey pattern. His wife would undoubtedly provide more substantial conversation, but if the man was looking for adventure, that probably wasn’t the most important thing to him. It was understandable, if not enjoyable, that Franziska took her anger about this out on him. That must be the explanation, so he spoke up.

“I’m sorry José wasn’t interested in you,” he said.

Crap. He needed less than a second to realize his mistake, because Franziska turned red in a flash. She swallowed a few times, then slowly reached for the wine glass with her left hand, took it between her fingers, and threw it just over his head and against the wall. The red wine splattered through the dining room.

Franziska left the room, her face bright red and her lips pressed tightly together. Shortly afterward, Peter heard her car engine.

Franziska was not back for the evening news. She was probably crying on Greta’s sofa while her friend was reproaching her for not having separated from him long ago, now that the children were out of the house. Peter tried to clean the shelf, the floor, and the wall. He succeeded with the shelf and the floor, but the wall still had a few stains.

He was alone, but that had its advantages. The sky was clear, which promised a great evening of observing. It was not as bitterly cold as it had been the past few nights. Some warm air was coming their way, which might be bad for viewing after tonight, but he didn’t dwell on that thought because he just wanted to see if a star was still shining or not.

In the meantime, he’d entered the coordinates into his optimization algorithm. The computer had printed him a new list in which the stars were sorted in such a way that the telescope needed as little time as possible to switch. All that was missing now was a direct link between the telescope and the computer, and a program capable of confirming the existence of a star from a photograph. That would be a good project for the weekend, if Franziska didn’t return by then.

Then there was the message from Melissa Holinger. He’d been saving it as if it were the longed-for promise from a lover to spend the night with him. That was how it felt when he opened it. It would depend on its contents how intensively he would deal with this subject that had grown so close to his heart. Somehow, Franziska was right. The stars were almost more important to him than she was. He also hardly thought about their relationship when he imagined how the seven stars lined up on the spherical shell.

And the sun.

“Hello, Mr. Kraemer,” wrote the astronomer.

It was already clear it was not an automatic answer.

“I apologize for taking a little longer. But I didn’t want to answer you before I had checked your thesis at least once.”

Very sensible, the woman. She had not immediately classified him as a nutcase.

“I have to admit one thing in advance: I thought it very unlikely that you could be right. Mail from amateur astronomers, please don’t misunderstand me here, is often full of obvious errors or unsubstantiated claims. This is not the case with you. The seven missing stars are indeed on a spherical shell.”

Ha! And the sun?

“It would be interesting to discuss why that is. Perhaps you already have an explanation. People outside the field often provide refreshing ideas. I would consider your observation as a whole to most likely be a coincidence. That may disappoint you, but without another plausible explanation, it is simply the most likely possibility. It may seem unlikely to you, but consider this: If you look at the 200 billion stars of the Milky Way as a whole, you’ll find