After that, the argument became one of provenance and purpose...

"Two thousand and twenty-three," said a mapping officer. Next to her an assistant looked up from a different monitor and nodded. Their totals agreed.

"Any satellites?" Lao Kaizhen asked.

Both officers checked again. "No, sir," they said, more or less in unison.

Even as the Eugene Newman had been approaching the Dyson shell, Captain Lao hadn't been sure what to expect, and now he'd passed through and was inside, looking up at larger than gas giant-sized fragments of jigsaw enclosing a type II sun, he only knew it wasn't this.

Mirror-smooth surfaces reflected light back towards the centre and the recorded temperature of that reflection helped explain the oddity of the object's infrared image, which had been more or less what he first saw all those years ago, while looking across the disc of the galaxy.

"Signs of life?"

The definition of this had been set intentionally wide.

"Nothing."

"A pity." Captain Lao shrugged away the last of his dreams and sighed. It had been childish to hope for anything else. And all the while, the darkness watched and waited, considering carefully.

It would like to get things right this time.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

Acknowledgments and thanks in no particular order, except for the last...

Aziz, for a truly terrifying drive between Marrakech and Casablanca and explaining Berber inheritance law. Maison Arabe in Derb Assebbé for teaching me how to make tagine properly. Blacks in Dean Street (Soho) and Caffé Nero in Winchester for letting me use them as offices. Upper Street's Friday Lunch Time Crew. Anders Sandberg and all who contributed to the Dyson Sphere FAQ (just put it in Google). New Scientist, for making me and everyone else who reads it actually think.

Mic Cheetham for fixing the contract that got this book published. Juliet Ulman for encouragement, and Josh Pasternack for tolerance. Television, Patty Smith, Johnny Thunders, Neil Young and John Cooper Clarke for sound tracking the early drafts.

The following books provided information or inspiration: Lords of the Altas, Gavin Maxwell's brilliant book on the House of Glaoua, Wisdom of Idiots by Idries Shah (but then anything written by Idries Shah provides inspiration), and The Art of Shen Ku by Zeek, for general weirdness.

Finally, thanks to Sam Baker, who sat, years back, in Gaby's in Charing Cross Road and argued long and hard about whether time was shaped like an ice cream cone or a blue marble. This book would never have existed without that conversation. We should have known it was shaped like both.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Born in Malta and christened in the upturned bell of a ship, Jon Courtenay Grimwood grew up in Britain, the Far East and Scandinavia. Currently working as a freelance journalist and living in London and Winchester, he writes for a number of newspapers and magazines, including the Guardian. He is married to the journalist Sam Baker, editor of UK Cosmopolitan. Visit the website at www.j-cg.co.uk.