“Every planet plays a distinct kind of song,” Aimee read. “Jupiter a ballet, Neptune a waltz. Earth is all discordant and chaos, of course, but some would argue that’s the most beautiful music of all. By listening skyward, I am privy to the secrets of the most ancient in a language that needs no translation, no interpretation.”

Aimee paused, and bit her lip. Calvin’s writings sounded more like nascant schizophrenia than anything.

She continued: “Some music is harder to hear than others. Mercury is very faint, of course, and I long knew that Pluto was one of a larger family because I heard it as a chorus. But there has always been one thing that in turns puzzled and disturbed me.”

“Certainly not the fact that you were hearing music through a billion miles of vacuum,” muttered Aimee.

Calvin went on at length: “It’s a long and low tone, sustained but definitely mutable, distant, sonorous, strong. I thought for a time that it was the background, the great song of the universe. But it was moving, drawing nearer slowly but perceptibly. I fear a time will come, not long hence, when this song will fill the night sky. Our discordant musique concrete will first be subsumed, then annihilated.”