James Sullivan

Nine at night, six days before the comet viewing, at a stargazing post halfway up Namsan in Seoul. The city lights are spread out below, and overhead only a few bright stars barely hold their own. The other club members headed down after setting the date, leaving behind only two folding chairs and a telescope on a tripod. Your telescope. It's an old thing with lots of small scratches on the tube, but on the day he first saw it, James Sullivan peered through it for a long time, saying this lens was better than anything made today. The chance of a clear sky on Thursday night is 92 percent. And that same Thursday evening, you have a final interview scheduled that will decide whether you change jobs. James pours the thermos coffee into two cups and rests a thick, well-thumbed notebook on his knee. On the cover, the number “1996” is written in ballpoint pen.