The Astronomer, it is generally thought, first came to Vingus Country four decades ago. Or, perhaps it was four years. Or maybe a month. No one knows for sure. When the Vingare try to puzzle it out, when they try to count the years on their fingers and toes and hash out the months on bits of paper, or perhaps a wall, they find themselves drawing a blank. Their eyes lose their focus and their minds turn to thoughts of faraway dust clouds, the bright accretion of swirling nebulae, of planets made of water or ice or storm, and quietly pulsing stars. Their eyes gaze skyward and they forget why they questioned in the first place.
The Astronomer has always been here.
The Astronomer has just arrived.
Both are true.
No one knows where he traveled from, nor his country of origin, and he has never told. His accent is obscure, his clothes unusual, and his many trunks of fragile equipment unsettlingly strange.
The Vingare asked him when he arrived—as they watched him carefully remove item after item from his line of trunks, inspecting each one for damage and wear—what his many tools were for, but he simply smiled vaguely and gave a delicate wave of his small, pale hand. “Oh, you know,” he said, over and over again, “work, work, work.” And then he would say nothing.
The Vingare were unused to obscure answers. They are a concrete people. It became clear to the Vingare that the new resident was not like them, did not belong, and should probably leave their country, so they did their best to give him the cold shoulder. Or, as best they could. The Vingare are a welcoming people by nature, and usually not prone to open confrontation. They opted for subtle hints. Therefore, they did not line his walkway with rose petals, as was their custom, opting instead for a measly bundle of wildflowers (surely they would wilt soon) tied up in a ribbon that was not new, and presented in a vase. They thought certainly the Astronomer would feel the depths of their non-welcome, but he did not. He thanked them profusely for their kindness and declared the flowers the most beautiful thing he had ever seen in his life.
The Vingare decided more drastic measures were needed. They brought him neither meat pies nor sugared fruits nor brightly colored jellies, opting instead for common foods like bread and cheese and wine. He did not take the hint. He declared that Vingus bread was better than the finest pastries in the Capital City, and that Vingus cheese and wine would rival the sundries produced in the most gastronomically famous cities in the Lands Beyond the Sea. The Vingare were flummoxed. They had never met so dense a fellow. They then threw no banquet in his honor, gave him not a single key to any city—high, low, or middling—and neglected to organize a welcoming parade. He refused to notice these slights as well.
It was infuriating.
Meanwhile, the Astronomer told anyone who would listen how much he admired the Vingare people, and how much he desired to become one of them. To that end, he altered his appearance to fit in with his adopted countrymen (his hair, his dress, even the color of his eyes and skin). He mimicked their mannerisms, their habits, their way of walking, and tried desperately to integrate the linguistic oddities peculiar to that region into his patterns of speech, but the results were disastrous. The more he tried to assimilate, the more strange he became to his neighbors.
He never gave up his desire to become as near-to-like his chosen kinsmen as he could, however. And while he would never be Vingare, he would have to settle for Vingare-non-Vingare, and that would be that. And he would be alone.
And in time, the Astronomer was—if not accepted—at least tolerated. He was to the Vingare like a rare bird, flown into their region by mistake, and too lost to find another way home. Not of them, or even with them, but near them. And the Astronomer had to content himself with that.
To build his tower, the Astronomer contracted fifteen Vingus laborers, five Vingus draftsmen, nineteen ironworkers, twenty-two tinsmiths, three surveyors, two engineers, and one overseer. He set up a small tent—(There were stars inside, people said. Real stars that rose and set in tandem with the actual stars they represented.)—on the top of a hill and marked out a shape on the ground. It was said that before work began, he sat for hours in the center of that shape, staring at the sky.
It took nearly five years to build the tower. (Or was it ten? Or twenty? No one can remember.) The Astronomer set up a second tent where matters of business and construction could be discussed. It was filled with drafting tables and chalkboards and narrow-drawered cabinets to accommodate and organize his meticulously drafted—and entirely inscrutable—plans.
The Vingare soon realized that it didn’t matter how much they failed to understand the instructions laid out for them. The tower had a mind of its own.
The hill upon which the tower slowly grew was tall and bald—a knob of rock in the center of a broad, flat yellow prairie. As a result, most Vingare were able to watch the tower as it progressed, floor by shining floor. They watched the silvery skeleton of each story uncurl from the struts below and hook together like a web. They watched as the substrate of machinery grew like lichen from the base.
They held their hands to their open mouths. It was beautiful—but not in a way that they could name. It was a beauty that stopped their voices in their throats and held them silent.
The tower had hollow walls with a complicated network of steam pipes, humming engines, tiny levers, and delicate gears. There were dumb waiters and smart waiters and waiters of unknowable intelligence. There were automatic ottomans that rolled toward any visitor who needed to put their feet up for a moment
