Dangling from fibreglass clouds, the clock strikes ten. Its radiant face fades from daylight orange to grey twilight. The cogs grind out their nightly music, dragging a black canvas across the domed city. Tomas flicks the switch and stars blink on in series as the clock's face turns lunar silver.
“Get to work,” he bellows at his men clad in hazmat suits.
Tomas checks the stars, counting the bulbs in every constellation. Polaris flickers and Tomas curses. The stars can fail 472 other nights of the year but tonight Tomas doesn't want to dispatch cranes and men to replace the guttering star. He holds his breath, waiting. The vein at his temple throbs as minutes creak across the clock's face. Polaris burns bright again and Tomas exhales with a smile.