To fill a space, you need a field. To summon a muse, you need radiotelescopy. A sampling of points across an orbital ring is an iris. The signal reflected off the mirror the landers left translates, at length, to this.

In the skies, we see the galactic arm sweep up her skirt and dance. "You may know the goddess by her step." The movement, repeated by ritual dancers on the station, gives rise to a new form of architecture. Each adastral site built at right angles in the quiet zones aimed to incorporate, in silence, the form observed in the background. Filamented, the detectors anticipate.

All cultural production is in essence a waiting game. When the subject is observed, she is imaged, panicked, flees.

The telescope vanishes, leaving behind the pale soft flesh of the moon.