That's when Cosmo Pagan filed suit for divorce and his half of the book, as yet untitled.
It took three months of protracted litigation, arguments over commas, theories and metaphors until Stella threw in the towel.
"Look, just give me my freedom from that lazy leech," she told her lawyer. "He can have the book, the house, everything."
When Universe was published, it sold better than anyone ever dreamed, earning Cosmo Pagan full tenure and a cool quarter-million dollars, an unheard-of sum for a popular-science textbook at that time.
While the book was climbing the bestseller lists, Pagan received a telegram from his ex wife: "You turned my elegantly written prose into popular junk."
Cosmo fired back an equally succinct reply. On a postcard. "Popular junk is the future of this country."
When PBS approached Cosmo to adapt Universe for a twelve-part science special, Cosmo Pagan saw an opportunity undreamed of by tenured professors of astronomy.
"I have to write it. And host it," he insisted to his agent.
The PBS executive producer turned him down cold.
"How can he do this?" Pagan asked his agent.
"She. Her name's Venus. And she calls the shots over there."
"Did you say Venus?"
"Yeah. Venus Brown."
"I never slept-I mean met a woman named after a planet," Cosmo said wonderingly. "Especially one as interesting as Venus. It's my second-favorite planet after Mars."
So Cosmo Pagan asked her out. On the third date, he asked Venus Brown to marry him. She turned him down flat. It took two more tries until she succumbed to his boyish charm, but finally they were married in a brisk outdoor ceremony with the planets Mars and Venus hurtling through the evening sky overhead.
On the honeymoon, after visiting multiple cataclysmic orgasms on his new bride, Cosmo Pagan popped the question again: "Let me write and host the show."
"Why should I do that?" the newly named Venus Pagan asked.
"Because I'm your husband and you want me to succeed in life," Cosmo answered with his usual boyish directness.
She wrapped him up in a warm hug and said, "You already succeeded. Wildly. And repeatedly."
"I need to succeed bigger. And better."
"Let me sleep on it. Okay?"
"I haven't given you the galactic orgasm yet."
"Galactic orgasm?"
"It's the one after you scream you can't handle another one," Cosmo explained. "The perturbations are marvelous."
"Oh, really?"
Three orgasms later, she said "Yes! Yes! Yes!" to the heavens, and Cosmo Pagan took that as his green light. And no morning-after protestations of temporary nuptial insanity were accepted.
It was a wonderful marriage. It led to fame, wealth, a Tucson, Arizona, suburban home with its own private astronomical observatory where the seeing was best and more groupies than even a studiously handsome astronomy professor in the space age could ever wish for.
It might have gone on forever and ever if Cosmo Pagan hadn't gotten caught in flagrante delicto.
"We're done," Venus Pagan snapped after slapping Cosmo's face in both directions while the future unnamed third party in the divorce suit yanked on her panties.
"You can't divorce me," Cosmo blurted.
"Why not?"
"Think of how our careers are intertwined."
"What careers? You're famous. I'm a behind-the-scenes producer. You get all the glory. Hell, you hog it. I'm Mrs. Cosmo Pagan who gets thanked on the dedication page in small print."
"Look," Pagan said, getting down on bended knee, "we have a lifetime of split royalties ahead of us. Don't tear that apart over one eager-beaver blonde."
"You must be thinking of a prior beaver," Venus said tartly. "That was a brunette who just scampered away."
Cosmo made his voice as serious as nature would allow. "I won't give up the house."
"The Mars observatory, you mean. I'm sick of it. Don't think I don't know you point that kaleidoscope of yours at the neighbors' windows."
"It's called a telescope. And what about the children?"
"What children?"
"The two asteroids orbiting the sun named after us. They're our celestial offspring. They'll be together long after we're gone."
"Maybe they'll break up, too," Venus said thinly.
And the door slammed.
It might have been a career wrecker, except neat cosmic stuff kept happening. Comet Kohoutek.
Comet Halley's return. The Challenger disaster. Shoemaker-Levy. Every time the cosmos hiccuped, Dr. Pagan was invited on news programs and talk shows to interpret the burp.
When comet fragments struck Jupiter, Pagan was on the phone trying to convince the planetary society to strike the name Asteroid Venus until further notice.
"We've never had a precedent for renaming an asteroid," he was told.
"I can't orbit the solar system with my ex-wife for all eternity," Pagan lamented. "Think of how bad it looks. Besides, I'll probably remarry. Just leave the name blank until then. I guarantee my next new wife will be worthy of celestial immortality."
The response was disappointing: "No. Sorry. Not even for you."
Hanging up, Dr. Pagan silently vowed to get around the galactic red tape somehow.