For Logan Miles, age fifty-six, professor of millennial studies and director of the Chancellor’s Task Force on North American Research and Reclamation, it has been a good morning. A very good morning, indeed.
The conference is off to a roaring start. Hundreds of scholars are in attendance; press interest is intense. Before he reaches the door of the ballroom, a wall of reporters surrounds him. What does it all mean, they want to know, these names on the stone? Were the twelve disciples of Amy real people? What will be the effect on North American reclamation? Are the first settlements going to be delayed?
“Patience, everyone,” Logan says. Flashbulbs fire into his face. “You know what I do, neither more nor less.”
Free of the crowd, he departs the building via a rear exit off the kitchens. It is a pleasant autumn morning, dry and blue-skied, with an easterly breeze coming off the harbor; high above, a pair of airships float serenely, accompanied by the vibrato buzzing of their massive propellers. The sight always brings his son to mind; Race, a pilot in the air service, has just been promoted to captain, with a ship of his own—a great achievement, especially for a man so young. Logan pauses to take in the air before making his way around the corner of the building toward the campus’s central quadrangle. The usual protestors linger by the steps, forty or fifty of them, holding their signs: “NORTH AMERICA = DEATH,” “SCRIPTURE IS LAW,” “THE QUARANTINE MUST STAND.” Most are older—country people, adherents to the old ways. Among them are perhaps a dozen Ammalite clergy, as well as a scattering of Disciples, women dressed in plain gray robes tied with a simple cord at the waist, their heads shorn in the manner of the Savior. They have been there for months, always showing up at precisely eight A.M., as if clocking in for a job. At the start, Logan found them irritating, even a little disturbing, but as time went by, their presence acquired a quality of doomed listlessness, easily ignored.
The walk to his office takes ten minutes, and he is both pleased and surprised to find the building practically empty. Even the department secretary has flown the coop. He makes his way to his office, on the second floor. In the past three years, he has become an infrequent visitor; most of his work is now in the capitol, and he sometimes doesn’t set foot on campus for weeks at a stretch, not counting his visits to North America, which have devoured whole months. With its walls of bookshelves, enormous teakwood desk—a splurge to mark his promotion to department chair, fifteen years ago—and overall atmosphere of professorial seclusion, the room always reminds him of both how far he’s come and the unlikely role that has been thrust upon him. He has reached a kind of pinnacle; yet it is still true that from time to time he misses his old life, its quiet and routine.
He is sorting through a file of papers—a tenure committee report, graduation forms requiring his signature, a caterer’s bill—when he hears a knock and looks up to see a woman standing in the doorway: thirty or perhaps thirty-five and quite striking, with auburn hair, an intelligent face, and energetic hazel eyes. She wears a tailored suit of dark navy and high, somewhat tippy heels; a well-used leather satchel hangs from her shoulder. Logan senses that he has seen her before.
“Professor Miles?” She does not wait for permission to enter but insinuates herself into the room.
“I’m sorry, Miss …”
“Nessa Tripp, Territorial News and Record.” As she steps to his desk, she extends her hand. “I was hoping I might have a minute of your time.”
A reporter, of course; Logan recalls her from the press conference. Her grip is firm—not masculine but meant to convey a message of professional seriousness. Logan catches the high note of her perfume, subtly floral.
“I’m afraid I’m going to have to disappoint you. This is quite a busy day for me. I’ve really said all I have to say for one morning. Perhaps you could call my secretary to schedule an appointment.”
She ignores the suggestion, knowing full well that it’s a dodge; nobody would schedule anything. She offers a smile, rather coquettish, meant to charm. “I promise, it won’t take long. I have only a few questions.”
Logan doesn’t want to. He dislikes dealing with the press, even under the most scripted of circumstances. Many times he has opened the morning paper to find himself misquoted or his words taken entirely out of context. Yet he can tell that this woman can’t be brushed off so easily. Better to face the music now, quickly, and move on.
“Well, I suppose …”
Her face beams. “Wonderful.”
She takes a chair across from him and digs into her bag for a notebook, followed by a small recorder, which she places on the desk. “To start, I was wondering if I could get a little bit of personal information, just for background. There’s very little about you that I could find, and the university press office wasn’t much help.”