“No surprise,” said Spector. “George’s team is noted for their creativity. Shall we?” And thankfully, finally, he led us out.
Trumbull paced the hall, hands writhing. As soon as she saw us she whirled and stalked outside. We followed and found her standing with eyes closed, face upturned to catch the snow. Spector rounded on her.
“All right. I risked my career to get you out of there along with everyone else, because I trust Miss Marsh’s judgment and she seems to trust you. But before this goes further I need to know who you are, and why you’re here.”
Her eyes flew open. “I am a math professor. As I have said far too often today.”
He stepped closer. “Not good enough. You’ve thrown yourself into our research with no apparent motive. You went with Miss Marsh to meet her family, which suggests something well beyond ordinary academic curiosity—and she brought you along, which suggests something well beyond the historical relationship between Innsmouth and Arkham.” He paused. Trumbull had not backed away, as a human would, and I saw his foot lift as he nearly retreated himself. But he continued: “There may be other professors who can hypnotize with a look—though I’ve gathered that Miskatonic’s reputation is exaggerated on that count—but few who’d try it with officers of the law. You were either remarkably confident in your superiority to them—or not at all confident in your right to enter the campus.”
“Perhaps I’m just strange. Everyone says so.”
Spector sighed and turned to me. “Miss Marsh? You’ll forgive my unwillingness to continue blindly. Either I understand what she’s doing here, or she’s out of this thing entirely and we find you bunks at Hall.”
Around us students passed, nonchalant as if their home had not been violated. Many went with heads down in deference to the weather, but others paused to observe our altercation. “We’ll talk. But somewhere private.”
CHAPTER 15
In the end we went back to Trumbull’s house—it wasn’t far, and I doubted my ability to persuade her anywhere else. The house not having any proper parlor, we settled in her living room. In contrast to the office, I suspected this room more reflected its original owner. The unadorned couches and chairs looked as inexpensive as a new professor might reasonably get away with, and rubbed thin in the centers of the cushions. A bookshelf held a few choice literary classics along with works of philosophy and esoterica. The paintings were of good quality but somewhat mismatched: a pointillist impression of the Miskatonic River from Meadow Hill alongside a pair of swirling abstracts and a surreal dreamscape of fabulous birds flying through a star-studded abyss. I examined this last more closely while the others settled into their chosen seats, and was not entirely surprised to read “C. Trumbull, ’46” boldly scrawled in the lower corner. The others had the same mark, with dates ranging from two years to a decade past.
Neko headed for the kitchen, but returned quickly. “Professor, don’t you keep anything on hand to offer guests?”
“It isn’t usually an issue. If the two of you keep inviting people over, I suppose something will need to be done.” Her posture and aspect sharpened. “Mr. Spector, will you accept my word that I do not represent any polity of interest to you, and hold no political opinions relevant to your concerns?”
He leaned forward on his blue velvet chair. “I’m afraid you’ll need to be more specific.”
She sighed heavily. “Miss Koto, I do believe there to be tea in the cabinet above the sink. The social prop might in fact be helpful.” She examined her hands, then Spector, with an air of displeased unfamiliarity. “What do you know of Earth’s history?”
He frowned. “More than most. Would you like a textbook?”
“Perhaps the question is too broad. Try instead: how much do you know of the history of Earth’s future?”
He sat back. “I know that the Marshes’ religion includes prophecies and promises of what is to come. My religion includes others. I wouldn’t call either ‘history.’ Beyond that, I suppose I can guess—or fear—as much as anyone.”
“Hopeless.” Her bored irritation was still more impressive than mine. “Miss Marsh, you explain, since he insists. I shall be curious to hear how you manage.”
I was curious as well. I must not only explain, but satisfy Spector’s concerns. And I had questions of my own for him, that I suspected he’d be reluctant to answer. “Humans aren’t the only intelligent species to walk the Earth,” I began.
“I know,” he said, nodding at me.
“I’m as human as you. Just a different kind.” And truly sick from having to repeat that assertion to people who supposedly respected me. “Civilizations have risen and fallen on this world since the surface cooled. After humanity dies, or destroys itself, people like giant beetles will build in our ashes. After them, five more species in Earth’s own evolutionary chain will rise and fall—and a dozen others who come and go from distant stars, or who last aeons and never learn the art of writing, or who are lost when plagues wipe out their first attempt at agriculture. These races are not prophecy and myth, but recorded history—and Professor Trumbull’s people are the ones who record it.”
Neko returned bearing a tea tray. Spector snatched a cup and busied himself with sugar and cream. I gave him the moment to consider. At last he took a sip, winced at the heat, and said: “That’s a remarkable claim.”
“The universe is a remarkable place,” I said. “What do you suggest I do about it?”
“Evidence would be nice. There are whole corners of the government that go haring off after unlikely prophecies and passages of the Bible. I am not on any of those teams.”
“A demonstration might be in order,” said Trumbull. “If Miss Marsh will permit, of course.”
“He’s not my student, but I suggest you ask him directly.”
She pursed her lips. “Mr. Spector, you have my word that I’ll make no permanent alteration to your state, and do nothing to change your thoughts or beliefs—other than the changes that occur naturally through encountering new information. Or so one hopes.” She put down her teacup, and locked gazes with him.
Audrey had not only pushed back against Trumbull, but also appeared singularly unimpressed—though I began to suspect that she was not as forthcoming with her thoughts as she sometimes appeared. Spector was more vulnerable. His jaw went slack—then for just a moment, I saw shock in her eyes and cold mockery in his. The moment passed, and their expressions returned to their accustomed faces.
“That’s…” He trailed off. “You didn’t feel Russian. When we … passed each other.”
“I should hope not,” said Trumbull. “But the spell that they supposedly seek is a lesser version of my race’s art. I object to it being used for petty ends; that is the beginning and the end of overlap in our interests.”