of fact. Youâre so familiar with the material, and I know the style⦠It should be the work of only a few evenings.â
Over the next few minutes, Wilkerson managed to talk the old professor into the project. Owenby seemed glad to give a boost to a much younger colleague, and clearly had no idea of the elevated position Dennis Wilkerson had attained. Well, as heâd said, he didnât care about anything that had happened in the past two millennia.
They made arrangements to get together that evening and begin their collaboration, and shook hands warmly before Wilkerson had to rush away. As he walked toward the White House, invigorated, he couldnât stop smiling, although once or twice he had a niggling little worry like a leaf floating down the edge of his peripheral vision. What had Professor Owenby said? That this policy of isolationism had always been a failure in the past? Theyâd have to come up with some examples of successes when they worked together.
He walked faster. By the time he reached the White House side gate his smile was so wide he didnât match the picture on his White House security badge at all, and the guard had to study him closely.
Back at the cafe, Professor Owenbyâs demeanor didnât change. He still appeared befuddled as he finished his coffee, gathered up his things, stuffed them into his book bag, and looked around as if trying to remember where he was. He paid his check, left a carefully-calculated tip that included nickels and pennies, and walked out to the curb. A cab conveniently waited there, and Owenby got in without glancing at the driver. âRamada Northwest,â he said, and settled into the seat. The temptation to get on the phone to the Chair was nearly overpowering, but he resisted. Not until he was alone in his hotel room.
At the next intersection the cab sat a little longer than the traffic required, until a man in a black overcoat opened the back door and climbed in, forcing Professor Owenby to slide away. âIâm afraid this one isââ he began, until the unsmiling man flashed a badge in a small carrying case at him. When the professor bent to peer at it, the man snapped the case shut.
âMay I see that again? I donât think Iâm familiar with that particular badge.â
âHomeland Security,â the man said, his mouth snapping as tightly as his badge case.
Neither the man in the overcoat nor the cab driver said another word during the rest of the drive. After a while, his protests ignored and his helpless academic act getting him nowhere, Professor Owenby shut up too.
A day later, outside Dennis Wilkersonâs office, which was within shouting distance of the Oval one, Wilkerson was getting coffee at the communal urn. He had an assistant to do that sort of thing for him, more than one actually, but he stillâhe would never admit this to anyone on the planetâfelt a little intimidated by both his elegantly appointed office and his lofty position. He liked walking out of the office to fetch his own coffee, enjoying the hum of the West Wing, the sidelong glances of people who were not exactly his subordinates but ranked far below him on any organizational chart of presidential staff. The short stroll to the coffee urn also gave him time to collect his thoughts.
A young man was already there, an earnest young man with dark hair, bright blue eyes and absolutely no lines on his face. He wore a blue blazer that was unadorned but might as well have carried the crest of his school on the pocket. Harvard, no doubt, or perhaps Princeton. This was the kind of young man so far out of Dennis Wilkersonâs league that Wilkerson had never competed with such a person, hardly ever even encountered one. This young fellow had probably breezed into the kind of college, through family connections or native brilliance or both, to which Wilkerson had never even dared to apply.
Dennis Wilkerson would have loved
Over the next few minutes, Wilkerson managed to talk the old professor into the project. Owenby seemed glad to give a boost to a much younger colleague, and clearly had no idea of the elevated position Dennis Wilkerson had attained. Well, as heâd said, he didnât care about anything that had happened in the past two millennia.
They made arrangements to get together that evening and begin their collaboration, and shook hands warmly before Wilkerson had to rush away. As he walked toward the White House, invigorated, he couldnât stop smiling, although once or twice he had a niggling little worry like a leaf floating down the edge of his peripheral vision. What had Professor Owenby said? That this policy of isolationism had always been a failure in the past? Theyâd have to come up with some examples of successes when they worked together.
He walked faster. By the time he reached the White House side gate his smile was so wide he didnât match the picture on his White House security badge at all, and the guard had to study him closely.
Back at the cafe, Professor Owenbyâs demeanor didnât change. He still appeared befuddled as he finished his coffee, gathered up his things, stuffed them into his book bag, and looked around as if trying to remember where he was. He paid his check, left a carefully-calculated tip that included nickels and pennies, and walked out to the curb. A cab conveniently waited there, and Owenby got in without glancing at the driver. âRamada Northwest,â he said, and settled into the seat. The temptation to get on the phone to the Chair was nearly overpowering, but he resisted. Not until he was alone in his hotel room.
At the next intersection the cab sat a little longer than the traffic required, until a man in a black overcoat opened the back door and climbed in, forcing Professor Owenby to slide away. âIâm afraid this one isââ he began, until the unsmiling man flashed a badge in a small carrying case at him. When the professor bent to peer at it, the man snapped the case shut.
âMay I see that again? I donât think Iâm familiar with that particular badge.â
âHomeland Security,â the man said, his mouth snapping as tightly as his badge case.
Neither the man in the overcoat nor the cab driver said another word during the rest of the drive. After a while, his protests ignored and his helpless academic act getting him nowhere, Professor Owenby shut up too.
A day later, outside Dennis Wilkersonâs office, which was within shouting distance of the Oval one, Wilkerson was getting coffee at the communal urn. He had an assistant to do that sort of thing for him, more than one actually, but he stillâhe would never admit this to anyone on the planetâfelt a little intimidated by both his elegantly appointed office and his lofty position. He liked walking out of the office to fetch his own coffee, enjoying the hum of the West Wing, the sidelong glances of people who were not exactly his subordinates but ranked far below him on any organizational chart of presidential staff. The short stroll to the coffee urn also gave him time to collect his thoughts.
A young man was already there, an earnest young man with dark hair, bright blue eyes and absolutely no lines on his face. He wore a blue blazer that was unadorned but might as well have carried the crest of his school on the pocket. Harvard, no doubt, or perhaps Princeton. This was the kind of young man so far out of Dennis Wilkersonâs league that Wilkerson had never competed with such a person, hardly ever even encountered one. This young fellow had probably breezed into the kind of college, through family connections or native brilliance or both, to which Wilkerson had never even dared to apply.
Dennis Wilkerson would have loved
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