Meanwhile the Sovereign Society had evolved from a producer of survey maps and expedition journals into the most widely recognized science-and-exploration media platform in the world—producer of four glossy magazines, two television channels, an Oscar-winning documentary film studio, a research institution, a website, travel services, licensed adventure products, and the planet’s most viewed social media. All of it collectively known as The Sovereign, voted the world’s most trusted media brand.

Klay climbed the marble steps. He walked rapidly, with his head down, shoulders stiff and rolled forward, as if he were wading into a brawl. He winced as he pushed the building’s heavy revolving door.

“Hi, Tonya,” he said to the guard behind her desk.

“Good afternoon, Tom. I’m glad you’re home safe,” she said, looking at his sling. “Mr. Eady?”

“Yes, please.”

Klay entered a small, oak-paneled elevator set slightly apart from the building’s four main lifts and pressed its only button. After a slow, rumbling ascent, Klay stepped off the elevator into a modern gallery of photographic images and exhibits arranged in a labyrinth. The photographs were eight feet tall and suspended from the ceiling on black wires. Several had been taken by Eady himself back when he was a staff photographer. Ahead Howard Carter stepped forward into Tutankhamen’s funerary chamber. A left turn and Dian Fossey bottle-fed a baby mountain gorilla at Karisoke. A right turn introduced Tsavo’s red elephants. In the labyrinth’s center squatted an original bathysphere, that one-eyed Volkswagen-on-a-rope that Beebe and Barton rode deeper into the ocean than any human had gone before.

Officially, the maze was designed to force visitors to reflect on their place in history and the potential each of us has to be an explorer. But Klay knew better. The top floor of The Sovereign was Vance Eady’s aerie. The labyrinth existed to remind people just who they were about to meet.

Eady stood in his secretary’s doorway, hands on hips, dressed as always—dark wool slacks, V-neck sweater over a white shirt, shined John Lobb shoes—like an Anglican minister relaxing between sermons on a perpetually autumn day. “Well,” the Society’s president and magazine’s editor in chief said as Klay approached. “That’s fine. Very fine, indeed. Welcome home.” He patted Klay’s shoulder gently and ushered him toward his office.

“Hello, Sally,” Klay said, nodding to Eady’s secretary as they passed.

The Sovereign’s beloved caretaker shook her gray head. “You boys,” she scolded. “Welcome home, Tom.”

“Hold my calls please, Sally,” Eady said. He led Klay into his office and closed the door. “I’m paying for a party at your place, aren’t I?” Eady said, and without waiting for Klay’s reply, asked, “Drink?”

Klay nodded. He tossed a Mongolian eagle hunter’s cap out of his way and took a seat on Eady’s worn leather sofa.