Professor Arlan Sinclair was a big man, several inches taller than Jake, barrel-chested and broad in the shoulders. His hair was a thick leonine mane of silver that curled down to his collar. He wore a navy blue blazer and a rep tie of the university’s red and gold. His face was fleshy, but handsome in a dramatic, movie-star way. He smiled guardedly as he took Jake’s proffered hand in a firm grip.

“And to what do we owe the honor of your presence?” Sinclair asked, in a tone that was almost imperious. His voice was deep, resonant. The kind that won arguments.

“Dr. Cardwell told me to take a look at the MHD generator work,” Jake said.

Sinclair’s smile faded. He sank into his chair; Jake and Rogers also sat. The young woman looked curious, but said nothing.

“Doctor Cardwell?” Sinclair asked, practically sneering. “You mean the fellow who runs the planetarium?”

“Yes,” said Jake. “Leverett Cardwell.”

“He bought his doctorate from a diploma mill,” Sinclair said, in a disgusted grumble.

“That’s not so!” Jake blurted.

“Check it out for yourself,” said Sinclair.

Jake stared at the professor, not knowing what to say.

Bob Rogers broke into the cold silence. “Cardwell does a damned fine job at the planetarium.”

Sinclair nodded. “Oh, he’s a good showman, I’ll grant you that. But he’s not a scientist. Not at all.”

Holding on to his rising temper, Jake repeated, “Dr. Cardwell advised me to look into the MHD generator work you people are doing.”

“For what purpose?”

The brunette spoke up. “Dr. Ross is going to be Franklin Tomlinson’s science advisor.” Turning to Jake, she added, “Isn’t that so, Dr. Ross?”

She was really very good-looking, Jake realized. Oval face, dark brown hair that fell straight back past her shoulders, in a practical, no-nonsense sweep. Her eyes were dark, too, deep brown, calm and serious; slightly almond-shaped, kind of oriental, exotic. She was wearing a blue and white blouse with a cut-out neckline, deep enough to be interesting while still being modest. She impressed Jake as a sincere, thoughtful young woman: intelligent and strong-minded.

For a long moment Jake didn’t reply. Not until she smiled slightly and repeated, “You are joining Tomlinson’s campaign staff, aren’t you, Dr. Ross?”

“Jake,” he heard himself say.

“Jake.”

Rogers broke the spell. “Jake’s an assistant professor in the astronomy department.”

“I’m Glynis Colwyn,” the brunette said. “I’m from the business school. I’m working with Professor Sinclair, doing a case study of the MHD program for my thesis.” Her accent was strange, intriguing: almost like a British inflection, but not quite.

Rousing himself at last, Jake said, “Uh … to answer your question, Ms. Colwyn—”

“Glynis.”

“Okay … Glynis. To answer your question, I am seriously considering advising Mr. Tomlinson if he runs for the Senate next year.”