Sinclair looked from Jake to Colwyn and back to Jake again. “I still don’t understand what that has to do with our MHD work.”

“Tomlinson needs a science issue to campaign on,” Jake said.

“Our MHD work is a research program,” Sinclair said, “not a political issue.”

“But it could be,” Glynis said. “You could get a lot of attention for the program if Tomlinson picks up on it.”

Sinclair shook his head. “Do we want that kind of attention? I don’t think so.”

“But—”

“I don’t want our work turned into a political football,” Sinclair insisted.

“It might be helpful, you know,” Rogers said. “We’re going to need a big wad of funding to build a pilot plant one of these days.”

“That’s far in the future.”

Glynis said, “Isn’t it about time that a politician made scientific research one of his priorities? God knows that Senator Leeds wouldn’t recognize a test tube from a … a…”

“Prophylactic?” Rogers suggested.

Jake, Rogers, and Colwyn burst into laughter. Sinclair stared at them coldly.

Jacob Ross’s Office

JACOB ROSS’S OFFICE

By the time he reached his own office in the astronomy building Jake was sopping wet. An afternoon thunder shower had brewed up while he was giving his Introduction to Astronomy lecture to an auditorium full of bored freshmen. Most of them were taking Astronomy 101 to fulfill their curricular requirement for a science course. They were more interested in texting and tweeting on their cell phones than in the Copernican theory.

It was pouring when he finished the lecture. Lightning flickered across the clouds and thunder boomed like artillery. Jake stooged around in the classroom building’s entrance for as long as he could stand it, then decided to make a dash through the rain to his office.

Now he stood at his office window, wiping his face with a paper towel and trying to straighten his hair while he mulled over his lunch with Bob Rogers and the imperious Professor Sinclair. And Glynis Colwyn. She must be of Welsh descent, Jake thought.

How could MHD be made into a political issue? Jake wondered. Okay, they can build a more efficient power generator. Maybe. If it works. Rogers’s little machine only produces a dozen kilowatts. That’s not going to change the energy picture.

What the hell am I doing in politics anyway? I’m not a politician. That’s Tomlinson’s bag, not mine. I don’t know why Lev thought it’s something I should do.

He sat down in the springy little chair behind his desk. As usual it rolled backward on the hardwood floor until it bumped into the bookcase. Newton’s first law of motion, Jake said to himself. Plant your butt on the chair and it rolls away from the goddamned desk whether you like it or not.