“It’s just a formality. After all, he is the dean of electrical engineering this year. It doesn’t mean he’s in Leeds’s camp.”

Jake sucked in a deep breath to calm himself. “When and where?” he asked again.

*   *   *

The cocktail reception was in the library’s new wing, of course. Jake rushed home to change into a presentable pair of slacks, a fresh shirt, one of his three ties, and his best suede jacket. No time for a shower, still, he was nearly fifteen minutes late; the room where the reception was being held was already filled to overflowing. People were milling around in the hallway, others were strolling through the new wing, admiring the empty bookshelves.

Jake shook his head at the way the university did business. They raised all this money to build a new wing on the library but they hadn’t bought the books to fill it. Different budget. Construction money comes out of one pocket, book purchases another—much smaller—pocket. It’s stupid, he thought. Anyway, printed books are an anachronism, almost. The students use the Internet to research their assignments.

“There you are!”

Jake turned at the sound of her voice and saw Glynis Colwyn squeezing through the crowd toward him. With Tim Younger a half step behind her, a plastic wineglass in one hand and a relaxed smile on his face.

“Hi,” he said to her. Then he added, “I didn’t expect to see you here, Tim.”

“Glyn invited me,” Younger said, looking pleased about it.

Jake blinked with surprise.

Glynis said, “Professor Sinclair is in there,” she pointed back into the jam-packed room, “talking with Senator Leeds.”

Frowning, Jake said, “I guess this won’t be a good time to talk to him about meeting Tomlinson.”

“I’m afraid not,” she agreed. “I think I’ve brought you out here for nothing, Jake.”

Jake shrugged. “I might as well get a drink while I’m here.”

“Follow me!” Younger said brightly, and he turned and plunged back into the crowd.

The noise inside the room was almost painful. Everybody talking at once, nobody really listening. Glynis grabbed Jake’s hand and literally towed him along as Younger plowed through the partygoers like a blocking back leading his ball carrier.

And there by the bar was Professor Sinclair deep in conversation with Senator Christopher Leeds. No, not really conversation, Jake saw. Sinclair was talking earnestly, urgently, into the senator’s ear. Leeds was nodding as if he were listening, but his eyes were surveying the crowd, swinging back and forth like a pair of radar antennas searching for contacts.

“What’ll it be?” the bartender asked, almost shouting to make himself heard.

“Jack Daniel’s on the rocks,” hollered Jake.

“No Jack,” the bartender yelled. “I got Beam or Turkey.”

“Jim Beam.”