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Two or three days had passed since the pilot, and Ethan's laboratory work was progressing smoothly when an unfamiliar number called his phone.
The caller was cagey. He did not introduce himself. He simply kept insisting, with some urgency, that he had something very important to discuss with Ethan, in person, and that it could not be handled any other way.
It left Ethan thoroughly puzzled.
But everything at the lab was on track, and he had been meaning to go home and visit Frank and Linda anyway. So he named a location, a time, and hung up.
Riding in Bumblebee, Ethan arrived at a café.
He had originally considered the small restaurant he used to frequent. The braised pork there was unremarkable, but the portions were enormous, which had always counted for more with Ethan than refinement did. Unfortunately, the last time he had gone, the place had become a viral sensation, with a steady stream of visitors traveling in from across the country to photograph the spot where the famous Ethan Mercer had supposedly once eaten. If he were free, Ethan might have stopped by once for old times' sake. But this was a business meeting, and a destination that crowded was unworkable.
He parked Bumblebee in a discreet corner, put on a hat and sunglasses, and checked his reflection. He nodded, satisfied.
The memory of being surrounded for three or four hours signing autographs at the business registration office was still fresh. He had no desire to repeat that particular ordeal.
Inside the café, Ethan requested a private room. Then, in the manner of a man who had recently come into a great deal of money, he ordered the single most expensive coffee on the menu, plus more than a dozen cakes and desserts.
The server taking the order, whose writing hand was beginning to cramp, was privately bewildered. Was the man eating afternoon tea as a full meal? And even for a full meal, more than a dozen cakes was excessive. Setting aside whether anyone could finish them, the sheer quantity of sugar was alarming.
But the guest was wrapped up in a hat and dark glasses in a way that read as somewhat unstable, so the server kept a professional smile and said nothing. There was no profit in inviting trouble.
After confirming the order, the server withdrew.
A short while later, a square-faced man in his fifties strode into the café. He exchanged a few quiet words with the staff at the front, and then walked directly into Ethan's private room.
Ethan was, frankly, curious.
"Friend. How did you know which room I was in?"
The newcomer laughed at the question.
"With your current fame, Mr. Mercer, if you weren't causing a commotion, you had to be in disguise. So I simply asked the staff whether anyone had come in dressed unusually strangely. They pointed me straight here."
Seeing the man's self-satisfied expression, Ethan's mouth twitched, and he offered some dry praise.
"What a remarkable mind. Real detective work."
The man entirely missed the irony in Ethan's tone and took the remark as sincere, deflecting it with hurried modesty.
"You flatter me, Mr. Mercer. A little petty cleverness, nothing worth mentioning. You are the one with the truly remarkable mind. Compared to you, I'm an amateur."
Ethan, who had just taken a sip of coffee, nearly choked on it.
He kept his composure, set the cup down, and steered them firmly away from the subject of remarkable minds.
"Let's hear it. Why the cloak-and-dagger? What's this about?"
At the directness, the man reached into his briefcase.
"You're a straightforward man, Mr. Mercer. Good. I won't waste your time, then. Take a look at this first."
Ethan accepted the document without hesitation. The title across the top read: Grandfield University, Notice of Personnel Appointment.
"You're from Grandfield."
"That's right. Allow me to introduce myself properly. I'm Gerald Kingsley, Vice President of Grandfield University."
Ethan was, genuinely, a little surprised.
The old saying held up. You could not judge a person by appearances. Who would have guessed that the square-faced man in front of him, who gave off such a strong air of someone overly pleased with a small trick, was the Vice President of Grandfield University, a post that carried the rank of a senior government official.
"My apologies for any disrespect, Vice President Kingsley. Though I admit I don't quite understand why someone of your standing is operating this secretively. If you had something to discuss, you could simply have contacted New Future. I would have come to meet you properly. Instead of, well, this."
Kingsley's weathered face reddened.
"Mr. Mercer, please read the document first. It will become clear once you've finished."
Seeing the older man's evident discomfort, Ethan obligingly played dumb and kept reading.
Three to five minutes later, he had the gist of it.
The document was wordy, but the meaning was simple. Grandfield University wanted Ethan to join its faculty as a formal, full-time member.
There was a problem with that, and the problem was not subtle. Ethan's appointment to Hartwell University was public knowledge. A guest lecturer could hold affiliations with multiple institutions, but Hartwell, through Dean Vance Sutton, had given Ethan a proper full-time teaching position. Which meant that unless Ethan formally resigned from Hartwell, he could not take a full-time appointment at any other school.
No wonder the old man was being so secretive. He had come, quietly, to poach Ethan out from under Hartwell.
---
Under Ethan's amused gaze, Kingsley felt as though he were sitting on a cushion of needles.
As an old scholar, Kingsley had never in his career done anything as underhanded as poaching a faculty member from a rival institution. Not only had he personally never done it, the whole of Grandfield University had no precedent for it. Going after a man while knowing full well he held a formal post at another school, this kind of interference was something Grandfield, with its standing and its dignity as one of the country's two premier institutions, had always considered beneath it.
But there was a certain principle that asserted itself eventually, no matter how loudly one's pride protested. People could swear, with total conviction, that they would never stoop to a thing, right up until reality made the thing irresistible. Dignity and reputation, in the end, weighed very little against genuine excellence.
Given this young man's achievements in the academic world, Kingsley was prepared to do considerably more than conduct a quiet, slightly embarrassing recruitment over coffee. He would have given up his own vice presidency for the chance, and not hesitated.
The root of it traced back to a recent national academic symposium.
Grandfield's old rival, Hartwell University, had sent Dean Sutton of the School of Physics to attend. Kingsley still remembered, with a clarity that pained him, how the seventy-year-old Sutton had carried himself in front of the assembled scholars of the entire country. Every second sentence out of the man's mouth had been a polished, deniable little jab at Grandfield, and the Grandfield delegation had been absolutely furious about it.
The worst part was that they had not been able to fire back.
Historically, Grandfield and Hartwell had excelled in different disciplines, but their overall standing had been roughly equal. If Hartwell needled Grandfield, Grandfield could at least needle back, and honor was maintained on both sides.
But since Ethan Mercer had joined Hartwell, the balance had shifted completely.
From that point on, in private and in public alike, the old guard at Hartwell had taken to needling Grandfield with the same handful of pointed, unanswerable questions, the kind designed to leave the recipient with nothing to say. Does Grandfield have anyone who has synthesized a new element? Does Grandfield have anyone who built sentient machines? Does Grandfield have anyone whose work just solved the energy supply of half the country? Does Grandfield have anyone the cabinet bends its own rules to honor? Does Grandfield, in short, have an Ethan Mercer?
And Grandfield, to each of those questions, had no answer at all.