Hamlin Turner could not see them until the early evening, which might have troubled Caleb and the others a great deal. Except for how his secretary, a tightly composed woman named Esther with the stern determination of a seasoned elder, assured them that her boss turned down twenty requests for every new client he took on. She personally escorted them to the main exit, shook their hands, and warned them to be on time.
Caleb suggested they use the hours to scout the university area. They asked directions from two young men carrying books and deep in passionate conversation. Caleb envied them their ability to stay blind to the day’s risks and the world’s burdens. He wished he could have known such a time himself, when knowledge was as vital as food, and the world held a heady mix of opportunity and challenge. Rather than life-or-death decisions and the very real risk that he placed friends in lethal peril with his every move.
They did their best to stroll casually through town. Caleb played the newcomer with time and money on his hands, here to do a little business, speak with his attorney, see the sights. He was young for someone with that kind of wealth, but Atlanta was the largest commercial hub south of Charlotte. There were bound to be at least a few wealthy families who sent their sons in to take care of business and enjoy everything the big city had to offer.
Caleb found Atlanta both hotter and more humid than Catawba. He did not think it was merely his own sense of oppressive urgency. Springtime in the Catawba enclave was spiced with cool dawn breezes and the frigid bite of diving into deep granite springs, with waterfalls clinging to wet rocks and the shouts of boyhood laughter ringing off the high stone walls. Caleb did not much care for this city or its close-wrapped humid heat.
No hint of wind touched the banners marking the university’s guard towers. The wall surrounding the campus was a living hedge taller than the roof to Caleb’s home and, according to a student they met, was almost twenty feet thick. She told them, “The Atlanta authorities claim it’s to keep the students safe from all the recent immigrants. But we know better. Long before the human tide shifted this way, the barrier was up and the university gates were well guarded.”
The student’s name was Enya, and she and Hester were already fast friends. They had met while waiting for a table to open at a student tavern. The gates were fronted by a broad plaza lined with any number of shops catering to the students and their masters.
Enya was tall and dark-haired, and heavyset in the manner of a woman of vast appetites. Her emotions shone bright as her flashing dark eyes. “I am a student of American culture, which makes me a threat in the eyes of the local leaders. Not that I care a whit.”
A young waiter called Enya’s name and waved them to a table by the tavern’s front wall, which meant the canopy offered them shade. Several customers ahead of them in line protested volubly, but Enya pretended not to hear as she led them through the crowded din.
Once they were settled, Caleb asked, “Why a threat?”
“Because so much of what today’s leaders want us to accept as historical fact is nothing more than convenient lies.” She had a quick word with the hovering waiter, who clearly wanted more from Enya than her meal order. When he departed, she went on, “After the Great Crash, a number of political groups tried to maintain unity within our nation. I know because I have seen the historical documents. They fought against the regional power grabs, and they lost. Now we live in a series of medieval fiefdoms, little better than serfs, while these so-called mayors and their cohorts squabble over wealth and power and land.”
Caleb found the history lesson mildly interesting, but he could not see how it brought them any closer to their objective. He was still wondering how to broach the subject when Hester said, “We need to contact a professor. In utter secrecy.”
Enya waited while bowls of stew and rough-fired mugs of some local brew were set down before them. “Who is this professor?”
Caleb supplied, “Frederick Constance.”
“I do not know that name. His field?”
“Engineering. He is a wizard with electronics.”
“Then he will be highly prized. What is the message?”
“Can you get us inside the campus?”
“Impossible,” Enya declared. “This time last year, perhaps. Enough money could have bought you a fake university ID. But the surge of immigrants changed all that. Passes are now electronically checked.”
Hester said, “Surely visitors can enter.”
“With proper notice, of course. Which means either a professor or a student must make a formal application. In advance.”
“Time is crucial,” Hester said. “Every day counts.”
“Every hour,” Caleb added.
“Then you must trust me. Or not.” Enya said no more while they finished their meals.
Heart in his throat, Caleb said, “The professor’s daughter is missing.”
Enya blanched, but conscious of surrounding eyes, she recovered as best she could. She whispered, “The militia?”
“We do not know. But I think yes.”
“Why?”
“To explain would be to put you in great danger,” Caleb replied.
“That sounds well enough. And your message?”
He searched the others’ gazes and saw only trust. “My name is Caleb. I am here. And I can help.”
“The professor will no doubt want to know why he should believe you,” Enya said. “One small individual.”
“Not so small,” Zeke replied. “And not just one.”
“One, three, big, little, you still face the strongest militia south of Washington.” Enya searched their faces. “Truly, this is not just words?”
“We are staying at the Ritz,” Caleb said. He saw the meaning register in Enya’s gaze. “We are more than mere students, and by sharing this we place our lives in your hands.”