For some, the failure of the University of Colorado’s sewage treatment plant marked the beginning of the Colorado Springs Dark Time, as history would eventually come to call it.

In truth, however, the darkness was being distilled long before then, beneath an unremarkable downtown bowling alley. Ironically, the team of cutting-edge scientists cultivating that darkness saw themselves as luminaries—great bringers of light. Of course, the light they offered always came with hefty price tags. If the Accelerati had their way, they would control every source of energy in the world except sunlight—and if they could somehow claim ownership of the sun, they would do that, too.

As for the university’s waste-processing woes, all the troubleshooters knew was that an unexplained, traveling power outage had begun in the physics building, been tracked for a day and a half around campus, and finally settled permanently at the sewage treatment plant, where the power remained out despite the attempts of a dozen different electricians to get it back on.

The Army Corps of Engineers was called in, but by then the sewage plant had been out of commission for several days and the university was virtually uninhabitable. Classes were canceled, dormitories evacuated, and people in neighborhoods downwind were advised to stay indoors with their windows closed. There was, of course, a contingent of the population who believed that all of the things occurring in town, from the vanishing house to the near-satanic stench, were in some way supernatural. These were the same type of folk who saw the aurora and other electrical phenomena caused by the orbiting asteroid as mystical signs.

Typical, thought Alan Jorgenson, that the masses would treat simple science as so much hoodoo. He blamed the sewer stoppage entirely on Nick Slate, of course, in spite of the fact that he was the one who had put the power-draining chip in play in the first place.

Jorgenson’s superior was heartily amused by the whole thing and just about laughed in his face during Jorgenson’s next visit.

“The boy has something you don’t, Al,” the old man said, waving his nostril-offending cigar in the air. “He has innate cleverness, and the ability to think on his feet in a most inspired way.

It was difficult for Jorgenson to hide his indignation—especially from a man as observant as the Grand Acceleratus’s wizened boss.

“You may be a genius,” the old man said, “but intelligence is only one-third of the formula for true greatness. Perspiration and inspiration are the other two-thirds.”

“Well, sir,” Jorgenson said though gritted teeth, “you certainly are making me sweat, so I have two parts to his one.”

The old man chuckled. “Well said—although I suspect the boy is making you sweat far more than I am.” Then he rang a little bell, calling for the housekeeper. “I look forward to meeting this scrappy boy wonder.” Jorgenson was sure he said that only to get further under his skin.

“That may prove impossible,” Jorgenson told him.

The old man snuffed the stub of his stogie in an overfilled ashtray.

“Need I remind you that he still hasn’t given us the list of missing items? And until he does—”

“I feel confident we can find the remaining items without Nick Slate.”

The old man sighed. “I know your feelings on the matter, Al—but if the boy’s life becomes forfeit to serve the greater good, you had better assure me that the greater good will be served.”

“It will, sir. I have no doubt.”

“Well, I have my doubts,” the old man said. Then Mrs. Higginbotham arrived with a single tray holding his dinner, which put an end to their conversation.

But that was fine. In fact it was more than fine—because finally Dr. Alan Jorgenson had what he needed from the old man: grudging permission to erase Nick Slate from the equation. Permanently.