The Karma Booth. Jeff Pearce

their professor pointed his finger at them like a gun.

      “Bang.”

      As the students filed out of the lecture hall, Timothy Cale packed up his reference texts and files. He was mildly annoyed by the man shifting from foot to foot, hanging back reluctantly like a slow buzzing insect at the edge of his peripheral vision. The man wore a boxy suit with a flat texture, the kind that was a wife’s compromise purchased at Sears. He had a weak chin and watery eyes, and his black hair was going silver. He was a man in his late forties who gave the opposite physical impression of Tim—aging faster than he actually was. Everything about him looked like it had been arrived at by compromise.

      “Professor, my name’s Schlosser. I was sent out by the Justice Department.”

      If he expected Tim to give him his full attention, he was disappointed. A student with the typical self-absorption of his years pushed forward and asked the professor a question about his thesis. Tim frowned as he flipped through a Steno notebook packed with scribbles, and then he rattled off a time for the afternoon.

      “So McInerny must be sending you on this errand,” said Tim, already heading for the door.

      “No, it goes higher.”

      “Weatherford then,” said Tim, stopping in mild surprise. He made it sound more like an accepted fact than a question.

      Schlosser nodded. “Yes, Weatherford. This is right from the top.”

      Tim arched his eyebrows then started walking again. Schlosser moved fast to grab the door as Tim let go of it, not caring if it slammed in his visitor’s face.

      “Do you actually believe the ideas you suggested in there?”

      Tim allowed himself a tiny smile, perhaps over an inside joke known only to him.

      “Mr. Schlosser, don’t be obtuse. My job here is to get these cognitive amputees to actually construct a logical thought—perhaps for the first time in their iPad-carrying, game-playing, Netflix-watching lives. Go ask a university student in Vietnam or Zimbabwe what democracy is, and he probably can’t give you a textbook definition, but he won’t be apathetic in searching for an answer. He’ll be invested.”

      Schlosser shrugged, a way of saying fair enough. “The department has a job for you, but it’s not about politics.”

      “Then don’t ask me how I teach political science.”

      Schlosser bristled. This wasn’t the reception he’d expected: curiosity, perhaps even gratitude, maybe a polite rejection with an acknowledgment that it was flattering to be asked. Not this rudeness. Timothy Cale didn’t even wait. He was already heading into the hall.

      “I asked about your theories because they’ll listen—the cabinet secretaries will listen, I mean—in part to what I have to say about you,” said Schlosser. He tried not to walk so quickly that it was obvious he was struggling to keep up.

      Tim was merciless. “No, they won’t. The ones making the decisions already know who I am and everything relevant in my career. McInerny does, Briggs does. You showed up on my doorstep because you wanted to put your two cents in, and you didn’t have anything on paper about me that hadn’t made the rounds and could be assessed by others. You need something new.”

      He suddenly stopped walking and stood in place, waiting for Schlosser to grant his point. Schlosser licked his lips, glanced down the long hallway at the students making their way to classes, and wondered why his impulse was to deny the truth. They had warned him that Timothy Cale had insight. But they had said nothing about him having a laser that bored right into you and got to the heart of your intentions.

      “You want to tell me what this job is now so I can say no and stop wasting both our time?”

      “No, Professor. Let’s talk about India.”

      “If they had any lingering concerns over India, they wouldn’t have sent you. And technically, it was barely in India. It was on the border.”

      “I have concerns.”

      “Go to hell.”

      “You’ll want this job, Professor.”

      “I have a job, thanks,” said Tim, on the move again and quickening his step. “And I actually have no ambitions to return to diplomatic service—or to work for government in any other capacity again.” He pushed hard on the door leading to the green lawn of the courtyard.

      Schlosser followed him out to the sunshine. “You’d be a private contractor on this one.”

      “Don’t care. If they let a paper-pusher like you ask about that incident then that’s enough to suggest there would be more interference.”

      “This is the last time you see me,” said Schlosser. “As for how others interact with you… Well, I can’t make any guarantees. You’d be well compensated.”

      Another cocky smile. “I make enough now when I see corporate clients.”

      Schlosser had disliked the man from his department bio, and he despised him thoroughly now. He felt no one should ever be fully confident in his own security. It allowed him the privilege of indulging his own beliefs instead of following carefully developed policies. When he got back to Washington, he promised himself he would complain about being assigned the task of enabling such a man.

      “There are other rewards to consider, Mr. Cale.”

      “Oh, this is rich! An appeal to my intellectual vanity?”

      “Not your vanity, Professor. Curiosity. Now assuming they take you on with my recommendation, you’ll do this job not for your own ambition or for any monetary gain, but so you can learn certain things—perhaps some things you’ve wanted to know for a long time.”

      Tim didn’t break stride, looking straight ahead. “That’s a hell of a display of logic! Jump to conclusions of motive before you’re sure of my course of action! Mr. Schlosser, in less than five minutes, we’ve learned only two things. One is that you don’t know me, and two is that you’re a pompous ass.”

      Schlosser was tired of both the walk and the verbal humiliation. “You’re right, I don’t know you, but Dr. Weintraub claims he does. He says you’ll be interested.”

      Tim stopped again. “Weintraub could have phoned me himself.”

      “Departmental formalities.”

      “Uh-huh. Meaning Weintraub recommended me, but this has to go through the department… whatever it’s really about. Go back to Washington, Schlosser. Tell them I’ll speak with the Attorney General myself. Direct. I’ll send my fee request to his office.”

      Schlosser pulled out his cell. “Okay, I’ll phone and get you the email for his executive assistant.”

      “Don’t need it. I have Weatherford’s own email.”

      “Mr. Cale, I don’t know why I ask, since it sounds like I already have the answer,” sighed Schlosser, “but they’ll want to know: What are your views on capital punishment?”

      “I’ll make them clear if I ever wind up having to kill somebody,” snapped Tim. “It’s amazing you can move around at all, Schlosser, dragging all those assumptions around.”

      “You never answered my question.”

      “If they want to know, they can ask me themselves,” replied Tim. “And you wouldn’t believe me anyway.”

      He turned on his heel and left Schlosser standing there.

      There were only four witnesses to the Nickelbaum execution that weren’t in lab coats. One was the warden. A second was the administrative and theoretical head of the R and D team, Gary Weintraub. The third was a general electrician in overalls, a fellow who had no idea what was going on and was there just in case the power was lost or there was an electrical fire. And like the warden,