The Paladin Prophecy

PROFESSOR SANGREN

For the second day in a row, for different reasons, Will walked out of the medical center with his mind reeling. This time he hardly noticed the glacial air.

This explains the running, at least, but how on earth did it happen? Am I some kind of freak? No wonder my parents didn’t want me on a cross-country team; I’d end up on Ripley’s Believe It or Not. And once they start poking around in my insides, what else will they find?

As he walked toward the quad, bells rang nearby. Will tracked them to a tower atop Royster Hall, near the middle of the commons. Visible from anywhere on campus, the large clock on the tower’s four sides read 11:00. Sounding the hour.

Will pulled out the schedule McBride had given him. The first of his five classes started at eleven. Right now. Room 207, Bledsoe Hall. He summoned the campus map in his mind and located Bledsoe Hall. He calculated direction and distance—over a quarter of a mile—and started running.

He reached Bledsoe before the bells stopped ringing. Will hurried in, dashed upstairs, and found room 207. He saw shapes through the door’s rippled glass window and heard a male voice. Will took a deep breath and stepped inside.

Six rows of curved mahogany desks on low risers ascended in a terraced half-circle amphitheater. A wall of windows was covered with louvered wooden blinds. Twenty-five students filled the desks, their tablets propped in front of them.

Every student looked attractive, poised, and physically fit. A diverse group of races and ethnic groups, all, without exception, put together and self-assured. If this sample was any indication of the Center’s student body, Rourke was right; these kids were way above average. If they weren’t already rich and famous, it was only a matter of time. Will felt like a skunk at the opera.

The instructor—a boyish, energetic man with a shock of long sandy hair—stood before a square blue screen that took up most of that wall. On a lectern in front of him sat some sort of built-in computerized control panel. The man stopped speaking as Will entered.

“And you are?” asked the teacher.

“Late,” said Will.

“Only by … two months,” said the instructor in a deep, resonant voice.

The class laughed.

Will glanced at his schedule: CIVICS: PROFILES IN POWER AND REALPOLITIK. Professor Lawrence Sangren. “Really sorry, Professor Sangren,” said Will.

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