Silent Planet

Chapter 3: Crosscurrents

Columbia University. Thursday evening.

After his first full day of classes of the new semester, Neal collapsed on the floor of his art studio and picked up his guitar. At White Collar, the team was continuing to work on the Scima op. This was one sting he was immensely grateful he wasn't the leader. All his brain wanted to do was curl up and take a nap.

He strummed a few random chords, his mind too numb to focus on a tune.

Doctoral candidates weren't supposed to have full-time jobs. That's why they were given stipends. Nor did they study for a second master's. Why had he ever let himself be talked into going for a doctorate?

As in the fall semester, he'd bunched all his coursework onto one day. This term, he was sacrificing his Thursdays to the scholastic gods. Each one of his seminars had been brutal. He was concentrating on the nineteenth century with classes on Neoclassicism and Romanticism. He'd initially picked a course on Japanese art as his third elective, but how could he resist a seminar on the Pre-Raphaelites? So he'd signed up for both, despite his advisor's warning he'd be stretched too thin.

He'd left his door open—a symbolic gesture of a bolt-hole he might need to prepare if he were to survive the semester. When he heard approaching footsteps, he was glad to see a friendly face attached to them. Richard's schedule wasn't as demanding as Neal's. He and Aidan were pursuing a master's in visual arts in the evening, meaning they had no daytime courses.

"You still alive?" Richard asked.

"Barely," Neal said, only half-joking. "I finished the day with my first session with Sherkov." His advisor was mentoring him on the thesis he'd also need to prepare for this semester.

"Did he approve your topic?"

"He was downright gleeful." Neal plunked the most dissonant diminished seventh chord he could think of. "I quote: 'Since you have selected the three Carracci brothers, I shall expect trrrrrriple the length.' " Vanya's Russian accent wasn't that extreme, but Neal was in the mood to wallow.

Richard groaned sympathetically as he slid down on the floor next to him. "It's truly unfortunate that you picked artists from the Italian Renaissance. That period's not only your strength but also his."

"It doesn't matter. If I'd selected artists from a different period, he would have lectured me to include additional details to compensate. Did I mention he's also stipulated I submit a detailed proposal for my dissertation? It's not due for over three years. I'd hoped to put it off for an additional five years or so. Twenty sounds reasonable."

"Man, am I glad I'm not going for a doctorate." Richard didn't say anything more, but Neal filled in the blanks. After this spring, Richard would have his evenings and weekends back.

Neal took a sip of his by now decidedly tepid coffee. He'd need a couple more extra-large mugs to survive the evening. An appointment with his art advisor Myra Stockman was yet to come. "How did it go at work?"

"Peter called in Tricia to prepare profiles of the employees. Ian had provided their files. Tricia sucked out every bit of information I had about them and then let me escape. Travis and Jones were still working on the specs for this fantasy of a game. I must say, I'm starting to wish it weren't a con. I'd love to play it."

Neal nodded absently, eyeing his paintings. Myra was already familiar with the series of river paintings he was preparing for the master's exhibition. What new demands would she dream up?

Richard scanned the group as well. "You realize you left one out."

"What do you mean?"

"You told me the rivers symbolize important events in your life. You have the rivers in St. Louis, Baltimore, New York, Paris, Geneva ... Where's the Miskatonic River?"