by Z. M. Wilmot
Chapter Two
It was approaching seven o’clock in the evening when the Connolly Grant meeting broke up, and the university's distinguished faculty members exited Donelan Auditorium, hurrying to their cars, protecting their balding heads from the dreary rain with various briefcases and books.
Night was beginning to make itself known, and the sky was growing ever dimmer as the hours progressed. A few twinkling spheres in the heavens shown down upon the empty paved lot across which the well-dressed men hurried, and an eerie wind was picking up.
Siegfried Reinhouer, a professor of physics at the esteemed Malacky University, was one of the last to leave. His speech had done little to rouse the hearts and minds of his colleagues, and his gaze remained directed downward as he walked forlornly out across the lot toward his faded black Buick, paying no heed to the tears of the sky as they fell all around him.
Behind the mourning professor, a man followed with a much lighter step, a short-brimmed hat atop his head barely keeping the water from reaching his youthful face. Doctor Reinhouer was a mere three meters distant from his vehicle when the young man, clad in a blue jacket and crimson tie, placed a hand on the professor’s shoulder. Old Reinhouer started suddenly, whirling around to face he who had dared touch him, a look of petrified terror in his eyes. Upon the sight of the culprit’s face, the man visibly relaxed and turned to face the youth. “My apologies, monsieur – you startled me rather greatly.”
The man in blue smiled warmly. “It is I who owes the apology, professor; my touch was out of line.”
Reinhoeur nodded shortly. “But I take it your touch was meant to gain my attention?” A nod from the youth. “Well, consider my attention gained, young sir. What is it you wish of me?”
“Very little, professor. I seek to arrange, with you, an exchange of favors – that is to say, I do something for you, and you do something for me.”
Reinhoeur sighed heavily. “I am sorry, my boy, but I will not withdraw my entry for the Connolly Grant – my work is far too important for that.”
The young man shook his head. “No, that is not the favor I would have of you.”
“Then speak your piece, lad.”
Taking a breath, the youth continued. “My name is Henry – Henry R. Devalier. I am a doctoral student at the university, in your department, working under professor Thomasen.”
“And what relevance does this have, if I may ask?”
“Little, unless you happen to recognize my name.” Reinhouer responded that he did not. “Then you should know that I am, in fact, the recent recipient of two vast fortunes, passed unto me by my aunt and my great-grandfather, who both passed away three weeks ago, under rather... bizarre circumstances. These fortunes exceed the sum of three million dollars, and when added onto my own already large monetary worth, makes me out to be quite a sum.”
“And what relevance, then, does this have? Are you planning on giving all of it to me?”
Henry Devalier smiled. “Close. You see, I am a man of science and learning. I attended the grant presentations because I was genuinely interested in what was being shewn, not because of any prodding by my mentor. I had made the decision, scarcely a week ago, to grant half of my newly acquired fortune upon he whose project seemed to be the most engaging and unique. Your presentation convinced me that your project is that which I came seeking.”
“Oh? And you don’t think it’s all a load of codswallop, like the rest of my professional, open-minded colleagues?” There was a bitterness in Reinhouer’s voice, tempered and shaped by years of experience.
“That I am not sure of, to be perfectly honest, professor Reinhouer, but I believe that there is at least a chance you are correct.” Reinhouer huffed and began to turn around. “If you would permit it, sir, I should like to see the apparatus of which you spoke, and then give you the million and a half dollars I have promised.”
The professor paused, his back now to the student. “Very well, then. You know my address?” The student nodded, and then replied in the affirmative. “Then come to there tomorrow evening, at eight o’clock.” Reinhouer turned around, a slightly manic glint in his eye. “And I will give you the demonstration of a lifetime.”
