The Midas Legacy

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Henry Wilde took a deep breath as his name was called, summoning every scrap of self-assurance before standing. The twenty-plus people in the lecture hall regarded him expectantly as he headed for the lectern. A jury of his peers, he mused; the other undergraduates in his class. Some were friends — his roommate Jack Philby gave him a reassuring grin — but most were acquaintances at best, or even just faces in the crowd. The tall young New Yorker’s obsession had put work ahead of socialising.

Obsession. That was perhaps hyperbolic, but he couldn’t deny that his childhood fascination had intensified so much that it had determined his choice of degree. Now he was about to reveal that obsession to the jury.

And to the judge. Professor Orin Brighthouse stared at him over the thick black frames of his spectacles, the expression on his rumpled face one of bored disdain. Another student with a chew toy for me to maul, he didn’t need to say out loud. Brighthouse was highly regarded in the field of archaeology, but he was also scathingly critical of ideas that challenged the status quo. It took a lot to impress him. So far, none of the other students had done that.

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