Jack McDevitt - POLARIS

According to the data file, Morton College presently had eleven students. And a dean, whose name was Margolis. It limited itself to postgraduate work, and granted doctorates in humane studies, in biology, physics, and mathematics.

Despite what we’d been led to expect, the day was bright and warm. Well, warm in a cold, crackling way, in the sense that you knew it could have been a lot colder. An energy collector on the main building was aimed at the sky. We could see lights in some of the windows.

But there was no pad. Presumably it was under the snow.

“Hello,” said a cheerful female voice on the link. “Are you looking for something?”

“I was hoping,” Alex said, “we might come by for a visit. My name’s Benedict, and I was considering making a donation.”

“Alex,” I told him, covering the link, “if Everson is involved, these people know your name. Maybe it would have been a good idea not to tell them who you are.”

“Give them credit, Chase,” he said. “As soon as we walk in the door, they’ll know.”

“That’s very kind of you, Mr. Benedict,” said the voice on the circuit, “but donors usually proceed through Mr. Everson. If you want to give me contact information, I’ll see that he gets it.”

“I understand that. But we were in the area, and I haven’t really made a decision yet. I hoped you might allow me to take a look at the school.”

“Just a moment, please.”

We circled for several minutes before the voice came back. “Professor Margolis says he can’t spare much time. He’ll meet you at the ramp.”

The snow cover north of the complex broke open. Two doors rose into the air, the snow slid back, and we were looking into an underground pad. We descended and eased down past several meters of snow. The doors closed overhead, and we were in.

“That was easy,” I said.

The space was bigger than it looked from the air. Two other skimmers were parked, one on either side. We climbed out, and the voice told us to exit to our right.

A door swung back, revealing a tunnel. More lights came on.

Margolis was the teacher you always wanted to have. Congenial smile, right-to-thepoint attitude, a voice like water running over rocks. He was about seventy, with a shock of prematurely white hair, a neatly clipped beard, and sea blue eyes. His right hand was wrapped in a protective sheath. “Broke it in a fall,” he explained. “You get old, you get clumsy.” He looked at me. “Don’t ever do it, young lady. Stay right where you are.”

The place was paneled with light-stained wood. There was a bust of the dramatist Halcon Rendano, and another of Tarien Sim, and a couple of paintings of people I didn’t recognize. It was the sort of room in which you instinctively lowered your voice.

He indicated chairs for us, introduced himself, and asked whether we would like some refreshment. Coffee, perhaps?

That sounded good, and he whispered an instruction into his link, and lowered himself into a hardwood chair, the least comfortable-looking chair in the room. “Now, Mr. Benedict,” he said, “how may I be of service?”

Alex leaned forward. “You can tell me a little about the facility, if you will, Professor. How it works. What the students are doing, and so on.”

Margolis nodded. Pleased to be of service. “We are strictly an independent-study institution. We take students whom we perceive to be especially gifted, we provide the best mentors, and we, I suppose you would say, turn them loose.”

“I assume the mentors are not physically present.”

“No. That’s correct. But those who are part of the program make themselves available on a preset schedule. We try to provide an atmosphere that fosters development. Talent mingling with talent, we find, often produces spectacular results.”

“Synergy.”

“Precisely. We give our students a place to live, where they can congregate with others like themselves, where they have access to unlimited academic resources. Our objective is that they have the opportunity to communicate with the best minds in their fields of interest.”

“Is there any charge to the individual student?”

“No,” he said. “We are completely funded.”

A bot rolled in with the coffee and pulled up in front of me. There were two cups, both inscribed MORTON COLLEGE , with a coat of arms. I took one, and the bot proceeded to serve Alex.

“Freshly brewed,” said Margolis.

After the cold air in the landing portal, it was just what I needed.

“I’m interested,” Alex said, “in some of the collaborating mentors. Who’s participating?”

A broad smile appeared on Margolis’s weathered face. This was a subject he enjoyed. “There are quite a few, actually, depending, of course, on who is currently enrolled at Morton. We have Farnsworth at Sidonia Tech, MacElroy at Battle Point, Cheavis at New Lexington. Morales at Lang Tao. Even Hochmyer at Andiquar.”

The roll call was unfamiliar to me, but then I really didn’t follow the academic world very closely. Alex seemed to be impressed. I decided I should make a contribution, and cast about for an intelligent question. “Tell me, Professor,” I said, “the college seems so small. Wouldn’t it be more efficient to specialize in, say, the humane arts? Or in AI technology?”

“We don’t strive for efficiency, Ms. Kolpath. At least not in that sense. In fact, with a worldwide faculty from which to draw, we have no need to limit ourselves.

Here at Morton, we remain open to a wide range of fields. We recognize the contributions made by science, which improves our lives, and by the arts, which fill our lives. We have numbered among our students physicists and pianists, surgeons and dramatists. We set no limits to human endeavor.”

“Professor,” Alex asked, “what was the Sunlight Project?”

The smile broadened. “You’re looking at it. It was the inspiration for what we’ve become, a way to provide for able minds to develop. It was the way we started, and it has changed very little.”

“Over sixty years. I’m impressed.”

“Over ten thousand years, Mr. Benedict. We like to think of Morton as a direct descendent of Plato’s Academy.”

“Would it be possible,” asked Alex, “to speak with some of the students?”

“Ah. No, I am sorry, but they’re at study. We never interrupt them, save for an emergency.”

“I see. Admirable custom.”

“Thank you. We try very hard to ensure the best possible atmosphere conducive to-” He hesitated.

“-Learning?” I suggested.

“-Perhaps rather to creation. ” He laughed. “Well, I know how that sounds.

Can’t help it sometimes. But so often we perceive learning as an essentially passive exercise. Here at Morton, we have no interest in producing scholars. We’re not trying to assist people to appreciate Rothbrook and Vacardi. We want to find the new Rothbrook.”

Rothbrook had been a mathematician of note in the last century. But I couldn’t tell you why. Vacardi’s name rang a bell, but I had no clue why he was important, either. It struck me that Morton would never have let me in the door.

“Could we possibly tour the facility?” asked Alex.

“Of course,” he said. “It would be my pleasure.”

For the next twenty minutes we wandered through the complex. Doors opened as we approached. Here was the community room, in which the students spent much of their leisure time. “We encourage social development,” Margolis said. “There are too many examples of potential greatness unrealized because an inability to interact with other persons created roadblocks. Hasselmann is a good example.”

“Of course,” said Alex.

And this was the gymnasium. With its attendant pool. One student was in the water, doing laps. “Jeremiah just came to us this year,” said Margolis. “He’s already done some interesting work in time/space structure. He operates on a different schedule from the rest of the world.” He seemed to think that was something of a joke, laughed heartily, and looked disappointed when we didn’t react accordingly.