Ghosts of Columbia Read Online Free PDF

dissemination of pro-Hapsburg values.” Congresslady Alexander also disparaged “so-called scientific research aimed at undermining traditional Columbian values.” She claimed the investigation will bring to light a de facto collusion between Speaker Hartpence’s “trained liberals” and Ferdinand’s “pandered plunderers.” Neither the Speaker nor President Armstrong was available for comment, although the president is known to have received a visit from Ambassador Schikelgruber shortly after Congresslady Alexander’s announcement.

    Schikelgruber, one of the few political ambassadors from the empire, was always sent to smooth things over. He was supposedly captivating and charming, and cultured. His mother had been a fair actress and his father a landscape painter.
    I didn’t need a detailed explanation. Schikelgruber was there to put pressure on the president to put pressure on the Congresslady, since they were of the same party, and Ralston had sent me the clipping to highlight his concerns about such “infiltration.”
    Ralston McGuiness was the president’s special assistant for budgeting—no one special to anyone outside the Presidential Palace, just the one man who not only recognized the growing, almost tyrannical, power of the Speaker but also knew how to use the few powers of the presidency to check that power. Now he finally had a president willing to try and good old idealistic Johan, willing to offer a little observation, a little assistance.
    I was beginning to wonder if my idealism were going to be my undoing. Ralston’s clippings were showing an increasingly effective campaign against the Speaker, a power struggle that had so far gone unnoticed in the press but, clearly, not by the Speaker nor by the Spazi who worked for the Speaker. I folded the clipping back into the envelope and placed it in the left breast pocket of my coat, then picked up the leather folder which held the notes for my two o’clock class. Gilda was still listening patiently to Andrei when I left, but I made a point to wave and flash her a smile. She probably deserved it.
    My two o’clock class, Environmental Politics 2A, was in Smythe 204, a hot room on the southwest corner of the second floor. I always had to open the windows. Peyton Farquharson taught Ecology I-B immediately before me, and his Louisiana
heritage was always clear enough by the temperature of the room. He was leaving as I entered.
    “Good afternoon, Johan. Terrible business about Miranda Miller.”
    “Absolutely awful.”
    “Did you know her? Was she close to your ‘friend’?”
    I smiled politely, ignoring the reproof implied by his choice of words, knowing that, with his Anglican-Baptist background, he really was being as tolerant as he was able. “Llysette and Miranda were colleagues, but not what one would call close.”
    “And at her recital, too, I understand.”
    “It was upsetting. At least Llysette didn’t find out until after she finished singing.”
    “Yes, it would be difficult to sing right after a murder. Do you have any idea how it happened?”
    One of my students, Peter Paulus, nodded to me, and stepped back. I was sure he wanted to ask the reason for the low grade on his first paper. None of them were used to my requirement for short papers throughout the term. Most academics simply lectured all term, then required a single massive research project or logical proof and a final exam that was more regurgitation than thought.
    “The rumor is that she was stabbed, but the watch officers did not tell me.” I inclined my head. “I have a student with a problem, I can see.”
    “Good luck with young Paulus,” concluded Farquharson. “He is inclined to inflate the magnitude of his difficulties.”
    “I have noticed.”
    I waited for Paulus, but he was scarcely bashful.
    “Professor Eschbach, could I trouble you to explain this comment?” He pointed to the brief phrase I had written in the margin of his greenbook—“ Mere