“May I ask why you're considering teaching at Dixon?”

Peter had been wrestling with that very question on the four-hour drive here,

and he still didn't have an adequate answer. He cleared his throat. “I feel it's time in my career to challenge myself with higher goals, to see if I can contribute to

society in a more healthy and productive way.”

It was either something Miss Iowa would say in the final round of a beauty

pageant or a convict's appeal for early parole.

Volders nodded but said nothing.

Great. He doesn't believe me, either, Peter thought.

“And, what do you think of our facilities here?” Volders asked, gesturing towards the grounds.

Peter tried to sound enthusiastic. “Very nice. I'm more used to a view of a

rusty dumpster outside my office window.” He smiled, but Volders didn't. Okay, strike one.

“Yes, we pride ourselves on keeping tidy grounds. Of course, appearance

isn't everything, but it is important for students to take pride in their surroundings. If a student has pride in his environment, he will have pride in himself. If he has pride in himself, he will be a better student. Do you see what I mean?”

No, but okay. “Of course,” Peter said.

Volders stood, folding his hands behind his back as he paced to the window.

“We have high standards of academic excellence at Dixon,” he intoned, looking

out the window. “Our parents expect it, and our students do as well. Three of our

students have gone on to become Rhodes Scholars.” He turned, obviously

waiting for acknowledgment.

“Wow,” was all Peter could think to say.

“Yes, indeed.” Volders returned to the window, wiping a smudge from the wavy glass with his sleeve. “And with such a high degree of achievement, you

can understand why we also expect to see that kind of dedication and decorum

from our faculty.”

So, I'm betting you've never been in a dunk tank. “Of course,” Peter said again, shifting in his seat.

Volders turned. “I've asked two of our current faculty in for a brief interview

if you don't mind?” Not waiting for a reply, he strode to the door and opened it.

Two serious-looking teachers filed in, a woman in a high, tight bun and a shorter, older man with poofy gray sideburns.

Peter squelched his smile. If Lucius were here, he would have joked that they looked like Susan Calvin and Isaac Asimov. But he was pretty sure that these three wouldn't get his inside joke about classic science fiction.

The pair shook his hand in turn wordlessly and then sat. “Shall we begin?”

Volders said with a wave of his hand.

* * *

Brief interview? The next hour was a crawl of questions. They were the usual:

How did you hear about the position? Through my lovable but meddling friend, Lucius Potter.

Why do you want this job? Because I'm really into tweed.

Tell me about a challenge or conflict you've faced at work, and how you dealt with it. Well, last fall, Jake Showalter, our starting quarterback, got his

middle finger stuck in a test tube on a bet, and we had to take him to the ER

because he had a game that night.

What's your dream job? Pilot of the Millennium Falcon.

He felt like a prisoner in a black and white war movie: Vat is the chemical

equation for photosynthesis? Ver are your troops? How many? Talk, pig!

By three-thirty, Volders stood and it was finally, blessedly over. He wasn't sure if he had passed the grilling session, but by then he didn't care. He just wanted some fresh air.

All three of his interrogators stood. “Thank you so much for your time,”

Volders said as the other two filed out the way they had come. The door closed,

and Peter stood as well.

“Mr. Clark, we appreciate you taking the time to answer our questions. I know it was a lengthy process, but you can understand our need to assure the highest quality of faculty here at Dixon.”

“Of course.” It was Peter's new answer to everything: You understand that tweed is essential to the ability of students to process new concepts? Of course.

Sports are, of course, secondary to studies at Dixon. Of course. If you want this job, you will have to eat this houseplant on my windowsill without using your hands. Of course.

Volders stuck out his hand, and with that, the interview was over.

Peter wove his way through the campus towards the visitor's lot where his car was waiting. Students passed, some deep in conversation, most giving him a brief smile. It was a friendly enough place, certainly a gorgeous campus. And the

average student GPA? He'd have to be nuts to turn down a job here. Wouldn't he?