“Okay, I’m hooked,” confessed Wheeling, watching the white moon sail into the distance. “I shouldn’t, but you got me fair and square.” He looked back at his friend, eyed him evenly. “Looks like you’re trapped.”
The committee room was small and informal, with a stately atmosphere and sense of history hand-worn into the rich wood paneling. There was just enough room for the long committee table and the modest guest gallery under the high window.
A single old pane let hi sunlight and a respectable view of the mall. Wheeling quietly took a seat near the back of the gallery, on a bench that was made before the term “built-in obsolescence” was known. The gallery was practically deserted.
A small knot of youngsters sat at the far end and below him—early junior nigh or late elementary school by the looks of them, with their teacher. Though kids grew up so fast these days it was hard~to tell. Question them about their favorite water hole, and they were likely to give you a lecture on spatial physics or oceanography. A couple of tired, bored-looking reporters and a few tourists completed the audience. Wheeling smiled and nodded politely to the newspapermen, then looked up.
Fowler sat at the near end of the thick walnut table. He kept running a hand through what was left of his sandy brown hair while he conferred with a neatly dressed subordinate from his department.
The children quieted, and the committee filed in, took their seats at the end of the table opposite the
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A Miracle of Small Fishes