Sloane Royce-Parker
gotta get a gimmick
The library was near deserted; a weekend afternoon was not a typical time for it to be crowded. A lot of students had already left for the weekend, but not Sloane, who had surrounded herself with a stack of tomes from the shelves. The real things, too, with paper pages and leather bindings and everything, and that distinct smell. The smell of books was among her favorite scents. There was something vaguely vanilla-y about it; something to do with the way the compounds found in wood-based paper broke down. She was sure she had read that -- somewhere. She pushed her spectacles up her nose and leaned over the book she had leaned against a stack, narrowing her eyes intently.
This research was of critical importance. This wasn't for just any class, after all. Professor DeWitt's class was the most important because of his legendary status in the community of archaeological academia. She had met him before; he had spent some time at her parents' dinner table and academic salons, but now she was one of his graduate students and she was determined to be among the students he took on his digs, which meant her papers needed to be flawless.
Everything had to be perfect.
So while her fellow students were enjoying the holiday weekend, Sloane was buried in books. Luckily, she was almost finished -- just a few last minute citation confirmations -- and then she could submit it. Idly she wondered if Dr. DeWitt would be in the office or if he, too, was somewhere enjoying the spring holiday. She made a notation on her datapad and moved to the next cite, her blue-grey eyes narrowing critically at her work.
Half an hour later, Sloane was shelving the last of her borrowed books under the watchful eye of the archivist who seemed to think that the young archaeologist was going to run off with it. She left the library with a freshly printed copy of her paper. The flimsis were still warm from the printed when she arrived at the the professor's office. To her surprise, she heard movement inside. She rapped on the door.
"Professor DeWitt? Do you have a moment?"
This research was of critical importance. This wasn't for just any class, after all. Professor DeWitt's class was the most important because of his legendary status in the community of archaeological academia. She had met him before; he had spent some time at her parents' dinner table and academic salons, but now she was one of his graduate students and she was determined to be among the students he took on his digs, which meant her papers needed to be flawless.
Everything had to be perfect.
So while her fellow students were enjoying the holiday weekend, Sloane was buried in books. Luckily, she was almost finished -- just a few last minute citation confirmations -- and then she could submit it. Idly she wondered if Dr. DeWitt would be in the office or if he, too, was somewhere enjoying the spring holiday. She made a notation on her datapad and moved to the next cite, her blue-grey eyes narrowing critically at her work.
Half an hour later, Sloane was shelving the last of her borrowed books under the watchful eye of the archivist who seemed to think that the young archaeologist was going to run off with it. She left the library with a freshly printed copy of her paper. The flimsis were still warm from the printed when she arrived at the the professor's office. To her surprise, she heard movement inside. She rapped on the door.
"Professor DeWitt? Do you have a moment?"