Last excerpt. Launch tomorrow. Can't wait!
Two years ago, when Chief Hansen had come to Foster’s apartment to recruit him into the squad, Foster had just finished a series of conferences around the seven flying cities. He’d given his Poetry and Synapses lecture to the usual audiences of five frog-eyed academics and two weirdoes, in the standard ultra-light, ultra-polymer, ultra-hideous college auditoriums.
He was drinking a well-deserved glass of wine at the oak table that was his only piece of furniture, wishing he had a view of the open sky from his place, when the doorbell rang. A man stood there, looking out of place in his black fatigues. A blunt form of energy emanated from him, like that of a pitbull, or a boulder rolling down a hill.
“Chief Ule Hansen, head of the New Montreal Bomb Squad,” the man had said, extending a calloused hand.
Foster was confused. Why was this boulder in his doorway? He shook the proffered hand. “Hi. Gerald Foster. I’m more of a pine tree than a boulder. Please come in.”
Chief Hansen frowned. “Yeah, they warned me you were strange,” he said, and accepted the invitation nonetheless.