He called them weekend meetings. The accountant occasionally managed to sneak his way in by bluffing the low tier security areas and scaring the younger employees. When that happened, Prescott always ended up on an extended already twelve hour shift- and somehow it never failed to be on a Friday as well.

Did the man have no family and lived to keep others from theirs? Prescott himself was a grandfather. At his ripe old age of sixty-five, he really considered himself a full time grandfather and a part time scientist. Or at least whenever Mr Garrett showed up with number crunching news.

Prescott distractedly drew small spaceships in the margins of the report in front of him. The man seated across from him was droning with an increasingly frustrated tone. He glared at Doctor Prescott through thick horn rimmed glasses, as his neat black hair seemed to unravel from its weave  sheer exertion.

Sweat gathered at his wide for head and wander down the man's sallow face. But he never dabbed at it or slowed his speech, or even seemed to take a breath. He just kept railing on, nothing hands tightly gripping a shiny black briefcase standing upright on a recently pressed khaki lap.

“We have to consider our ability to maintain funding. They want answers, Doctor. Our supporters need to know we're not just out here wasting time in a field. There have been no meaningful reports for weeks.”

Another oval; then a circle at the top; and dots inside the oval for lights. Lights in space were important.

“I'm getting a lot of pressure for the top, Doctor. This is a big operation. A big expensive operation- and one that seems to have zero output for the entire six years of its existence. No one knows what's going on here. I'm trying to help you, Doctor, but you're not making it easy on me.”

The loud man was turning an interesting shade of purple. Doctor Prescott leaned back and cocked his head, admiring his most recent addition to the growing interstellar army on the page. He leaned in and added a triangle under the oval of the craft's hull. Then he painstakingly drew a tiny stick figure man caught in the tractor beam. He was clutching a little briefcase.

“Doctor Prescott! Are you even listening to me?” the sweaty and offensive man suddenly barked. Prescott did not move for a moment. Then he slowly set down his pen, and looked up at the man seated across from him. The man looked angry, but as he took in the calm but displeased visage of Doctor Prescott, his expression quickly crumpled to that of embarrassment.

Prescott had that power over people. He was extremely adept at reading people and with one glance he could instantly communicate that he knew a person's true intentions. He was a walking Chess-master at life, and he was an accomplished astrophysicist to boot. It was not for little reason he had been chosen to head the team of Project Salamander

“My apologies, Doctor, I spoke out of turn-...” the man fumbled.

“Mr Garrett.” Prescott cut him off, his tone stern. “Salamander is an experimental facility pressing the line between science fiction and science fact. What manner of reports or results could you or your people possibly be looking for from us? We promised a finished project- and we have a twenty year longevity. Do not bother me with idle threats.”

“That's just it, Doctor. That's why I'm here. Why I drove four hours from the nearest podunk to bother you. They're not idle anymore.”

Prescott blinked, his expression shifting slightly to one of confusing. He stared down the weasel of a man in front of him, not sure if he should believe him.

“Tell me at least that you are aware, we had an election recently?” Garrett pressed his thick glasses further up his blunt nose.

Another few blinks. “Well, yes… That happens every four years. I suppose another one must have rolled around since we began…”

Garrett closed his eyes slowly and pushing up his glasses began to massage his eyelids. He laid his briefcase flat on his lap and, fixing his glasses, stared sadly at the Doctor.

“Yeah, well it did happen. You remember that loud mouth senator that opposed Salamander? Torie? Well… He's in.”

Prescott winced visibly at this bit of news, his right hand beginning to ball into a fist subconsciously.

“The platform was the usual. Trim the fat to make way for a flood of cash. Education, science, preservation, the usual all bit the bullet. Salamander was the last big accomplishment of President Driscoll. Obviously Tory wants to kill it.”

“Great.” The Doctor hissed, more to himself than. Anyone else. “How… How long?”

“They tried pretty hard to shut it down. But… You do realize what Salamander is to the people right? You're hope. You can't kill hope with the swipe of a pen.”

“Don't be so poetic, Garrett. I need a number.” Prescott frowned.

“Half, Prescott. That's the best he could do. So your term ends with his.” It was Garrett's turn to wince.

Prescott leaned back and turned his head to the high ceiling. He studied the dark oak panels for a moment, then closed his eyes. “Four years to perfect a space engine and prove there's extraterrestrial life?”

“That's… Yes that's what we're looking at now. I've been trying to secure finding from other sources, but… Since Tory is still pretty fresh, people are still following him hard- the money, anyway. I think closer to the end of of his term, I'll be able to-...”

Prescott silently lifted his arm and pointed at the door. Garrett stopped talking immediately and looked sadly at the motionless old man before him. He did not take offense to Prescott's ejecting him from his presence; he knew the Doctor to well. It was just time he left, so the experts could get to work.

Prescott lifted his head in time to see Garrett quietly close the double oak doors behind him. The Doctor folded his his hands hands across his chest and breathed deeply. His expression was one of intense concentration. He would need to call the sector heads.

If Tory wanted proof, he'd get proof. Salamander was more than just hope of a nation; it was the future. No politic buffoon would steal this from Prescott, or his people. Not when they were so close.