I have a week to recuperate before the Township Council convenes next Monday, and it may take the entire week to get my head right for a terrible bout of questions, clarifications, and analysis that comprises a mission debriefing. Morris Connelly, my mentor, will preside which offers me some relief. If he’s not visiting Dr. Alan Turing, he’s making time for tea with Ada Lovelace, so it’s a blessing the Old Man is in town to grill me over my two-year mission.
Morris is a funny old man, a wide-eyed explorer with a penchant for telling historical stories embellished with gossip and anecdotes that engenders brows to rise and faces to blush. I love the Old Man, after all, he’s a legend in my time and assuredly in others, as a matter of more fact than fiction. He pulled me aside at the homecoming to warn me of an uneasiness that’s stirring in the minds of the Council that invoking the Intervention Protocol is on the table, again. The protocol surfaced last at the apex of the Cuban Missile Crisis, and now it appears history is showing the world it can, indeed, repeat itself. The Cuban Missile Crisis was Morris’s gig, so he’ll set the tone for an invocation of a protocol designed to intervene when cooler heads of states fail to prevail during times of diminished civility and increased uncertainty.
To witness humanity suffer at the hands of those who favor war and terrorism over freedom, prosperity, and the pursuit of enlightenment disturbs me. And when worried about wildly massive issues, like invoking the Intervention Protocol, I seek the wise counsel of Morris, my mentor, my guardian parent.
Richard Crossman is hosting a small cadre of specialists and mission commanders at his ranch today, so I can catch up with Morris for a few sideline discussions about my recent mission and hear his iconic laughter and watch him animate his large, bushy eyebrows. He’s a sweet old man, and it’s difficult to imagine any civilized world without at least one Morris Connelly.