Free The Oregon Experiment by Keith Scribner Page A

Korea or Cyprus.
    They were both silent for a moment until Fenton blurted, “To discuss!” still looking outside. “The spring issue of
Domestic Policy
ended up on the dean’s desk and he—Well, with funding cuts in recent years, we haven’t had many hires. So there’s lots of ‘what ifs’ and twenty-twenty hindsight and egg on the face. I went out on a limb for you, Dr. Pratt, so I want you to front-load your research and pull the trigger. An article or three, rat-a-tat-tat, a monograph A- SAP. ” Then he stopped as abruptly as he’d started.
    Scanlon’s heart sank.
Shit!
A warning. A threat!
    “Your office,” Fenton said brightly, and Scanlon followed him down the hallway to a tight dogleg and a door with a plaque that read, PROFESSOR PRATT . Fenton worked a key in the lock and opened the door partway, and when Scanlon took a step forward, Fenton stopped and turned back so they nearly bumped into each other. They stood inches apart.
    “I notice you’re growing a beard,” Fenton said.
    Scanlon smiled. “It’s sort of silly. I read about the Mr. Douglas competition—”
    “So that’s it.” Fenton cut him off, pulling on his own whiskers. “How long since you shaved?”
    “A couple weeks.”
    “See this?” Fenton slapped at his own chin. “Six days. Five, really. Today’ll be the sixth.” Then he forced another laugh, stepping around Scanlon and down the hall. “Good luck,” he said, chuckling.
    Scanlon pushed the door open. An oak desk, heavily shellacked, was dappled with sunlight coming through two tall windows. A new computer sat on the desk, a dusty IBM Selectric next to it on a typewriter table, a file cabinet was stuck in one corner, and empty bookshelves lined the walls. He leaned back in his chair and put his feet up on the desk. “What the fuck was that?” he said, hearing the quaver in his voice. Fenton had rattled him. Goddamnit, why did his job have to start off like this? A quick article or three was already the plan. Now he’d have to get them out even quicker. He felt confident the writing would come easily. Sequoia had pleaded with him to become involved right after the PNSM meeting, and Hank had worked on him over beers. Well, he would. And he’d one-up the bastards who ripped his work apart for being rosy-eyed about mass movements. Scanlon had studied every secessionist movement on the planet. He knew why they failed, and he knew the blueprint for success. He’d nudge the PNSM along—maybe a token secession, merely symbolic, but a little taste was better than nothing—and he’d study every detail of the process and turn it into a book. There was no reason he couldn’t become the leading scholar on American secessionism, with the street-cred to back it up.
    He picked up the office phone—no dial tone—and then he pulled out his cell and called Sam Belknap. “I’m tearing the protective plastic off the padded arms of my brand-new desk chair,” he said.
    “Getting right to work?” Sam said, delighted.
    “I’m gonna make my mark from this office, Sam. Radical change and mass movement flow through the air and water out here. Distrust of government, anger, fear—they’re all juiced up, and I’m in the spot to make sense of them. Kosovo is old news. Quebec’ll never happen. The Basques and Tamils will always be considered terrorists. But a tiny secession from history’s greatest empire by the Pacific Northwest Secessionist Movement could shake the world.”
    “I never heard of them.”
    “They’re small but fierce, and with a little help from me—”
    “You’re joking.”
    “Not at all. Plus there’s these extreme right-wing Christians north of here and hippies living off the grid—”
    “Stop!” Sam barked, then fell into a fit of coughing. Scanlon heard himtake a drink and clear his throat. “Look, you’ve got a first-rate mind, but you need to publish some solid work. Enough of smoking pot with anarchists. You’ll be sending your CV to East