I have escaped to a quiet corner of the Bodleian library to write my next correspondence to you. This late in the evening the library is near deserted and I welcome the absence of enquiring voices and curious onlookers.
There is but one remaining comfortable seat left in this section of the college, and I have made this wingback chair my refuge whenever the outer world threatens to overtake my sanity. The return to lecturing has brought back the reason I quit teaching years ago. Even now, hours later, my brain still pulses from the bombardment of questions from my audience. Both the profound and ridiculous are equally trying, negating my ability to concentrate on anything other than maintaining my frustration. I have come to my oasis by the fire, curled up on the tapestried cushions, to sort out my options. It helps to write it out to you, picking through the events that have lead me to this point. I yearn for the analytical person who fled when my arm disappeared. She would be more than capable to control these events. I realize the need for my activities here, keeping my tenure open at the college as my body regenerates and retaining access to the lab facilities for my continued research. I only struggle to relate to my audience a subject I no longer believe. In the past five years, my studies have taken my knowledge so far away from what I need to relate in my weekly presentations that it seems a farce to me.
I want to share what we have discovered during these last years of research. I know this if forbidden, but I feel foolish passing on information to these eager minds that in recent discoveries, negates their existence. We both are aware how groundbreaking my studies have been for the Louvre. It is difficult to relate the lie when the truth hides itself within the confidentiality of our project. What will these people think when the true nature of my findings are announced years from now. Will they look back at my lectures with disdain, knowing I was well aware of the deception? Saying I was hiding the truth behind a veil of secrecy and subterfuge. This is necessary, I know.
To announce the discoveries we have made about the nature of the Anomaly in the Alpha Centauri system now would be premature. I just find it difficult to base an entire lecture on the chaotic structure of the array, informing an entire auditorium of academics that there is no parallel between the neural structure of the brain and the signal pattern detected from the system. We both know how untrue that is. Attempting to debate this question with the crowd has drained my system. It is hard to take the wrong side of the argument, knowing you are promoting misinformation. I am only relieved I have only two lectures a week. I do not think I could survive more than that.
The reconstruction engineer I have been assigned to here at Oxford has been very encouraging about the progress of my regeneration. He said if all goes at this pace I will be able to return to my normal activities within six months. That is several months ahead of my original timeline projected by the surgeon. So very encouraging. It is too soon at this point to arrange a return to London, but the anticipation of an early commencement of my own research for the Louvre will allow me to survive my time among the academia. I love Oxford, but the subterfuge is against my nature. I only hope I can hold on to our closely kept secret long enough to return to the London Headquarter of the foundation.
Tell me about Mars in your next letter. I would love to see it through your eyes as you make the red planets acquaintance.