He doesn't exactly have the text of his thesis on hand anymore. It's stuck on one of the servers in the Central Academy, and the network connection is… poor. Nonexistent, one might say. But it's fine! Cadogan knows his own work backward and forward at this point. He knows he can hold something symbolic of the work, instead of a copy of the thesis. "Do you think a gyroscope would be appropriate?" he asks his advisor, fidgeting with nothing to hold. "I could rig one pretty easily…" "Easy," she tells him. "There's precedent for declaring work relevant enough for Kepler itself to serve as symbol, and you've studied the manipulation of gravity itself, such as is generated by a planetary body… You're prepared for this, Cadogan." He's not sure he believes her, and so goes off to see what kind of a scale model he can make out of available scraps. The—siege? Occupation?—is as boring as it is nerve-wracking, and it eases his hands and heart to have something to do. Hopefully they can actually hold the ceremony. The amphitheater seems so far away from here. He knows how it's supposed to be: The defense will be somber and thorough, a questioning from the Dean herself to interrogate his ideas—and then, when he has held forth to satisfaction, she will smile at him. Then the feast will begin, and as sober reflection turns to triumph and elation, the Dean will gift him the first of his tools as a scientist grown, crafted from the progenitor ship. Something to carry with him always. Cadogan imagines the weight it will have in his hands, the joy of being received by his peers amid music and dancing and the majestic spin of the stars in the sky. He's not there yet, he reminds himself, biting his lip. Waiting even longer would be torture. He hopes the strangers can help.