The meeting was once a year, but Albert felt like it happened almost every other day. They'd gather at the diner, a simple establishment on a lonely asteroid, one of many in the ring. They'd wear casual clothes, they'd drop their guards and friends behind, they'd leave their uniforms and togas at home. Some might even wear layman's hats, Earth-based caps, sunglasses, or they'd finally drop the thick glasses and wear eye contacts. Anything to become incognito, indistinguishable, untraceable.
They were still professors, of course. Specialists. The best mind in their fields. In these days and age, and with the existence of this meeting, they were basically royalty. They'd still sit with formal unease, would still happily talk with rapid fire enthusiasm for their field. Some would wait patiently until everyone had gathered, some would shift their plastic cup of coffees, other, the more optimistic of the bunch, would strike up conversations. How do you do? How is your family? Occasionally, when they aren't careful, *how is work?* And the quiet dagger in the other's eyes would be enough that they shouldn't be talking about that. Not yet.
Around them truckers and miners would walk around and eat and converse, the noise they made almost enough to drown whatever these scientists and engineers would be discussing. No one paid them no mind; in other tables, similarly sized groups of working people were making just as much banter. Only the diner's owner noticed, and the diner's owner was wise enough to take the money, serve the meal, and not ask question.
It was their fourth meeting, the fourth year since the Existence Directive was formed. Albert, historian, predictor of the future based on the stories of the past, came last to the meeting. He wore an blue jacket over his t-shirt, a baseball cap that used to belong to his brother, and a pair of worn jeans that he'd only ever wear once a year. The twenty other scientists and engineers were already seated, and they watched him with tense impatience.
He sat down, and among the noise of the diner, the cosmologist cleared her throat. "Alright, since we're here," she said, casually, or attempting to sound like one. "I'd like to thank all of you for coming to the fourth meeting." She was careful not to say what it was about. "I'm Nada Suryadewa, and as you know from the last rounds, I'll be the moderator this time around."
The man next to Albert tugged at his shoulder. He whispered, "Sorry, what happened the last round?"
Albert glanced at the man. He seemed at least six years younger, and for a second Albert was puzzled why he couldn't remember him from the last meeting. Of course. The last xenobiologist died a couple of months ago when the alien relay bombarded his laboratory to dust. This must be his replacement. As Suryadewa went on with the opening statements, Albert tried to explain their predicament to the younger scientist.
"Has Dr. Khan told you what we're here for?"
"He'd written in his will about the meeting, yes, but he was vague about the details. It has something to do with the," the man hesitated for a bit, a beginner's mistake, "the Bomb?"
Bomb. Capital B. Yes, Albert knew, the rumours must've been circulating. But he didn't think anyone from outside the circle knew the full story. If the new *xenobiologist* hasn't been briefed, then there were probably quite a lot to explain.
"I'll put it simply," Albert said. "Here we are discussing the fate of the human race."
"The fate of the what-"
