November 28, 1952
Jones Residence, New York
"I don't understand why someone would send you a letter without even meeting them in person,"
Marcus said, holding a glass of bourbon that Indy had poured for him. It wasn't unusual for Indy to offer Marcus a glass of hard liquor, and he had never turned it down, despite not ever drinking it.
Indy took a sip of his drink, "I don't get it either. I get a letter from someone named Andrew Ryan and I'm expected to just go and explore this so-called utopian city?"
Indy knew when to smell a trap, but deep in his mind he thought about what it would be like to visit a utopia. He had never imagined that someone would be able to create one successfully. Indy knew traps, and this didn't feel like one.
"Well Indy, maybe you should go to this new city. A professor of your expertise could do well in a city like this," Marcus said, swirling his drink. He looked off into the distance, speaking almost to himself, "Imagine living in a place where you can do whatever you want with no one stopping you."
Indy took in the last of his bourbon, "Jesus, Marcus, listen to yourself! Do you really think a city like this could even function? No communication with the outside world? No guarantee that you wouldn't be criticized for what you're doing? Sounds like a lot of bullshit to me."
"All I'm saying, Indy, is that you should give it a try. It's not like you have to live down there forever. And teaching in a new city would be great for your records. Honestly, what's the worst that could happen?"