You take some of your best clothes and stain the cuffs with ink and the chests with splashes of acid. You purchase a telescope and a little pair of spectacles rather like Lieutenant Hoff’s. You fill several notebooks with arcane scribblings, and then you’re ready to begin.

You spend your nights observing the stars from prominent locations and your days in local tea shops writing notes and declaring your theories to anyone who will listen. You eagerly seek out the acquaintance of other intellectuals, only to loudly disagree with their every opinion.

“If you persist on thinking in terms of merely Copernican astronomy…”

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“Ridiculous! My measurements prove conclusively that…”

“Well, if you had actually understood Fourier…”

You gain a great deal of notoriety, a few staunch enemies, and some genuinely interesting observations on the movements of Jupiter. Maybe you’ll publish a monogram someday.

You never, ever talk about money. You never mention who is backing your research. But you spend liberally, stay at the best hotels, eat at the best restaurants, and tip lavishly. People take notice.

It’s not long before you find yourself invited to a little salon hosted by a prominent advisor to the king.

Of course, you will attend. But what is your plan?