'The journey's dangers, discomforts, and tedium are more than compensated for by the sight of you, so productively occupied, and in such good health.' Or something like that. This is the polite part of the conversation, which is not likely to last much longer. If he had returned the compliment, Daniel would have scoffed, because no one would say he's well preserved in the sense that Enoch is. He looks as old as he ought to. But he's wiry, with clear, sky-blue eyes, no tremors in his jaw or his hands, no hesitation in his speech once he's over the shock of seeing Enoch (or, perhaps, anyone ) in his Institute. Daniel Waterhouse is almost completely bald, with a fringe of white hair clamping the back of his head like wind-hammered snow on a tree-trunk. He makes no apologies for being uncovered and does not reach for a wig – indeed, appears not to own one. His eyes are large, wide and staring in a way that probably does nothing to improve his reputation. Those orbs flank a hawkish nose that nearly conceals the slot-like mouth of a miser biting down on a suspect coin. His ears are elongated and have grown a radiant fringe of lanugo. The imbalance between his organs of input and output seems to say that he sees and knows more than he'll say.