I still remember how my first university lecture ended up with us wandering the school building. We were in the classroom at first. Our professor had an amazing reputation, so there we were, waiting for him to enter, introduce himself, and begin teaching—that was a 'class' as we knew it. But once our 'professor' came in, he told us to pack our stuff and follow him. All the students did as they were told, and I was no exception. The whole way, he was telling us about the makeup of Columbia's geology, the manufacturers that made prospecting machines, and various archeological findings, but every time we arrived at a statue or a bust or the like, he'd stop to introduce the next of these historical greats and school alumni that had made outstanding contributions to Columbian expeditionary causes. Finally, once he'd made a full circle and brought us back to the classroom, the course's real professor decided to show up. He sent off the old guy, introduced himself to everyone, and then announced that his first class was over. You should've heard my classmates whispering. Was it a prank? Was it some kind of school tradition? Some figured the old schmuck went out of his way to put it on, with all the power he had. Not a single person cared about anything he'd just told us. Not a one. ...... One day, I was eating lunch by a little brook on campus when I came across the man by accident. Moreover, he seemed to recognize me from back then, and mentioned how I was taking notes so diligently. So I asked him, was he a professor at the school? And his response was no. 'I just give a little dirty money to the place,' he told me. It was only then that I realized the man in front of me was on the school's Board of Governors. He said he'd retired by now, handed all his property down to his children, and had nothing to do but occasionally come to the school and stroll around. He asked me what I planned to do in future, and I said I was going to be a scientific explorer. 'Nice. You do that for a couple of years, then you retire as a senior consultant for some non-profit environmental org. Good plan, young lady.' I said I planned to remain an explorer, until I was physically unable to. It seemed the moment I finished saying that, something in his eyes lit up. 'Then I wish you luck, explorer. Once you get results... remember to come back, you hear? Tell the next generation the story of their predecessors.' Then he left, just like that, and we never crossed paths again. Before I actually took on this career, I thought the whole thing was just a governor giving a student some words of encouragement. However, now I totally understand the hopes, and the expectations, that those words entailed. Nobody ever made a scientific achievement in one shot. People like to only remember talent, and attribute everything to miracle-workers. But history is very, very long, and filled with all sorts of people giving everything they've got, all so one subject or another isn't forgotten and left behind. Our lives are finite, and the new generation's always learning from the ground up. It falls to us to keep accumulating and synthesizing, endlessly, to lay the bricks for those who follow us. I don't know if my findings will be enough to change this land. I just know that whatever I discover will be passed on to whoever comes next. They won't need to fall where I fell, or bleed where I bled. They can go further than I did, see further ahead. Even just the tiniest step can be enough to make new history. That's the day I look forward to. —Magallan, foreword to the Instructional Soaring Dragon Drone development files