Several weeks after my failed attempt to talk to Johnston, we return early from an assignment and I find myself with my first open afternoon. I decide to take advantage of the opportunity and head for the gate leading into the city, where I can find a newspaper. But as I approach the main gate — a thick wooden door in the stone wall surrounding the institute — a security man steps from a nearby hut and says, “May I help you?”
“I can get the gate myself, thanks.”
When I step toward the gate, he moves in front of me. “Do you have authorization?”
“I’m only going to be gone a half hour at most,” I tell him. “Just taking a walk.”
“May I have your name?”
“Why do you need my name?”
“If you don’t want to tell me, I can easily look you up.”
He’s right about that. There’s a directory with everyone’s name and picture in it. “Denny Younger,” I say.
“And your position?”
This makes me feel even more uncomfortable. “Junior personal historian.”
He pulls a notebook from his back pocket and writes down the information. When he finishes, he says, “Mr. Younger, I’m sorry. Without authorization from your supervisor, I can’t let you leave. If it’s walking you’re interested in, the institute grounds provide plenty of options.”
His smile tells me our conversation is over and that he doubts I’ll be back. He’s right. Johnston would never give me authorization without asking questions I don’t want to answer.
When I arrive at my room, I find another security man waiting by my door.
“Mr. Younger?” he says.
“Yes?”
“Please come with me.”
CHAPTER TEN
A chill passes through me. “What’s this about?”
The guard turns and walks down the hallway without answering. Seeing no other choice, I follow. He leads me into the administration section, and then to a room about three times the size of mine. Behind a desk sits a woman with graying brown hair.
“Mr. Younger,” the security man announces.
After a nod of acknowledgment, the woman points to a chair along the wall and says to me, “Wait there.”
When I sit, she picks up her com-phone, says, “He’s here,” then listens for a moment before cradling it again.
I glance nervously at her while she busies herself with some papers as if I’m not even here. After a few minutes, a door behind her swings open a few inches. “You can go in now,” she tells me.
The new room is twice as large as the woman’s, with walls covered in dark wood paneling and bookcases stuffed end to end with leather-bound volumes. A beautiful carpet covers the floor, but the desk is the focal point of the room. Massive and old, it looks as if it was carved from a single piece of wood. What’s missing is the room’s occupant.
Hesitantly, I walk over to the guest chair in front of the desk, but I know sitting first would be disrespectful so I remain on my feet. About thirty seconds later, I hear the faint squeak of a hinge. I look over just in time to see a small section of a bookcase open outward, revealing Sir Gregory.
“Mr. Younger.” With a smile, he walks over and shakes my hand, then gestures to the chair. “Please. Sit down, sit down.”
I wait until he’s lowered himself into his before I do as he asked.
“Something to drink?” he offers. “Tea? Coffee? Water?”
“I’m fine, thank you,” I say, though I’m far from it.
“Very well, then.” He picks up several sheets of paper off his desk and looks them over. “Let’s see…ah, yes.” He glances up and smiles again. “We first met in New Cardiff last spring.”
“Yes, sir.”
“And now you’re a full-fledged personal historian.”
“Junior, sir. But yes, since September.”
“I never doubted you’d pass the program.” He gestures to the file. “When I first learned of your Occupational Placement Exam scores, I knew you would be perfect for the program.”
“Um, thank you,” I say, not knowing how else to respond.
“And how do you like it?”
“Sir?”
“Being a Rewinder.”
“Oh, it’s, uh, it’s more than I could’ve ever imagined. I still have a hard time believing it.”
“Of course you do. That sense of wonder will likely stay with you throughout your career. It does with most Rewinders. God knows, I still can’t believe it sometimes.”
He’s quiet for a moment as he reads through another one of the sheets. When he looks back at me, he says, “I see here that you wanted to go for a walk today.”
“I’m sorry, Sir Gregory. I forgot I needed authorization. I haven’t been out since I arrived here and I ended up with some extra time this afternoon so I thought…”
“But you get out all the time on your assignments.”
“You’re right, sir. I do. It’s just…” I pause, thinking quickly. “I’m always working then.”
“Of course. I understand. Truth is, there are times when I wish I could take a walk outside.”
“You don’t go out, either?” I ask.
He studies me for several seconds and then sets the papers down. “This was going to happen eventually. It always does. You should feel honored. You’re the first from your class I’ve had to talk to about it.”
“About what exactly, sir?”
He leans back in his chair. “There was a time when members of the institute freely moved in and out of our gates. In fact, when I started as a personal historian, it was a necessity. Our work at the time meant tedious hours spent combing historical archives and records that were often not accessible via data monitors, so we traveled throughout the empire to consult and decipher the original texts. For over a hundred and sixty years, this is how the institute did its work. But then everything changed.” He pauses as if he’s given me the answer I’m looking for but he hasn’t, and my expression tells him as much. “Mr. Younger, what is the most powerful thing on Earth?”
I say without hesitation, “The king.”
“Yes, yes, naturally,” he says. “But I’m not talking about a person. I’m talking about a thing.”
I shrug and say the next thing that comes to mind. “The nuclear bomb.” I’m not sure how it works — something about atoms smashing together — but everyone’s seen the destructive results in photos of the cities in China and Africa where the bombs have been dropped. One bomb can destroy miles of land, its radiation continuing to kill weeks and months and often years later.
“An understandable choice,” he says. “But not even close.”
I consider the question again. “Volcanoes?”
“That’s a much better guess, but still not correct.” He opens one of the desk’s drawers and pulls out a Chaser device.
It’s different from the one I’ve been using. It’s dinged and scuffed and has several more buttons and switches than mine.
He admires it for a moment before setting it on the desk between us. “Beautiful, isn’t it?”
That’s not exactly the word I’d use but I nod.
“This is one of the early devices. Second generation. Mine, actually.”
He flips one of the switches and I pull back, half expecting him to disappear.
With a chuckle, he says, “The battery cell was removed long ago. I like to keep it here, though. A reminder of the whens I’ve visited and the things I’ve seen.”
He picks it up, and without warning tosses it to me. It bounces off my hands as I’m reaching out, but I manage to snag it before it falls to the ground.
“That, Mr. Younger, is the most powerful thing on Earth,” he says. “In the wrong hands, can you imagine the devastation one of these could cause? Someone could go back and ensure someone else is never born. Or worse.”