“Did you reach your parents?” asked Rourke.
“I did, thanks,” said Will. “They’re okay and they were real glad to hear I got here safely.”
“That’s every parent’s job, Wilclass="underline" to worry about their kids. That never changes.”
Rourke referred to a notebook on his desk, jotted something on a pad, and then handed the note to Robbins. She read it without reaction as Rourke put a hand on Will’s shoulder and guided him to a door at the far end of his office.
“Now, Will, I need you to hear an abridged version of the Headmaster’s Address—the one I use at the start of every year to welcome our new students.”
Through the door they entered a long, narrow corridor sided with windows from floor to ceiling on either wall. Gusts of cold wind whistled through open windows along the top. The room extended straight out the back of Stone House, pointing west toward the campus, which he could see in the distance over the ridgeline.
“This was the final addition Thomas Greenwood made to Stone House,” said Rourke. “An observation deck that connects the house back to the Center. He wanted it to give a specific sensation to anyone who came here. That they’d feel suspended not just in space, but also in time. So he called this the Infinity Room.”
The floor shuddered with every step. Will shivered when he realized they were passing over thick windows embedded in the planks. He could see straight to the ground a hundred feet down; cars parked below looked like toys. There had to be struts connecting it to the rest of the building, but he couldn’t see any. The Infinity Room felt like it floated in midair. His balance wobbled like a top.
“Dr. Greenwood had the unorthodox idea that a visit here would serve as a crucial reminder to students,” said Rourke, “to remain alert at all times to the reality of the present. Because all we have is right now.”
Dad couldn’t have put it better himself. In fact, he did put it that way, exactly. Rule #6.
“Why?” asked Will.
“He believed experiences that create intense awareness tune the self to a higher consciousness, like a signal amplifier for the soul. And that one of the most effective ways to induce this state is the perception, as opposed to the reality, of danger. Your recent experiences might have given you a sense of this.”
Maybe that’s my problem. Danger put the zap on my brain.
Will’s eyes felt like they were revolving in their sockets. His palms swam in a clammy sweat. He didn’t understand it. Heights had never bothered him before, but this uncanny place made him want to drop to his hands and knees and crawl back out the way they’d come. He raised his head to avoid looking down. The corridor dead-ended ahead in a room filled with blinding light.
“That’s why Tom Greenwood founded the Center a hundred years ago: to introduce the future leaders of our country to each other, but more importantly to themselves. Or to quote him: ‘to their future selves.’ Think about that.”
Will nodded as if he understood—he didn’t, really—and moved robotically forward, feeling more brittle with every step. He realized the room at the end of the corridor was a circular observatory. Built around a large, elaborate brass telescope.
“The world’s always changing, Will. But now it’s accelerating at a rate almost beyond our ability to comprehend. Each generation faces bigger challenges and more responsibilities. If the human race expects to survive, we can’t just evolve with it. We have to evolve fast enough to stay ahead of that curve.”
They stopped at the end of the corridor. The observatory chamber opened ahead like a globe attached to the end of a stick. The walls, the ceiling, and the entire floor below the telescope were all fashioned from clear glass bricks.
Rourke walked onto the nearly invisible floor: “Are you with me so far, Will?”
Adrenaline pulsed in Will’s gut. Keeping his eyes on Rourke, he stepped inside. He felt like he was tumbling through open air. He reached the antique telescope and tried to anchor himself by focusing on its intricate workmanship. Anything to stop his head from snapping off at the stem.
“When you look around, wherever you might be on the planet, fifty percent of the people you see are below average. The rest are, for the most part, only slightly above average. I’m not suggesting there’s anything wrong with being average, because there isn’t. But as a mathematician, I can assure you these numbers don’t lie. Exceptional people are, by definition, exceptionally rare. We also know, from studying human history, that every innovation or adaptation that’s allowed us to leap forward as a species has been made by less than one-thousandth of one percent of the people alive in that moment.”
Will felt close to freaking out entirely, in a way that would make the worst impression on the one man whose goodwill right now he could least afford to lose. He leaned in and looked through the brass eyepiece. Expecting a dim view of the daylight sky, he couldn’t identify what appeared: Blurry globes and fuzzed-out splotches of color floated through his field of vision, like a slide of microbial life in a drop of water viewed through a microscope.
Then he realized: The telescope was trained on the commons in the middle of campus half a mile away. He was watching the magnified faces of students as if they were a few feet in front of him, moving in and out of focus like a kaleidoscope.
“And in this moment, because the stakes for survival keep edging higher, the need is greater than ever to identify and educate and prepare this tiny percentage within each generation who are capable of meeting our future challenges.”
He can’t be talking about me. This is some ridonkulus cosmic joke. I’m not up for saving the planet. I couldn’t even save my parents.
“So as you look around today … and try to imagine, Will, that you’re in our auditorium with the rest of the student body—”
“Okay.”
“All of these young men and women, like you, possess the talent and potential to become exceptional. Uncommon people who will one day do uncommon things. And if we do our jobs correctly, by the time you leave here for the wider world, you will be ready to realize that potential.”
For the briefest moment, Will caught a glimpse of his own face moving through the crowd. He adjusted the eyepiece, trying frantically to find “himself” again. Instead, a startling image seared his mind: Every face in the crowd was his. Will closed both eyes and held on.
“In the meantime, make new friends. Connect. Learn from each other, and for each other. Because one day, much sooner than you realize, this will become your world. Your generation’s time to put your hand on the wheel and navigate the way. But not yet. Until then, enjoy this part of your journey. Make friends with your hopes and dreams as well as with each other.”
The headmaster took out an old wooden pipe, filled it from a worn leather pouch, and lit it with a safety match that he struck on the telescope.
“Godspeed, go in peace and so on, and here concludes my opening address,” said Rourke as he puffed the bowl to life. “That wasn’t too terribly painful, was it?”
“No, sir.”
The sulfurous snap of the match and the savory, sweet smoke from Rourke’s tobacco filled the air. Will couldn’t catch his breath.
“I’m the third headmaster in our history. I’ve given that speech fifteen times. The same speech Tom Greenwood gave to the first assembly of his inaugural class almost a hundred years ago, and to the other forty-three classes he welcomed. As did his son Franklin, who succeeded him as headmaster for thirty-eight years.”