Keep Quiet - 8. The smiling youth

Alas, how often have I wondered whether things would have turned out differently had I acted otherwise than I did. If I had not left Charles alone to fulfill what both the law and my own conscience dictated to be my duty, would I have been able to stop the events which unfolded? Or were they perhaps unstoppable, destined to happen despite the pitiful amount of resistance that a single human being would have been able to oppose? Would we have found another way? Would we have been able to act before it was too late? And that terrible, soul-shattering misunderstanding at the end… could it have been avoided?

These are idle musings, of course, but they are what keeps me awake at night in my old age. The ruminations, the conjectures, the cruel simulations of what could have been… I cannot stop them anymore. Not now, not with doom so close at hand.

This will be, I surmise, the last peaceful night the world will know. I do not know what the morning will bring, but I am sure it will be laced with terror. I am too late. These memoirs will serve no purpose now, and they will bring no warning to those who might have acted, had we had more time. Nevertheless, they bring solace to me. The bittersweet act of recall cannot be equated with living, but it is the next best thing for someone who hears the hollow, patient, approaching footsteps of Death. I will not sleep tonight, and so I put pen to paper once again, shunning the typewriter on my desk and the abominable technological symbolism it stands for. If nothing else, I would like to remember, to think back on it all, one last time.

***

I traveled to Albany to hire builders who could help us seal the crater for good. It was to be a short trip, one week at most, and yet I did not return to the Observatory for three years after I left. I remember saying goodbye to Charles, asking him whether he had reconsidered coming with me. He kindly but firmly declined – he was happy in his own little domain, isolated from a world which had too often ostracized him for one reason or another, and I understood when he said he would be happy where he was, waiting for my return. He kissed me tenderly in the privacy of our bedroom the morning I set out.

I shall never forget that kiss.

As for me, taking the car and driving back to civilization was a cathartic experience. I had spent nearly all my life in the relative bustle of a crowded city and, although I had enjoyed my time with Charles immensely, part of me was desperate for more activity, for human contact, for the excitement of news and the feeling of being part of the irrepressible current of progress which our country was relentlessly navigating. I also missed my family, and in fact, upon arrival, I spent the better part of five days in nothing more than idle chat with my mother and sister, as well as evening talks with my father and his colleagues.

My father’s attitude towards me, now that I was both financially independent and ostensibly successful in my pursuit of scientific endeavors, was a mixture of pride and satisfaction. I basked in the glow of my father’s smile when he would brag about my position as a friend and colleague to one of the richest men in New York to his clients and acquaintances when they visited our home. I had always struggled with feelings of insecurity, of not being good enough for my father’s lofty expectations of his only son, and it was a wonderful sort of relief to know that now he held me in high esteem, even if there was an unspoken shadow between us, a silent question: why had I never shown any interest in any of the eligible bachelorettes with whom I might have started a relationship long since?

It was also good to catch up with both the relatively unimportant family minutiae, which for us were nevertheless matters of great significance, as well as with the greater happenings in the world at large. On the personal front, my sister was finally engaged to one Hans Quaker, a lawyer my father knew well. Though older than my sister by some fifteen years, he was a well-established man, of good reputation both professional and personal, and his intentions towards her had never been anything but formal and serious. I met him and spoke with him at length for a couple of evenings, after which I became convinced that he was a good match for Melinda and would be a welcome addition to the family.

It was during one of these late-night conversations, over thick cigarette smoke, that Hans brought up the matter of the Great War for the first time.

I had read about it, of course, and had been following its course for some time now, but I had been greatly alarmed at the shift in tone in the newspapers from the time I had left the previous year to now. Whereas before only rumors of possible American participation had been spoken, citing mostly idealistic reasons, now there was an unmistakable hostility directed at the Germans and the Austrians that appeared to foreshadow the inevitability of our joining the conflict. President Wilson’s fervent stance of neutrality appeared to be losing supporters, and there were predictions everywhere forecasting that Congress would formally declare war before the end of the year.

I thought about these developments for several long hours that night. The following day I went to the University and spoke with many of my former colleagues. A draft was all but imminent, some believed, and many more had already volunteered, registering of their own free will in the event something happened.

I spent much time thinking that night, too.

To this day, I do not really know why I volunteered to fight. Part of it was undoubtedly out of a deep sense of civic duty, but now I suspect that the real reason I did so was to impress my father. I wanted to prove to him, and to the world, that I was a man in spite of who the object of my love could be. It was a way to prove my bravery, my masculinity. It was a way for me to ensure that I would never be criticized again.

Of course, my physical disability made me ineligible for combat – but qualified mathematicians and physicists which could use their talents in complicated endeavors such as code breaking were in relatively short supply, and so, in April 1917, less than a month after I had returned home, I was sent to Chicago to work in the nascent field of wartime cryptography.

My time of service was challenging but rewarding. I felt not only the satisfaction of doing my part for the war effort, but I also received respect and recognition unlike anything I had known before. I was exposed to many things I did not know existed and I was able to glimpse the world at large for the first time. My organizational talents and my drive for self-driven initiative were praised, and it did much to boost my self-esteem, which had never been the best to begin with. I was never in any physical danger, of course, but nevertheless I was received as a hero three years later upon my return to my family home. Though the nature of much of my work had been classified, and I could therefore not elaborate too much on it, this in itself appeared to further increase the respect others treated me with, from former University colleagues, to professors, to my father. He beamed with pride when he spoke of me to others, and that was the greatest reward I could have hoped to receive in exchange for the privilege of serving my country.

The time spent did not come without sacrifices, of course. Chief among these was the fact that I had not seen Charles in years, and I had not heard from him in months. He had spent all of this time still in the Observatory, and it was more than a month after my return that my letter notifying him of my intention to resume my work at his side received a curt, rather formal reply in which he stated that he would welcome my return and my contribution to his research.

I was worried as I drove to the Observatory three weeks later, in mid-September of 1920. I did not know what to expect, particularly given the fact that communication with Charles had stopped altogether for nearly a year before I returned from Chicago. At the beginning, his letters to me had been lengthy, descriptive, and emotional. I still carried them with me everywhere I went. The first one he had sent after I had told him of my intention to volunteer had been encouraging and rather sweet. In it, he had told me that, while he would have preferred that I return to his side as soon as possible, he understood and respected my decision. He hoped for my safety and even mentioned that he was proud to call me his… close friend.

After I was sent out of state, we exchanged monthly correspondence for the better part of a year. I always told him how I was feeling, how I missed our work together and how I hoped the war would be over soon so I could return. He, on his part, kept me updated on the progress of his various projects. He was very excited when he finally began construction of the parabolic array which would beam electromagnetic information out into the stars, calling out to whomever or whatever would be able to listen. He also explained at length how he had developed what he called a mechanical parsing station which would be able to decode incoming transmissions which his array might receive, a machine of his own invention which, he admitted, was woefully inadequate to the task but would still be a help in making sense of any patterns he might be able to detect. The general timbre of his words was hopeful and curious, two of the characteristics I prized most in Charles’s personality.

This changed during the second year. I still sent him monthly letters, but his replies took longer and longer to reach me. When I inquired about this he merely said he was much too busy to dedicate time to anything but pressing matters of research, and during the third year I received only one letter from him – then silence. Had it not been for the fact that Charles was in regular communication with my father for matters of administration of his dwindling fortune, I would not have known that he was okay until after my return. I had even doubted that the letter I sent as soon as I arrived back in Albany would receive a reply, but I had gotten one, at least, even though its dry and professional tone was much removed from the warmth of our earlier correspondence.

It was therefore with a mixture of anticipation and nervousness that I arrived at the gates of the Observatory complex late one Friday afternoon.

Things had changed, and my first inkling of this was the fact that the gate was watched by two men who demanded that I identify myself before allowing me through. They appeared to have a direct wire line to the Observatory itself, since one of them disappeared for a length of time while I waited in my car, only to come back a short while later and say that I was expected. He gave me directions to the main building as if it were my first time visiting. I merely thanked him and drove through the gate, onto a paved road which I had not expected to find.

Even from afar, as my vehicle rounded the bend in the valley which allowed me to see the property under the setting sun, I could see that the gate was not the only thing which had changed. Whereas before both the main building and the Observatory tower had been surrounded by small but orderly gardens and pathways which had given the place a charming air of both mountain resort and bucolic simplicity, now the impression I received at a glance was one of cold, efficient severity.

Neatly-trimmed hedges at right angles served as boundaries between three distinct areas in the property. The first one, the main building, remained much as it had been a few years ago, with the exception that the walls had been painted a drab shade of gray which was extremely unattractive. The windows on every level were now barred with what appeared to be wrought iron, and there were electric lights set at regular intervals along the perimeter of the edifice which I saw turn on as I drove further along the smooth road ahead. Although utilitarian and no doubt installed due to a logical reason or another, I did not like the changes. They made the place seem like either a sanatorium or a prison, and the effect was oppressive. Not once, not even when Charles and I had visited this location after nearly a decade of neglect, had I felt unwillingness to approach the place. Now I did.

Connected to the main building by another paved road which was both much too wide and much too short to have warranted asphalt, the observation tower stood stark against the darkening sky. It had not changed much itself, but now it was surrounded by a wall and the only entry into the inner courtyard which would then allow passage into the Observatory itself appeared to be a gate which, unless the distance deceived me, look heavy and imposing, and it was shut tight. Tall hedges grew along the wall as if trying to hide it from view from the ground. Whereas before it had been an inviting building, and one of my favorite places, I now felt not the slightest desire to go visit such a forbidding location.

But, of course, these changes were small, unworthy of much attention, when compared to the largest transformation which had taken place on the section of the property which had previously been the crater left behind by the meteorite. There, instead of the familiar bowl- shaped indentation on the ground, I saw the culmination of years of work and undoubtedly much of the remaining Wentworth fortune, in the shape of an enormous parabolic antenna.

It was an arresting sight, even from afar and with insufficient light. The antenna bowl appeared to be made of solid concrete and it occupied every square inch which the crater had formerly hollowed out. Its scale was such that it was only when I was far away and looking at it from above that I could properly get a sense of its structure and dimensions. The parabolic bowl was big enough to contain a small lake. I could not imagine the amount of raw material that must have had to be brought to this place simply to build such a structure. It had to be the largest of its kind in the world, of that there was no doubt in my mind. It could easily have been the centerpiece of a world’s fair, and I was surprised that no mention of the true scope of this endeavor had reached me, either through my father or through the newspapers. Surely the mere act of building such a gigantic apparatus would have been enough to get Charles’s name in print throughout the entire state. The fact that it had not been appeared to indicate that Charles was purposefully refraining from any fame which this endeavor may bring him. But why such secrecy? Had not one of Charles’s goals been to eventually become recognized and honored in his field of study?

The futuristic array held my gaze all through the long drive down into the valley. Even when darkness threatened to set in I could still see the three tall pylons which were set along the perimeter of the bowl, each one easily half again as tall as any of the surrounding trees. Lights blinked along their length, and these slender but sturdy-looking towers were connected to the parabolic array and to each other by a series of taut cables which must have been made of metal, the purpose of which I could not fathom. A tall crane stood off to the side, mighty and robust. Its arm stretched out over the dish at a height of no less than 20 feet, and from its end there hung a complicated structure made of metallic scaffolding which supported a strange hemispherical device which must have been at least six feet in diameter. I knew enough about elementary trigonometry to recognize that this device hung at the precise point where the three-dimensional paraboloid’s focus would lie. Therefore, any incoming electromagnetic waves would be reflected by the dish and concentrated at this focus. Given the size of the thing, even minute signals could conceivably be amplified and analyzed.

The opposite would also be true: resting at the bottom of the bowl, aligned with the suspended hemisphere of metal and glass, there were several smaller stations which reminded me of radio towers. I could only guess, but I suspected that their purpose was to beam a signal through the focus point and out into the dish, which would reflect the waves out into space very efficiently indeed. The entire contraption was futuristic to the point where I felt, more than at any other time, that Charles’s mind, its thought processes, and the consequences of such, were decades away from modern science or engineering. He was single-handedly advancing humanity’s understanding of the cosmos by leaps and bounds instead of steps. Whatever the end result of this, the mere act of its construction was already a monumental success and a testimony to the genius which acted as the driving force behind it all.

I eventually reached the bottom of the valley and made my way up the immaculate yet stark driveway until I stopped the car in front of the strangely forbidding staircase which led to the heavy doors of the main building. A servant was already waiting for me, and I could not help but grin upon recognizing Mr. White, the butler, who opened the door to my vehicle with a smile of his own.

“Mister Fenton, a pleasure to see you again,” he said, bowing slightly. His tone of voice sounded warm and genuine.

“It has been too long, Mister White,” I replied.

“Indeed,” he conceded. At a sign from him, a servant I had not noticed earlier approached the vehicle. I gave him my keys so he would be able to unpack my belongings, and I ascended the staircase with Mr. White. “It has been… three years, I believe?”

“Just about, yes.” I said.

He opened the heavy double doors for me. I stepped into the pleasantly warm space, the smell of which brought back memories very vividly.

“How was the war? If you don’t mind my asking, that is. I – we, the old servants at any rate –, we hold you in high esteem, Mister Fenton. Volunteering to serve one’s country speaks volumes about a man’s character.”

I could not help but smile at the compliment. I followed Mr. White to the dining room, which had been prepared for a single person. I sat down gratefully at the table and continued my conversation with him while a couple of servants brought me dinner.

“The war was… interesting,” I said while I refreshed my face with a damp cloth and dipped my fingers in a water bowl to clean them. “I did not see combat action, of course.”

“Of course,” Mr. White echoed. “You worked in the technical side of things, did you not? Highly secret, very important matters.”

“Classified matters for the most part, yes. You must forgive me if I cannot elaborate too much on their nature. It was fascinating work, however. That much I can say.”

He nodded to himself, as if confirming a suspicion he had held for some time. “A man of your intelligence, you must’ve done a lot of important things. Those Austrians never stood a chance.”

I chuckled. “I’m afraid that would be overstating my contribution. I did learn much, though, and I feel satisfied with my time of service.”

I ate while Mr. White stood nearby and our conversation continued quite pleasantly. I was served roasted venison, one of my favorite dishes, a fact which was not lost on me. Mr. White had obviously prepared for my arrival and he was succeeding in making me feel at ease and, most importantly, welcome. The one thing which could have made the evening even better was seeing Charles, and in fact, as I was finishing dessert, I began to feel slightly anxious and disappointed at the fact that he had not come yet. Surely he would have wanted to greet me?

“Where is Mister Wentworth?” I asked White eventually, once my meal was over. Servants had cleared the dishes and I was enjoying a small glass of scotch.

For the first time since my arrival, he looked somewhat uncomfortable. “Mister Wentworth –”

“Is otherwise occupied,” another voice said. I looked to the left and saw a bespectacled man walking up to the table. I had never seen him before. “He sends his apologies and asked me to tell you to please make yourself at home. Tomorrow, time permitting, he will be sure to make some time for you.”

I stood up, frowning. I had the distinct impression that the faint dismissive note in his tone of voice was no mistake.

I walked over to him and offered a handshake. “Good evening, Mister…”

“Giuliani,” he said, reciprocating the handshake weakly. His hand was soft and somewhat clammy. “Henry Giuliani, Assistant to Mister Wentworth. Please, call me Henry.”

I blinked. “Henry. I am Daniel Fenton,” I said automatically.

“A pleasure,” he said, smiling. The smile did not reach his eyes, however.

I stepped back from Henry, half subconsciously I suspect. I took stock of him.

He was shorter than I by a few inches, slim of build in a way which bespoke a certain fragility, as if he had never known manual labor in his entire life. Very pale skin contrasted sharply with black, wavy hair which he wore somewhat longer than I was accustomed to seeing in men after three years of war time. He must not have served, then, although he was younger than I by at least five years, which meant he was squarely inside the demographic for young men called by the draft and had been so since the beginning of the conflict. Odd.

He wore very stylish clothing which made it seem as though he were just about to go to a ball, and his features were quite handsome and aristocratic. Nevertheless, I felt a slight but undeniable aversion to him which I could not quite place. Perhaps it was the fact that the flowery perfume he wore was overpowering, or the way in which had spoken to me, or even the appraising look he gave me at that moment which must have mirrored my own.

“I finally meet my predecessor,” he said with a thin smile. “I have heard much about you from the servants, I must admit.”

Aversion was quickly kindled into outright dislike by that utterance. It implied several things, none of which I liked.

“Where is Mister Wentworth now?” I asked rather directly.

Henry shrugged apologetically. “I’m afraid he is busy at the Array. We have just had a burst of quite promising emissions which we hope to parse and in which to perhaps find a pattern other than simple chronological recurrence… But you must forgive me for mentioning such boring and complicated scientific details. Charles and I scarcely think about anything else, odd and dull as it may seem to outsiders.”

“Is that so,” I said in a steely voice. His overtones were not lost on me. The implication that I would not understand their work. The casual familiarity with which he referred to Charles.

“Please, let me show you to your room,” Henry said. “You must be tired after your trip. White, is everything ready for Mister Fenton?”

“It is,” Mr. White answered, and he and I exchanged a glance that spoke volumes. “Should I show Mister Fenton…”

“Nonsense, we want to make him feel welcome after such a long absence,” Henry interrupted. Then he directed himself to me. “Please, this way.”

I followed him down the hall, nodding acknowledgment to the servants I recognized along the way. Force of habit let my steps straight to the door of the bedroom I had shared with Charles. I stopped and waited for Henry to open the door.

He chuckled. “Your room is this way, Mister Fenton,” he said to me, pointing to the bedroom I had originally occupied when I had just moved into the property.

I frowned and hesitated. I could have imagined it, but upon seeing my hesitation, Henry’s thin smile got wider. I decided not to argue and followed him to my previous lodging. He opened the door for me and showed me in. Mrs. Thompson, one of the maids, was busy at work preparing the fireplace and the bed.

“Mister Fenton, it is so good to see you again!” she said to me, making an adorably archaic curtsy.

“Likewise, Mrs. Thompson. I hope you have been well?”

“Very much so, thank you. It has been too long.”

Henry cut in. “Mrs. Thompson, if you would kindly finish here as soon as possible, I’m sure Mister Fenton has had a tiresome trip and he wants nothing more than to rest instead of having idle chitchat. Please make haste.”

This time I actually turned to look at the obnoxious youth pointedly. He merely kept smiling in that annoying way of his. I then exchanged an apologetic nod with Mrs. Thompson, who looked hurt by the way in which her warm greeting had been cut short.

I did not know what game Henry was playing, but the war had taught me many things. Chief among them was how to recognize an enemy when I saw one. I decided to bide my time and offer nothing more than bland pleasantries until both Mrs. Thompson and Henry had left me alone in my room. They left rather soon, thankfully. It was as if Henry could not wait to take his leave.

Once on my own I wondered where Charles was, and whether he really was working. Why had he not come, even to say hello? We had not seen each other in three years and I was… I was hurt that the servants had seen fit to prepare for my arrival and make me feel at home and yet he had not taken even five minutes out of his day to come greet me. I wondered just to what extent things had changed during my absence.

I wondered whether Charles even wanted me here anymore.

Though I was tired, the first few hours of that night brought me no rest. Sleep eluded me. Thoughts and memories went round and round in my head, both from my time away and from the time I had spent within these walls.

I finally gave up on trying to sleep when I saw the first hints of tenuous moonlight through the small window across from my bed. I got dressed once again and decided to seek Charles out in person so we could talk. I could have waited for the morning, of course, but I knew that I would not be able to rest until I found out exactly where I stood with him. What had happened in the interim from my departure to my return? Who exactly was this person who called himself his assistant? And why was I getting the distinct impression that there had been an ever so slight hint of fear in the demeanor of all the servants?

It could have been that my mind was running wild, but I needed to be certain and so I opened the door to my room and stepped out into the darkness of the hallway. It was well after midnight by then, and the silence was nearly complete. The only thing I could hear, faintly, was the low hum of the electrical generator in the basement.

I walked quietly in the direction of the main entrance, not wishing to disturb anybody. I still knew my way around well, and walking through the Observatory at night was second nature to me from the many nights spent watching the stars in Charles’s company. I left the main building and stepped out into the warm night, unbuttoning my jacket. Once outside, I took a moment to simply breathe and take in the calm wonder of nature which surrounded me. I had missed this, I realized right then. Being away in a large city had been good, interesting, and very stimulating, but it could not compare to the serenity of a mountain valley like the one in which I found myself. I could hear crickets hidden in the bushes, and the low rustle of leaves as they swayed under a gentle breeze. The air smelled clean and invigorating, possessing qualities which I could not quite place but which appeared to reach deep within me and give me clarity of mind as well as an unexpected sense of strength.

If only it had been as dark as I remembered. This one detail was missing, and after my brief pause, as I started walking down the path which would lead me to the Observatory tower, I found the harsh illumination from the new lamps increasingly jarring. Before, when Charles and I had first moved here, the darkness of night had been all but impenetrable. Now I felt as if in the middle of the city, making my way on a paved road and passing post after post crowned with a harsh bright lamp which shone down on me. It made the place seem larger, in a way. It also made the once-familiar path to the telescope unnerving. It felt as though I were being watched by an unseen guard, despite the late hour. It made me feel, somehow, as if I were trespassing on private property without an invitation.

The sound of my footsteps seemed much too loud for me, and I hastened to reach the Observatory tower as fast as I could. Once there, I arrived at the gate I had seen earlier. It was closed.

I looked through it – the cupola which housed the telescope was dark and the windows showed no signs of light either. Nevertheless, I wanted to go inside and see whether I could find Charles upstairs, perhaps, like he had so often been in the past, puzzling over his incomprehensible data ledgers. I tugged on the gate experimentally near the place where it would open, but it was shut tight and it would not budge.

I do not know why it bothered me so much, but my mood turned sour after a few more seconds of trying to get in unsuccessfully. No door here had ever been closed to me in the past. There had been no need. Now everything was different for some reason, and the vague air of obsessive secrecy that I had detected ever since my arrival took on a more evident, more oppressive air.

I was annoyed. As I made my way back to the main building I caught sight of the Array, as Henry had called it: the parabolic antenna and its surrounding apparatus. The tall pylons blinked in the night sky, and without really deciding to, my steps took me in that direction. I wished to see, up close and for myself, the complete transformation of what had been a crater and which now was a gigantic, slightly monstrous machine for beaming information up to the stars. Perhaps I would find Charles there, I told myself as I got closer. At the very least I would be able to gaze upon the fruits of what had been, undoubtedly, a titanic undertaking of engineering which proved beyond a doubt that Charles was able to make his concepts and visions into physical reality. With slight bitterness, I realized that part of me was regretting having left for three years. I had been preoccupied about myself only. I had wanted to prove to my father, and to the rest of the world, that I could display bravery. I had done it. Nobody could fault me having postponed my own desire for scientific investigation in favor of helping my country in its time of need. Why, then, could I not shake off the thought that I had acted selfishly, leaving Charles alone? His letters to me, at the beginning, had been full of mentions of how much he missed me. I had liked reading those letters. The fact that he had then stopped writing had bothered me more than I had been able to admit up until this moment.

I needed to talk to him. That would set everything right, I was sure. I had always been prone to making perceived problems or difficulties bigger than they really were, through my tendency for obsessive thinking. It would be best if I could sit down with him for a while and talk things through.

I thought I was sure to find him at the Array. When I got there, however, I found it impossible to get close to the actual parabolic dish. There was a wall, a fence, surrounding the area. The path I had been following ended in yet another forbidding, heavy metal gate which proved as impossible to move as the one barring access to the Observation tower. Worse, this gate was made of solid metal plates which did not even offer a glimpse of the terrain beyond.

I did not understand. The entire architecture of the complex now reminded me more of a classified military facility than a mountainside retreat, which this place had formerly been. And yet now nothing was accessible, everything was harshly illuminated even in the dead of night, and I could not shake the distinct impression that I was still being watched, though by whom and from where I could not say. The night was as calm as ever, but my mind was in angry turmoil as I made my way, disappointed, back to the main building. What was going on? Why was everything so familiar, and yet so very different? It made no sense. The scale of the Array and all the security measures everywhere bespoke a very large enterprise with a correspondingly large demand of manpower, and yet, aside from the two new guards I had first encountered when I arrived and Henry himself, I had not seen any new people around. It gave the place an eerily empty atmosphere where before I had only experienced peaceful isolation.

I reached the main building again, walking quickly in my annoyance. As I was rounding the corner in the path which would take me to the entrance, I saw a flicker of light above me. Curious, I stopped and looked up. The light was coming from one of the windows in the attic above my own room, but it was very faint and erratic, as though generated by candlelight alone. I was surprised to see it, both because of the late hour and because, during my previous time here, the attic had remained stubbornly empty of anything and anyone since Charles had claimed that, from time to time, he enjoyed being up there by himself to clear his mind and focus his thoughts.

The light died off quite suddenly, almost as if its source had been snuffed out.

Then I heard the moan.

It was a low, grating, and yet somehow shrill sound which reached my ears through the window. At first I thought it was a person in pain, but the moan shifted, acquiring a gurgling tone which no human throat would have been able to produce. I felt goosebumps and actually took a step back from where I was standing in an irrepressible reflex of aversion and primal fear. I experienced the irrational desire to cover my ears, to block out that horrid sound, the source of which I could not place and the notes of which threaded themselves through the darkness of the night and made it menacing when before it had merely been watchful.

I took another step back without looking, without thinking. I tripped on something and stumbled back, barely avoiding a fall, my heart racing.

At the sound of me tripping, the moan stopped.

I was still looking up. I might have imagined it, but the fickle moonlight and the radiance of the pathside lights appeared to show me a dark outline which walked up to the window high above me. The dark outline stopped where it was, motionless.

I could see no details. I was not even sure whether I was really seeing something, and yet… At that moment I was sure, absolutely sure, that someone or something up in the attic was looking down at me, staring from the darkness, pinning me down with its glare. I could see nothing, hear nothing, and yet there was an avid quality about the shadows that appeared to want to reach out and engulf me.

I broke the spell of my own terror come out of nowhere and left that place with quick strides. I pushed the heavy door of the main entrance open and all but slammed it shut behind me, remembering only belatedly that it was very late and I might startle someone. Indeed, as I made my way to the physics laboratory to get something for my nerves, I saw Mr. White emerge from the servants’ hallway with a mildly alarmed expression on his face. I excused myself with a gesture and he nodded with a strangely understanding smile. I did not question this – I was much too flustered and I did not want to speak with anyone just then. I went into the laboratory, which thankfully was not locked, and poured myself some scotch. Only after finishing the glass did I begin to feel foolish about my irrational outburst of baseless fear. If there was someone in the attic, I would soon find out. I would simply go check.

I left the laboratory and walked down the hall. I reached the narrow staircase which led up to my destination, and went up the stairs, two at a time, without giving myself time to hesitate. At the end of the climb I stood in front of another confounded door which had not been there before. It was heavy and appeared to be reinforced by metal, almost like the door to a prison cell.

I grabbed the handle and pulled. Locked, of course.

Fuming, I stormed back downstairs in the direction of my room. As soon as I was in the hallway, however, I noticed something that drove everything else from my mind.

Charles’s door was open and there was light coming from within his bedroom. My heart leapt in my chest despite myself. I headed there and crossed the threshold without knocking. Charles was sitting on his bed, wearing a sleeping robe, looking just like I remembered him.

He glanced up, and our eyes met.

There was a pause.

Hello, Charles, I said then, smiling. It has been a long time.

Daniel, he signed, sitting up straight in a way that suggested alarm, or surprise. You’re here.

Yes. I walked up to the bed. I had planned to sit down next to him, but something about his demeanor made me hesitate. Instead, I remained awkwardly standing. They told me you were busy.

Charles glanced at the door, which remained open, then back at me. I was. We are making a lot of progress. I am decoding a particularly interesting signal that appears to be suspiciously regular. I am almost certain it comes from a pulsar, but in case it does not, there is some mathematical analysis which can help me determine whether the regularity is merely…

His gestures trailed off as he appeared to realize that he was doing the silent equivalent of mumbling, expressing things very fast as though afraid of the silence, or perhaps afraid of my questions. I held his gaze until he looked away. It was not my imagination – he was uncomfortable.

I worried about you. I told him. I wondered why you stopped sending letters.

He would not meet my gaze now. I was busy. Much has happened since you – since you left me.

I blinked. Left you? Charles, there was a war.

A war for able-bodied men to fight, he retorted, and there was a clipped curtness to his gestures which had the same effect as words spoken in a resentful tone. You didn’t need to go. They wouldn’t have drafted you. They didn’t draft me.

I felt myself getting defensive. I am proud to have served my country. It would have been cowardice not to act.

“Implying what, exactly?” Charles said aloud. I knew him well enough to realize that, for him, using spoken words was a way to distance himself from the conversation. “Am I a coward, then?”

“That’s not what I meant and you know it.”

He shook his head dismissively. “It does not matter anymore. My work continues and it is more important than any war.”

“Is that why you did not come see me earlier today? Have things really changed so much?”

He looked at the ground for an instant as if remorseful, but then his expression hardened. “You do not understand.”

“What do I not understand?”

When he next spoke, Charles’s voice appeared to waver between anger and sadness. “I thought you would never come back. I thought you would stay in Chicago. I was very surprised when you sent me that letter a few weeks ago asking to return. But now you are here and I don’t…”

I don’t what? I prodded, reverting to sign language again. It forced Charles to look at me instead of away.

He looked up at my face and for an instant he was the old Charles I remembered, vulnerable and open and kind. His lower lip trembled. He lifted his hands as of about to speak, to explain what he meant.

“Here’s your sandwich, Charles!” a jarringly bright voice called out from the doorway. “Extra pickles because I know you love them before bedtime.”

Charles looked down as if trying to disappear. I glanced over my shoulder to confirm what my ears had already told me – Henry was standing at the door, carrying a silver tray on which two sandwiches rested, as well as a couple of steaming cups of tea.

He was shirtless.

He smiled at me in that particular way of his as he sauntered into the bedroom and set the tray next to where Charles was sitting. Then Henry sat down next to him, on the bed, with easy familiarity.

I felt the blood drain from my face at the same time that my heart beat painfully fast in my chest with the anger and betrayal of my sudden realization. I hid it behind a bland noncommittal smile to mirror Henry’s own as he watched me, blinking innocently, almost as if daring me to make a move.

I looked at Charles. He was still glancing away, as if hiding from me, and his silence could have spoken no more loudly.

“Good night then, Charles,” I said formally, using the practiced tone I had used when speaking to my superiors during my service. “I look forward to us working together again.”

I received no answer. I declined acknowledging Henry any further and left with slow, dignified steps which eventually led me to my own bedroom. I opened the door and shut it tight behind me. As I was undressing for bed, Henry’s loud laughter reached me through the wall which connected the two rooms.

I got into bed in the dark, telling myself I did not feel anything in particular. My quick pulse was surely due to the strenuous journey of the day. The pressure in my chest was probably just stress and nothing more. The sweat beading on my brow must have been there because the night was unseasonably warm.

The tears rolling down my cheeks, as I sat alone in the big empty bed, were due to anything but the pain of a broken heart.