Rewinder by Brett Battles Page A

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