Chapter 54

***Editorial Note: The following two sections are meant to be placed into two columns running beside one another down the page. However, due to the limitations of this specific medium, the columns have been removed. The left column is presented first with the right column following (as labeled). If these are the only problems of the modern age we are a fortunate society indeed.***

(On the left side of the page)

Witticker sat in a creaky wooden chair in the exceedingly dim waiting of Malcolm Dietrichs. He had been instructed by Edward to wait there during his meeting, which Witticker felt was implied as it was a waiting room, but he felt little compulsion to argue with his friend over semantics.
Witticker was joined in the waiting room by an old man of significantly smaller stature than himself and a female receptionist who appeared to be in her early twenties.
The receptionist was busying herself with what appeared to be -like procedures. She would first shuffle several papers from one side of the desk to the other. She would then pull random papers from the new stack and paper-clip them together. Finally, she would take two much smaller pieces of official-looking paper and staple them to the freshly paper-clipped pages.
-SNAP-
Then the process would begin again.
Upon turning his attention from the procedure-driven receptionist Witticker noticed that the small old man sitting across the room was staring in his direction. At first, Witticker thought that he must have caught the man stealing a momentary glance, but as the minutes rolled by he realized that the old man had an invested interest in his gaze.
“May I help you?” asked Witticker, unsure of the most polite way to address his overly attentive observer.
-SNAP-
“Possibly,” said the small old man as he stood rather abruptly and began to walk towards where Witticker was sitting. The little man reached a creaky wooden chair beside Witticker and slowly sat down, giving every bone in his body a moment to adjust before taking on the full weight of his tender frame.
“What do you do here?” asked the old man, settling himself in his new seat.
Witticker, not quite ready to give himself up to a complete stranger, played coy.
“Just waiting, for today.”
Witticker didn’t really think his response would sell, but was not able to produce anything of substance on the spot.
“You don’t happy to know anything about late 20th century history do you?”
“Nope,” answered Witticker honestly.
“Damn,” rattled the old man, banging his fist on his knee, “I was supposed to meet someone here who was meant to know quite a bit about it.”
Witticker shrugged and turned his eyes forward.
“Well, if you’re not him, you’re not him.”
“I’m not him,” affirmed Witticker.
-SNAP-
Witticker began staring at other parts of the room trying to imply in a very subtle way that their conversation had come to an end.
“So,” began the old man, missing any sign of an innuendo, “if you don’t know about 20th century history what do you know?”
Witticker was stumped.
“I’m not sure what you mean.”
“Well,” answered the old man, rolling his eyes, “I’m merely inquiring about your area of expertise. What do you know?”
“I know quite a bit, but I hardly think that that I qualify as an expert in any field. What about you?”
The old man looked unsatisfied at Witticker’s answer.
“My area of study is the history of the early 21st century. Which department are you involved with here?”
“I’m not part of any department.”
-SNAP-
The old man shot him a look of renewed interest.
“So what are you doing here then? Are you a new hire?”
Witticker found himself very wound up in the man’s line of questions.
“No, I’m just here with a friend.”
At that moment the door next to the receptionist opened and Edward walked out, waving him towards the door.
“There he is now,” answered Witticker, relieved to escape, “It’s been great talking to you. Have a great day.”
Witticker quickly hopped up from his seat and into the office, leaving the small old man alone with the noisy receptionist.

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(On the right side of the page)

Edward sat on the receiving side of the desk of Malcolm Dietrichs. He had arrived only moments ago, instructing Witticker to wait outside. A mist lingered in the office, emphasized by the setting sun banking in from two large bay windows behind the desk. The light shrouding Dietrichs only added to his potentate-like status and the musty air invoked a sense of awe, as if Edward were sitting in the burial chamber of a God. The light was an intentional effect designed by the original architects and Dietrichs had chosen the room for that very reason. The stuffy air, however, was merely a byproduct of Dietrichs addiction to very low-end cigars.
The aged director sat behind the desk, leaning forward with both elbows propping up his wrinkled head. A cigar smoldered, half burnt, in an ashtray on top of a large stack of papers to his left.
“What are you doing here?”
-snap-
“Oh, you know,” replied Edward slyly, “It’s just this place. I couldn’t stay away.”
“I’m not in the mood,” rumbled Dietrichs. He was never in the mood.
“Well, it’s sort of complicated,” started Edward, “you see, I found a guy who has some questions that I couldn’t answer. I thought, ‘who better?’.”
Dietrichs shifted himself from his leaning position to grab the poorly wrapped cigar.
“So, it wouldn’t have anything to do with the acolytes pouring into Manhattan then?”
-snap-
“That’s interesting;” replied Edward, feigning ignorance “acolytes are on Manhattan?”
“Yes,” growled Dietrichs, “and they’ve been asking questions, very specific questions. I’m surprised you didn’t know.”
“News to me,” lied Edward. The encounter in the distrip several days previous was nothing short of a blaring announcement that the acolytes were aware of his presence and would be after him.
The two men sat staring at one another for several minutes. The light behind Dietrichs began to grow slightly brighter causing Edward to squint at the old librarian. Dietrichs rolled the cheap cigar between his thumb and forefinger.
“So,” grumbled Dietrichs, “by now you’re aware that your arrival here isn’t going to be received very well. You weren’t summoned. There isn’t a replacement yet and you aren’t at an age where that is a cause for concern. I can’t let you stay.”
“That’s the thing, I don’t want to stay,” answered Edward, “I just need access to the archives for a few hours and I’ll go.”
“No,” answered Dietrichs automatically.
“What do you mean?”
“I mean ‘No’.”
-snap-
“That privilege was revoked when you were dismissed.”
Edward leaned back in his chair for a moment and closed his eyes. He took a very audible, deep breath; in through his mouth, out through his nose.
“This is important. If it’s worth anything, it has very little to do with me.”
“I don’t care, Edward. Whether or not it concerns you is of little relevance as it is still you that is asking.”
“Then why did open the door in the first place?”
“You’d have rather stayed out with the savages? You may not value what’s in your head, but we do.”
“Alright then, if you won’t help me, at least meet with the guy. Listen to him. If you don’t hear anything of value then we’ll leave.”
-snap-
“What in the hell is that noise?”
“Never mind that,” bellowed Dietrichs, waving off the remark with his wrinkled hand. He sat for a moment staring at the end of his smoking cigar.
“Your friend has five minutes.”
Edward immediately jumped up and bounded to the door. He opened it and looked out to see Witticker talking with a small old man. He waved him in hurriedly and watched as Witticker made a quick goodbye.
He turned back inside the office, grabbed another wooden chair sitting by the door, and put it next to his own. He quickly returned to his own seat and motioned for Witticker to sit next to him.

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(The two columns combine)

As Witticker approached the seat he could feel two sets of eyes following him across the room. He was pleased to be freed from the confines of the waiting room and his most recent acquaintance, but was finding the new setting to be unnerving in an entirely different way.
“Edward said you are here to find answers. What do you want to know?”
Witticker was initially taken aback by the very direct line of questioning, but realized that this was presumably why he had left the farmhouse in the first place. He put his reservations aside and opened his mouth to speak.
“I need to know who I am and what happened to me. Why I wasn’t ever told what was happening to the world around me. Why I feel like I can’t be a part of something that everyone else fits into so naturally.”
Dietrichs stared suspiciously at Witticker from across his desk.
“Is that all?”
Witticker shot Edward a questioning look from the corner of his eye, unsure of what more he was intended to want to know. Edward looked back at Witticker, extending an open hand towards Dietrichs and raising his eyebrows unnaturally high as if to say, “Go ahead, tell him everything.”
“What?” cried Witticker, “What else am I meant to be wondering about? Isn’t that enough?”
“This isn’t convincing Edward,” grumbled the senior librarian.
Witticker was utterly confused as to what he was supposed to be doing or saying in the office that he had not already. He hadn’t realized that his questions were being gauged and he feared that without the proper wording his trip might have been in vain. He scoured the farthest and deepest ends of his consciousness for something more when suddenly a thought sprang into his mind.

*~~*

It was a long shot, but what is a well-lived life but a series of long shots in desperate hope of an honest return?

*~~*

“I also want to know,” asked Witticker, his voice confident and direct, “what information you have about the early 21st century in regards to the devolution of the human race.”
Edward turned to Witticker in surprise at his companion’s question. Edward also noticed that Malcolm Dietrichs had sat up straighter in his chair and put his dwindling cigar back in its ashtray. Upon closer inspection he could tell that the head librarian’s eyes had widened just slightly and his breathing had become slightly irregular. While this change was not readily apparent or a cause to take special notice in most other people, Edward was aware, as were most of the residents who ever came into contact with the director, that Malcolm Dietrichs was rarely ever surprised. Consequently, a slight change in his normally collected outer shell would mean that something had shaken the old man up quite a bit.
“Maybe you were right after all, Edward,” said Dietrichs through a forced whisper, “there seems to be more to this man than I had thought possible.”