Timekeeper

By Gary B. Boyd

Baker Standish would rather do anything than stand in front of a history classroom full of disinterested teenagers. He chose a career outside of academia. His mentor, Professor Bill Jamison, suggested Lineal Chronology as the ideal career choice for a US History major.
Baker Standish was overwhelmed by his new responsibilities. A Timekeeper’s duties were far reaching, farther than he could have ever imagined. One of the hazards of the job was something HR Manager Kara Leflar called Timekeeper confusion. Between the confusion and his persistent earworm, Baker wondered if his career choice was a good one.
Against a backdrop of his own reality, Baker engages in mission after mission to set the links in the chain of events that create reality in the proper order. Someone is messing with the clock and it’s a constant struggle to reset it.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse
• Release date: Feb 14, 2022
• ISBN: 9781665551953

Gary B. Boyd

Gary B. Boyd is a story teller. Whether at his cabin in the Ozark Mountains, at his desk in his home or on his deck overlooking Beaver Lake near Rogers, Arkansas, he writes his stories. His travels during his business career brought him in touch with a variety of people. Inquisitive, Gary watches and listens to the people he meets. He sees in them the characters that will fill his stories … that will tell their stories. A prolific author with more than a dozen published titles and a head full of tales yet to share, Gary submits to his characters and allows them to tell their own stories in their own way. The joy of completing a novel doesn’t lessen with time. There are more stories to tell, more novels to write. Gary expects to bring new characters to life for years to come. www.garybboyd.com

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© 2022 Gary B. Boyd. All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or

transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.

Published by AuthorHouse   02/14/2022

ISBN: 978-1-6655-5194-6 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-6655-5195-3 (e)

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Getty Images are models,

and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Getty Images.

Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in

this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views

expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the

views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

CONTENTS

Dedication

Preface

Chapter 1     Recruitment

Chapter 2     Orientation

Chapter 3     Questioning

Chapter 4     First Mission

Chapter 5     Practice

Chapter 6     Tennessee

Chapter 7     Texas

Chapter 8     El Deguello

Chapter 9     American Cousin

Chapter 10   Booth

Chapter 11   Discussion

Chapter 12   Stage A Riot

Chapter 13   Sturmabteilung

Chapter 14   Stage to Dallas

Chapter 15   Another History

Chapter 16   Mission Complete

Chapter 17   Jack

Chapter 18   Get a Dog

Chapter 19   Greasy Grass

Chapter 20   Lost in Time

Chapter 21   Tiananmen

Chapter 22   Reality Flashes

Chapter 23   Edith

Chapter 24   The Doctor Ordered

Chapter 25   Changes

Chapter 26   The Nudge

Chapter 27   Redoubling

Chapter 28   Rescue in Time

Chapter 29   Smartest Man in the Room

DEDICATION

None of my work would be worthy of publication without the help of my wife Shirley and my daughter Tina. They correct my mistakes and argue with me when my story strays.

PREFACE

JOB 14:5 – A man’s days are numbered.

Time. Time is the one thing we all have in common. We all have time. Some people treat time as a commodity, something to be used with reckless abandon. Others consider time to be a treasure, something to embrace and enjoy. The common thing each of us must consider is that we don’t know how much time we have.

What if you could turn back time? Not like the spring forward or fall back we endure, but really turn back time. What would you do? Would you make different decisions? Or would your decisions be exactly the same because the information available to you would be the same? That question has run through every mind at some time, usually in moments of reflection.

But … we can’t turn back time. Time is its own entity, not controlled by Humankind – nor specific to the human species. Time moves at its own pace, sometimes too fast, sometimes too slow. Some people even say time can stand still. Time is not controlled by any device. Clocks, no matter how precisely accurate in their measurement, cannot affect the passage of Time. Time is ephemeral, without substance. We can’t control that which we cannot touch and contain.

The reality of it is that our measure of Time is a construct. Seconds. Hours. Days. Years. All forms of measure that we developed to try to contain that which has no substance. Time keeping just as well be a carved notch on a tree trunk to mark each sunrise. That is how insignificant and futile our efforts to contain time are. Minute by minute, time moves past us without wondering who we are or why we are here. And we waste our time bemoaning the fact that we just don’t have enough time – even when we are wishing time would hurry.

In reality, there is plenty of Time for everyone. It all depends on how we use it. We get what we get. Nothing more. Nothing less. The Book of Job is clear on that: A man’s days are numbered.

So … back to the question: What if you could turn back time?

I daresay that most people have a few decisions they made in the past that they would like to change. Hindsight is 20-20. If you only knew then what you know now – right? We’d be richer. More famous. Happier. Different than we are today.

Or would we be worse off if we meddled with the moments in our lives?

The accumulated events in our lives, linked together like a chain, create our reality. If we went back in time and changed a decision, all those links would become disconnected because each is predicated by the other. A single changed event could potentially disrupt reality, it could change history. We cannot summarily dismiss historical events as singular moments in Time. The events and their juxtaposition are our reality. They are linked in a specific order at specific intervals for a reason. History is merely the telling. History tells us the resulting effects of those events. Change one event, change history.

If history is changed, everything we know changes. Our reality changes. So … before we turn back time, we need to understand what our new reality will become. Time binds us to our reality because time alone prevents us from changing events in our history. But, because we think we know better, we will continue to attempt to control time, to contain time.

And we will regret it if we succeed.

Baker Standish came to understand the reality of time control. As the poet phrased it, "The best laid plans of mice and men…" Controlling time comes with great responsibility and with unimaginable risk.

Lineal Chronology can control time. Its Founder believed he had the answer to Humankind’s failures, the method to correct past errors, a way to improve the Human condition. He was wrong. His one singular effort to fix a great injustice in history had ripple effects throughout known reality. His singular fix required years of hard work to correct … and in the end, he was unsure if his corrections were complete.

The Founder learned that time cannot be controlled, but that didn’t deter his efforts to improve the Human condition. And he needed someone with Baker Standish’s unique talents to help him in those endeavors.

CHAPTER 1

Recruitment

Baker nervously glanced at his silver-cased pocket watch. Luis was late. If Luis was late, that meant the mission would be late. He wondered how being late on his first mission would be remembered in the future. The thought created turmoil in his mind … and started his earworm. The hook from a Cyndi Lauper song pounded through his brain. "Time after time." The earworm seemed most prevalent when he was stressed.

Baker knew from all his training and from all the mental preparations he had undergone that the fate of the world was riding on this moment, on his first mission as a Timekeeper. Flop sweat formed, especially in his armpits. If he failed, he wondered if someone better, more experienced than him, could undo the damage. "Time after time." He shook his head to clear the earworm. He wondered why he was selected … not just for this mission, but as a Timekeeper. Two years of training suddenly seemed insignificant, not enough, as the reality of his mission swarmed through his mind. But … he knew he was recruited because Professor Bill Jamison believed in him.

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If you consider history to be nothing more than rote learning of facts and dates and people, you don’t belong in this class. Professor Bill Jamison’s gray eyes sparked with angry determination as he glared from the front of the classroom. The classroom reeked of old. Years of teaching and learning hung in the air of the room where he had taught US history for more years than he cared to enumerate. He was adamantly delivering his opening salvo – his perennial challenge - to a classroom filled with nothing more than a cluster of students with varied backgrounds and interests. Among them were three history majors, one man and two women who believed they were destined to become the best high-school history teachers in the USA. Maybe one of them might stretch to become a college professor. Only those three had demonstrated their abilities to lead a classroom. Only those three had the passion to be teachers of history. Only those three really cared about history, US or otherwise. The other twenty students squirmed in their seats, unsure if they wanted to take the US history course to meet their electives for graduation from a professor who was overzealous and angry. Professor Jamison liked to see them squirm. The degree of squirming helped him identify the serious students of history. Those students were few and far between.

Most of you are here for one reason and one reason only. You need the history credits to graduate. Because you’ve had US history in high school, and because you live in the United States of America, you think this course will be a breeze. Think again. You’ll never truly understand US history until you’ve completed my class.

Twenty-one-year-old Baker Standish felt the intensity of Professor Jamison’s eyes. The old man’s steely-gray orbs bored into his own light-brown eyes. He gulped. He wondered if the old man with shaggy gray hair could see his thoughts, ferret out his fears, reach into his very soul. The eyes cut deep, searching for something hidden from the world. It frightened him at a guttural level, but he couldn’t look away. Something about the passion of the man held Baker’s attention. He wanted to know what Professor Jamison knew. He wanted to be in Professor Jamison’s class. He heard the storied chairs around him groan and squeak beneath the weight of squirming bodies. He didn’t squirm. If anything, he leaned toward the Professor.

"Who among you knows the name of the first President?" The Professor paused, glared from wavering eye to wavering eye, daring anyone to answer his question.

Baker didn’t jump to answer the challenge. He was willing to allow someone else to break the ice. Even though his chosen field would ultimately… inevitably … put him front and center, he was uneasy with being the focus of attention. It made him nervous to be watched. No one in the classroom answered the call to be first. He knew The Professor would … and could … outwait the class.

The first person to answer a professor’s initial question would forever be branded as a suck-up. Or as a fool. One never knew about college professors. Some led with softball questions to break the ice. Others led with trick questions to establish their intellectual superiority. There was only one way to know. Baker tentatively raised his hand. In the silence of the small hall, he was sure he heard eyelids blinking in disbelieve … and with relieve. He had met the challenge more than once during his academic pursuits. He was there to learn, but the sense of having done it before started his earworm. He didn’t know why the earworm was there. The song, the refrain, was old, more to his parent’s liking than his. "Time after time." Cyndi Lauper. Plaintive and obviously memorable. A tribute … he supposed … to the fact that his life was routine and filled with the same things day in and day out.

Professor Jamison smiled devilishly. His trap was set, and the first fish was in it. He glanced down at the seating chart he had passed around the room after everyone finished jockeying for seats at the beginning of class. The students knew their chosen seats were permanently assigned. The block for the third chair in the second row was printed neatly. The entire name fit inside the block and was legible. The writer was meticulous. The writer was committed. Mr. Standish?

Baker gulped and lowered his hand. He tried to hide his trembles. Professor Jamison, I know the name of the first President.

The Professor continued to hold his twisted smile. His eyes twinkled mischievously. The frightened youngster properly answered the question asked. Most students would blurt out their guesses rather than answer the question as it was framed. Would you like to share that name with the class?

Yes Sir, I would. Baker calmed himself. He saw the delight in The Professor’s eyes. He was hooked. He needed his thoughts to be collected if he was to survive the encounter.

Please do so, Mr. Standish.

Thomas McKean. Baker heard his classmates react to his answer. More than one student snickered derisively. One of the female students he knew to be pursuing the same major as he smiled and nodded approvingly. He was sure her reaction was one of relief that it was him and not her in the spotlight.

Incorrect, Professor Jamison said bluntly. But … please explain why you believe that is the answer I wanted to hear.

Baker blushed. He wasn’t afraid of being wrong, but he seldom was. He knew the question was a trick question. He was destined to be wrong no matter what answer he gave. But The Professor seemed more pleased than angry. Thomas McKean was elected to be President by the Continental Congress after ratification of the Articles of Confederation. He served in that role from July until October of 1781.

The Professor nodded. Go on. If you believe that is the correct answer, substantiate your belief.

Baker exhaled heavily. He realized Professor Jamison was not a man to accept a simple answer. He … both Baker and the professor … knew history, even the minor little details. They knew the minutia that made real history fun. Of course, the man who was the professor of history knew the most – and had earned the right to be considered right. He pulled himself upright in his chair and leaned forward on his desk, feet squarely on the floor. One could argue that Samuel Huntington was the first President, but he was never elected to the position as leader of the Continental Congress that governed the newly liberated Colonies … the States … under the Articles of Confederation. Samuel Johnston won the first election for the role of President of the Continental Congress in July of 1781. Johnston refused to serve. Thomas McKean was then elected and served as President until October 1781. John Hanson was elected in November 1781. Some believe Hanson should be credited with the title of first President because he served a full term. His response completed, Baker relaxed and waited for Jamison’s reaction.

Bill Jamison watched the young man respond. Every fiber of Baker Standish’s being was attuned to the answer given. Jamison knew Standish and two females, Beth Allison and Johanna Gutierrez, were history majors. Those three were likely the only students in the class who gave a whit about US history, but even in their cases, the interest was to further their careers as teachers. Singularly focused on the one student brave enough to answer, Baker was the only person in the room with him at that moment in time. What if I had phrased my question differently?

Then I may have answered differently. Baker watched Professor Jamison’s wrinkled face wrinkle further - if that was possible - as a huge grin spread from ear to ear. Only then did he notice the History Professor’s teeth were tobacco stained. The lower teeth were slightly crooked.

Then I will ask it. Who was the first President of the United States of America? Jamison challenged Baker with his eyes. Even his easy questions were hard to answer.

Baker rolled his eyes upward in thought. The silence in the room was distracting. "Time after time. The earworm, a distraction he didn’t need, bounced through is mind as he tried to formulate his response. He knew everyone was watching him. That particular feeling at that particular moment was the reason he still harbored some misgivings about teaching history. Love of history and a lust for all the knowledge embraced by the subject lured him into the field. With very few options to use a history degree other than teaching, he secretly questioned what he now considered to be a youthfully impetuous career choice. High school teachers were his role models outside of his home. And he liked history. As time passed and his knowledge of the world outside of academia grew, he came to realize that he didn’t know if he could long endure standing in front of a room full of mostly disinterested high school students. He wasn’t sure he had the nerves or temperament for that kind of work. It didn’t matter. He was a single semester away from graduation. He could always sell himself out to research or to writing. He boldly answered The Professor’s question, George Washington was the first man elected to the position of President as defined by the Constitution of the United States of America." He held his breath and waited for further trickery of the question to be revealed.

Correct, Mr. Standish. And most US history classes will start with the election of George Washington as the beginning of US politics. Jamison stepped closer to the front chairs and once again surveyed every face in the class. Those classes consider everything prior to that to be part of the Revolutionary War. My class will not be one of those classes. US history is robust. Its very existence is predicated by historical events that unfolded in precisely the proper order. Without that precision and order, the United States of America would look very different than it looks today – if it existed at all. Also, despite what some history teachers try to teach, the nation we are today is the result of much more than the actions of our Presidents. As a matter of fact, their influence, though highly publicized, is less critical to history than you have been led to believe. Presidents are merely small links in the chain of events that create our history. YOU! Jamison turned his steely eyes to the male student who had snickered loudest when Baker began his answer. Mr. Schwartz. He waited for the over-buffed youngster to turn beet red. What is the most notable accomplishment of President John Hanson that is still recognized to this day?

Byron Schwartz squirmed. His eyes glanced around him, searching for help. His eyes pled with Baker for support.

Look at me, Mr. Schwartz. I’m the one who asked the question. If you are to get the credit you need for this course, you will offer an answer.

Schwartz glared at the elderly professor. I don’t know.

Professor Jamison smiled ruefully and walked toward a large, dry-erase whiteboard. I suspect your answer is correct, Mr. Schwartz. With his back to the class, he scrawled T-H-A-N-K-S in large letters then turned to face the room. Now, Mr. Schwartz, I am offering you a hint so that you may hazard a guess at the answer to my question, so you can bring yourself out of the darkness of ignorance-past into the light of knowledge-present. What is the most notable accomplishment of President of the Continental Congress John Hanson that is still recognized to this day?

Byron Schwartz was not enjoying the attention forced upon him by Professor Jamison. He liked the limelight - but only under his terms. A few of the same snickers he directed toward Baker were wafting through the class. His face reddened with rage. He knew he had to answer, even if it was wrong. He replied tentatively, Saying Grace at dinner?

Jamison’s eyes didn’t waver from the student’s face. Is that a question, or is it your guess at an answer?

Byron snapped, It’s my answer.

Too bad. Jamison turned back to the whiteboard and added more letters. G-I-V-I-N-G D-A-Y. He shook his head with disgust. I repeat my opening comment. If you consider history to be nothing more than rote learning of facts and dates and people, you don’t belong in this class. He looked into each student’s face to emphasis the challenge posed by his statement. The fact that John Hanson, little known outside of classrooms like this across the country, impacted our lives in such an enduring way is a testament to the truth of history. History is not just facts. History is a chain of events that are linked to create our reality. In 1781, John Hanson established a day of thanksgiving to be celebrated every year on the last Thursday of November. History is who and what we are. If you remember that, those events and dates and people become real and are much easier to understand … and decidedly easier to remember. History is the record of the logical progression of civilization and of society. If I am lucky enough to convince just one of you to embrace history for what it is rather than simply as a credit on a transcript, I will consider my life to be a success.

Baker heard Byron Schwartz mumble, Your life’s a waste no matter what. He wasn’t sure if Professor Jamison heard it or not. He hoped not. The Professor ignored it if he did.

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Baker looked around as if by doing so, Luis would miraculously appear. He was anxious. Everything he had trained for was coming to fruition. Even though he knew his assignment - the core reason for his mission - would not reach culmination for at least three months after he stepped onto the elevator, he couldn’t shake the thought that if he was late, history would unravel. Professor Jamison formed that in him with the emphatic comment "History is a chain of events that are linked to create our reality. The logical expectation was that the sentence would have been delivered as past tense rather than the present tense of the verb create. Use of the word create" implies that history is still active. Time after time. The earworm aggravated him. It disrupted his anxious thoughts about tardiness … and potential failure. In all of that, he couldn’t shake the feeling that he was under scrutiny … because he knew his every action would be noted during his first mission.

Professor Jamison taught him more than just history. The History Professor taught him how to understand history, the meaning of history. And Doctor Jamison taught him to question the veracity of history as written in textbooks. No historical records had ever been written that weren’t skewed and slanted one way or the other. Some history was written as outright lies to gratify a vain leader’s delusions of grandeur, hiding the truth from the casual student of history and from the apathetic populous. Baker Standish was not a casual student. Professor Bill Jamison was not a casual teacher. And neither one was apathetic about United States history.

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It was a typical recruiting Jobs Fair kind of day. The Student Union Great Hall was filled with tables and bodies and sounds. Voices blended into a steady rumble of nothing concrete. Voices that were muffled by the mass of noise and tempered by constantly shuffling feet. Baker knew the day was coming. His original teaching plans were vaporized by his own self-doubts. The adage "Those who can’t do teach" fed his doubts. He was sure he could do … and do more if he could find an avenue for his talents and skills. His doubts were about teaching, not about his abilities to succeed. He still intended to get his Masters, but unless his job would benefit from it, the idea of a doctorate in history was out of the question. That ultimate degree would more than likely relegate him to a lifetime of teaching at some college or university somewhere. Of course, the benefit of an advanced degree to his job would depend on his job.

But, Baker didn’t have a job. Not officially. He knew he could get a high school teaching job. He had offers pending graduation and the completion of his state certification. Graduation was in less than three weeks. He regretted not attending the other recruitment events that seemed to always be staged inside the Union Great Hall. Until the moment he stepped into the Great Hall, he had allowed himself to be moved by the events that created his history. It was time for him to create his history, so it became a reality more to his liking. Maybe, if he had attended past recruiting events, he would already know what his career would be, what his future could be. He glanced around the room. The aisles between the fold-up tables were teeming with eager young students, mostly seniors, all testing the waters for potential employers.

Campus recruiting was always an intense time. Job hunting was a defining event in each person’s history. In the jumble were students without purpose seeking ideas for employment. There were students with their minds already made. Those were the young men and women who believed they knew exactly what life had to offer, whose histories were already formed in their own minds. Nearly every student, every potential candidate for some yet undiscovered career, stared at a smart phone. Thumbs moved rapidly. Baker knew they were searching the University’s App Map, checking for the location of a favored company. He couldn’t hear the keystrokes, but he imagined he could have if the shuffling of feet was not so loud. He watched Human Resources Managers with quotas to fill staffing the myriad of tables… even if they didn’t have job openings. They shuffled papers and furiously typed on laptops as they juggled names and resumés. The need for potential employees drove them to put on the façade of job offerings to entice bright young minds to provide resumés and complete applications. History would be the record of the results.

Baker checked his phone for the location of his target company. He knew the routine. Ask questions. Answer questions. Smile. Exude confidence. Parry and riposte without over committing. Never leave a mark that could cause a scar. Never close a door. Every HR Manager in the room represented a possible future. Even though he knew the routine intellectually, he had no experience with it. Professor Jamison offered a bit of advice.

"There are uses other than teaching for your degree. There are golden opportunities for good people with a keen interest in history. If you’re interested in pursuing other options, a company called Lineal Chronology will be in the Union. One day only. Mention my name."

The old professor’s yellowed smile enticed Baker to follow his advice. Nothing ventured, nothing gained. Trite but true.

Lineal Chronology did not appear on the map or on the list of companies. Baker looked for a sign. Every table had a sandwich sign on it or a banner overhead. Dupont. J&J. Ford. Dell. Hitachi. Big names from big companies. And small ones. He had never heard of Lineal Chronology. He didn’t even know what they manufactured or what services they offered. Or what they would require of an employee with nothing more than a history degree. He was unable to find their website, or any googled reference to them on the internet. Professor Jamison merely mentioned the name. When Baker asked him what they did, the Professor simply smiled and cryptically responded, "They are the company for any history major worth his salt."

Baker walked through the jumble of bodies, searching for the Lineal Chronology representative, assuming the company was a late addition. Nothing. He found nothing in the large room. Apparently, Professor Jamison was incorrect – either about the date or about Lineal Chronology’s participation in the Job Fair. Dejected, he walked from the room toward the Food Court. It was in the same building. He was hungry. He had nervous jitters prior to arriving at the recruiting event. The thought of selling himself to a company upset his stomach, so he didn’t eat. Now, without the option supposedly offered by Lineal Chronology, his career was relegated to teaching … if he was to use his history degree. He considered changing his masters pursuit from History to Education, particularly Administration. That would eventually get him out of a classroom. Now that his meeting would not take place, emptiness bothered his stomach. He was hungry.

A small sign taped to a closed door caught Baker’s attention as he left the Food Court. He knew the door was there. It had been there throughout his school career. He had walked by it more times than he could remember. It was on the direct route from the main entrance to the Student Union Food Court. Always closed. Storeroom. Office. He didn’t know. Nor did he care. But now he saw the paper sign. Lineal Chronology. Small, black, handwritten letters on an otherwise blank sheet of white copy paper. Taped to the door with clear Scotch tape. He stopped. His stomach, now full, fluttered. He felt something swell in the back of his throat. He swallowed. "Time after time." The earworm. The aggravation. The distraction. It gave him a reason to focus on the moment. After a momentary pause, he cautiously knocked on the door. Nothing happened. He knocked again, more forcefully the second time.

The door slowly opened. A blonde-haired woman with pearly white teeth, reddened lips, and a light touch of make-up smiled. May I help you?

Baker smiled with as much confidence as he could muster. I’m looking for a career. Someone told me Lineal Chronology was recruiting.

The attractive woman opened the door fully. Still smiling, she stared at Baker for a moment. She nodded approvingly, then stepped aside to invite him into the room. We are. Who told you about us?

Professor Jamison. He said you preferred people with history degrees. My name is Baker Standish.

The woman removed the sign, closed the door behind Baker, and motioned toward a small table with two chairs, one on each side. Professor Jamison? How kind of him to send you to us. My name is Kara Leflar. I’m the Human Resources Manager for Lineal Chronology.

Baker musingly watched Kara toss the wadded paper sign into a small trash can. The table had one piece of paper and a blue-ink pen squarely in front of his chair. The page was an unembellished nondisclosure agreement, the often-decried NDA.

CHAPTER 2

Orientation

Baker was startled by sounds gurgling from the elevator shaft, from behind the closed doors. He quickly glanced around to see if anyone noticed his start at the noises. He was relieved to see what he already knew - no one else was in the area. The indicator light above the two-part, sliding doorway flashed red. He knew from his training that he should step away from the door before it opened. A yellow line on the floor marked the closest point deemed safe. He checked his feet. He was behind it … exactly the way he was trained. One never approached the elevator until the light was green and it was open.

The indicator light changed to solid green. After a brief pause, the elevator opened. A hazy cloud filled the air between Baker and the elevator. The cloud obscured visibility for a moment. He couldn’t see the elevator though he knew its opening was there. He stared into the cloud to see who, if anyone, was exiting the elevator. The cloud dissipated quickly but left the smell of ozone mixed with sulfur. Luis stepped into view.

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Kara Leflar was the first and second face Baker saw during his initial contacts with Lineal Chronology. He signed the NDA and answered one more question inside the small room in the Student Union building.

How are you feeling today? Kara’s keen blue eyes bored into Baker’s. She was friendly, as to be expected from an HR type, but her eyes betrayed an intensity that was not expected.

The question seemed innocuous enough. An ice breaker. Baker fought the urge to look away from the probing eyes. He answered stiffly, A bit trepidatious, but ready to join a company that makes a difference. A parody of a stock answer to show knowledge of a company. In truth, he knew nothing about Lineal Chronology. His internet searches revealed nothing about the company. Lineal Chronology was dark. To all intents and purposes, the company did not exist.

It must have been the right answer because Kara smiled a smile that cascaded across her visible body as she reached for the NDA and checked the signatory line. Then you’ve come to the right place. I will call you the day after graduation with a time and place to report. Don’t celebrate too hard. We start early. Welcome to Lineal Chronology. She rose from her chair and extended her hand, a clear indication that the interview was complete. She didn’t even ask for his resumé.

Kara Leflar called as promised. Baker arrived at the address he was given thirty minutes earlier than his scheduled report time. If you’re not early, you’re late. He wasn’t sure where he heard that expression, but it … like many other adages … was something he tried to live by. He parked his car in a vacant parking spot marked by a sign "Reserved for NEW HIRES." He reckoned it was for him. He sat in his car and waited while his wristwatch slowly ticked away the seconds toward his appointed time. His earworm plagued him while he waited. Time after time, over and over. He watched large trucks, eighteen-wheelers with Lineal Chronology logos proudly painted on the tractors’ doors and the trailers’ sides, enter and leave through a gate guarded by a clipboard wielding attendant at the far side of the building. A large sign by the gate boasted Truck Entrance.

When he felt it was close enough to his appointment time, Baker opened the glass front door and entered a well-lit lobby. The lobby was tastefully austere and white. Starkly white. Nothing extraneous on the walls … or against the walls. Two straight-backed, gray chairs and a matching settee. No plants, real or fake. No magazines to while away time. No high, vaulted ceilings to impress visitors. No pictures of the company’s founder to mar the whiteness. The only thing he saw was a strategically placed sign on the front door that warned against entry without an appointment. He wondered if his arrival was monitored, if that was the reason he met no resistance when he pulled on the door handle.

Baker glanced around the lobby, anticipating a receptionist or a sign with instructions to knock on the lone, solid door. Nothing. He knocked anyway. In less than a minute, Kara opened the door, her face lit with a welcoming smile.

Come in, Baker. We’ve been expecting you. Kara held the door open until Baker entered a small hallway that was not as brightly lit as the lobby. Tile flooring clicked beneath Kara’s heels as she led Baker along the hall. The sounds of Kara’s footsteps bounced around them as they walked. He was conscious of the subtle sliding sounds made by his shoe soles on the hard surface.

Baker glanced at the bare, almost sterile, gray walls. Only the color differed from the lobby walls. The décor … if it could be called that … was subdued. There were no doors in the hallway. There was only the hall that opened into an elevator foyer. And there were no people to make up the "we" Kara referenced. Three stainless steel elevator doors awaited them at the end of the hall. To one side was a door with a security card and cypher lock. Kara walked to the left elevator and pressed the call button. It only offered one option. No indication which direction it would go. It was easy to surmise because there was no second floor on the company’s building. It was generally taller than a normal building, the height that one would expect for a manufacturing facility. He reckoned the elevator went to a basement level. The elevator’s double doors slid open, and Kara motioned for Baker to step inside ahead of her. He smiled and did as she indicated.

Inside the elevator, Kara selected a button marked by a raised star. Baker assumed the conditioned elevator stance, his back against the handrail on a side wall with his eyes on the indicator lights. Other selections were coded with alphabetic characters rather than numbers. Baker assumed each button was indicative of different levels. Kara watched him as the elevator moved down its shaft. The offices for the facility were subterranean. He counted six different buttons from his stance against the wall opposite Kara. He wondered what was on the ground level. Apparently, the first floor was for manufacturing. Only when the elevator stopped did he notice the back of the elevator looked the same as the front. He might not have noticed that if the back doors had not opened instead of the front doors.

Here we are, Kara said with a smile and a motion toward the open door. Muffled voices filtered from the area they entered. Kara’s office was near the elevator. They didn’t have to walk far. The voices came from other office doors that were spaced evenly along a wide hallway. The walls on that level were still plain but they, and the ceiling, were textured. No bouncing sounds. Have a seat, she offered Baker the option to use either of two plush