Inevitably the Professor would be forced to engage the imposing Source and her Mem, who could be visiting from elsewhere in the Americas, or Madagascar, or anywhere really, since the wealthy were traveling from all over the world for extractions, and who always wondered aloud whether this or that delightful Mem might be the new face of his department. The Professor’s answer was always the same: he was pleased that the technology was bringing relief and sometimes even amusement to the affluent classes, but he regretted the way his work remained financially inaccessible to others. The science of extraction had been developed to help people heal from painful memories, he reminded them, and the poor had as many as the wealthy. The cost of the Vault and Mem maintenance were understandably prohibitive, there was no escaping that, but in fact, his research showed that these happy pairs—the Sources who voluntarily visited his office with their Mems hoping to become the focus of some study or another—did not reflect the whole. The overwhelming majority of extractions continued to be exercises in purging, and few Sources retained their extracted memories as keepsakes. In truth, few Mems were of the happy sort, and their shelf life was expected to be relatively brief (or so the Bankers’ observations had seemed to prove). Despite what others might say, he always concluded with a smile, there was but one Mem as old as the department itself. One whose resilience made a mockery of the notion that a Mem expired more quickly when the spawning memory was a troubling one. Just one Mem who knew she was a Mem, who knew something outside the memory because of which she’d been extracted.

That night in 1922, scientists and journalists, philanthropists and curious socialites, would watch me the way I’d so often watched them.

“I’ve been following your work quite closely,” said a dowager, a decadent fan of ostrich feathers sweeping the air between her and the Professor. Over her shimmering, straight gown, she wore a splendid mink coat that put all others to shame. Between her wealth and refinement, the woman appeared to have aged with remarkable grace. She wore her pale face powder with understated mascaro and light rouge, but she forewent the more youthful pretense of lip-shaping. To her credit, she kept them a more distinguished, muted shade and made no attempt to a perfect cupid’s bow.

The Professor politely dipped his head in her direction when she spoke, as every word of an even moderately cordial conversation was shared under the guise of great discretion by women of her class.