Finally he cleared his throat. “It must be a hoax. That scenario—that we are dupes who are unwittingly bringing about the annihilation of humanity—mimics the propaganda the Enemy’s apologists have been spewing for generations.”

“Yes, I know,” Slootjes said, nodding vigorously, “but the parallels between this and that fellow Winslow’s novel are alarming, to say the least.”

“He’s a crank.”

“Not so this Charles Atkinson. The devil, if you’ll pardon the cliché, is in the details, and he gets certain details right. He accurately describes the chew wasps your grandfather put on display here. He even goes so far as to say that after Rudolph disappeared through the Veil, he is the one who drove his touring car back to the city, parking it behind this Lodge with his cane on the seat.”

Ernst grabbed the cane from where he always left it leaning against the wall. In 1906 it had been returned to Germany where Rudolph’s son, Ernst the first, his father, had still been a boy in his early teens. That Ernst eventually passed it on to his own son. Ernst loved this cane.

“He…he mentions the cane?”

“Absolutely. Describes it right down to the silver head with the Septimus sigil and rhinoceros-hide wrapping. Whoever wrote this either had enough access to our archives to allow him to create a monumental hoax, or…”

“Or it’s true?”

Slootjes gave his head a violent shake. “But it can’t be true. I need to delve into the archives for verifications. I’m sure I can find ample evidence of fakery.” He rose and placed the envelope on Ernst’s desk. “In the meantime, you read it. You mustn’t simply take my word for it. You must read it for yourself while I comb the archives. We can discuss it further tomorrow.”

So saying, he made a hurried exit.

Ernst stared at the envelope. He didn’t want to read what was inside. Even if it was pure fiction, he didn’t want to read about his grandfather, a revered actuator in his time, losing faith with the Order. Nor did he want to read about him disappearing forever.

But Slootjes’s description of the memoir’s contents echoed his own worst fears: that the Septimus order had been fooled and duped for thousands of years, and that in the end the One would betray them all.

He snatched up the envelope and settled back to read.

FRANKIE

P. Frank Winslow stared at the mess he’d made of the bedroom.

He’d found a solid steel curtain rod and used it to smash the ceiling plasterboard over the dresser where the gap had existed. Once he’d ripped that away he found himself facing steel-reinforced concrete. No way was he going to get through that, not without a jackhammer.

Where had the gap gone? How could it be open one minute and then gone without a trace the next?

He wanted to scream, he wanted to cry, he wanted to break things. But most of all he wanted a drink—he’d start with water, but after that he’d go for vodka, gin, Scotch, anything. He wasn’t going to be choosy.