The folded schematic in his pocket felt like a live coal, burning a hole through the coarse fabric of his trousers and searing his thigh with every step. For three days, Robert moved through his tasks in a haze of paranoia and resolve. Every time Arthur looked at him, he felt the secret screaming to be discovered. Every casual question from Eleanor felt like an interrogation.
He had to get rid of it. But how? Mailing it was out of the question—the postmark would trace it back to Oak Creek. He couldn't just leave it somewhere; it might be discarded as trash. It needed to find its way into the right hands, the hands of someone like the angry young soldier, someone who would see its value and not its insanity.
The opportunity came on market day. Arthur needed a specific type of oil-treated lumber that was only sold by a merchant in the neighboring county. He loaded a few finished chairs into his truck to deliver to a client there and gestured for Robert to join him.
"Time you saw a bit more of the world," Arthur said, his tone suggesting it was a chore, not a gift. Robert knew it was a test, a cautious loosening of the leash after the tension of the past weeks.
The drive was a revelation. The 1930s countryside unspooled outside the truck's window—rolling hills dotted with farms, roads shared with horse-drawn carts, small towns that were little more than a church, a store, and a gas pump. It was beautiful, peaceful, and to Robert, it felt like the set of a play whose tragic final act he had already memorized.
Their destination was a larger town, a regional hub with a train station and a more bustling main street. While Arthur haggled with the lumber merchant, Robert wandered under the pretext of stretching his legs. His heart was a frantic bird beating against his ribs. This was his chance.
His eyes scanned the street, looking for… what? An Army office? An engineering firm? He saw a post office, a bank, a hotel. Then, his gaze landed on a building flying a small American flag. It was unassuming, made of red brick, with a simple, stenciled sign: U.S. ARMY RECRUITING & RESERVE AFFAIRS - DISTRICT 7.
This was it. The crack in the world.
He stood across the street, watching the door. A few men came and went. None of them were the angry young soldier. It didn't matter. This was the system. This was the machine.
He waited for a moment when the street was relatively clear. Taking a deep, shuddering breath, he crossed the road, his hand closing around the folded paper in his pocket. He didn't go inside. That would be suicide. Instead, he walked casually past the door, and with a flick of his wrist perfected from years of throwing away trash without breaking stride, he sent the small, thick packet sailing through the open doorway. It skidded across the polished linoleum floor and came to rest near a bench.
He didn't look back. He kept walking, turning the corner, his entire body trembling with adrenaline. He had done it. He had released the whisper into the machine.
When he met back up with Arthur at the truck, he was drenched in a cold sweat.
"You alright, son?" Arthur asked, his brow furrowed. "You're white as a sheet."
"Fine," Robert managed, forcing a weak smile. "Just… the heat."
Arthur gave him a long, searching look but said nothing. The drive home was silent, the only sound the putter of the engine and the roar of the blood in Robert's ears.
The days that followed were an agony of waiting. He expected men in uniform to descend on the house at any moment. He jumped at every knock on the door, flinched at every strange car on the street. He scrutinized the newspaper every day, looking for any mention of a mysterious schematic, a new aircraft modification, anything.
There was nothing. Only silence.
A week passed. Then two. The frantic panic subsided, replaced by a dull, leaden disappointment. Of course. It had been a fool's errand. The schematic had probably been swept up by a janitor and tossed into a furnace. His moment of rebellion had been meaningless. The past was a boulder, and he was an ant trying to push it.
He fell back into the numb rhythm of his life, the hope that had briefly flickered now彻底extinguished. He was just Robert the carpenter's assistant, a man with no past and a future he dared not change.
It was on a Tuesday, three weeks after his act of treason, that Arthur came home from town with the mail. He tossed the usual stack of bills and catalogs onto the kitchen table, but one item he held onto—a slim, official-looking government envelope.
"This came," Arthur said, his voice dangerously calm. "Addressed to 'The Inventor, care of Arthur Henderson.'"
Robert's heart stopped. The world tilted. He could only stare as Arthur slowly, deliberately, slit the envelope open with his pocket knife.
He pulled out a single sheet of paper. It was not a summons. It was not a threat. It was a letter, typed on official War Department letterhead.
Arthur read it silently, his face unreadable. He finished, then read it again. Finally, he looked up at Robert, his eyes wide with a mixture of terror and something else—something like awe.
He cleared his throat and began to read aloud, his voice low and unsteady.
"To the anonymous contributor:
*Your unsolicited communication regarding structural modifications to the Northrop BT-9 training aircraft has been received and reviewed by the Army Air Corps Technical Committee.*
*The design principles outlined are sound and demonstrate a remarkable understanding of aeronautical stress dynamics. Preliminary testing on a modified airframe has confirmed a significant increase in tolerances. As a result, a directive has been issued for the fleet-wide modification of all BT-9 aircraft, effective immediately.*
Your contribution to national defense and aircrew safety is noted. The War Department does not, as a rule, entertain anonymous submissions. However, the efficacy of your proposal compels us to make an exception in this case.
Should you choose to identify yourself, the Army Air Corps would be interested in discussing your… unique talents further."
Arthur let the letter fall to the table. The silence in the kitchen was absolute, broken only by the frantic ticking of the clock.
He had done it. He had changed something. Not a life, not yet, but a machine. A design. He had sent a whisper into the past, and the past had whispered back.
Robert looked from the letter to Arthur's horrified, awe-struck face. He had not been caught. He had been invited.
The game had just changed forever.