The official War Department letter lay on the kitchen table between them, a silent bomb that had failed to detonate but whose timer was still audibly ticking. Arthur did not shout. He did not rage. He simply sat down, heavily, as if all the strength had left his body, and stared at the typed words as if they were written in a language of fire.
Robert stood frozen, his earlier triumph curdling into a cold, sharp fear. He had been prepared for discovery and arrest. He had not been prepared for this—a calm, bureaucratic acknowledgment, a veiled invitation. It was far more terrifying.
"They don't know who you are," Arthur finally said, his voice a hollow echo in the quiet room. "But they know you're someone. And they know you're near me." He looked up, his eyes haunted. "They called you a 'contributor.' They're thanking you."
He picked up the letter again, his hands trembling slightly. "'Unique talents.' What does that mean, Robert? What do they think you are?"
"They think I'm an engineer they haven't met yet," Robert whispered, the reality of it dawning on him. "A recluse. A genius hiding in the sticks. They don't think I'm from the future. They think I'm just… ahead of my time."
"Is there a difference?" Arthur asked, the question profound and despairing.
Eleanor, drawn by the prolonged silence, came in from the garden. She saw the letter, saw the looks on their faces, and her hand flew to her mouth. "Arthur? What is it? What's happened?"
Wordlessly, Arthur handed her the letter. Robert watched her face as she read it, the confusion giving way to dawning horror.
"Oh, my Lord," she breathed. "Robert… what have you done?"
"He saved lives, Ellie," Arthur said, his voice still flat. "That's what the United States War Department says he did. He saved the lives of boys who would have died in training planes." He turned his gaze back to Robert. "But at what cost? They'll be looking now. Men in suits. Men with questions. They won't stop with a letter. A 'contributor' like you is a resource. A weapon. They don't just let weapons lie fallow."
The truth of it settled over the kitchen, as palpable as the coming winter chill. Robert's anonymous act had not granted him freedom; it had painted a target on his back, and on the backs of the people who sheltered him.
For the next week, they lived in a state of heightened alert. Every time a car slowed down outside the house, Robert's heart would leap into his throat. Every stranger who came into the general store was scrutinized. The freedom he had felt on the drive to the neighboring town was gone, replaced by the claustrophobic sense that the walls of his prison were now actively searching for him.
The inevitable knock came on a rainy Thursday afternoon. It was not a thunderous, official bang, but a firm, polite rap on the front door.
Arthur answered it. Robert watched from the kitchen doorway, his blood running cold. Standing on the porch were two men. One was the portly councilman, Thompson, looking uncharacteristically nervous. The other was a man Robert had never seen before.
He was tall and lean, dressed in a well-cut but nondescript grey suit. He held his hat in his hands, and his hair was slicked back neatly. His face was sharp, intelligent, and utterly calm. His eyes, a pale, discerning grey, swept past Arthur and immediately locked onto Robert with an unnerving precision.
"Mr. Henderson," Councilman Thompson began, his voice overly hearty. "This is Mr. Albright from the… from the federal government. He's here about… well, he'd like to have a word with you and your assistant."
Albright. The same name as the journalist from the State Tribune. A coincidence? Robert doubted it. It was a cover, a bland, forgettable name for a man who was anything but.
"Gentlemen," Arthur said, his voice a low growl. He did not open the screen door wider. "This is a poor time."
"I do apologize for the intrusion," the man, Albright, said. His voice was smooth, educated, and carried a quiet authority that brooked no argument. His smile was a thin, professional curve of the lips. "It will only take a moment of your time. It's regarding a matter of… public interest."
His pale eyes never left Robert. It was the look the angry young soldier had given the recruitment officer—the look of a man who saw a problem and intended to solve it. But this was not a look of frustrated grief. This was the look of a hunter who had finally cornered his prey.
Arthur hesitated, his knuckles white on the doorframe. He was a bulwark, but he was just one man against the creeping tide of the modern state.
Robert knew then that the game was over. Hiding was no longer an option. The past had not just whispered back; it had sent an emissary. He took a slow, deliberate step forward, into the man's line of sight.
"It's alright, Arthur," he said, his own voice surprising him with its steadiness. "Let them in."
Arthur glanced back at him, a world of fear and warning in his eyes. But he slowly pushed the screen door open.
The man, Albright, stepped inside, bringing the damp chill of the outside air with him. He nodded politely to a terrified Eleanor, but his focus was entirely on Robert.
"Mr. Vale," he said, not as a question, but as a statement of fact. He had done his homework. "My name is John Albright. I'm with the War Department. I believe you and I have a mutual interest in… aeronautical engineering."
He smiled again, that thin, bloodless smile. He had not come to arrest a spy. He had come to recruit an inventor. The walls of Robert's prison had not just found him; they had politely introduced themselves and asked to come inside for a chat. The most dangerous chapter of his life in the past was beginning.