The return journey from Trinity was made in a silence more profound than the desert itself. The MPs were no longer just guards; they were wardens for a phenomenon they could not comprehend. Albright sat motionless, staring at Robert as if he were a ghost, or a god, or something terrifyingly in between. The successful test, the culmination of years of work, was now overshadowed by the living, breathing oracle in their midst.
Robert was not returned to the concrete cell at Los Alamos. Instead, he was taken to a different kind of prison—a comfortable, well-appointed suite in a secluded government facility somewhere in the Maryland countryside. There were books, a comfortable bed, and a window that looked out onto a manicured lawn, ringed by a high, electrified fence. It was a gilded cage, designed for a very special, very dangerous bird.
His existence was scrubbed from all records. Robert Vale, the carpenter's assistant, the Intuitionist, ceased to be. He became "Asset Seven," a designation known only to a handful of men at the highest levels of the newly formed Central Intelligence Group.
His life settled into a new, surreal routine. His days were spent in a spartan interrogation room, facing a rotating panel of questioners—military strategists, economists, scientists, and always, always, Albright. The questions were no longer about aircraft designs or bomb yields. They were about the future.
"Tell us about the Cold War," a grim-faced general would demand. "The precise nature of the Soviet threat."
"Who wins the Korean conflict?" an analyst would ask, his pen poised over a notepad.
"Describe the microchip. The personal computer. The internet."
They were mining him. They wanted a blueprint for the next century. They wanted to know which technologies to fund, which wars to fight, which nations to destabilize. They wanted to cheat at history.
Robert complied, but with a new, calculated strategy. He had learned from his mistakes at Los Alamos. Total defiance was suicide. Blind cooperation was a betrayal of his very soul. So, he became a filter.
He gave them truths, but not the whole truth. He gave them generalities, but withheld critical specifics. He described the existential stalemate of the Cold War, emphasizing the doctrine of Mutually Assured Destruction, hoping the sheer horror of it would give them pause. He talked about the space race, focusing on the inspirational, scientific aspects, downplaying its origins as a military competition.
He gave them the transistor, but not the integrated circuit. He described the concept of a communication network, but fumbled on the details of packet switching. He was a radio receiving a signal from the future, but one with a great deal of static, broadcasting just enough to be valuable, but not enough to hand them the world on a platter.
It was a draining, soul-crushing existence. He was a living history book being torn apart, page by painful page, for the benefit of men who saw the future not as a destiny, but as a battlefield to be conquered in advance.
Albright was his constant warden and curator. The man's initial terror had been refined into a kind of possessive fascination. He was the keeper of the prophet, the high priest of this strange new religion of foreknowledge.
One evening, Albright came to his quarters alone, without his usual folder of questions. He poured two glasses of whiskey from a decanter, a rare informality.
"The President is briefed on your… status," Albright said, handing a glass to Robert. "He finds the information… unsettling, but invaluable. The decision on Japan has been made. We will use the weapon."
Robert took the glass, the amber liquid catching the light. He had known this was coming. It didn't make the news any easier to hear.
"Your predictions have all been accurate, Robert," Albright continued, swirling his drink. "The test yield was twenty-one kilotons, as you said. The Soviet entry into the war against Japan is imminent, just as you foretold. You have proven your value." He took a sip. "Which is why your continued cooperation is non-negotiable."
He set his glass down and leaned forward. "The world is about to change. A new kind of war is beginning. A war of ideology, of proxies, of secrets. And we will have the ultimate secret. We will have you."
Robert looked at the whiskey, then out the window at the deepening twilight beyond the fence. He was a slave to his own knowledge. He had tried to be a ghost, a saboteur, a prophet. Now, he was a resource. A strategic asset to be protected, exploited, and controlled.
He thought of the wooden swallow, which he kept on the bedside table. The idea of "home" was now a fantasy. This room, this cage of knowledge, was his home. His purpose was no longer to return to the future, but to be mined by the present.
He took a slow drink, the whiskey burning a path of false warmth down his throat.
"What do you want to know next?" Robert asked, his voice flat and empty.
Albright smiled, that thin, bloodless smile that never reached his eyes. "Everything, Robert. We want to know everything."
The interrogation was eternal. He was the sole keeper of a library of tomorrows, and his captors had all the time in the world to check out every book. The tourist was gone. The castaway was gone. All that remained was Asset Seven, a man who knew too much, living in a gilded cage at the end of history, waiting for a future he had already lived to slowly, inevitably, catch up with him.