The long day was finally drawing to a close as a rather soggy Harold limped down the steps to the subway. He felt exhausted, as he always did when they'd had no choice but to step aside and watch innocent people get carted away. But invisible mold wasn't something they could tackle on their own; it required quarantine, and the victims were already as good as dead.

The Foundation would doubtless experiment on them before it terminated what was left of them and carefully disposed of the remains. But as much as Harold hated to contemplate those experiments, they were the only way to find some hope of recovery—if not for these victims, then possibly for victims to come. Maybe, in time, they'd figure out how to eradicate the threat for good.

And things could have gone much, much worse.

Antimemetic threats could hide in plain sight. Strictly speaking, the mold wasn't invisible; it simply tricked the brain into ignoring it. Even weak mnestics could counter the effect, but there was a simpler solution: some layer of tech between the mold and your eyes. A camera revealed it easily enough; of course, if you were taking pictures of the area, you'd have already been exposed. And an outbreak in Mount Kisco could have quickly spread to surrounding areas and out across the entire state, with no one the wiser until days later, when entire households began to drop dead—and the mold moved to a new contagion vector, that of the first responders.

Were it not for the Book alerting Harold to the threat, and the speed with which he'd redirected that information to the Foundation… well. Harold turned his mind to less disturbing thoughts.


Besides calling in the Foundation, there hadn't been much else to do today. A couple of random cases, not particularly difficult—although his bruised hip still ached from smashing it into a marble countertop while they'd been evading a rather energetic floating barstool. Overall, their situation hadn't changed much: Shaw was still missing; Elias was still hiding from The Order. John's role on the police force ensured that they had an inside man now that Carter was… gone.

And Harold? Masquerading as a professor, so that he could go about in public and buy supplies like a regular person, flying under the radar of the groups who were after him. Since they'd fled The Order and gone into hiding (well, into a different kind of hiding; Harold had been in hiding since he was seventeen), he'd had to adjust to the loss of the Library's safety and comfort, along with any number of anomalous items that had made things easier on them. The cornucopia that generated endless amounts of food, just for starters; last year had been the first in decades where he'd actually had to buy groceries.

At least Nathan hadn't sent him to get more dog treats. Lately, the former CEO's requests had gotten increasingly bizarre. Just a few days ago, he'd texted them a list of supplies, insisting that it couldn't wait until morning. So they'd split up: John had stopped at the hardware store while Harold went for the groceries and a bath towel. By the time Harold had made it to the subway, John had already assembled some sort of slingshot, bolted to the corner of the desk.

Have you been getting particularly bored? Harold had wanted to ask—but hadn't, because it wasn't like Nathan had the most extensive list of entertainment options. It would be churlish to deny him whatever little pleasures he could concoct for himself, even if that meant indulging his bizarrely creative side. Or looking the other way when he wired away some of their limited funds.

Or—each evening that week—filling a bowl with dog food, and setting it on the floor. Harold had begun to wonder if Nathan was simply lonely, enough to be hinting that they ought to get him a pet… but he'd been staying in the subway station by choice, for a good week and a half, when he could have gone home with either of them at any time.

Then again, maybe it was at the Book's behest; there were times when the Book gave inscrutable directions that were best followed, even if you didn't understand them (Harold had learned that the hard way, long before he'd even met John).

At least Nathan had been pleased with the slingshot design, and immediately put it to use with a tennis ball. He'd pulled back the little sling, straining until it slipped from his mitten-hands and the ball went flying out the door.

"I'm not gonna get it back for you," John had said, dryly, but Nathan had just waved him off, and indicated through pantomime that Harold could put the towel on the floor beside the steps. The towel was a further mystery: Since becoming a rag doll, Nathan had certainly developed an extreme aversion to getting dirty or wet, but that meant that he didn't need a towel. And it didn't explain how the other towel had gotten all muddy.


Tonight, Harold and John had dropped by the station at Nathan's request, without needing to pick up supplies this time. And as soon as they were inside, he indicated the screen: Take me up to the street. Need to meet someone.

Harold knew that Nathan was nearly as careful with their secrecy as he was—for obvious reasons—but it was still a bit alarming to think of him summoning people to their hideout. But when John pressed for more information, Nathan simply typed out I'll answer questions when we get back.

At the vending machine entrance, Nathan had them pause for a moment before letting them close the machine. Before they reached street level, he climbed into John's shirt, poking his head out to offer directions.

Two blocks down, they found a little outdoor dining area, and… Leon Tao. The changeling got to his feet, looking worried even before John glared at him.

"What are you up to this time, Leon?"

"Hey, I resent the implication that I'm always up to something," Leon protested. "That's, I dunno, species-ist or something, just 'cuz I'm Fae. And, for the record, you called me." He pushed a small cardboard box into Harold's hands. "It wasn't so easy to get those, either, so you might be a bit more grateful."

Then he knelt down and started waving his hands through the air. "I'm glad to see you, buddy," he said with a grin.

"Clearly," Harold replied, raising an eyebrow.

Leon looked up, studying the two of them, his eyebrows drawn together. "So you two really… you can't even see?"

"What are you talking about?"

"Right. Uh." He scrambled to his feet again. "It said not to mention that. Never mind."

"You're being weird, Leon," John muttered.

"Hey, I'm not the one who asked the world to get weird. I'm just trying to survive, here, and maybe do you guys a favor."

"Since when do you do favors without getting something in return?"

"Since never?"

Nathan tapped John's chest, and held out a little piece of folded paper, which John handed to Leon.

"Oh, uh… guess you're Nathan, then? Looking better, buddy. Um." He opened the paper, and read it. "Oh, wow. Uh. Thanks! Don't worry, I'll take good care of him. Hope you guys… um… hope it's not permanent? Anyway, see you later. Come on, boy!" he finished cheerfully, and headed down the street, leaving the two of them a bit befuddled.

Before they could discuss the odd encounter, Nathan waved to get Harold's attention, and motioned go back home now.


Back in the subway, John set Nathan on the desk. Nathan motioned at the box that Harold was still holding—open—and then toddled over to the laptop, plopped down on the desk, and pulled the split keyboard onto his lap. Now that he had a decent way to reach all the keys, his efforts to communicate went much faster. Nothing like normal typing speed, but definitely an improvement.

The box held a small tin, which Harold opened, revealing two odd-shaped turquoise pills.

Mnestics. Startled, Harold glanced over at Nathan, then up at the monitor displaying his chat window.

It's not affecting me yet, but I think that's bcuz I'm not human anymore.

"What's not affecting you?" Harold asked, as his stomach turned to ice from the implication alone. The next words weren't so much revelation as instant confirmation:

Something's making you forget things.

Without hesitation, Harold dry-swallowed one of the pills, handing the other to John without taking his eyes off the screen. The low-grade headache was almost instant—confirmation that the mnestic was trying to counter effects that were too strong for it.

I've been trying to figure out what's going on. Even the Book doesn't know.

"Finch, what did you just give me?"

"A mild mnestic," Harold replied. "It's not enough, I'm afraid, but it should keep us focused for a little while." He'd ask how Nathan arranged for the delivery, but they really didn't have time to waste. "We'll have to see if Elias has access to more effective variants… assuming we can stay aware of the need long enough to get them."

Taking out his phone, he—stared at the spiderwebbed screen; right, he'd dropped it during the altercation with the anomalous barstool. "Mr. Reese, I'll need your phone," he said, pulling the Book to the center of the desk and opening it. "What's going on? How much have I forgotten?" John pressed the phone into his free hand. "How much have we forgotten?"

As he tapped out a message, he saw the Book's reply scroll out in his peripheral vision. He tucked the phone away to center his attention on the Book.

Antimemetic hazard, the words inked across the page in fancy letters, line upon line.
Serious
Ongoing
Threat to Head Librarian
Threat to Primary Assistant

Origin: Unknown
Confer with Research Assistant

Harold turned to Nathan. "Make it fast; if we don't find more mnestics within five hours—"

Without looking back, Nathan tapped his temple: I know. Then he started typing again.

Antim aversion to thots of forgotten beings. You've lost at least 2.

Harold swallowed.

Pointless to try to discuss them. We're doing what we can to take care of them.

"So they're still alive? unhurt?"

So far. Don't think about them; it seems to make the effect bleed out across other info.

"Dear Lord." Infectious amnesia.

"Are others affected, or just us?" John asked.

Before Nathan could respond, the Book scrawled out a list of names:

Head Librarian
Primary Assistant

Sameen Shaw
Constanza Moreno
Dani Silva

"Wait, hold on." John leaned in over the Book, fully alert. "That's confirmation that she's alive, right? Shaw's alive?"

Status: Alive
Location: Out of Reach
Priority:

"Less than our current predicament," Harold cut in. "Mr. Reese, I appreciate your desire to find Miss Shaw, believe me. But I have consulted the Book on her behalf repeatedly, and all it can tell me is that she lies outside our sphere of influence. For all we know, she could be in another dimension. I've directed it to let me know if there is anything we can do to assist her, but, for the moment… we have to focus on attending to this threat."

"If she's still out there—"

"I am no less concerned for her safety than you are, Mr. Reese, and I would be delighted to see her safely returned to us. But we haven't the time for a detour. Shaw might well be the next person we forget. Or perhaps the threat will have taken us out before we're in a position to help her. Surely you can see—"

"All right," John ground out. "So who else is affected?"

Louis Azarello
Iris Campbell
Carl Elias
Timothy Kane
Alonzo Quinn
Philip Womack
Janet Dyer
Lee

The list kept growing: a lot of cops, and a few random civilians, some of whom John didn't even recognize. "Damn. How fast is the effect spreading?"

Variable, the Book said, wiping out the list. Unpredictable.

"Who could best help us with this problem?" Harold asked.

Carl Elias

"Elias?" John confirmed. "Now there's an odd pear."

"Also, he's already affected," Harold observed. "Whatever the hazard is, it doesn't prevent people from working to stop it. Or remedy it. We should head off to meet Elias immediately; he's still at the safe house."

"Should I leave a sign here? In case we get sidetracked and need reminding?"

"Mr. Reese, if this things stops us before we've even gotten new mnestics, it's likely too late to do anything. That's probably why the Book didn't tell us earlier." He quickly began packing up Nathan's laptop and phone, keyboard and stylus.

"Fair enough." John scooped up Nathan and tucked him inside his shirt, then grabbed the Book. "Let's go."


John drove, and he evidently understood the need for haste, which made Harold glad to be securely buckled in. He was seated in the back, with the Book open across his lap, and the front seat pushed forward as far as it would go, so that Nathan, tucked into the back of the seat cover, could still communicate. The Book's answers were always images and lists of data, and simple, often cryptic messages; it wasn't really able to display anything approaching a normal language.

"How long ago did you notice the effect?"

9 days
2 hours

Glancing to the side, Harold considered. "May 23rd. The wedding, right? Was there… anything special that happened that day?"

Nathan pointed at Harold, wiped his forehead, and then circled one hand, pointing up: You forgot someone.

"Besides that."

Nathan shrugged. Harold glanced at the Book, but there was just a slight flux in the color of its pages, a sign that Harold had learned to interpret as a shrug as well.

"And between then and now, we forgot someone else? A friend?"

The page flashed a deep red: Danger.

"Right. But if we can't discuss the people we forgot—"

"Why not?" John asked, glancing at Harold through the rear-view mirror.

Harold blinked. "Haven't you ever worked with infohazards before?"

"Basic training," John said. "Learned ways to spot victims and avoid becoming the next victim."

"Then you know the basics. I take it you never went high in the ranks?"

John shook his head. "They make everyone take aptitude tests, but I never qualified for the nonphysical hazard stuff."

"Well. The fact of the matter is, some of the most dangerous anomalies in existence are just… ideas. Information. I'm not saying that in a symbolic way, like 'there's nothing more dangerous than a man with an idea'; the knowledge itself can be lethal—or worse. There are some areas of investigation that have been documented as simply 'this road of inquiry is too dangerous to pursue.'"

"Because of all the bodies?"

"Something like that." Harold hesitated. "I assume you're familiar with memetic hazards? Infectious information?"

"Of course."

"The opposite effect is an antimemetic agent: self-censoring data. Info that doesn't want to be known. Objects and entities that can't be seen, felt, perceived… effects that strip the data from your mind as soon as you turn away, or sometimes before it can even reach your brain.

"An entity with antimemetic shields is even worse than an invisible creature, because it can force your brain to not pay attention to it. With an invisible creature, you might spot its footprints or see an object that it's carrying around, but antimemetic effects will make your mind slide right off, ignore the obvious. It's like it shuts down your ability to make logical inferences about anything that has to do with it."

"Which is what happened to us?"

"Antimemetic hazard—that's what the Book said."

"So whatever it is could be right here in the car with us, and we wouldn't even realize it?"

"Exactly. The fact that we can even discuss the effect is due to the mnestics, and that's only going to last for a few hours."

"And this thing, whatever it is, has made us forget people?"

"The memories may be gone—destroyed, eaten, transferred… unrecoverable. Worst case. Best case, they're suppressed: Still there, but unable to be accessed until the antimemetic effect has been dealt with."

"So if we get a strong enough pill, it'll stop the ongoing effect and restore whatever memories haven't been destroyed."

"Not all mnestics are pills, but… yes. Essentially. We'd be able to see what's being hidden from us, and access those memories that are being suppressed. At least until the mnestic wears off."

"So what was the point of the headache pill?"

Harold chuckled at the description, though without much energy. "A low-tier mnestic counters the mildest antimemetic effects, and basically keeps us from getting sidetracked from our mission. Which is what some of these threats do: Get us so focused on something else that we forget the need to take basic countermeasures until it's too late. If Elias can't help us find a supplier, we might end up back where we started, oblivious to the active threat."

"How do you know so much about this, anyway? I worked for the Foundation for twelve years—five of them at Sigma level—and most of this is news to me."

"I've… had sufficient reason to delve into the subject. More than most."

"Oh?"


For a long moment, the car was silent. As the silence stretched on, John wanted to glance back at Harold, but the traffic was too tight for him to dare.

When John fished for information about Harold's past, he rarely got it; Harold found ways to skirt around the question, or just moved the conversation in another direction. The exchanges had become almost a dance between them, so the silence—revealing how touchy a subject he'd broached—was unexpected.

But it was almost more surprising when Harold finally spoke. "There's a little town in Iowa," he murmured, haltingly, almost painfully, "where approximately one fifth of the population has… forgotten me. More than simply forgotten: They're incapable of perceiving me. Like I'm an utterly foreign concept, and their minds just can't deal with the reality that is Harold Tu— that is me. I've been ripped from their brains so thoroughly that they can't even read the messages I write.

"And I spent decades trying to figure out if it's possible to undo that effect. For all I know, it's permanent.

"You see, Mr. Reese, an antimemetic agent is more than mere amnesia: It actively prevents your mind from realizing the loss. Trying to challenge that memory loss, to re-teach the suppressed concept… like Nathan said, it can cause even greater damage, because the effect can bleed out and infect related memories."

"So our first step has to be to counter the effect."

"Precisely. Hence, the mnestics, so we can figure out what's affecting us and how to counter it."

The ride was silent for a while, as John mulled over the information. "So what exactly happened?" he asked, after a while. "To make them forget you?"

Again, Harold's silence was telling. Eventually, he took in a breath, and said, "The first time I ever encountered an anomaly, I was seventeen."

John glanced at him in the mirror; Harold had his eyes closed, as if in pain.

"It's the event that started the rest of my life. Sent me on the run. Gave me these powers. But at the time… it was just a weird thing that I found in the woods. Something like the stump of a huge tree, burned by lightning, with a giant crack running down one side. Inside, there was something… shining… so I… I followed my curiosity.

"That place… stretches out in odd ways. My first encounter with extradimensional space. It was, in the strictest sense of the word, fascinating. The things I found… I haven't the vocabulary to begin to describe them to you. I doubt I could even picture it as I'm doing now without the mnestics helping me get a grip on the memory."

"So what made the town forget you, anyway? Just going through that place?"

The pain on Harold's face got a little sharper. "Ah… no. It was the… the entity that I found in there." His voice had gone slow and halting, as if trying to recall a dream. "There was this… not exactly a room, but… and when I entered it, I must have triggered something, because the whole place lit up. Not with light. With… awareness. Everything around me, every minute detail, in all directions, was visible whether I was looking at it or not; I was aware of it all.

"And the… the being that was there… not a creature; it's not physical. It wanted me to… to teach it things. To let it into my mind, so it could understand the creature who had come to visit it. And I"—he swallowed heavily, gazing out the window—"with no real conception of what I was doing or what it meant, I… I let it have a full understanding of me."

Harold took a deep, shuddering breath before he could press on.

"It took me years to piece together what it had really done; even now, I'm not sure that I fully understand. But it appears to have reached out across some thread that connects memories—not just within my head, but the connected memories of every person who had ever come into contact with me for more than the most superficial interaction. It took those memories for itself, so that it could better understand me. And then it… it gave me a gift, in return. The ability to intuitively understand mechanical and anomalous objects, just by looking at them."

"The power that makes you the most wanted man in the world."

"Indeed."

"It didn't actually mean to make people forget you, then."

"I believe that the… entity… is used to trading concepts the way that we trade objects and services. And it enjoys the sensation of newness, of surprise, so the loss of memories is a perk; the suppression effect, and inability to relearn the memory, seems to affect only humans."

"So when you left that place…"

"I'd been forgotten," Harold said tightly. "Entirely. By everyone who had ever known me. My friends, my teachers, our neighbors… they couldn't see me. My father lived the rest of his life believing that he'd never had a son."

John glanced his way, but Harold was rigidly staring out the window, chin trembling ever so slightly. Not knowing what to say, he just kept driving, and gave Harold room to talk.

"I had to run," Harold said, eventually. "Because the Foundation hunts people like me… people with powers. And because I knew things about their operations. That's why I was thrilled to find the Library, which kept me safe, and the Book, which was able to point me at the kind of anomalous objects that could make it easier to stay hidden. And, of course, the rest of the Library's collection, which let me research almost any topic I needed info on… including anomalies that affected memory.

"I'm surprised they found you that quickly; the Foundation wasn't quite so efficient when I worked for them."

"Oh, they didn't pick up my scent for decades. I was lucky. Luckier than most."

Puzzled, John frowned. "Then… how did you know to run from them?"

Harold met John's eyes in the mirror and smiled dismally. "It's almost funny. The Foundation apparently found this… anomalous object… and they stuck it right in the center of one of their biggest labs. Never realized it was a sort of camera… only it's more than that. You step inside the—the viewing chamber, I suppose—and it's like you're standing wherever that spy unit is. And, again, your awareness of the world around you is far more than just visual… and it isn't stopped by walls. It's… overwhelming, until you learn to focus in on specific details.

"From that unit, I could see almost the entire lab, every detail. I could read their documentation, hear them talk about their mission. What their true objectives are, and how far they're willing to go to achieve them. Such callous disregard for the welfare of living, sentient, sapient creatures.

"I could hear the screams… and worse. I was fully aware of every sensory detail, of every inhuman procedure they were performing on the creatures they've captured, on the people…"

"God, Finch," John breathed. When he'd been inducted into the Foundation, they'd carefully coached him for weeks, acclimating him to the cruelty in stages, debriefing him on its 'necessity' until it all seemed normal and unavoidable. And he'd been a soldier in his late twenties, there by choice, not a teenager suddenly thrust into a world he should never have encountered in the first place.

"A lifetime of horror in moments, before I could wrench myself free. I'm honestly shocked that it didn't have some obvious effect on my sanity."

"From what you've told me before, you probably had PTSD for a while."

"I wouldn't doubt it. And, from that day to this, there hasn't been a single waking moment where I haven't been aware of the Foundation. It's like knowing that there's a snake in the room.

"But there, at that moment, I knew only that I had to flee. Had to get loose and run back to what was home, what was familiar. I wanted nothing more than to crawl back into my bed and hide under the covers until I could convince myself that it had been nothing more than a very bad dream."

Harold's breaths were coming faster now, caught up in that memory.

"I… made it back to town. My head was whirling, and… you know how you've been trained to be aware of every weapon in the room? Imagine if they were all lit up like neon signs, only, instead of weapons, it's every machine that's under a certain level of complexity. Every light switch, every doorknob… it took me ages to learn to control my mind enough to push some of that out of my conscious awareness.

"Anyway, I… I dropped by the local diner. Just for a drink, a chance to clear my head. I sat at the bar, and the waitresses there… at first I thought they were just busy, because they both ignored me. Wendy and Luanne. Usually they had a smile for me, a wave, even if they couldn't get to me right away, but… I must have waited twenty minutes before I started trying to get their attention, and it was like I wasn't even there.

"When I finally…" He swallowed. "I, ah, I'm afraid I shouted at one of them. She didn't even startle.

"That's when I realized that something very bad had happened, but I didn't yet know just what it was. I showed up in the mirror behind the counter, so I wasn't invisible. Various people noticed me as I hurried home. But the pattern was getting obvious: The people who noticed me were strangers. The ones who ignored me were… everyone else.

"And when I finally got home…" He drew in a shuddering breath, and then another.

Nathan pulled himself out of the seat cover elastic and tumbled down onto Harold's lap, wrapping both arms around his wrist: a tiny hug. Harold sighed and smiled down at his friend.

"I spent that evening," he continued, softer, "watching a dad who couldn't see me. I went to bed hoping that the effect might be gone when I woke up; when I finally fell asleep, I dreamed of running through town, being chased by rotting trees, with all of my friends ignoring me as I screamed for help.

"The whole next day, I shadowed my dad, hoping against hope that the effect might be… temporary, might be…" He shook his head. "A family friend dropped by to help him fix the tractor. Walked right by me without even noticing. I sat by the garage door and… listened to them chat while they worked. Listened to them talk about a life where I'd never existed.

"That evening, I sat at the table and just watched my dad eat. I didn't have the appetite to join him. Spent time memorizing his face. Then he got ready for bed, and I… I just left. I had no allies, no resources… just the college fund that my dad had been saving up for me since before I was ten. It was enough to keep me afloat until I managed to create a new identity for myself.

"So that's why I've studied the kind of anomalies that can affect memory and awareness. That's how I got roped into this world: A curious mind just a little too open to the unknown."

"Explains why you're so paranoid," John murmured, gently.

"You never knew me at the height of my paranoia," Harold countered. He cupped Nathan's cheek with one hand; Nathan pressed into it, wrapping his arm around it as well and nuzzling in. "It's a miracle that Nathan was able to bring me out of that shell… first with his patience, and later with his trust, and then…" His voice grew choked. "With his sacrifice. Before Nathan… you really have no idea."


By the time they reached the safe house, Elias was waiting, on alert, ready to move. As John stopped to secure the door, Harold limped down the stairs and handed over the Book.

Elias handed him a tiny, coral-colored tablet and a small cup of water. "Drink up!" he said, his smile grim. "The headache's barely noticeable."

Knowing from experience how far that was from the truth, Harold huffed and swallowed the mnestic, then turned. "What threat level are we dealing with?"

Elias frowned. "I could get you Tier Fours, but I don't know anyone who stocks Tier Fives. That's a Foundation exclusive."

"With good reason," Harold said, with a look of distaste.

Joining them, John set Nathan gently on the little table and accepted his own mnestic from Elias. "I might be able to infiltrate my old workplace, but it'd be tough."

"Tier Fives are the byproduct of Anomalous Location Zeta-Iota-90," Harold countered, "which requires the sacrifice of Theta-class prisoners. They don't even get the luxury of dying."

"If the threat is grave enough—" John began.

"—and the pills have long-term effects on personality and sanity. The Foundation uses them because they can stand to lose operatives; we can't."

"Then we stick to Fours," John said. "At least we can stave off the memory effect—"

"If the memories are merely suppressed, it'll help, but if they're being moved or destroyed, all Fours can do is keep us aware of the effect itself and focused on our mission. If we don't have an end game, we're just treading water until we drown."

"What, then?"

Harold took a deep breath. "We get the Fours first, for all of you. Elias, you can give us directions to your old supplier, maybe some leverage?"

"Well, I could," Elias agreed, making a moue. "But it takes them a bit to warm up to new customers. Since time is of the essence, it's best that I go with you."

"There's a reason you're in here," Harold protested. "With The Order hunting for you, I can't guarantee your safety if you leave the wards."

"Harold," Elias drawled, warmly. "I never asked you to guarantee anything. And with a threat like this, I'm hardly safe just sitting here; you do need all the help you can get."

Harold took a deep breath, then nodded. "All right. And then… once we've all got Fours in our system… I know where a Tier Seven is."

It was John's turn to frown. "Tier Sixes are lethal, and you want to try an even higher grade?"

"Used correctly, it has no long-term side effects. It's definitely safer than a Tier Six, unless I hold onto it for too long."

"Hold— it's not a pill?"

"Not all mnestics are medicinal; I told you that. This one happens to be an artifact."

"What's the catch?" Elias asked. "You wouldn't be using me as a supplier if you had access to better stuff without any downside."

Harold ducked his head in acknowledgement of the point. "It can only be used by one person at a time. It's incredibly disorienting and painful. It provides too much information—you all know my aversion to over-precise knowledge, and not without good reason. But none of that matters right now. The chief difficulty would be… it's part of the Library."

The Library they'd fled two years ago, when The Order had moved in. John closed his eyes, trying to imagine any path that didn't involve unconscionable risk.

"And this is the best plan you can think of?" Elias wiped a hand over the bottom half of his face. "Harold, I'm not seeing the best chances here."

"We don't have much choice."

"Even supposing that one of us could sneak into the Library and bring this thing back to you—"

"Unfortunately, it's not portable. I'll have to actually be inside the Library itself."

"No," John growled, instantly. "No way in hell."

"What's the alternative, Mr. Reese? This isn't something you can shoot, or Elias can negotiate with. We don't even know what we're dealing with. Even if the Book tried to tell us more about it, we wouldn't be able to perceive the information. It's probably been trying to tell us for— Nathan, how long ago did you figure out that we were ignoring the threat?"

With both hands, Nathan signed a week and a half.

"So the most it can tell us is that it's too powerful for what we have now. And if we don't stop it, who knows how far it'll go? There are whole towns that have forgotten how to process grain, or how to tell time, or the entire concept of first aid. We've forgotten a couple of people, but what if this is just the first wave? What if it bleeds out across the city?"

"If it's that great a threat, shouldn't this be a Foundation matter?"

Harold looked at the Book. "You showed a list of people already affected by this thing. Is it specifically related to us—to our group—or are we just part of a larger effect?"

The Book floated there, silent.

"But you know which people have been affected."

It continued to float there, silent.

"A few dozen people is more than enough to justify getting the Foundation involved."

Turning to regard John, Harold frowned. "And what exactly would we tell them? 'Some people have been forgotten, but we don't know who'?"

"I'll turn myself in. They can stick their probes in my head."

"Antimemetic effects aren't that easy to track down. Besides, even the best case has them haul in a few dozen innocent people whose only 'crime' is forgetting someone they once knew. And even if you were willing to go that far—which I'm not—we don't even know which people have been forgotten. We only know that, in some capacity, they used to be part of this group, known to all of us. If the Foundation manages to counter the effect, we may have just pointed them at friends and allies—painted a target right on their backs."

John's face was a mask of contained fury, with a hint of panic. "Think about what you're asking, Finch. You want me to just walk you in there… hand you over to the tender mercies of The Order?"

"I realize it's risky, Mr. Reese, but with the Book along to tell us the best path, I believe we can manage to get in, make our way to the chamber of the Allseer, get the information we need, and get out again. Ideally, we'd cause some sort of distraction as well, ensuring that the bulk of the cultists are off site."

A smile spread across Elias's face. "You didn't think I was going to sit this one out, did you?"

Harold's brows drew together. "Elias, you know full well what a prize you would be for The Order—and what they intend to do with you if they catch you again."

"And it's time I pay them back for putting that collar on me the first time. But even if they capture me—and, believe me, I'm not going to make it easy for them—the most I can compromise is this safe house, and some basics about how you operate, roughly the same info they got out of me before. I know you don't like to think of people this way, but I'm an acceptable loss."

Harold glanced at the Book.

"See?" Elias said. "The Book agrees with me. Face it, Harold: I'm coming along. I've already lost two close friends; I'm not about to let a third walk into this kind of danger while I sit back and cower like a dog."

Fondly, Harold shook his head. "You are a better friend than I could have expected, back when we met. Despite our differences."

John let out a breath, surrendering to the idea; there was clearly no reasonable alternative. He felt outclassed by the threat, unarmed in a battle that took the type of weapons he wasn't trained in. But he would do whatever was in his power to protect Harold. "If that's how it has to be," he said, "then you're sticking to me like glue, Finch. No sneaking off on your own."

With an amused huff, Harold nodded. "That's settled, then."

The Book floated down to the table.

"Oh, of course," Harold said, then hesitated. John turned away, but Elias simply looked confused for a moment. Then he turned his back as well.