The Goodbye Man

“I’m afraid not. It’s part of the Process. Master Eli says we should leave everything in the past behind. They’ll be laundered and waiting for you when you leave.”

“Sure.”

The Beethoven notes sounded again and Shaw glanced toward the window. The woman’s voice echoed from loudspeakers again. “The time is five-thirty p.m.”

Adelle said, “They sound every quarter hour from six a.m. to ten. Master Eli feels that that’s as much time-telling as we need. He says there’s too much control by the corporations and the government. They dictate everything, even the time to the second.”

Another, though different, they...

He said, “Those clocks sure can screw around with you.”

Adelle didn’t reply but, after a pause, she explained how to get to the dining hall and added, “Tomorrow’s schedule will be inside on your desk.” Then her eyes turned suddenly shrewd. “It’s different here, different from what you’re used to, Novice Carter. As much as you want help, because of Minuses in your life, you resist. It’s natural. However, the sooner you let go, the sooner you’ll embrace the Process and everything will be wonderful.”

Her words had been a gentle but unmistakable leash jerk. Shaw realized that maybe he deserved it. Perhaps he’d allowed some tone of condescension to slip into his time reference. He simply could never step out of character again.

He gave a faint exhalation — about the only apology that street-hardened Skye was capable of. “Just, this whole thing is... Never done anything like it.”

Her face softened. “You’ll do fine. Master Eli has all of our interests at heart. That includes you now.” She nodded to his amulet. She turned, paused and glanced back. “And read the rules. They do take them seriously.”

Shaw closed the door after her and looked around his room. He had never been in prison — well, not to serve a sentence, though he’d been detained a number of times — but this room was probably what a minimum-security cell would be like, the abode of check kiters and low-seven-figure inside traders.

There was an austere bed — a futon on a raised platform — a rickety desk and a chair. Several matching lamps, cheap ones. The bathroom was small and on the narrow shelf were the basics: soap, a sealed toothbrush, a packet of disposable razors, tubes of relevant lotions, soaps and creams. Thin towels. On a shelf sat a coffee maker, and a tray of generic brands of coffee and tea and packets of sugar and Coffee Mate. A microwave too. A basket of trail bars, cookies and nuts. A small fridge contained bottled water.

He washed his face and hands, dried off on the limp towels and looked over the room more carefully. Shaw used surveillance equipment in the reward business occasionally and knew where to plant cameras and what to look for. There’d be none here, he was sure. A webcam video of someone traipsing back naked from the shower? That could put somebody behind bars for a long time. As for microphones, those were possible, though his search revealed none. But of course they could be embedded in the walls, invisible and, if hardwired, undetectable by scanners, even if he’d had one.

He’d just assume everything he said here was being listened to.

Looking over his uniform, laid out on the desk. Even underwear. The articles were in the manufacturer’s plastic wrap with size tags attached: new, not laundered. He had a ridiculous thought that he’d be allowed to keep them when he left — souvenirs of My Month in the Cult.

Shaw dressed. The outfit was comfortable and fit perfectly. They had even gotten the shoe size right. One aspect of the clothing was curious: there were no pockets. What was the point of that?

Shaw could see no practical reason. He assumed it was just one aspect of control the Foundation asserted over the members.

He slipped the clothing that he’d worn here into the linen bag and set it in the corridor.

On the desk sat four 8-by-10 spiral notebooks: on the cover of each was printed, The Process™. A half dozen pens rested next to it. He opened the book, expecting a rambling treatise or a lesson plan for the next three weeks.

Nope. All blank pages. He’d be attending lectures, he guessed, or encouraged “to journal” — a word he simply did not accept as a verb.

Also on the desk were three sheets of paper. One was a copy of the rules. Another read: