say. “About my father’s writing process. I was hoping to take a look at his notes and sketches to see if I could learn anything about how he did his job.”
“Ah, see?” says Mr. Crichton. “It’s not really just personal after all. You’re in the right frame of mind to be interested in your father’s thought process. After all, he was a master storyteller. I know your mother was not ready to talk with me when I approached her a month or so ago, but we here at the company see you both as incredible assets to continuing your father’s legacy. Not to push you in any way, but were you to want to write, say, a book that involves Super Guy’s world, we would be more than happy to include it in the canon that is already established.”
I am completely amused. This man is trying to pitch me, to make me a part of the company. He needs my last name to keep his credibility.
I suppose I should be grateful, but right now I just want to chuckle. Perhaps being the son of Jeffrey Boding isn’t such a bad thing after all. Maybe I can use this company’s eagerness to woo me for my own benefit.
The elevator stops at the desired floor and the doors slide open.
The three of us get off and the doors close behind us.
Mr. Crichton takes the lead and shows us the way down a fancy corridor lined with futuristic lights until we come to a plain wooden door with a label tacked onto it reading Archives .
“Well, here we are,” says Mr. Crichton.
I nod. I am this much closer to finding some answers to my questions.
“Thank-you very much,” I say. “Is there anything we need to know before we go inside?”
“Only that we ask you to use the white gloves when handling the papers,” Mr. Crichton replies. “You’ll find them in the box hanging beside the door.”
I go to open the door when Mr. Crichton stops me, a hand lightly on my shoulder.
“You will think about my offer?” he asks, an eyebrow raised.
I take a moment to seem like I’m thinking it over, then I nod.
“Of course I will,” I reply.
This seems to settle the matter and the man nods, stepping away.
“Be sure to close the door when you’re finished. And let Peyton know that you’re done. She will have someone come up to return all the files where they belong.”
With that, he returns to the elevator.
I glance over at Mae once the man is gone, shaking my head.
“What a crazy world your father worked in,” she says.
“You’re telling me,” I reply. “Now, let’s get in there and see what mysteries my father has buried away.”
18
The Drone
“So, what exactly are we looking for?” asks Mae as she pulls a set of white gloves out of the black box hanging on the wall right where Mr. Crichton said it would be.
“I’m looking for anything having to do with the Vestige,” I answer.
Mae gives me an incredulous look as she flexes her fingers into the first glove.
“Uh, that’s a pretty broad subject, Shaun,” she says. “The Vestige is in every single issue of your father’s work. Is there something more specific?”
I pull on my own set of gloves. They are tight, but not uncomfortable. I flex my own fingers to get the gloves to work around my hand.
“Well,” I say, trying to think of how to word it. In the end I decide to just go for bluntness. “I’m trying to find anything that will tell me how the Vestige works.”
Mae tilts her head to the side for a moment.
“That’s a little bit more specific,” she says. “But, if I remember correctly, I don’t think your father ever completely explained what makes the Vestige work. At least not in the comics themselves.”
“Yeah, but there’s tons of other places we can look,” I reply. “The forewords to the graphic novels. The afterwords to the individual issues. To be completely honest, I usually skipped over those.”
“You were more interested in the drawings,” Mae says with a wink.
We make our way deeper into the room and I am stunned by how organized it all is. I
“Ah, see?” says Mr. Crichton. “It’s not really just personal after all. You’re in the right frame of mind to be interested in your father’s thought process. After all, he was a master storyteller. I know your mother was not ready to talk with me when I approached her a month or so ago, but we here at the company see you both as incredible assets to continuing your father’s legacy. Not to push you in any way, but were you to want to write, say, a book that involves Super Guy’s world, we would be more than happy to include it in the canon that is already established.”
I am completely amused. This man is trying to pitch me, to make me a part of the company. He needs my last name to keep his credibility.
I suppose I should be grateful, but right now I just want to chuckle. Perhaps being the son of Jeffrey Boding isn’t such a bad thing after all. Maybe I can use this company’s eagerness to woo me for my own benefit.
The elevator stops at the desired floor and the doors slide open.
The three of us get off and the doors close behind us.
Mr. Crichton takes the lead and shows us the way down a fancy corridor lined with futuristic lights until we come to a plain wooden door with a label tacked onto it reading Archives .
“Well, here we are,” says Mr. Crichton.
I nod. I am this much closer to finding some answers to my questions.
“Thank-you very much,” I say. “Is there anything we need to know before we go inside?”
“Only that we ask you to use the white gloves when handling the papers,” Mr. Crichton replies. “You’ll find them in the box hanging beside the door.”
I go to open the door when Mr. Crichton stops me, a hand lightly on my shoulder.
“You will think about my offer?” he asks, an eyebrow raised.
I take a moment to seem like I’m thinking it over, then I nod.
“Of course I will,” I reply.
This seems to settle the matter and the man nods, stepping away.
“Be sure to close the door when you’re finished. And let Peyton know that you’re done. She will have someone come up to return all the files where they belong.”
With that, he returns to the elevator.
I glance over at Mae once the man is gone, shaking my head.
“What a crazy world your father worked in,” she says.
“You’re telling me,” I reply. “Now, let’s get in there and see what mysteries my father has buried away.”
18
The Drone
“So, what exactly are we looking for?” asks Mae as she pulls a set of white gloves out of the black box hanging on the wall right where Mr. Crichton said it would be.
“I’m looking for anything having to do with the Vestige,” I answer.
Mae gives me an incredulous look as she flexes her fingers into the first glove.
“Uh, that’s a pretty broad subject, Shaun,” she says. “The Vestige is in every single issue of your father’s work. Is there something more specific?”
I pull on my own set of gloves. They are tight, but not uncomfortable. I flex my own fingers to get the gloves to work around my hand.
“Well,” I say, trying to think of how to word it. In the end I decide to just go for bluntness. “I’m trying to find anything that will tell me how the Vestige works.”
Mae tilts her head to the side for a moment.
“That’s a little bit more specific,” she says. “But, if I remember correctly, I don’t think your father ever completely explained what makes the Vestige work. At least not in the comics themselves.”
“Yeah, but there’s tons of other places we can look,” I reply. “The forewords to the graphic novels. The afterwords to the individual issues. To be completely honest, I usually skipped over those.”
“You were more interested in the drawings,” Mae says with a wink.
We make our way deeper into the room and I am stunned by how organized it all is. I
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