“It was on the Internet,” Chuy says.

“It— it—” Crenshaw stops, and glares at all of us. Then he twists his mouth into a smile again. “Be that as it may, there is a new treatment, which you have the opportunity to receive at no cost to you.”

“I don’t want it,” Linda says. “I do not need a treatment; I am fine the way I am.” I turn and look at her.

Crenshaw turns red. “You are not fine,” he says, his voice getting louder and harsher. “And you are not normal. You are autistics, you are disabled, you were hired under a special provision—”

“ ‘Normal’ is a dryer setting,” Chuy and Linda say together. They grin briefly.

“You have to adapt,” Crenshaw says. “You can’t expect to get special privileges forever, not when there’s a treatment that will make you normal. That gym, and private offices, and all that music, and those ridiculous decorations — you can be normal and there’s no need for that. It’s uneconomic. It’s ridiculous.” He turns as if to leave and then whirls back. “It has to stop,” he says. Then he does leave.

We all look at one another. Nobody says anything for several minutes. Then Chuy says, “Well, it’s happened.”

“I won’t do it,” Linda says. “They can’t make me.”

“Maybe they can,” Chuy says. “We don’t know for sure.”

In the afternoon, we each get a letter by interoffice mail, a letter on paper. The letter says that due to economic pressure and the need to diversify and remain competitive, each department must reduce staff. Individuals actively taking part in research protocols are exempt from consideration for termination, the letter says. Others will be offered attractive separation allowances for voluntary separation. The letter does not specifically say that we must agree to treatment or lose our jobs, but I think that is what it means.

Mr. Aldrin comes by our building in late afternoon and calls us into the hall.

“I couldn’t stop them,” he says. “I tried.” I think again of my mother’s saying: “Trying isn’t doing.” Trying isn’t enough. Only doing counts. I look at Mr. Aldrin, who is a nice man, and it is clear that he is not as strong as Mr. Crenshaw, who is not a nice man. Mr. Aldrin looks sad. “I’m really sorry,” he says, “but maybe it’s for the best,” and then he leaves. That is a silly thing to say. How can it be for the best?

“We should talk,” Cameron says. “Whatever I want or you want, we should talk about it. And talk to someone else — a lawyer, maybe.”

“The letter says no discussion outside the office,” Bailey says.

“The letter is to frighten us,” I say.

“We should talk,” Cameron says again. “Tonight after work.”

“I do my laundry on Friday night,” I say.

“Tomorrow, at the Center…”

“I am going somewhere tomorrow,” I say. They are all looking at me; I look away. “It is a fencing tournament,” I say. I am a little surprised when no one asks me about it.

“We will talk and we may ask at the Center,” Cameron says. “We will bounce you about it later.”

“I do not want to talk,” Linda says. “I want to be left alone.” She walks away. She is upset. We are all upset.

I go into my office and stare at the monitor. The data are flat and empty, like a blank screen. Somewhere in there are the patterns I am paid to find or generate, but today the only pattern I can see is closing like a trap around me, darkness swirling in from all sides, faster than I can analyze it.

I fix my mind on the schedule for tonight and tomorrow: Tom told me what to do to prepare and I will do it.

Tom pulled into the parking lot of Lou’s apartment building, aware that he had never before seen where Lou lived while Lou had been in and out of his house for years. It looked like a perfectly ordinary apartment building, built sometime in the previous century. Predictably, Lou was ready on time, waiting outside with all his gear, other than his blades, neatly stowed in a duffel. He looked rested, if tense; he had all the signs of someone who had followed the advice, who had eaten well and slept adequately. He wore the outfit Lucia had helped him assemble; he looked uncomfortable in it, as most first-timers did in period costume.

“You ready?” Tom asked.

Lou looked around himself as if to check and said, “Yes. Good morning, Tom. Good morning, Lucia.”

“Good morning to you,” Lucia said. Tom glanced at her. They’d had one argument already about Lou; Lucia was ready to dismember anyone who gave him the least trouble, and Tom felt that Lou could handle minor problems on his own. She had been so tense about Lou lately, he thought. She and Marjory were up to something, but Lucia wouldn’t explain. He hoped it wouldn’t erupt at the tournament.

Lou was silent in the backseat on the way; it was restful, compared to the chatterers Tom was used to. Suddenly Lou spoke up. “Did you ever wonder,” he asked, “about how fast dark is?”

“Mmm?” Tom dragged his mind back from wondering whether the middle section of his latest paper needed tightening.

“The speed of light,” Lou said. “They have a value for the speed of light in a vacuum… but the speed of dark…”

“Dark doesn’t have a speed,” Lucia said. “It’s just what’s there when light isn’t — it’s just a word for absence.”

“I think… I think maybe it does,” Lou said.

Tom glanced in the rearview mirror; Lou’s face looked a little sad. “Do you have any idea how fast it might be?” Tom asked. Lucia glanced at him; he ignored her. She always worried when he indulged Lou in his word games, but he couldn’t see the harm in it.

“It’s where light isn’t,” Lou said. “Where light hasn’t come yet. It could be faster — it’s always ahead.”

“Or it could have no movement at all, because it’s already there, in place,” Tom said. “A place, not a motion.”

“It isn’t a thing,” Lucia said. “It’s just an abstraction, just a word for having no light. It can’t have motion…”

“If you’re going to go that far,” Tom said, “light is an abstraction of sorts. And they used to say it existed only in motion, particle, and wave, until early in this century when they stopped it.”

He could see Lucia scowl without even looking at her, from the edge in her voice. “Light is real. Darkness is the absence of light.”

“Sometimes dark seems darker than dark,” Lou said. “Thicker.”

“Do you really think it’s real?” Lucia asked, half turning in the seat.

“ ‘Darkness is a natural phenomenon characterized by the absence of light,’ ” Lou’s singsong delivery made it clear this was a quote. “That’s from my high school general science book. But it doesn’t really tell you anything. My teacher said that although the night sky looks dark between the stars, there’s actually light — stars give off light in all directions, so there’s light or you couldn’t see them.”

“Metaphorically,” Tom said, “if you take knowledge as light and ignorance as dark, there does sometimes seem to be a real presence to the dark — to ignorance. Something more tactile and muscley than just lack of knowledge. A sort of will to ignorance. It would explain some politicians.”

“Metaphorically,” Lucia said, “you can call a whale a symbol of the desert or anything something else.”

“Are you feeling all right?” Tom asked. He saw her sudden shift in the seat from the corner of his eye.

“I’m feeling annoyed,” Lucia said. “And you know why.”

“I’m sorry,” Lou said from behind.

“Why are you sorry?” Lucia asked.

“I should not have said anything about the speed of dark,” Lou said. “It has upset you.”

“You did not upset me,” Lucia said. “Tom did.”

Tom drove on as uncomfortable silence overfilled the car. When they reached the park where the tournament would be, he hurried through the business of getting Lou signed in, his weapons checked, and then took him on a quick tour of the facilities. Lucia went off to talk to friends of hers; Tom hoped she would get over her annoyance, which upset Lou as well as himself.