He realized on a Sunday morning that he had been in Grayhaven for three weeks past the date he had originally planned to leave.
He had not planned to leave on a specific date -- the trip had not been that structured -- but he had carried, when he arrived, a rough sense of duration: a week, perhaps two, enough time to find Clara and understand what he had found and return to Bellgrave with answers. Two weeks had become six. Six weeks had become seven. The counting had stopped being meaningful somewhere around the third week, which was the same week Owen had left and he had started telling Mrs. Aldric in increments of one additional week at a time.
He stood at the window of Room 17 with his tea and looked at the harbor.
He had three weeks of drawings that he had not had when he arrived. He had a Tomorrow Memory of every significant person in the city, which he had not had when he arrived. He had a relationship with the archive's cartographic section, its horological records, its donated photograph collection, its anomalous 1970s clock logs, and its personal-not-for-catalogue room that he had not had when he arrived. He had a relationship with Clara that had reorganized itself from searcher-and-found to something more equal and more honest. He had a geography of Grayhaven that was weighted by experience rather than by map.
He had something with Liora that was not finished and was not simple and was the most significant thing in the list.
He drank his tea. He thought about three weeks.
He thought: I am not going back to Bellgrave soon. And this is the right decision. And I have known it for a while.
Clara came by Calder House that morning, which she had done twice before on Sundays when she was developing photographs and wanted company without the specific context of the archive or her flat.
She came with prints: recent ones, the harbor series she had been building for the documentary project. She spread them on the sitting room table and they looked at them together while Mrs. Aldric moved in the kitchen making the sounds of Sunday morning.
The prints were good. He had known Clara's work his whole adult life and he knew when it was good, and this was: the harbor in different lights, the boats, the fishermen, the specific quality of light on the water that Grayhaven produced and that was, as far as he could tell, actually different from the light in other coastal cities. The Temporal Residue, Clara had theorized, affected the light-sensitive chemistry of her film in addition to the content of the images.
He found one print that stopped him.
It was the harbor at dawn, taken from the breakwater, looking back at the city. The clock tower was visible above the roofline, its hands showing a time he recognized as consistent with the eleven-minute difference. The archive building was visible at the lower left, its windows catching the early light. And at the entrance to the archive, barely visible, a figure -- not yet inside, not yet outside, standing at the threshold.
He looked at the figure.
Clara said: "That's from three weeks ago. The morning after you had the first Tomorrow Memory."
He looked at the figure in the archive doorway. The scale was too small for features. But the stance was his: the specific way he stood when he was at the edge of something, not quite in and not quite out.
"I was at the archive early that morning," he said.
"I know," Clara said. "I was on the breakwater." She picked up another print. "I didn't tell you I was there." A pause. "I wanted to see what it looked like. The morning after the first one."
He looked at the print. He thought about documentation: Clara's and his, and Liora's, and the archive's, and the long record of this city keeping account of itself.
"What did it look like?" he said.
Clara looked at the print in his hands. "Like someone deciding," she said.
After Clara left he walked to Meridian Point.
He had been there twice: once with Clara, shortly after finding the Temporal Artifact photograph, and once alone, briefly, when he had been working out the field geometry with Owen. He had not been back since. The photograph of himself was in his jacket pocket -- he had been carrying it since the archive, the way you carried things that required you to think about them.
He took the A47 east branch, which ran along the cliff edge before cutting inland toward the headland. The walk was forty minutes from Calder House. He had the kind of October day that Grayhaven occasionally produced after a week of grey: clear air, hard light, the sea very blue and very cold.
He stood at Meridian Point for a long time.
He took out the photograph. He held it so that the image of himself at Meridian Point was oriented the same way he was standing -- same direction, approximately the same position. He looked from the photograph to the actual space in front of him.
Six months from the photograph's date. He had been in Grayhaven for seven weeks. The date on the Temporal Artifact was approximately five months away now.
He was going to be standing here, in approximately this position, in approximately five months.
He thought about what would change between now and then. He thought about the question and the partial answer and the full answer that was working toward its form. He thought about the pocket watch and what restarted stopped clocks. He thought about Owen's spatial geometry of local time and the eleven minutes and the field that was building around him.
He thought about what he would be standing here reading in five months, which was what Celeste had seen in the drawing: the tower's shadow pointing toward the archive, the shadow at the end of which was a building where a specific person spent her working days.
He looked at the cliff below, the sea, the horizon.
He thought: I will be here because I am staying.
He thought: I am staying because of all of it, because of the city and the work and Clara and the archive and the woman in it who has been attending to my probable future for eight years.
He thought: I am staying because this is the life I want.
He called Owen from Meridian Point.
Owen answered on the third ring, workshop sounds in the background, the specific acoustic of concentrated work interrupted.
He said: "I'm at Meridian Point."
Owen said: "The place from the photograph."
"Yes. Standing approximately where I'm standing in the photograph. Different season, different light. But the same place."
Owen was quiet for a moment. "And?"
"And I understand what the photograph means," he said. "Not technically -- I understood that at the archive. I understand it in the sense of knowing what I'm looking at when I look at it." He paused. "I'm staying, Owen. Not for a few more weeks. Long term."
Another silence, longer.
"I know," Owen said. "I've known since the second week."
"I know you have."
"The question is whether you know why."
Elias looked at the sea. He looked at the horizon, where the sky and the water met at the specific line that defined this coast. He looked at the clock tower, visible from this elevation above the rooftops, eleven minutes behind.
"Yes," he said. "I know why."
Owen did not ask him to elaborate. He said: "Are you going to tell her?"
"Tell who what?"
"Don't," Owen said, with the patience of a long friendship. "Are you going to tell Liora why you're staying."
Elias was quiet for a moment. He thought about the question and the partial answer and the timing that she had said required care. He thought about being here, in the present tense, paying attention.
"When the time is right," he said.
"That's what she says," Owen said.
"I know," Elias said. "I'm learning from the best."
Owen laughed. It was a brief, genuine laugh, the kind that came when something was true and recognized. "All right," he said. "Send me the field data when you get a chance. The secondary drift you described is interesting."
He said he would. He hung up. He stood at Meridian Point for a few more minutes, looking at the place where he had already stood in the geometry of the local field, in the probable future that was close enough to leave a trace on photographic material.
He put the photograph back in his pocket and walked back toward the city.
He called the Caldwell Street project manager from the harbor front.
The project manager answered with the practiced patience of someone who had been receiving complicated calls from Elias for seven weeks.
Elias said: "I need to extend the leave. Not for a specific period. I need to tell you I'm not sure when I'll be back."
The project manager was quiet for a moment. "The Caldwell Street work is at a critical stage," she said. "We need the structural sign-off for the ironwork restoration."
"I can review the documentation remotely. I can sign off on anything that doesn't require physical inspection." He paused. "For the inspection work, I can come back for specific visits. But I'm not going to be based in Bellgrave for the foreseeable future."
Another silence. "Is everything all right?"
"Yes," he said. And it was true. It was more completely true than it had been in four years. "I'm in a situation that requires me to be here. It's personal. I can't explain it completely. But the professional work can continue remotely and with visits. I want to make that work if you're willing."
The project manager said she would need to discuss it with the client. He said he understood. She said she would call him back by Wednesday. He said that was fine.
He stood at the harbor front after the call and looked at the water. He had just made a decision that had been building for seven weeks and that he had known, sitting at the window of Room 17 in the pre-dawn light weeks ago, was coming. It felt like what it was: not a difficult decision but a real one. The real ones were often not difficult when you had been doing the work of arriving at them honestly.
He walked back toward the city. He walked through the market square, past the clocks showing their various versions of the afternoon, past the bakery, past Adrian's station visible at the end of the side street. He walked the way you walked through a city you knew: without looking for landmarks, because you had internalized the map.
He arrived at the archive in the late afternoon.
The public hours were over. The door was locked but the lights were on. She was still inside. He could see her through the glass: at the desk, working, the specific posture of someone in the middle of something that required sustained attention.
He stood outside for a moment.
He had been standing outside this building, looking in, at intervals since his first week. Each time the quality of the looking had been different: curiosity, then information-gathering, then the specific quality of watching someone you are beginning to know in a new way. He had stood here after the question, after the partial answer, after the drawing, after the harbor wall.
He stood here now with the photograph in his pocket and the phone call made and the decision settled, and the quality of the looking was new again. Not different from before. Cumulative. Seven weeks of looking, all of it present at once.
She looked up.
He was not sure if she heard something or if it was the Tomorrow Memory or if it was just the specific attention they had developed to each other over seven weeks. She looked directly at the glass doors, at where he was standing.
They looked at each other through the glass.
He held up one hand, the gesture of someone stopping by rather than departing. She stood. She came to the door. She unlocked it and opened it.
"Meridian Point," she said. She had seen it in his face or in the pocket where the photograph was or in the way he was standing.
"Yes," he said. "And then a few phone calls."
She stepped back from the door. Not all the way. Just enough to create room.
"Coffee is still warm," she said.
He went in. She closed the door. The archive settled around both of them with the quality it had after hours: the particular quiet of a space that was used to being worked in and was, right now, doing the other thing it did, which was hold the people who worked in it.
They sat at the reading table.
Not his side or her side: across from each other at the center, the way they had sat during the first after-hours session, when she had explained Tomorrow Memory and he had asked the questions he had been building toward. The coffee was between them. The archive clock showed its particular time. The evening light through the windows was the grey of November approaching: not October gold, something more austere.
He said: "I made it permanent today. The decision to stay. I told the project manager I'm not returning to Bellgrave in the foreseeable future."
She looked at the coffee cup. She did not say I know, which he noticed. She was listening to him say it rather than confirming what she had already known.
"I stood at Meridian Point," he said, "and I thought about the photograph and what the photograph means, which is that I'm going to be here in five months in the same place where I'm already present in the local geometry. And I thought about why I'm going to be here." He paused. "It's not the research. It's not Clara. It's not the Tomorrow Memories or the clock field or the mechanism." He looked at her. "You know what it is."
She looked at him. She held his gaze with the full steady quality of her attention.
"Yes," she said. "I know what it is."
He sat with the yes. He did not push further. The yes was hers and it was specific and it was, he understood, the yes of someone who had been building toward a larger answer for a long time and was not yet at the place where the larger answer could be given, but who could give this smaller answer now and meant it completely.
"The right form," he said.
"Yes." A pause. "It's getting closer."
He thought about closer. He thought about the watch. He thought about what restarted stopped clocks.
He picked up his coffee. She picked up hers. They sat for a moment in the archive in the evening quiet, two people in the same space with the same thing between them, which was the truth of what it was, waiting for the moment when it could be said in full.
At some point he looked at the clock on the archive wall.
The clock showed the archive's time: not the eleven-minute-behind of the tower, not the range of the market square clocks, but the specific reading that the archive clock had been maintaining since before either of them were here, the reading that it returned to after every Sunday recalibration because the field in this building was strong enough to pull it back.
He looked at the clock and he thought about what the clock was measuring.
Not the time everywhere else. Not the universal time of networks and signals. The local time: the time of this place, this building, the specific quality of time as it was experienced by someone who had spent seventeen years in this archive with strong Residue, building a field, drawing the nearest instruments toward her particular version of the present.
He thought about what the clock knew.
It knew: she had been here. For seventeen years, consistently. It knew the quality of her days, which it measured not in hands and numbers but in the slow accumulation of field influence that had pulled it, over years, to the reading it now maintained. It knew, in its mechanical way, that this was the center. That everything measured itself against this.
"The clock on your wall," he said, "has been in range of your field for seventeen years."
She looked at it. "Yes."
"And mine. When it starts. When my field is established enough." He paused. "What will happen to your clock when there are two fields in the same space?"
She looked at him. The amber-brown eyes with the full quality of their attention.
"The clockmaker in 1891 described it," she said. "When two fields orient in the same direction, the clocks between them find a new equilibrium. Not one field winning over the other. A shared reading." She paused. "Something the single field alone would not have produced."
He looked at the clock. He looked at her.
"Something new," he said.
"Yes," she said. "Something new."
Outside, the city was moving into its evening. The clock tower above the rooflines showed eleven minutes behind everywhere else, steady and constant, the reliable center around which the other clocks found their particular readings. The harbor lights were beginning to come on. The streets below were quiet with the quality of Grayhaven in its later hours, the specific hush of a place that had been measuring its own time for over a century.
He was here.
He was going to be here.
He thought about five months and the photograph and the full answer in its right form, approaching, close enough now to feel the distance shrinking.
He thought: the clock knows.
It has been keeping the record. It will keep it going forward. The record will include both of them, eventually, and the new reading that two oriented fields produced together.
He was looking forward to finding out what that reading was.
You've reached the end of this chapter
He realized on a Sunday morning that he had been in Grayhaven for three weeks past the date he had originally planned to leave.
He had not planned to leave on a specific date -- the trip had not been that structured -- but he had carried, when he arrived, a rough sense of duration: a week, perhaps two, enough time to find Clara and understand what he had found and return to Bellgrave with answers. Two weeks had become six. Six weeks had become seven. The counting had stopped being meaningful somewhere around the third week, which was the same week Owen had left and he had started telling Mrs. Aldric in increments of one additional week at a time.
He stood at the window of Room 17 with his tea and looked at the harbor.
He had three weeks of drawings that he had not had when he arrived. He had a Tomorrow Memory of every significant person in the city, which he had not had when he arrived. He had a relationship with the archive's cartographic section, its horological records, its donated photograph collection, its anomalous 1970s clock logs, and its personal-not-for-catalogue room that he had not had when he arrived. He had a relationship with Clara that had reorganized itself from searcher-and-found to something more equal and more honest. He had a geography of Grayhaven that was weighted by experience rather than by map.
He had something with Liora that was not finished and was not simple and was the most significant thing in the list.
He drank his tea. He thought about three weeks.
He thought: I am not going back to Bellgrave soon. And this is the right decision. And I have known it for a while.
Clara came by Calder House that morning, which she had done twice before on Sundays when she was developing photographs and wanted company without the specific context of the archive or her flat.
She came with prints: recent ones, the harbor series she had been building for the documentary project. She spread them on the sitting room table and they looked at them together while Mrs. Aldric moved in the kitchen making the sounds of Sunday morning.
The prints were good. He had known Clara's work his whole adult life and he knew when it was good, and this was: the harbor in different lights, the boats, the fishermen, the specific quality of light on the water that Grayhaven produced and that was, as far as he could tell, actually different from the light in other coastal cities. The Temporal Residue, Clara had theorized, affected the light-sensitive chemistry of her film in addition to the content of the images.
He found one print that stopped him.
It was the harbor at dawn, taken from the breakwater, looking back at the city. The clock tower was visible above the roofline, its hands showing a time he recognized as consistent with the eleven-minute difference. The archive building was visible at the lower left, its windows catching the early light. And at the entrance to the archive, barely visible, a figure -- not yet inside, not yet outside, standing at the threshold.
He looked at the figure.
Clara said: "That's from three weeks ago. The morning after you had the first Tomorrow Memory."
He looked at the figure in the archive doorway. The scale was too small for features. But the stance was his: the specific way he stood when he was at the edge of something, not quite in and not quite out.
"I was at the archive early that morning," he said.
"I know," Clara said. "I was on the breakwater." She picked up another print. "I didn't tell you I was there." A pause. "I wanted to see what it looked like. The morning after the first one."
He looked at the print. He thought about documentation: Clara's and his, and Liora's, and the archive's, and the long record of this city keeping account of itself.
"What did it look like?" he said.
Clara looked at the print in his hands. "Like someone deciding," she said.
After Clara left he walked to Meridian Point.
He had been there twice: once with Clara, shortly after finding the Temporal Artifact photograph, and once alone, briefly, when he had been working out the field geometry with Owen. He had not been back since. The photograph of himself was in his jacket pocket -- he had been carrying it since the archive, the way you carried things that required you to think about them.
He took the A47 east branch, which ran along the cliff edge before cutting inland toward the headland. The walk was forty minutes from Calder House. He had the kind of October day that Grayhaven occasionally produced after a week of grey: clear air, hard light, the sea very blue and very cold.
He stood at Meridian Point for a long time.
He took out the photograph. He held it so that the image of himself at Meridian Point was oriented the same way he was standing -- same direction, approximately the same position. He looked from the photograph to the actual space in front of him.
Six months from the photograph's date. He had been in Grayhaven for seven weeks. The date on the Temporal Artifact was approximately five months away now.
He was going to be standing here, in approximately this position, in approximately five months.
He thought about what would change between now and then. He thought about the question and the partial answer and the full answer that was working toward its form. He thought about the pocket watch and what restarted stopped clocks. He thought about Owen's spatial geometry of local time and the eleven minutes and the field that was building around him.
He thought about what he would be standing here reading in five months, which was what Celeste had seen in the drawing: the tower's shadow pointing toward the archive, the shadow at the end of which was a building where a specific person spent her working days.
He looked at the cliff below, the sea, the horizon.
He thought: I will be here because I am staying.
He thought: I am staying because of all of it, because of the city and the work and Clara and the archive and the woman in it who has been attending to my probable future for eight years.
He thought: I am staying because this is the life I want.
He called Owen from Meridian Point.
Owen answered on the third ring, workshop sounds in the background, the specific acoustic of concentrated work interrupted.
He said: "I'm at Meridian Point."
Owen said: "The place from the photograph."
"Yes. Standing approximately where I'm standing in the photograph. Different season, different light. But the same place."
Owen was quiet for a moment. "And?"
"And I understand what the photograph means," he said. "Not technically -- I understood that at the archive. I understand it in the sense of knowing what I'm looking at when I look at it." He paused. "I'm staying, Owen. Not for a few more weeks. Long term."
Another silence, longer.
"I know," Owen said. "I've known since the second week."
"I know you have."
"The question is whether you know why."
Elias looked at the sea. He looked at the horizon, where the sky and the water met at the specific line that defined this coast. He looked at the clock tower, visible from this elevation above the rooftops, eleven minutes behind.
"Yes," he said. "I know why."
Owen did not ask him to elaborate. He said: "Are you going to tell her?"
"Tell who what?"
"Don't," Owen said, with the patience of a long friendship. "Are you going to tell Liora why you're staying."
Elias was quiet for a moment. He thought about the question and the partial answer and the timing that she had said required care. He thought about being here, in the present tense, paying attention.
"When the time is right," he said.
"That's what she says," Owen said.
"I know," Elias said. "I'm learning from the best."
Owen laughed. It was a brief, genuine laugh, the kind that came when something was true and recognized. "All right," he said. "Send me the field data when you get a chance. The secondary drift you described is interesting."
He said he would. He hung up. He stood at Meridian Point for a few more minutes, looking at the place where he had already stood in the geometry of the local field, in the probable future that was close enough to leave a trace on photographic material.
He put the photograph back in his pocket and walked back toward the city.
He called the Caldwell Street project manager from the harbor front.
The project manager answered with the practiced patience of someone who had been receiving complicated calls from Elias for seven weeks.
Elias said: "I need to extend the leave. Not for a specific period. I need to tell you I'm not sure when I'll be back."
The project manager was quiet for a moment. "The Caldwell Street work is at a critical stage," she said. "We need the structural sign-off for the ironwork restoration."
"I can review the documentation remotely. I can sign off on anything that doesn't require physical inspection." He paused. "For the inspection work, I can come back for specific visits. But I'm not going to be based in Bellgrave for the foreseeable future."
Another silence. "Is everything all right?"
"Yes," he said. And it was true. It was more completely true than it had been in four years. "I'm in a situation that requires me to be here. It's personal. I can't explain it completely. But the professional work can continue remotely and with visits. I want to make that work if you're willing."
The project manager said she would need to discuss it with the client. He said he understood. She said she would call him back by Wednesday. He said that was fine.
He stood at the harbor front after the call and looked at the water. He had just made a decision that had been building for seven weeks and that he had known, sitting at the window of Room 17 in the pre-dawn light weeks ago, was coming. It felt like what it was: not a difficult decision but a real one. The real ones were often not difficult when you had been doing the work of arriving at them honestly.
He walked back toward the city. He walked through the market square, past the clocks showing their various versions of the afternoon, past the bakery, past Adrian's station visible at the end of the side street. He walked the way you walked through a city you knew: without looking for landmarks, because you had internalized the map.
He arrived at the archive in the late afternoon.
The public hours were over. The door was locked but the lights were on. She was still inside. He could see her through the glass: at the desk, working, the specific posture of someone in the middle of something that required sustained attention.
He stood outside for a moment.
He had been standing outside this building, looking in, at intervals since his first week. Each time the quality of the looking had been different: curiosity, then information-gathering, then the specific quality of watching someone you are beginning to know in a new way. He had stood here after the question, after the partial answer, after the drawing, after the harbor wall.
He stood here now with the photograph in his pocket and the phone call made and the decision settled, and the quality of the looking was new again. Not different from before. Cumulative. Seven weeks of looking, all of it present at once.
She looked up.
He was not sure if she heard something or if it was the Tomorrow Memory or if it was just the specific attention they had developed to each other over seven weeks. She looked directly at the glass doors, at where he was standing.
They looked at each other through the glass.
He held up one hand, the gesture of someone stopping by rather than departing. She stood. She came to the door. She unlocked it and opened it.
"Meridian Point," she said. She had seen it in his face or in the pocket where the photograph was or in the way he was standing.
"Yes," he said. "And then a few phone calls."
She stepped back from the door. Not all the way. Just enough to create room.
"Coffee is still warm," she said.
He went in. She closed the door. The archive settled around both of them with the quality it had after hours: the particular quiet of a space that was used to being worked in and was, right now, doing the other thing it did, which was hold the people who worked in it.
They sat at the reading table.
Not his side or her side: across from each other at the center, the way they had sat during the first after-hours session, when she had explained Tomorrow Memory and he had asked the questions he had been building toward. The coffee was between them. The archive clock showed its particular time. The evening light through the windows was the grey of November approaching: not October gold, something more austere.
He said: "I made it permanent today. The decision to stay. I told the project manager I'm not returning to Bellgrave in the foreseeable future."
She looked at the coffee cup. She did not say I know, which he noticed. She was listening to him say it rather than confirming what she had already known.
"I stood at Meridian Point," he said, "and I thought about the photograph and what the photograph means, which is that I'm going to be here in five months in the same place where I'm already present in the local geometry. And I thought about why I'm going to be here." He paused. "It's not the research. It's not Clara. It's not the Tomorrow Memories or the clock field or the mechanism." He looked at her. "You know what it is."
She looked at him. She held his gaze with the full steady quality of her attention.
"Yes," she said. "I know what it is."
He sat with the yes. He did not push further. The yes was hers and it was specific and it was, he understood, the yes of someone who had been building toward a larger answer for a long time and was not yet at the place where the larger answer could be given, but who could give this smaller answer now and meant it completely.
"The right form," he said.
"Yes." A pause. "It's getting closer."
He thought about closer. He thought about the watch. He thought about what restarted stopped clocks.
He picked up his coffee. She picked up hers. They sat for a moment in the archive in the evening quiet, two people in the same space with the same thing between them, which was the truth of what it was, waiting for the moment when it could be said in full.
At some point he looked at the clock on the archive wall.
The clock showed the archive's time: not the eleven-minute-behind of the tower, not the range of the market square clocks, but the specific reading that the archive clock had been maintaining since before either of them were here, the reading that it returned to after every Sunday recalibration because the field in this building was strong enough to pull it back.
He looked at the clock and he thought about what the clock was measuring.
Not the time everywhere else. Not the universal time of networks and signals. The local time: the time of this place, this building, the specific quality of time as it was experienced by someone who had spent seventeen years in this archive with strong Residue, building a field, drawing the nearest instruments toward her particular version of the present.
He thought about what the clock knew.
It knew: she had been here. For seventeen years, consistently. It knew the quality of her days, which it measured not in hands and numbers but in the slow accumulation of field influence that had pulled it, over years, to the reading it now maintained. It knew, in its mechanical way, that this was the center. That everything measured itself against this.
"The clock on your wall," he said, "has been in range of your field for seventeen years."
She looked at it. "Yes."
"And mine. When it starts. When my field is established enough." He paused. "What will happen to your clock when there are two fields in the same space?"
She looked at him. The amber-brown eyes with the full quality of their attention.
"The clockmaker in 1891 described it," she said. "When two fields orient in the same direction, the clocks between them find a new equilibrium. Not one field winning over the other. A shared reading." She paused. "Something the single field alone would not have produced."
He looked at the clock. He looked at her.
"Something new," he said.
"Yes," she said. "Something new."
Outside, the city was moving into its evening. The clock tower above the rooflines showed eleven minutes behind everywhere else, steady and constant, the reliable center around which the other clocks found their particular readings. The harbor lights were beginning to come on. The streets below were quiet with the quality of Grayhaven in its later hours, the specific hush of a place that had been measuring its own time for over a century.
He was here.
He was going to be here.
He thought about five months and the photograph and the full answer in its right form, approaching, close enough now to feel the distance shrinking.
He thought: the clock knows.
It has been keeping the record. It will keep it going forward. The record will include both of them, eventually, and the new reading that two oriented fields produced together.
He was looking forward to finding out what that reading was.
You've reached the end of this chapter