It would stand to reason that even a secret society would have secrets. Its very nature relies on the ability to hide events and fact from the public eye, and yet its members all assume that they are kept fully informed of the daily goings on.

The keys on the mechanical keyboard clacked with satisfyingly deep depressions, springing back up ready for their next engagement. Though it was a mid-80s model the plastic hadn’t even tarnished yellow over 36 years of constant use. My monitor however was not a satisfying vintage. Bars flickered across the CRT screen as the old girl purred in the stale air of the silo. Tracing my cotton-gloved hand down the first page, I muttered the book’s ISB code under my breath and the keys tacked away.

Slotting the covers into opposing metal slits I placed the probing arm on the last page. Stabilising the book with my left hand, my right fondled round the side of the contraption eventually finding purchase on the ribbed wheel. Spinning gently the book was pulled taut and the slits bit down with their padded molars, trapping the novel in place.

Once prepped I stepped back to the keyboard, donning my ear defenders I hit the enter key and braced myself. With a wheeze, mechanical joints dropped into place, a soft whirring hinted at the inner workings of the device. The thin metal rod that rested in the index rose and separated into two separate twig-like pieces, deftly waving over the index page like a conductor preparing the orchestra for an explosive introduction.

I shielded my eyes just in time as the pages began curling in a grand wave, flashes illuminated the page for the overhead camera in such quick succession it appeared as a singular blindingly white flash of magnesium.

Heaving, the scanner sank back from its excitable shaking and released its hold on the book. Pulling it off the plate I wrote out its unique tag, date of archive, and stacked it neatly on the trolley alongside the already completed 29 books. After checking the first few scanned pages to ensure the alignment wasn’t skewed, I logged off the terminal and wheeled my trolley out into the concourse.

“Done already?” A meek whisper snuck up behind me as one of the trolley-boys slipped a hand over mine, attempting to weakly wrestle control of the wheeled plinth. I stood my ground, tightening my grip and increasing my pace.

“It’s only 30 books.”

His voice was grating, it peaked and emphasised seemingly random syllables with the jumpy enthusiasm of a hungry deer. “Yes but to check and scan each one, it only took you a morning.”

“Yes, I’ll return them myself thank you.” I concluded the conversation, pushing the trolley forwards with a jolt to throw the limp hand away.

Slinking back into the cul-de-sac of desks, the new blood sniffed out a new scanner’s trolley to hijack. I didn’t particularly dislike him, but his unease was infectious and lengthier conversations would bear no fruit.

Retrieving the clipboard and biro from the brass hook on my desk, I ticked off the books one by one as I wandered down the expansive corridors. With two years postgraduate experience in library science I knew my way around the metal shelves. However, two years was minimal in the face of the depth of knowledge the facility held. Centuries of combined practice at decrypting, archiving, and translating were recruited to immortalise as much paper as we could get our hands on. Of course, this meant that the newest among us either pushed trollies or archived vapid autobiographies and how to guides.

The idiot’s guide to Windows 7 mocked me with a vague sense of entitlement as I climbed the cold metal ladder to return it to its resting place. I checked off the storage on my clipboard and climbed back down into the narrow but empty passage. Accurate note keeping was drilled into us at every turn. With the ban on outside communication, our systems were archaic but effective if used with appropriate care and attention.

One Week Wedding Planner and Cooking In the Outback held supposedly as key knowledge as fragments of handwritten notes from alchemists and philosophers of ancient history, and we had to handle their pages with a similar level of care. Gliding back into their carved niches, their boxes were ticked as I painstakingly whittled down my time before lunch. Luckily, working North through the library would put me closer to Uncle Ivan to share our break together.

Finishing up my task I rolled the completed returns card into the faded-red plastic canister and dropped it into the open mouth of the vacuum tube. With a satisfying swallow the pill disappeared into the bowels of the operation for digesting.

Fogged glass obscured Ivan in the sealed room, carrying a respirator and working through a comically large pair of gloves, the brittle pages were treated like radioactive material in the steady hands of an expert scientist. Each page had to be turned by hand, so it wasn’t unlikely he had been working on this tome for days. Noting my presence he covered the pages with a thin white blanket and doffed his protective equipment. Exiting from his station the seals on the door hissed like opening a can of soda, the offensively sterile air sucking the scent out of our surroundings.

Clapping me on the shoulder the lanky documentarian posed his daily question, “Where’re we eating?”

“Bird’s nest?” I proposed.

With an authoritative nod he lead the way up winding staircases and through too many security points to count before reaching the small bustle of tables and sparsely stocked vending machines. Aptly named; the eating spot overlooked the entrance of the silo from a high vantage point, it was a perfect place to watch the numerous deliveries and gawk at the security detail even one briefcase could have in tow.

“Major,” I put my hand to my hairline in a salute.

Ivan covered his mouth and turned to face the railing as the Major’s face soured. Below a sculpted ginger beard his lips pursed, supported by deep wrinkles forming on his stout neck.

“I couldn’t help it.” Sniggered Ivan through snorting chuckles. “Didn’t you wash your hands before eating?”

He was pointing the the ink-stained swollen hands that delicately cradled an egg and cheese sandwich, any small part that wasn’t rubbed black was a raw scarlet.

“Declassifying.” Explained the Major. “Birds aren’t falling out of the rafters, so you must have been on -“

“The Torah.” Ivan replied, as if this was a perfectly normal day at work.

Questions vied for supremacy as they divulged even the smallest morsel of detail about their work, but I held my tongue and let the pair eat in peace. As we ate, a small number of deliveries came and went. First to approach the desk were two men in tweed blazers and faded brown chinos who wouldn’t be out of place in an archaeology department mixer.

“Look at the way they walk.” The Major guided my vision with a wide palm on my upper back. “See the way they hardly swing their right arms?”

I nodded, watching as their gait became more obviously stilted.

“They’re carrying. Likely small caliber, can hardly see a crease in their belt-line.”

Producing a folder from his jacket, the man on the left signed and stamped the receipt of delivery and was on his way. It would appear they weren’t lecturers, but why did they seem so on edge?

The next deliveries were uneventful. Publishers delivering crates of new releases, a new delivery of air purifiers and tall slim gas cylinders, and a woman who left a flash drive on the counter and left without a word or pen stroke.

Disillusioned by the day’s haul, I began to turn back to my lunch. Shouting interrupted my disconnection from the scene as a copier slammed his fists on his desk and began bellowing. From the height it was hard to make out, so I gently leaned against the guardrail.

“- Swore an oath! We both did! Every page, documented for all time!” He roared, red in the face with particulates of spit emphasising his frustration. His adversary was a hunchbacked man with a patchy cream cardigan draped over his boney shoulders. Facing away from us it was impossible to hear his reply, frozen in space he didn’t move an inch but it was clear from the unwavering attention of the copier that he was giving a slow and methodical reply. Swiping the papers off his desk the man leapt to attention and ran North slipping deep into the maze of shelves, swiftly pursued by a number of bystanders in coordinated black formalwear.

“What was all that about?” I uttered to myself.

“Think nothing of it.” My lunch mates replied.

“Wait.. You know something!” I leaned in, fascinated by the prospect of drama in the library.

‘Keep yer voice down!” The Major hissed. “Of course we know. We’ve been here longer than you’ve had a nose to pick. Some books aren’t worth keeping, that’s all.”

“Well, one book.” Ivan absentmindedly corrected, earning himself a stare that could shatter glass from his neighbour.

“What’s in it?” I whispered.

“Who knows.” Ivan swept up the stray lettuce that had escaped his wrap into a small pile. “Could be too dangerous to store. The book itself could be harmful to handle. Might contain information on the founding of this socie-“

“Stop.” The Major commanded. Standing to attention he contributed one last piece of advice to the conversation, “it doesn’t matter what’s in the book. If we’ve been told it’s not for our eyes, we forget about it.”

Ivan pinched the pile of gathered greens and scattered them into his mouth, “ironic, coming from the guy declassifying government papers.”

Exhaling hard from his nose, the brawny figure turned and stomped off towards the stairs. Ivan and I sat in the silence, recovering from the ripples of his dramatic exit. Commotion carried on in the corridors below, the occasional muffled shout would perk up like a human-scale arcade game.

“He’s just pretending.” Ivan answered my unspoken question. “Everyone wants to know what’s in the book. But, he thinks it’s Pandoras Box.”