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version was used only when true forgetting was needed. It worked on things one thought about that caused negative feelings, not everything in a person’s memory.
    At least that is what it was supposed to do and had done until this most recent usage. If something didn’t concern you or cause a bad feeling, the memories stayed almost intact and just smoothed out a little. The memory was there, but it was one without emotion and he thought that probably explained why the young and uninvolved remembered events of import better than those that lived the events as adults.
    Strong and long doses of the forgetting drug could be used to leave a person completely open to having their entire life re-written into a new story that the person would never question. Such hadn’t been done in Silo 49 that Graham was aware of, but in other silos it happened with regularity every generation or so. Then again, how would he even know if it had been done? What a thought that was.
    There had been no uprisings of any kind during Graham’s tenure, or even during his shadowing, but he had been directed to use the dosing several times over the years when certain stressors were present. The Order was clear on almost every situation and dosing was often the first answer it provided. The words, ‘See Entry on Dosing,’ were the directions for IT Heads after more events then he thought possible.
    It was almost funny, except that it wasn’t funny at all.
     

Conspiracy for Dinner
    Graham dutifully went to the uppermost medical bay and had a meeting with the last medic still left to that station. He was a wonderfully caring young man—though forty really wasn’t that young except when compared with Graham’s more than sixty—and he did a fine job of taking care of the residents of the upper levels. His memory was affected, like so many others, but he was doing what he could to keep up. They talked in the level one cafeteria about the records and his intentions. It was a strange feeling to be there in the cafeteria, empty even during this prime period during the day.
    The view, thrown on the wall in projection from the sensors outside, was dim and brown. The grit and dirt on the ablative film that kept the sensors from being eroded away was itself now pitted and hazy. A small hole worn into the film, its edges ragged, made it look like one was peering through a peephole. If the situation were normal inside Silo 49, then surely Graham knew he would be under a great deal of pressure to find a cleaner and set the view to rights.
    All that he could see, beyond the brownish haze that obscured the sensors, was the same blowing dirt and dust he had seen his whole life. The sky was the sickly color of a bruise healed to the brown and yellow stage and the air itself seemed to boil with yet more dust being blown far harder than the breezes of the silo would ever blow. He flinched when a sudden gust threw a solid wall of deep brown grit toward the sensor. It was gone as quickly as it came, traveling toward what Graham knew were other silos. No one else knew that though.
    The medic, who also watched the screen as they spoke, looked away from the sensors after that gust, as if he couldn’t bear the thought of seeing more obscuring dirt on the sensors. Graham coughed, like the dust was tickling his throat, and returned his wandering attention to the medic.
    “So you can find all of those records?” he asked, hoping the young medic would say he couldn’t.
    He nodded, smiling and happy to be of service.
    Graham’s lips gave a twist but he dampened it quickly and cleared his throat. “Well, how long would it take?”
    The medic considered, his eyes darting toward the view for a moment, then said, “Actually, I should say that I can locate them but they won’t all be there.” At Graham’s look, he added, “We don’t keep the whole record forever. That’s a lot of paper. After a few years, we create a summary sheet and then recycle the record. Just