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had given him some hint as to why he’d been called here. What could Wells possibly offer this impressive institute?
    He climbed the stone steps of the main building and stopped at the imposing front doors. Again, Wells felt terribly out of place in the echoing halls that smelled of oiled wood and polished stone.
    Students hurried by, talking with one another and ignoring the shabbily dressed stranger. The upper-class young men carried new books under their arms and wore fashionable clothes that were far superior to the threadbare clothing Wells had been able to afford as a student ten years previous.
    Wells drew a deep breath and reminded himself that he was here because of Huxley’s invitation, which he kept folded in his jacket pocket like a shield. Gathering his nerve, he marched directly to the school office and announced himself.
    The male secretary behind the desk looked up, checked the appointment book, and nodded. “Yes, Mr. Wells, you are expected.” He rang a bell, and a young volunteer arrived, obviously a student working for the office. “Please take a message to Professor Huxley. Let him know that his visitor has arrived.”
    Another young man came through a side door and relieved Wells of his small suitcase, which contained only a single change of clothes, as well as paper and lead pencils for taking notes or writing letters to Jane. “I will take this to your room, sir. Everything will be in order when you arrive.”
    Before Wells could splutter questions or even a thank you, the student hurried away. The secretary returned in a bustle, carrying a tray with a pot of tea and an arrangement of biscuits. Wells ate everything in sight before realizing that hewas showing his nervousness. He sat back and tried to relax as he sipped his second cup of tea.
    Wells was bursting with curiosity by the time an imposing old man entered the room. He leapt to his feet as T.H. Huxley settled his eyes upon him. The professor loomed just as tall as Wells had remembered him from the lecture hall, his white sideburns as bushy, his eyes just as bright. “Mr. Wells, I’m so glad you accepted my invitation.”
    “I could not do otherwise, sir. But … I thought you had chosen to remain out of the public eye. I heard a rumor that your health was poor.”
    “Ah yes, young man, I supposedly retired, but do not believe every story you hear. Occasionally there are other reasons for what a person does.”
    “Do you … do you have a teaching post for me, sir? Is that why you’ve called—”
    “Not at all, Mr. Wells.” Not noticing his crestfallen expression, Huxley continued. “It is something much more important than that. Come with me. Observe and consider, and when you finally choose to speak, I hope you can be a bit more … articulate?”
    “I will try my best, sir.”
    The old man’s stride was careful but still surprisingly brisk for a person of his age, as if he was impatient to be at his destination. With barely a sideways glance, he led Wells past the hubbub of lecture halls and demonstration labs, beyond student rooms and inner courtyards lined with benches and chess tables.
    Huxley took him into a completely separate wing that ended in a locked door. With a flourish, the professor removed a key and twisted it in the lock, swinging the door wide on well-oiledhinges. “You are about to enter the future, Mr. Wells. Here, away from the prying eyes of spies and the merely curious, we perform vital work for the queen.”
    After Huxley conscientiously locked the door behind them, they walked past cavernous rooms with glass skylights and long tables covered with beakers and retorts of chemicals, long tubing, alcohol burners, and hand-cranked pumps. These laboratories were far more extravagant than the simple teaching studios the Institute allowed the students to use.
    “These rooms look large enough for full-scale production … of something,” Wells commented.
    “Indeed.”
    Passing door after door, Wells smelled