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in that, Bren.”
    “That isn’t what your tests show.”
    “Anyway, you know how everyone feels about that. They think it’s odd to study those things, that a normal woman wouldn’t be interested in them.”
    “I once expected to hear such talk only from those we serve, but it seems more and more of the Mothers of the City feel the same way.” She leaned back. “I did some work in human culture myself, and you might be surprised at some of the others who have dabbled in it. Oh, I know that many young ones find it strange and disturbing—they can’t imagine what it has to do with their lives now, and they want to fit in. When one gets older, though, one sometimes wants to understand the past, and what made us as we are.”
    I brushed at my sleeve nervously. “Well, I’m not old. Besides, what would I use it for? I don’t want to be a recordkeeper or a historian, and I’d have to learn at least a couple of the old languages to read the records anyway.”
    “There are translations, but your tests indicate that you have an aptitude for languages. And a knowledge of history and human culture can be useful.”
    “But what would I use it for?” I repeated.
    Bren put her hand on my shoulder. The gesture seemed rehearsed. I imagined her thinking: Now I should pat her on the shoulder, now I should smile and look reassuring. She smiled and tilted her head to one side. “Everything on your tests shows that you might make a fine chronicler. By looking at the past, you will come to understand why we are as we are. By writing about your feelings, your perspective on our life, you might illuminate…”
    “But I don’t want to be a chronicler. I never thought of doing that, ever.”
    Bren drew back. “Some seem to be born with the desire, while others come to it later. I can only tell you what your tests show. Chroniclers are rare, and their stories now are often repetitions of what has often been told.” She paused. “Be honest, Laissa. Do you passionately long to understand the principles of matter, the underlying structure of the universe, or are your questions about us and our ways?”
    I leaned away from her.
    “Don’t you sometimes feel as though you’re an observer, someone apart?”
    “I don’t know,” I replied.
    “Don’t you have your doubts about the way we live?”
    “No,” I said forcefully. “Not really. Not any more than anyone else.”
    “You can’t lie to me, Laissa. I know that you doubt. Your responses to many questions show that.”
    I wondered how that could be. I had answered carefully, going out of my way to seem conventional.
    “Listen,” Bren continued, “you’re not alone. There are others who doubt. They ask why we cannot live outside our cities, why men cannot live as we do, why some women rebel, why we have grown complacent and unadventurous. Some of those who doubt chronicle their feelings or embody them in stories, and others read them and are enlightened. They come to see our world as an outsider might see it and thus gain a perspective on our lives. They come to see what we have kept of the past and what we have rejected. They question and, by questioning, may come up with a way to make things better. Sometimes, one has to doubt, go through a painful questioning of everything one holds dear, in order to come to acceptance of our way. You see, we can make use of doubt—expose it to the light, so to speak—so that it doesn’t fester below the surface and poison us. Chroniclers—good chroniclers—are usually doubters. They show others who have questions that they are not alone, and aid them in reaching an acceptance of our way in the end.”
    The conversation was making me uneasy. If a chronicler’s doubts were supposed to lead to acceptance, then what would happen to a chronicler who could not overcome her doubts? I pushed that question aside.
    Bren was making me doubt. It was another test; it had to be. I had read some of the tales of chroniclers; their stories