my car on Monday after you drop me off at the institute."
The Harper Institute of the Mind sits on ten acres that was once home to a hospital. Harper tore the hospital down and built a 600,000-square foot facility for three hundred million dollars. It dominates the landscape, dwarfing any of the buildings on the nearby campus of the University of Missouri at Kansas City. The Nelson-Atkins Museum of Art stands in the near distance to the north, its closest architectural rival.
Lucy dropped me off in the circle entrance beneath a roof sheltering a courtyard and a fountain that had been turned off in deference to the freezing weather. I walked inside, stopping to admire a twenty-foot transparent sculpture of the human brain that hung suspended from the four-story ceiling. The surrounding circular walls were painted in varying shades of aquatic blues and greens, lighter colors ascending toward the ceiling, catching the natural light pouring through glass walls, creating an image of a vast sea.
On the far wall, etched beneath the institute's name, was a rhetorical question that joined the images of water and brain. How Deep Is Your Ocean? The metaphor made clear Milo Harper's vision of the institute. Understanding our minds required plumbing our depths. If the question was meant to be a guide to the perplexed, it was a success, inducing a sudden sensation that I was in over my head.
A stout, middle-aged woman wearing a name tag identifying her as Nancy Klemp sat behind a high round desk at the rear of the lobby, the elevators visible over her shoulder. Anyone wanting to go farther had to get past her. One of the best ways to secure a place like the institute is to staff the entrance with someone who will demand your firstborn male child as the price of admission. Nancy struck me as such a person. She wore a dark brown, nondenominational uniform that commanded attention without any obvious rank or authority. Her straight-backed, steely-eyed appraisal of me as I approached evoked all the authority she required. I liked her already.
"May I help you?"
"I'm Jack Davis. I work here but I don't know where. Today is my first day."
She picked up a phone and announced my presence to whoever answered.
"Ms. Fritzshall will be down in a moment."
"Thanks, Nancy. By the way, I'm the new director of security. I like the way you handle yourself."
If she was flattered, she kept it quiet. "I know who you are. Ms. Fritzshall told me to call her when you arrived."
"And who is Ms. Fritzshall?"
"Sherry Fritzshall. Vice president and general counsel," she said, her mouth twisting as if she'd swallowed sour milk.
"Mind if I ask, Nancy, how long have you been here?"
"Since we opened, two years ago."
"You're at this desk every day?"
"Eight in the morning until five in the afternoon. Every day."
"I'll bet someone in your job sees and hears a lot, more than most people realize."
She raised her eyebrows, uncertain of my intent. "I do my job. I pay attention."
"I have no doubt about that, Nancy, none at all. I look forward to working with you."
I reached across the desk and offered my hand. She hesitated for a moment and then took mine. Her grip was firm, her hand warm even though a smile was not part of her uniform.
"Yes, sir."
One of the six elevator doors opened. A woman emerged wearing a charcoal gray suit, her black hair pulled tight against her head, her fingers manipulating a Bluetooth earpiece. She shared Milo Harper's long, lean look, the resemblance most apparent in her sleek nose and intense, feverish eyes. She swept around Nancy's desk and looked me over like she was comparing my appearance to a wanted poster.
"Mr. Davis?"
"Still."
"Come with me."
I glanced at Nancy whose attention was fixed on something in the distance. I turned around, following her line of sight across the lobby, through the front doors, and onto the circle drive where Lucy stood, arms folded on the roof of the car. She nodded, got in, and drove away.
The Harper Institute of the Mind sits on ten acres that was once home to a hospital. Harper tore the hospital down and built a 600,000-square foot facility for three hundred million dollars. It dominates the landscape, dwarfing any of the buildings on the nearby campus of the University of Missouri at Kansas City. The Nelson-Atkins Museum of Art stands in the near distance to the north, its closest architectural rival.
Lucy dropped me off in the circle entrance beneath a roof sheltering a courtyard and a fountain that had been turned off in deference to the freezing weather. I walked inside, stopping to admire a twenty-foot transparent sculpture of the human brain that hung suspended from the four-story ceiling. The surrounding circular walls were painted in varying shades of aquatic blues and greens, lighter colors ascending toward the ceiling, catching the natural light pouring through glass walls, creating an image of a vast sea.
On the far wall, etched beneath the institute's name, was a rhetorical question that joined the images of water and brain. How Deep Is Your Ocean? The metaphor made clear Milo Harper's vision of the institute. Understanding our minds required plumbing our depths. If the question was meant to be a guide to the perplexed, it was a success, inducing a sudden sensation that I was in over my head.
A stout, middle-aged woman wearing a name tag identifying her as Nancy Klemp sat behind a high round desk at the rear of the lobby, the elevators visible over her shoulder. Anyone wanting to go farther had to get past her. One of the best ways to secure a place like the institute is to staff the entrance with someone who will demand your firstborn male child as the price of admission. Nancy struck me as such a person. She wore a dark brown, nondenominational uniform that commanded attention without any obvious rank or authority. Her straight-backed, steely-eyed appraisal of me as I approached evoked all the authority she required. I liked her already.
"May I help you?"
"I'm Jack Davis. I work here but I don't know where. Today is my first day."
She picked up a phone and announced my presence to whoever answered.
"Ms. Fritzshall will be down in a moment."
"Thanks, Nancy. By the way, I'm the new director of security. I like the way you handle yourself."
If she was flattered, she kept it quiet. "I know who you are. Ms. Fritzshall told me to call her when you arrived."
"And who is Ms. Fritzshall?"
"Sherry Fritzshall. Vice president and general counsel," she said, her mouth twisting as if she'd swallowed sour milk.
"Mind if I ask, Nancy, how long have you been here?"
"Since we opened, two years ago."
"You're at this desk every day?"
"Eight in the morning until five in the afternoon. Every day."
"I'll bet someone in your job sees and hears a lot, more than most people realize."
She raised her eyebrows, uncertain of my intent. "I do my job. I pay attention."
"I have no doubt about that, Nancy, none at all. I look forward to working with you."
I reached across the desk and offered my hand. She hesitated for a moment and then took mine. Her grip was firm, her hand warm even though a smile was not part of her uniform.
"Yes, sir."
One of the six elevator doors opened. A woman emerged wearing a charcoal gray suit, her black hair pulled tight against her head, her fingers manipulating a Bluetooth earpiece. She shared Milo Harper's long, lean look, the resemblance most apparent in her sleek nose and intense, feverish eyes. She swept around Nancy's desk and looked me over like she was comparing my appearance to a wanted poster.
"Mr. Davis?"
"Still."
"Come with me."
I glanced at Nancy whose attention was fixed on something in the distance. I turned around, following her line of sight across the lobby, through the front doors, and onto the circle drive where Lucy stood, arms folded on the roof of the car. She nodded, got in, and drove away.
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