March arrived along the Hudson in a flurry of damp, heavy sleet that softened by late morning into a pale, drifting mist. High on the Westchester bluffs, the grey limbs of the sycamores dripped against the wet slate of the terraces, while below, the river surged dark and broad, carrying broken floes of spring ice toward the harbor.
Inside the subterranean cataloging gallery of the East Pavilion, the atmosphere was immaculate, held at a steady sixty degrees with the faint, rhythmic whisper of climate scrubbers. Long tables of brushed zinc had replaced the temporary wooden workbenches, loaded with leather-bound ledgers, micro-fiche cases, and brass-fitted storage tubes sent from central banks across five continents.
I stood beside a free-standing quartz display pedestal, wearing a sharp, d
