Peter! Felix whispered.
Do you think she’ll be happy to see us? Leonard asked.
Certainly, Felix said, but when they arrived, Library Security was there with their noise absorbers and library sticks to escort them out of the building. As Sally watched and bit her nails, Leonard’s and Felix’s hands were tied behind their backs and they were led exactly down the route whence they’d come, but not before Felix managed to drop his drawing of the demon world before Peter’s desk.
A non-bleating, non-sirening call
That night as Leonard again waited on his grandfather’s settee for word of Plan B, he got a call. He very nearly answered with his Neetsa Pizza script: those had been the only calls he’d ever received on a non-bleating, non-sirening phone.
It was Sally, or whatever her name was.
What do you want from me? she asked.
How did you know where to call? Leonard asked back.
The boy, he put your number on the drawing. Where did he get it?
The drawing? He made it. For you. To say he was sorry for whatever we did.
Yes, but where did he get it?
Too late, Leonard realized that he shouldn’t have allowed Felix to give her part of his opus: it referred to demon stories he wasn’t supposed to share.
I can’t tell you, Leonard said simply, deciding that if Sally was to be his wife, he must be honest with her.
You’re Baconians, aren’t you? she whispered. I was wrong about you.
We’re nothing, Leonard said. We don’t know what Baconians are. We’re not Cathars, either. I’m Pythagorean, and the boy is half Jacobin, sort of. You know, it wasn’t necessary to tie his hands. You frightened him. We had to spend twenty minutes in the University Eating Establishment waiting for his health meter to normalize.
I think you’d better come down here.
Where? The library? Felix is sleeping. It’s three in the morning.
Tomorrow, then. Come to the side entrance, the one with the sun on it. Be there at noon.
Will you tell me your real name?
But she was gone.
Baconians
Leonard asked his screen Brazen Head what a Baconian was. He was too tired to choose an information-gathering method, so he got the stock figure of a woman checking her watch and tapping her foot in irritated boredom, then the Head appeared and said, “You’re joking, right? Sounds like bacon and onion, maybe a made-up word for an unappetizing omelet? Another time, key lime.”
Maybe the girl really was crazy.
We have a second chance, Leonard advised Felix the next morning. A third chance. We’d better look trim and act sharp.
He straightened Felix’s peaked cap, wiped cinnamon bun off his cheek.
Have you been brushing your teeth since your mom left? he asked.
More or less, Felix said.
What about baths? Have you taken a bath?
I don’t get dirty, Felix said. I don’t like dirt, remember?
Sounds good, Leonard said. Five minutes of karate kicks, okay?
Then Leonard fossicked for lucre and packed a lunch — what was left of the skirlies, and some jujuberries. He had no primary-colored stockings to wear, and no sashes, thick or thin, but he did find a nonpatterned tunic in a robust lavender. It would have to do.
The caravan was delayed. The Brazen Head on Leonard’s navigator watch explained that this was because of explosions the night before in three Business District eateries — a Neetsa Pizza, a Heraclitan Grill, and a Whiggery Piggery. Some of the roads had become impassable. The culprits had cleverly disassembled all the neighborhood webcams, so their identity was not known. Heraclitans (naturally) blamed the Pythagoreans, who blamed the monarchists, who blamed the Whigs. No one blamed the Luddites, whose machine-breaking bakers were presumed not to know about webcams. The caravan had to detour around the Business District — already Leonard and Felix were late.
They hurried through the University Walking Grounds, Leonard holding Felix’s hand because he could see fights breaking out between pizza greeters and flamethrowers, royal pages and neo-Maoists. It was well after 12:30 by the time they arrived at the Library and found, in the back, an entrance on which someone had painted a crude yellow sun with spiky orange rays.
Sally wasn’t there, she wasn’t anywhere. Leonard wanted to cry.
We’ll wait, he said.
She’ll come, Felix said, and they leaned against the door, chewing on jujuberries.
Suddenly the door opened behind them and they tumbled into a dark hallway.
Shh! It was Peter. Quickly, he said.
Now that Peter was out from behind his desk, Leonard could see that he was terribly short, no taller than Felix, which is to say, about half Leonard’s height. He wore layers of checked suede — shirt, waistcoat, jacket — and walked, quickly, with a gnarly cane.
You should have come on time, he muttered. Miss Sally will be displeased.
As they walked swiftly down yet more dark hallways and up and around various dark stairwells, Leonard, still holding Felix’s hand, took the opportunity to think about Sally. Now that he was to see her again, now that she had asked to see them, it seemed safe to contemplate her perfections. There was the matter of her waterfall curls and headbeads, her uniquely stylish garb, and the mystery of her name. Leonard hadn’t realized how much he liked mystery in a woman! Because he was still in essence if not in employment a Pythagorean, he took a moment also to consider her proportions — she wasn’t wanting there, either! Her legs were just the right length vis-à-vis her arms, and her torso, and her cute freckled nose. There was also the alien quality of her obsessions, and the way his arm tingled when she shook his hand. Yes, Leonard concluded as they approached the wooden revolving door, Sally, Baconian or no, Sally or no, was perfection.
Closed for renovations
To move through the wooden revolving door, Peter first had to shift a standing sign that read, Closed for Renovations. At which point Leonard realized that the Priceless Manuscripts sign had been replaced by a crooked, hand-printed banner that read Archive of Severely Damaged, Unreadable, Out-of-Date Caravan Directories.
There’s a new Chief Librarian, Peter mumbled. An Isaac Someone-or-other. No one’s seen him, but Miss Sally wishes to take precautions.
Felix tugged at Leonard’s outback jacket, but Leonard took his hand and squeezed it. Once inside the Precious Manuscripts parlor, he was surprised to see the room outfitted as if in preparation for a siege. Someone had brought in a small refrigerator and a hot plate and a tea service for eight, in addition to a crate of apples, a bag of dried grasshopper legs, and a large store of peanut-butter jam squares.
Someone has to be here at all times, Sally explained from behind the desk. Her hair was pulled back severely and contained in sparkling fishnet. She wasn’t wearing freckledot makeup; Leonard could see now that she didn’t need it.
Let’s go in, she said, accepting antiseptic gloves from Peter as they entered the small room to the side. Inside, there was a cot, on the ground next to which someone had placed a torchlight and some books. Sally, probably, since her clutchbag was also there.
What do you know about the Voynich? she asked.
Leonard and Felix shrugged.
Have a seat, she said. It’s time I explained. Don’t be uneasy: Peter is standing guard.
For some reason, this made Leonard uneasy.
Sit, Sally said. People always sit when I give my talks.