He approached the books. Without taking out a single one, he skimmed the spines of the vast number of books. They were organized in ceiling-to-floor shelving. Even in the Institute of Technology, where he sometimes spent several hours in the library, he had never seen so many works solely devoted to canals, dikes, dams, and river control.
He was speechless. He pushed a chair in front of the shelves and sat down to look at the books as he might look at a large painting in an art gallery. He was alone with himself and his thoughts, dreaming with open eyes while the hundreds of books disappeared behind a thin fog.
Beckford had been forced to participate in a war about which he was completely indifferent. It had only seemed to serve an excessively influential group of oil manufacturers, industrial magnates, and stock exchange speculators. As a result, he had not only lost interest in his own personality and any ambitious drive to make something useful out of his life, but he had also stopped caring over the last few months whether he was dead or alive. He could not even consider for a minute whether human beings had a reason for existing, or whether this reason was a delusion. Such a delusion served to help humans believe that they distinguished themselves from animals and that they had been created by a personal God in his own image. Therefore, humans could unscrupulously do with animals, birds, insects, and everything else they found on earth whatever they wanted. They did not have to worry that messing with the environment would eventually cause the extinction of humans, and that insects alone would remain as the invincible rulers of earth.
Beckford just vegetated. He daydreamed through life. What did you live for? Why exert yourself? Create offspring, so that one day they would have the same questions for the same reasons as he now faced? They would be as incapable of answering them as he was. Why work so hard, tear up your nerves, bear the burden of worries? For whom? Why? What did he care about the world? What did he care about people? Why should you have ideals? A new war, and he would be right back in the middle of it. Then it would all end for good anyway. Why should he worry about unsolvable equations? What use was it to be able to juggle cubic squares, parabolas, tangents, logarithms, powers, the square around a circle, and the circle around a square better than a trained sea lion could juggle plastic balls in the circus?
Why work so hard? The hydrogen bomb, a nuclear projectile remote-controlled from a safe underground chamber, would solve all problems and answer all questions human beings had ever had. And for good. Why put in so much effort if it all amounted to the same thing?
Beckford got up and began pulling out individual books. He read the titles, the names of the authors, the dates of the prefaces, and the publication dates. He did this with about a dozen books and again he was confused.
Now how does this make sense? he asked himself. Here is a book that was completed six weeks ago, and yet it was printed eight weeks ago. It’s meant for the next two generations. And here is another book printed a year ago. At the time, everyone, especially architects, knew that hydrogen bombs existed, in the West as well as in the East. And the engineer who wrote this book knew that remote-controlled planes could dump hydrogen bombs three thousand miles away from where they took off. That means these well-educated gentlemen hadn’t abandoned hope that the world would continue to exist. Otherwise, they would have saved themselves the effort of writing and publishing such hefty books. For whom were they writing? For the surviving insects? These serious men are unshakably convinced that humans will continue to exist. And if honestly working men believe in the continuation of the world, who am I to say that it’s worthless to work toward the future?
While Beckford philosophized in his head, the lady studied the maps on the walls more carefully than you would have expected from a woman in general.
“That door”—she suddenly interrupted Beckford’s thoughts, pointing to a second door in the room—“also leads to the outside hallway. So you can leave your personal office without being seen by visitors who are sitting in the front office, which I might add could be an advantage at times.”
How strange, thought Beckford. Very strange that she has rented an office with two entrances for me, so that people can come see me without being seen by Amy. What does this woman want from me? She doesn’t even seem to be considering an affair. That’s clear enough. Everything here looks very professional. Canals. Dikes, dams. What does she have to do with any of that? Those are all enterprises exclusively led by men. Maybe she wants a large irrigation system installed in her big farm in the west? And since I don’t have an engineering diploma, I am supposed to do it cheaply for her? But in that case, why this elegant office in this expensive business district of New York, where rent is in the thousands? She hasn’t mentioned the salary she plans to give me. I bet it’s all about her husband. He’s probably a millionaire five times over, and she wants to get rid of him. That’s why she has set up this trap so elegantly here. You can come in here and leave without being seen. Who knows what a woman will do to cash in on five million and simultaneously get rid of her old man? Something is not right here. I am sure something is not right.
“And over there in the corner”—she interrupted his thoughts again—“is the steel safe.” With a slight nod of her head, she pointed it out while fishing a small card out of her purse. “You will find the combination number on this card. Don’t lose it. I haven’t kept a copy for myself on purpose.”
Now look at that, thought Beckford. No copy? And I’m supposed to believe that? No way, my dear. He took the card, looked at it briefly, and put it in his breast pocket.
“If you need money, Mr. Beckford, you will find it in the safe. All the money you could need. Just leave a receipt.”
Then she walked to the desk with two telephones. “This one”—she indicated one of them—“is the business phone. The other one is your personal phone. That number is not in the phone book. Your secretary or whoever is sitting in the front office cannot listen to those calls. They can only listen to calls on the business phone.”
Very ingeniously planned to the last detail, said Beckford to himself. The perfect murder. But for now, I’ll stay far away from that, until I see what’s really going on with all this.
The lady picked up the personal phone. Beckford walked to the door to leave the room in order to give her some privacy.
“Thank you for your kindness,” said the lady with a smile, while she was dialing, “but please do stay. What I have to say concerns you too.”
He immediately thought, Now she will set the trap. Not so fast, doll. Papa has to be here.
“I would like to speak to my husband, please,” said the lady into the phone. “How are you, darling? Good? I’m glad. I just wanted to let you know that I’m bringing a guest for dinner tonight. A young, hopeful engineer. Yes, engineer—yes—where I found him?—Now listen here, I don’t go searching for my guests. We just crossed paths. That’s all. He knows how to tell wonderful stories about terrible floods and about logarithms and unsolvable equations and about parabolas, tangents, and Pythagoras. Yes, Pythagoras. You are asking about Pythagoras? No, I don’t know where he’s living currently. He must be some kind of schoolteacher who runs around with a lantern during daylight. Don’t say such silly things. Don’t let me mess with you so easily. You have known me long enough. So, dinner. No, no. Of course, he’s not coming in a tuxedo. He’ll come as he is so you don’t need to worry about your own tuxedo. Plus, I think that both your tails and your two tuxedos are at the dry cleaner’s. Bye-bye.”