"No," Sebastian said.
"You are to say," the robot said, "that a Miss Charise McFadden has sent you. Your name will be Lance Arbuthnot and you have written a demented thesis on the psychogenic origins of death by meteor-strike. You are a crank, originally from the F.N.M., but expelled because of your peculiar views. Mr. Appleford is expecting you; Charise McFadden has already sounded him as regards you and your queer thesis. He will not be glad to see you, but in line with his job he must."
Sebastian said, "I don't see that that gets me anywhere."
"It will provide a cover," the robot said, "and a pretext. Your comings and goings, your presence in the Library, will be understandable. It is common for crank inventors to hang around Section B; Appleford is accustomed to their presence. Mr. Giacometti." It turned its attentions toward the advocate of the Rome principal. "Will you and your people cooperate with Udi in preparing Mr. Hermes a survival kit for use within the Library? Our combined resources are required."
After a thoughtful pause Giacometti nodded. "I think we can assist. Providing nothing destructive to human life is involved."
"Mr. Hermes will only be operating defensively," the robot said. "No aggressive program is envisioned. Offensive action on the part of one man against the Library is vainglorious. It could never succeed."
Sebastian said, "What if Lance Arbuthnot actually shows up?"
"There is no 'Lance Arbuthnot,'" the robot said succinctly. "Miss McFadden is one of the Uditi; her request to Mr. Appleford was a ploy on our part from the beginning. It stems, in fact, from the teeming, fertile mind of Ray Roberts himself. We even have prepared his hoky thesis on psychosomatic factors in death by meteor-strike; tomorrow it will be delivered, bright and early, to your conapt door. By special Udi messenger." The robot beamed.
On the TV screen Don was saying, "... at least. There has been a very substantial turnout, here at Dodger Stadium considering the weather. Oh, we understand His Mightiness, Ray Roberts, is expected to put in his appearance any moment." The crowd noises, muted until now, all at once surged up deafeningly. "Mr. Roberts is emerging from the visitors' dugout," Don's voice could be heard saying. "Let's have a closeup of him; I think we can catch him with our camera." The camera zoomed in, and on the screen four figures, marching across the infield toward the improvised lectern, could be discerned.
"I want absolute silence in this room," the robot said, "while Mr. Roberts is speaking."
"Can you see what he's doing now, Don?" Chic was asking.
"He seems to be blessing those gathered at the lectern," Don answered. "He's waving his hand in the direction of their heads, as if shaking holy water at them. Yes, he is blessing them; they're all kneeling, now." The crowd continued to yell.
Sebastian said to the robot, "Then there's nothing we can do tonight. Toward getting into the Library."
"We must wait until it reopens tomorrow morning," the robot confirmed. Now it raised its finger to its lip in a shushing motion.
Standing before the microphones, Ray Roberts surveyed the crowd.
His Mightiness was a slightly built man, Sebastian observed. Quite delicate, with a bird-cage chest, slender arms--and unusually large hands. His eyes cast a penetrating brilliance; they blazed intensely as he sized up the audience before which he now spoke. Roberts wore a simple dark robe and a skullcap, and, on his right hand, a ring. One ring to rule them all, he thought, remembering his Tolkien. One ring to find them. One ring to--how did it go?--bring them all and in the darkness bind them. In the Land of Mordor where the Shadows lie. The ring of earthly power, he thought. Like that fashioned from the Rheingold, carrying a curse with it, to whoever put it on. Maybe the operation of the curse, he conjectured, is manifest in the Library's seizing the Anarch.
"_Sum tu_," Ray Roberts said, raising his hands. "I am you and you are I. Distinctions between and among us are illusory. What doo dat mean?, as the old Negro janitor asks in the ancient joke. It means--" His voice rose booming and echoing; he stared upward, his gaze fixed on a point in the sky beyond Dodger Stadium. "The Negro cannot be inferior to the white man because he is the white man. When the white man, in former times, did violence to the Negro he destroyed himself. Today, when a citizen of the Free Negro Municipality injures and molests a white, he, too, is injuring and molesting himself. I say to you: strike not the ear of the Roman soldier off; it will fall, like a dead leaf, of its own accord."
The crowd roared its cheers.
Going into his kitchen, Sebastian lit a cigar butt, puffed some angry smoke into it, rapidly. It grew longer. Maybe Bob Lindy could get me into the Library tonight, he said to himself. Lindy has an ingenious mind; he can do anything mechanical, or electrical. Or R.C. Buckley; he can talk his way in anywhere, any time. My own staff, he thought. I ought to be depending on them, not on Udi. Even if Udi does possess a prearranged plan all ready to go into gear.
"I am reminded," Roberts was expostulating in the living room, "of the little old lady who had been recently old-born and whose greatest fear had been that, when they excavated her, they would find her improperly clothed." The audience chuckled. "But neurotic fears," Roberts continued, now somberly, "can destroy a person and a nation. The neurotic fear by Nazi Germany of a two-front war--" He droned on; Sebastian ceased listening.
Maybe I'll have to accept the robot's method, he said to himself, and wait until tomorrow. Joe Tinbane shot his way in, got her and shot his way out, and what good did it do? Tinhane is dead and Lotta is once more inside the Library; nothing got accomplished.
The Library, he reflected, _must be dealt with in a certain way_--a way customary and familiar to them. Udi is right; I must be accepted voluntarily into the Library.
But how, when I get in there, he asked himself, can I keep from running amuck? When I actually face them... the strain will be overwhelming. Enormous. And I will have to sit there chatting with Appleford, about a deranged pseudo-manuscript
He returned to the living room. Over the din of Ray Roberts' tirade he yelled at the robot, "I can't do it!"
The robot, annoyed, cupped its ear.
"I'm getting into the Library tonight," Sebastian yelled, but the robot paid no attention to him; its head had swiveled back and once more it was drinking up the noise from the TV set.
Giacometti rose, took him by the arm and led him back to the kitchen. "In this case the Uditi are right. This must be done slowly, bit by bit; we--especially you yourself--must be patient. You'll simply get yourself killed, like the police officer. It all must be--" He gestured. "Indirect. Even--tactfully. You see?" He studied Sebastian's face.
"Tonight," Sebastian said. "I'm going there now."
"You will go, but you won't come back."
Setting down his completed cigar, Sebastian said, "Hello. I'll see you later; I'm leaving."
"Don't try to approach the Library! Don't--" Giacometti's words blended with the howl of the TV set, and then Sebastian shut the conapt door after him; he was outside, in the hall, in welcome silence.
For what seemed like hours he roamed the dark streets, hands deep in his trouser pockets, passing stores, passing houses that, as time progressed, became increasingly darkened until, at last, he glanced up at a block of residences which showed no light at all. Now no one passed him on the sidewalk he was entirely alone.
All at once he found himself confronted by three members of Udi, two men and one young woman. Each wore the _sum tu_ button; the girl had placed hers at the farthest projection of her right breast, like an enlarged, winking metal nipple.
They greeted him cheerfully. "Vale, amicus," they chorused. "What did you think of His Mightiness' speech tonight?"