"Left," Sebastian echoed. He felt weak and dizzy; he needed sogum and a cold shower and a change of clothes.
"Now, if you will look in your disgorged victuals refrigerator," Ray Roberts said, "you will find the survival kit which the robot Carl Junior and Mr. Giacometti prepared jointly. It will be essential to you." He paused. "One more matter, Mr. Hermes. You love your wife and she is precious to you
but in terms of history, she does not count--_as does the Anarch_. Try to recognize the distinction, the finiteness of your personal needs, the almost infinite value of Anarch Peak. It will be instinctive for you to seek out your wife... so you will have to gain conscious control of this almost biological drive. You understand?"
"I want," Sebastian said between his rigid teeth, "to find Lotta."
"Possibly you will. But that is not your primary purpose in the Library; it is not for finding her that we have so equipped you. In my opinion--" Ray Roberts leaned toward the vidscreen so that his eyes swam up and enlarged hypnotically; Sebastian sat silently and passively, like a chicken, listening. "They will release your wife unharmed once we have the Anarch back. They are not genuinely interested in her."
"Oh yes they are," Sebastian said. "Vengeance toward me, because of what happened between me and Ann Fisher." He did not follow--or believe in--Ray Roberts' logic on this point; he sensed it as façade. "You've never met her. Spite and hate and holding a grudge play a major role in her--"
"I have met her several times," Ray Roberts said. "As a matter of fact the Council of Erads had her stationed in Kansas City as a sort of emissary sine portfolio to our federal government. She periodically holds power in the council halls of the Library and then abruptly loses it by overreaching herself. She may have done this as regards police officer Tinbane; we have dropped it in the ear of the Los Angeles Police Department that Library agents killed Tinbane, not 'religious fanatics.'" His face contorted in a rhythm of distilled wrath. "The Uditi are always blamed for crimes of violence; it is common police and media policy."
Sebastian said, "Do you think Lotta also will be found on the top two floors?"
"Most likely." His Mightiness surveyed Sebastian. "I can see that despite my exhortation you will spend the majority of your brief time searching for her." He gestured philosophically; it was an empathic reaction, one of understanding, not condemnation. "Well, Hermes; go inspect your survival kit and then get off to the Library for your appointment. It was nice talking to you. I assume we will talk again, perhaps later today. Hello."
"Hello, sir," Sebastian said, and hung up the phone.
Eagerly, at the refrigerator filled with various favorite victuals ready to go to the supermarket, he inspected the small white carton which Giacometti and the robot had left him. To his disappointment it contained only three items. LSD, in vapor-under-pressure form, to be set off by grenade. An oral antidote to the LSD--probably a phenothiazine--to be carried m a plastic capsule in his mouth, during his hunt at the Library: those made up two of the three. And the third. He studied it for several minutes, at first not recognizing what he held. An intravenous injection device, containing a small amount of pale, saplike liquid; it came with a removable wrapper of instructions, so he removed the wrapper to read the brochure.
For a limited period an injection of the solution would free him of the Hobart Phase.
He would, he realized, be stationary in time; for all intents and purposes moving neither forward nor backward. It would, paradoxically, be for a finite period: by common time, no more than six minutes. But, from his standpoint, it would be experienced as hours.
This last item, he discovered, came from Rome; in the past, he recalled, it had been used, with limited success, for prolonged spiritual meditation. Now it had been officially banned and could not be obtained. But still, here it was.
The Rome principal overlooked nothing of a practical nature, in conjunction with its perpetual spiritual quest.
A combination of the items, the LSD imposed on the Library guards, and the injection for himself--he would be in motion and they would not; it was as simple as that. And, in accordance with Giacometti's wishes, no one would be injured.
For a subjective period of one to three hours he would probably be free to go anywhere, do anything, on the upper floors of the Library. It struck him as an extremely wellthought-out survival kit, simple as it was.
He took a quick shower, changed to properly soiled clothes, patted dabs of whiskers in place, imbibed sogum, divested himself of various victuals in the ritual dishes, and then, with the manuscript under his arm, left his empty, lonely conapt and made his way out onto the street where he had, the night before, parked his car. His heart hung in his throat, strangling him with fear. My one chance, my _last_ chance, he realized. To get Lotta out. And with her, if possible, the Anarch. If this fails then she's really gone. Slipped away. Forever.
A moment later, in his car, he soared up into the bright morning sky.
16
These thoughts I revolved in my miserable heart, overcharged with most gnawing cares, lest I should die ere I had found the truth.
--St. Augustine
"A Mr. Arbuthnot to see you, sir," Doug Appleford's secretary said, over the intercom to his office.
He groaned. Well, here it was finally; the burden wished on him by perpetually enthusiastic Charise McFadden. "Send him in," Appleford said, and tipped his chair back, folded his hands and waited.
A large, imposing, nattily dressed older man appeared at the doorway of the office. "I'm Lance Arbuthnot," he mumbled; his eyes roamed in unease, like those of a trapped animal.
"Let's see it," Appleforcl said, with no preamble.
"Of course." Shakily, Arbuthnot seated himself in the chair before Doug Appleford's desk, handed him a bulky, dog-eared typescript manuscript. "The labor of a lifetime," he muttered.
"So you maintain," Doug Appleford said briskly, "that if a person is killed by a meteor it's because he hated his grandmother. Some theory. Anyhow you're realistic enough to want it eraded." He leafed cursorily through the manuscript, reading a line here and there, at random. Dull phrases, jargon, strained and inverted cliché sentences, claims of a fantastic nature... it had a familiar quality. The Library saw ten such trashy manuscripts of that sort a day. It constituted routine business for Section B.
"May I have it back a moment?" Arbuthnot asked hoarsely. "For one last look. Before I consign it to your office permanently."
Appleford dropped the bulky manuscript on his desk. Lance Arbuthnot picked it up, studied it, then turned pages. After a pause he stopped turning pages, read one particular page, his lips moving.
"What's the matter?" Appleford demanded.
"I--seem to have garbled an important passage on page 173," Lance Arbuthnot muttered. "It'll have to be set straight before you erad it."
Pressing the button of his intercom, Appleford said to his secretary Miss Tomsen, "Please show Mr. Arbuthnot to a reading room up on one of the restricted floors, where he can work without being interrupted." To Arbuthnot he said, "How soon will you get it back to me?"
"Fifteen, twenty minutes. Anyhow, under an hour." Arbuthnot rose, clutching his precious grubby manuscript. "You will accept it for eradication?"
"You're darn right. You go fix it up and I'll see you later." He, too, rose; Arbuthnot hesitated, then bumbled his way once more out of Appleford's office, into the outer waiting room.