She got up to rearrange the bedside table, reproving herself for vulgarity of thought. She had to be angry at somebody; there was nobody there but God and the librarian, and she did not want to be angry at the librarian. Like the city, he was too sick. And anger would disturb the purity of her strong erotic attraction to him, which had been giving her great pleasure. She had not so enjoyed looking at a man for years; she had thought that joy lost, withered away. Her age took advantage from his illness. In the normal course of things he would not have seen her as a woman but as an old woman, and his blindness would have blinded her: she would not have looked at him. But, having undressed him and looked after his body, she was spared hypocrisy, and could admire that stocky and innocent body with the innocent joy of desire. Of his mind and spirit she knew almost nothing, only that he had courage, which was a good thing. She did not need to know more. Indeed she did not want to. She was sorry he had spoken at all, had said those two stupid, boastful words, “Not valuable,” whether meaning his own life, or the books he had tried to save at the risk of his life. In either case what he had meant was that to a Partisan nothing was valuable but the cause. The existence of a branch librarian, the existence of a few books—trash. Nothing mattered but the future.
But if he was a Partisan, why had he tried to save the books?
Would a Loyalist have stayed alone in that terrible brownish-yellow room of smoke trying to put out the fire, to keep the books from burning?
Of course, she answered herself. According to his opinions, his theories, his beliefs, yes, certainly, of course! Books, statues, buildings, lamp posts bearing lighted lamps not strangled corpses, Molière at eight-thirty, conversation at dinner, schoolgirls in blue with satchels, order, decency, the past that ensures a future, for this the Loyalist stood. Staunchly he stood. But would he also crawl across a floor coughing out his lungs, trying to hang on to a few of the books?—not even valuable books, that’s what the librarian had been trying to say, she understood him now, not even valuable ones; there probably were no valuable books in this branch library. Just books, any books, not because he had opinions, but because he had beliefs, there with his life forfeit, but because he was a librarian. A person who looked after books. The one responsible.
“Is that what you meant?” she asked him, softly, because he had fallen asleep. “Is that why I brought you here?”
The radio hissed, but she did not need applause. His sleep was her audience.
Zenith
Intracom
CAPTAIN: Good morning, good morning, good morning everybody. How many of us are there, aboard this space ship? Well, let’s see. This is, of course, the Captain speaking. There is the First Mate, about whom there is something, well, different. But not the ears. I’ve seen First Mates with funny ears, but that isn’t this one’s problem. Well, then there is the Chief Engineer, whose vocabulary is limited to symptoms of valvular malfunction. And the Insane Second Mate, who is locked up in the Crew Recreation Lounge, busy pulling the stuffing out of chairs and sofas, and throwing pool balls at the indirect lighting fixtures. Then there is the Communications Officer, forever wearing headphones and hunched above the hissing radio. The hiss, I understand, is the noise stars make. It is quite a loud noise, out here. Is that all of us? I can’t think of anybody else. It is a small crew, but a select one, being composed entirely of officers. How many does it come to? Six, doesn’t it?”
FIRST MATE: Five.
CAPTAIN: Only five? Are you sure of that, Mr. Balls?
FIRST MATE: Affirmative.
CAPTAIN: Very well, five, then. I know you’re good with mathematics. But I keep having this feeling there’s somebody else.
FIRST MATE: Conceivably, sir, you are thinking of yourself in your capacity as Cook.
CAPTAIN: Don’t call me “sir,” Mr. Balls. All right, then. Here we are, the personnel of the space ship Mary Jane Hewett, Class F, b-1951, Type 36-25-38, Size 13, outward bound from Earth (Terra, 3 Solis) on an exploratory voyage in the direction of the South Orion Arm, with a cargo of breadfruit trees. We have travelled a tremendous distance already, light-years and light-years, though there are times it hardly seems we’re moving at all.
Excuse me. I have to go make lunch.
It isn’t easy to feed the Insane Second Mate, since she plugged the soup chute full of sofa stuffing. We have cut a little hole in the door of the Crew Recreation Lounge, like a mail slot. We wait until the Insane Second Mate is asleep, because when she’s awake, if she hears us at the door, she sticks her hands through and makes obscene gestures with the middle finger of her left hand, or throws pool balls at us. While she is asleep, or sulking, we hastily force her dinner through the slot. After a certain time has passed, if one places one’s ear to the lower half of the door, the Insane Second Mate may be heard munching the food. Uneaten portions are returned through the slot. Lately very little has been returned. Evidently she is eating all the food, or doing something else with it. From time to time I have wondered if there could be someone else in there with her. She seems to eat inordinately, for a female Insane Second Mate of average size.
Chief Engineer, before I go to the galley may I have your daily report for the Ship’s Log.
CHIEF ENGINEER: Aye, weel, compressed hydrogen tank A-30 is leaking. Leakage not contained at present time. Stoppage in forward conduit FC-599 continues, causing buildup of pressure in central coolant storage area CCS-2. Hairline crack in casing of Anti-Matter Isolater is being investigated with intention of presenting report on viability of implementation of repair procedures.
CAPTAIN: What procedure is indicated if repair implementation proves non-feasible?
CHIEF ENGINEER: Automatic Self-Destruct.