“I know you drybones are superior to us fragiles,” he went on desperately. “We bleed, you don’t. We can be hurt easily, you can’t. We get tired, you have inexhaustible energy. We feel pain, you don’t. There are so many differences. And yet you say you are my father and mother. So I say to you: How was I made?”
Mother sighed. “Michael, you make things so difficult. Be a good boy, and wait until morning.”
“How was I made? How was I made? How was I made?” Michael did not know that he was shouting.
Father sat down once more. “Well, boy, it sounds as if you are determined.” The anger had drained from his voice. “I like determination in a man. It shows he has character…. I’ll speak plainly. You think we have been misleading you. Has it occurred to you that we may have been shielding you, protecting you?”
“Yes, it has occurred to us that you may be protecting us,” said Michael wearily. “But if so, it is like—like mental suffocation.”
“You want to know how you were made. I’ll tell you. You were grown from a tiny speck of life—call it an egg…. Michael, can you remember back to when you were very small?”
“Yes, Father.”
“Do you think you could have looked after yourself then?”
“No, Father.”
“That is what we are for—we drybones, as you call us. We were designed to look after you, Michael. We were designed to rear you to maturity. We, as you know, are different. We are designed and manufactured, we are not grown. It is not necessary for us to feel pain or bleed. It is only necessary for you…. You know the Overman legend, Michael. Personally, I don’t believe it. But ask yourself if any of it could be true…. Now, I have answered your question. Let us go to bed.”
“Yes, Father.” Michael felt empty, exhausted. He had made a kind of challenge, and he did not know whether it had been accepted or dismissed.
Mother smiled. “Well, the film was pleasant, anyway. Although I must say I was a bit saddened by all that destruction…. Michael, I do wish you would not see quite so much of that Ernest Rutherford. I’m not sure he is a good influence.”
Michael was too tired to argue. Too tired for anything, even rational thought. He went to bed feeling that at least he had learned something. He woke up in the morning realizing he had learned nothing.
15
The Family set out to visit London Library on a Saturday morning. None of them had told parents where they were going; but they made no attempt to conceal their movements. Ernest’s map had been copied, and Horatio suggested that each of the Family should go to the library by a different route and that if anyone was being followed, he or she should either shake off the follower or return home. But Michael overruled the idea, preferring that the Family should stay together. He had become more interested in discovering if the drybones would attempt to frustrate the investigation than in maintaining its secrecy.
However, a compromise plan was agreed. Michael and Emily and Ernest and Jane would make their way to the library together. Horatio would follow at some distance in an attempt to find out if the group itself was being followed.
Saturday was a gray day with promise of rain. The girls carried plastic raincoats, and the boys had their waterproof jackets. Jane and Emily had brought some sandwiches, and Ernest had a bag of apples. Michael had borrowed his father’s electric torch; and Horatio, for reasons best known to himself, carried a short, thick iron bar.
The promise of rain was fulfilled long before they reached the library. The sky darkened, the air became humid and there were distant sounds of thunder. Presently, the thunder came nearer, lightning was visible almost overhead and the rain came down torrentially. Warm rain, whipped a little by a warm wind, penetrating the openings in raincoats and jackets, and drenching everyone.
By the time the group reached the library, they felt soaked to the skin. They sheltered in the doorway, waiting a short time for Horatio.
“Did you see anyone following?” asked Michael.
Horatio shook his head. “I thought so at first, between Trafalgar Square and Piccadilly Circus. A female drybone—if one may use the term ‘female’ carelessly. She—it looked like Edith Evans, but I couldn’t be sure. Anyway, she evidently wasn’t following because nobody took over when she disappeared from the scene.”
“Do you think anyone followed you?”
Horatio grinned. “No, I made quite sure of that.”
London Library looked exactly as it had looked when Ernest discovered it—boarded up, unused. Shabby, old, unimportant. Michael’s spirits sank. He began to think it was all part of a bad joke, a drybone kind of joke. He began to think that the books must have been taken away a long time ago.
“I don’t suppose it would be much use ringing the bell,” said Horatio. “We will have to break in.”
“But we should ring the bell first,” said Jane, “in case…” She stopped.
“In case the place is crawling with people,” suggested Horatio sarcastically.
“There is one way to find out,” said Michael. He pressed the button. Everyone heard the electric bell clearly. Somehow, London Library sounded very empty.
The lightning had stopped, but the rain was still coming down very heavily. No one seemed to be about in Apollo Twelve Square. Indeed, to Michael it looked as if all the houses were as desolate and as deserted as London Library.
Horatio began to attack the boards across the doorway with his iron bar. They had only been nailed loosely and could be prized away quite easily. The door behind them did not have to be forced. It was not locked. Ernest turned the handle and opened it. The Family went in.
On the wall immediately inside the building were two switches, presumably electric light switches. Michael pressed them but nothing happened. The only light available was drab-gray light filtered through grimy windows. But it was enough to reveal that Michael’s pessimism was unjustified.
Inside, the library looked larger than it did from the outside. There were shelves round the walls. Most of the shelves were empty; but some of them supported untidy stacks of books.
Hundreds of books, perhaps thousands. All in careless heaps. Michael surveyed them openmouthed. He felt like the prospectors he had seen in a film when they discovered a legendary goldmine.
Wind caused the library door to slam, and everyone Jumped. Horatio broke the tension with laughter. “Now you are all in my power,” he cackled evilly. “Soon you will submit to the dreaded will of my vampire bride.”
“Books,” breathed Ernest. “Books, books, books!”
He went to the nearest pile and picked one up. Dust fell from its dark, hard cover. He saw some words printed in gold on its spine, and tried to read them in the almost nocturnal gloom.
“Ut-o-pie-ay, by Sir Thomas—Sir Thomas More…. Wonderful! Wonderful! I don’t know what it is. I don’t know what it is, but I’ll find out…. It will take time, so much time, and I’ll either die or go mad before I have finished. But I want to read every book that is here.”
Michael picked up a book. He found the title easy to read: “Das Kapital von Karl Marx.” He opened it, but found the words inside incomprehensible. “This one isn’t our language. It’s another language—I wonder what it is.”
Horatio was not greatly interested in books. He watched, feeling faintly superior as Jane and Emily went from shelf to shelf, fingering the books almost as if they might explode, sometimes bringing one to Ernest or Michael to have the title read.