“What shall we do now?” asked Mary Kingsley.
“Find out as much as we can as fast as we can,” answered Michael. “The great deception is over. The drybones know it is over. So we no longer have to explore by stealth. From now on, we do whatever we need to do openly. I suggest that we go to Apollo Twelve Square, to the London Library. Horatio found two underground passageways. So far, we have only been able to explore one. I suggest that we split ourselves into three groups: one to hold the library against any—any intrusion, and the other groups to explore both passageways…. Eventually—if we remain here long enough—we will set up reading lessons so that everyone can discover for himself what lies in the books.”
“How do we know the books were not manufactured by the drybones?” asked Joseph Lister. “Like they have manufactured everything else for us.”
“We don’t know,” said Michael. “You will have to judge for yourself. But it seems to me that the books in London Library contain thoughts and ideas and knowledge beyond anything ever experienced or hinted at by any drybone we know…. Those books smell of people—real people. I’m sure you will find—as I found—an awareness of truth, a desire to communicate,… Truth is what the drybones have always denied us. You will recognize it instantly when you see it. Like a hungry man recognizing food.”
“If we are going to the library,” said Ernest, “I think it would be unwise to lose any more time. The drybone mind is inscrutable. They obviously provided the books; and it might just occur to them that they could slow us down by taking the books away.”
Michael was suddenly anxious. That would be an obvious drybone retaliation. But perhaps too obvious. These days, the drybones were being more subtle than formerly. Nevertheless, the fragiles could not now afford to risk losing their precious store of books.
“Ernest is right. We must get to Apollo Twelve Square as fast as we can. I should have thought of that before.”
Emily squeezed his hand. “It is going to be all right. I have an odd feeling that the drybones are not going to obstruct us anymore.”
31
London Library looked desolate and deserted, just as it was when Michael had first seen it. The boards that had once been across the doorway lay where Horatio had dropped them when he had pried them away. The windows were as grimy as ever. The door was not locked.
But the library was not entirely deserted.
When Michael stepped inside he saw that someone was standing in the center of the room, an open book in his hand, reading aloud.
It was Mr. Shakespeare.
As the rest of the fragiles filed into the library, they heard Mr. Shakespeare’s quiet voice:
“In some way the material universe appears to be passing away like a tale that is told, dissolving into nothingness like a vision. The human race, whose intelligence dates back only a single tick of the astronomical clock, could hardly hope to understand so soon what it all means. Someday perhaps we shall know: at present we can only wonder.”
When Michael had first encountered Mr. Shakespeare as the head of high school, he had not been able to decide whether he was a fragile or a drybone. With his white hair and wrinkled face, Mr. Shakespeare looked very old—and very human. Even now, Michael was not entirely sure.
Mr. Shakespeare closed the book and put it down. “The Stars in their Courses,” he said. “Sir James Jeans. A most interesting book. You must read it some time…. Well, Michael, I expected you sooner. But I expect there was some discussion.”
“Yes,” said Michael, “there was some discussion… I hope you are not here to obstruct us.”
Mr. Shakespeare smiled benignly, and shook his head. “Improbable as it may seem, I am here to inform and assist. I do not expect you to trust me. I shall be content if you accept my services.”
“Are you—” began Michael. He stopped, confused.
“No, Michael, I cannot bleed, I am a drybone, like the others.”
“Then why are you offering to help us?” asked Ernest.
Mr. Shakespeare laughed. “Ernest, you have always demonstrated exceptional intelligence. Can you not think of a reason?”
Ernest was silent for a moment or two. Then he said: “So Michael was right. Now that the guinea pigs have rebelled, the experiment is really over.”
“Hardly. In a sense, the experiment is about to begin. But I will not confuse you anymore. The time for confusion is past. The time for understanding—for total understanding—begins.”
“We came here to explore two passageways,” said Michael. “I has just occurred to me that you may be trying to divert us until other drybones get here.”
Mr. Shakespeare sighed. It seemed a very human kind of sigh. “You are right to be suspicious, Michael. You have conditioned yourself to suspect the motives of drybones for a long time. If you wish to carry out your explorations immediately, do so. I will do nothing at all to hinder you. But I think you would be more psychologically prepared if you were to listen first to what I have to say.”
Michael considered for a moment or two. “We will give you a little time,” he said at last. “But if your information is the kind of information we have been given in the past, we will destroy you.”
“I can guarantee that it is not. The time for prevarication is ended.”
“Then give us facts that mean something.”
“Certainly. But there is a lot to be assimilated, Michael. And it must be taken slowly. First, the city of London and we drybones were created entirely to serve you—and to test you.”
“Why to test us?”
“Because it was necessary to know what human beings are like—what levels of intelligence they can attain, how they react in adversity, how they can be intellectually frustrated or stimulated, what motivates them and so on.”
“If it was necessary to find out what human beings are like,” said Ernest, “then this project cannot have been mounted by human beings.”
“It was not.”
Michael took a deep breath. “Then we are not on the planet Earth.”
“Yes, Michael, you are on the planet Earth. You are on an island—quite a pleasant island from the human point of view—that was once called Tasmania. You are the only human beings on the entire planet, and you were especially developed for this project. You are the Overman culture.”
Michael’s throat was dry. His heart was pounding in his chest. Emily’s hand lay cold in his. He dared not look at her.
“Who—or what—developed us?” Michael’s voice was suddenly hoarse.
“A vast machine complex,” said Mr. Shakespeare. “So vast that it will take you a longtime even to begin to understand part of its functions. A few moments ago, you talked of destroying me, Michael. This is something you cannot do. Because all drybones are merely extensions of the same thing. For example, every one of us knew when Horatio Nelson destroyed the Huxley component. Everyone of us knew what happened when Ellen Terry followed you, as a child, to make you lose your temper. All of us knew exactly what Arthur Wellesley said on Hampstead Heath. All the time, we have all known simultaneously and instantaneously what each of us was experiencing or recording. Because I and every other drybone are one….