toward the file, transferring this last bit of sophisticated hardware from its possession to the Library’s.
“Purp,” Appleford said, without raising his eyes.
The code signal, received by the aud chamber of the file, activated an emergency release; the file closed in upon itself in the manner of a bivalve seeking safety. Collapsing, the file retreated into the wall, burying itself out of sight. And at the same time it ejected the constructs which the robot had placed inside it; the objects, expelled with electronic neatness, bounced in a trajectory which deposited them at the robot’s feet, where they lay in clear view.
“Good heavens,” the robot said involuntarily, taken aback.
Appleford said, “Leave my office immediately.” He raised his eyes from the pseudo-documents, and his expression was cold. As the robot reached down to retrieve the now-exposed artifacts he added, “And leave those items here; I want them subjected to lab analysis regarding purpose and source.” He reached into the top drawer of his desk, and when his hand emerged it held a weapon.
In Carl Gantrix’s ears the phone-cable voice of the robot buzzed. “What should I do, sir?”
“Leave presently.” Gantrix no longer felt amused; the fuddyduddy librarian was equal to the probe, was capable in fact of nullifying it. The contact with Appleford would have to be made in the open, and with that in mind Gantrix reluctantly picked up the receiver of the vidphone closest to him and dialed the Library’s exchange.
A moment later he saw, through the video scanner of the robot, the librarian Douglas Appleford picking up his own phone in answer.
“We have a problem,” Gantrix said. “Common to us both. Why, then, shouldn’t we work together?”
Appleford answered, “I’m aware of no problem.” His voice held ultimate calmness; the attempt by the robot to plant hostile hardware in his work area had not ruffled him. “If you want to work together,” he added, “you’re off to a bad start.”
“Admittedly,” Gantrix said. “But we’ve had difficulty in the past with you librarians.” Your exalted position, he thought; protected by the Erads and all. But he did not say it. “There is, in the wealth of material—accurate and inaccurate—one particular piece of info that we lack, that we are particularly anxious to acquire. The rest . . .” He hesitated, then gambled. “I’ll put you in mind of that fact, and perhaps you can direct us to a source by which to verify it.
Where is the
Anarch Peak buried?
”
“God only knows,” Appleford said.
“Somewhere in your books, articles, religious pamphlets, city records—”
“Our job here at the Library,” Appleford said, “is not to study and/or memorize data; it is to expunge it.”
There was silence.
“Well,” Gantrix admitted, “you’ve stated your position with clarity and admirable brevity. So we’re to assume that that fact, the location of the Anarch’s body, has been expunged; as a fact it no longer exists.”
“It has undoubtedly been unwritten,” Appleford said. “Or at least such is a reasonable presumption . . . and in accord with Library policy.”
Gantrix said, “And you won’t even check. You won’t research it, even for a sizable donation.” Bureaucracy, he thought; it maddened him; it was insane.
“Good day, Mr. Gantrix,” the librarian said, and hung up.
For a time Carl Gantrix sat in silence, keeping himself inert. Controlling his emotions.
He at last picked up the vidphone receiver once more and this time dialed the Free Negro Municipality. “I want to speak to the Very Honorable Ray Roberts,” he told the operator in Chicago.
“That party can only be reached by—”
“I have the necessary code,” Gantrix said, and thereupon divested himself of it. He felt weary and defeated . . . and he dreaded Ray Roberts’ reaction. But we can’t give up, he realized. We knew from the start that that bureaucrat Appleford wouldn’t