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“You’ll see, you’ll see.” He was having difficulty breathing normally and Terens, for his part, was almost equally excited.
    “See,” said Rik, “they always have this part.”
    He read aloud haltingly, but in a manner far more proficient than could be accounted for by the sketchy lessons in reading he had received from Valona. The article said:
    “ ‘It is not surprising that the Spatio-analyst is by temperament an introverted and, often enough, maladjusted individual. To devote the greater part of one’s adult life to the lonely recording of the terrible emptiness between the stars is more than can be asked of someone entirely normal. It is perhaps with some realization of this that the Spatio-analytic Institute has adopted as its official slogan the somewhat wry statement, “We Analyze Nothing.” ’ ”
    Rik finished with what was almost a shriek.
    Terens said, “Do you understand what you’ve read?”
    The smaller man looked up with blazing eyes. “It said, ‘We Analyze Nothing.’ That’s what I remembered. I was one of them.”
    “You were a Spatio-analyst?”
    “Yes,” cried Rik. Then, in a lower voice, “My head hurts.”
    “Because you’re remembering?”
    “I suppose so.” He looked up, forehead furrowed. “I’ve got to remember more. There’s danger. Tremendous danger! I don’t know what to do.”
    “The library’s at our disposal, Rik.” Terens was watching carefully, weighing his words. “Use the catalog yourself and look up some texts on Spatio-analysis. See where that leads you.”
    Rik flung himself upon the reader. He was shaking visibly. Terens moved aside to give him room.
    “How about Wrijt’s
Treatise of Spatio-analytic Instrumeniation?
” asked Rik. “Doesn’t that sound right?”
    “It’s all up to you, Rik.”
    Rik punched the catalog number and the screen burned brightly and steadily. It said, “Please Consult Librarian for Book in Question.”
    Terens reached out a quick hand and neutralized the screen. “Better try another book, Rik.”
    “But . . .” Rik hesitated, then followed orders. Another search through the catalog and then he chose Enning’s
Composition of Space.
    The screen filled itself once more with a request to consult the librarian. Terens said, “Damn!” and deadened the screen again.
    Rik said, “What’s the matter?”
    Terens said, “Nothing. Nothing. Now don’t get panicky, Rik. I just don’t quite see——”
    There was a little speaker behind the grillwork on the side of the reading mechanism. The librarian’s thin, dry voice emerged therefrom and froze them both.
    “Room 242! Is there anyone in Room 242?”
    Terens answered harshly, “What do you want?”
    The voice said, “What book is it you want?”
    “None at all. Thank you. We are only testing the reader.”
    There was a pause as though some invisible consultation was proceeding. Then the voice said with an even sharper edge to it, “The record indicates a reading request for Wrijt’s
Treatise of Spatio-analytical Instrumentation
, and Enning’s
Composition of Space.
Is that correct?”
    “We were punching catalog numbers at random,” said Terens.
    “May I ask your reason for desiring those books?” The voice was inexorable.
    “I tell you we don’t want them. . . . Now stop it.” The last was an angry aside to Rik, who had begun whimpering.
    A pause again. Then the voice said, “If you will come down to the desk you may have access to the books. They are on a reserved listing and you will have to fill out a form.”
    Terens held out a hand to Rik. “Let’s go.”
    “Maybe we’ve broken a rule,” quavered Rik.
    “Nonsense, Rik. We’re leaving.”
    “We won’t fill out the form?”
    “No, we’ll get the books some other time.”
    Terens was hurrying, forcing Rik along with him. He strode down the main lobby. The librarian looked up.
    “Here now,” she cried, rising and circling the desk. “One moment. One moment!”
    They weren’t