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from observations of a panjandrum II

eldon

At last, finding my way into their cluttered cave of scattered papers, computer terminals, printers, worn linoleum, chipped shelves, trolleys, and tottering towers of tagged volumes, the library
elves looked up, startled at my appearance amongst them. Miraculously, the very books I sought were produced, proffered, and yet withheld pending the proper procedures. An offer of haste was made on my behalf, but seeing their careworn faces and timid demeanour I demurred and determined to make my way in one week's time to the third floor operations centre instead, at which time, they insisted, the books would be pleased to accompany me to my snug little nest on the ninth floor of the Bunkei Senta.

Accordingly, armed with the official forms provided me by the unstinting elves, I presented
myself at the bridge at 1700 hours one week later, there to be met by a slightly wrinkled and non- dynamic person who asked for a title and then painstakingly entered it with the finger of one hand, letter by letter into a space on the computer screen, after which he jabbed the return key with all the force of one forefinger which has gathered to itself a formidable velocity as it
descends from a great height.
"We don't seem to have it here," he announces.
"'Functional,'" I say looking over his shoulder, "is spelt 'f-u-n,' not 'f-u-c-t.'"
He deletes the whole title and starts again from scratch.

The clock ticks on. There is no one else around. Outside it is raining. I look past his shoulder to the door of The Stack left invitingly ajar-it would be a simple matter, I am thinking, to
overpower this old man and hie myself into the infinite pleasures of The Stack hence.

"Is this the one?" he asks me.
I peer at the screen and nod approvingly.
"What are the other titles?" he wheedles.
I make a suggestion through a flayed smile to the effect that, should he find them while I go home, could he perhaps make a phone call to my office?
"Yoroshikereba . . ." I say, curtsey, and make my departure.

The next morning, I am called to the library with the information that my books languish there awaiting my arrival to bear them away to my eyrie, and so, in great anticipation, I rush library-wards before the lunch-hour of midday and make it to the third floor milling point a heady ten minutes early. Three librarians are on duty at this hour and I ask one of them for the items. This raises his eyebrows--titles? my name? authors? time, motion--books? He begins to look around,
and other librarians ask what he seeks. He asks me again what I want. I explain that I am the recipient of a telephone call which purported to emanate from the library advising me to come
and collect "books." The three of them become involved. Another librarian emerges from The Stack bearing a load of books, and they enquire of him whether he has laid eyes on mine. He frowns and shakes his head, listens to the story again, puts down his books and re-enters The Stack scratching parts of his cranium which he may deem to be sites of revelation with respect to the location of seven extremely relevant monuments to world scholarship.