A Borrowed Man by Gene Wolfe Page A

called, “All I want is for you to love me!”
    She was climbing the ladder to a high shelf when I shouted that, and if she heard me she gave no sign. It was one of those times when I wish to God I could talk the way I think.
    Back on the shelf where I had slept, I walked up and down. Four steps one way, and four the other. What had I done right, and where had I screwed up? For sure I had tried to rush things, thinking—assuming, really—that she would understand that I just wanted to hold her, to kiss her a dozen times and get kissed by her. Maybe she had, but I do not think so.
    Time passed, and the same old thoughts, the same old regrets, came back again and again. When they were stopped by somebody’s calling for me, I was glad to get away from them. He was young, blond, and quite a bit smaller than most men, dressed in a faded blue chore smock that did not even come close to going with his culottes and pointed boots.
    He waved. “Come down, will you?”
    I was happy to do it.
    â€œYou’re E. A. Smithe?” He offered his hand. It was softer than I had expected. “I guess there’s a lounge here somewhere. Someplace where I can buy you a nerbeer?”
    I shook my head. “I doubt it.”
    â€œKafe maybe? Something like that?”
    â€œI’m a stranger here myself, but it doesn’t seem likely. We might ask.”
    We did, meaning he did.
    â€œOut on the patio,” he said when he came back. “It’s out into the hall, two lefts and a right, then through the double doors, but I’m not supposed to buy you anything to eat.”
    â€œThen don’t,” I said.
    â€œMaybe they’ll have hot chocolate. You like hot chocolate?”
    Here it was again. I nodded, mostly because I was too dumb not to.
    â€œGreat! We’ll find out. I’m not supposed to borrow you. I guess you know.”
    â€œCorrect.” We were walking, and walking damned fast. I wondered what had got him so nervous.
    â€œWhy nothing to eat?”
    â€œThere is a rule to that effect.” The truth was I had never thought about it. “If you checked me out, you’d be expected to feed me if you kept me more than a day. Here in the library it’s forbidden. I suppose it must be to keep us from begging, not that we would. Or at least only a few of us would.” I was trying to remember the name of the boy Dr. Johnson had talked about, the young genius who had choked to death on a sweet roll. It would not come, and that boy had lived hundreds of years too early for recloning anyway.
    The blond man stopped. “Hey, would a couple of yellowbacks help?”
    I tried to remember if anybody had offered me creds before.
    â€œMaybe you don’t have a lot.” He was getting out his wallet.
    The truth was that I had quite a bit, the money from Colette’s shaping bag. I knew what would happen if the librarians found out about that, so I said I did not have shit, adding, “We’re not paid, you understand. One doesn’t pay property, and most of us belong to some library. It’s the Spice Grove Public Library in my case.”
    â€œSure. You’re slaves.”
    â€œNot exactly. Slaves are fully human and can be freed. We aren’t and can’t be. Besides, slavery is currently against the law. We just require a license.”
    â€œI got it. Here’s a couple—three hundred. With my compliments. All right?”
    I took the money, telling myself I did it because I did not want to piss him off.
    The Owenbright Public Library had this screwy patio covered with a wide tent top of semitransparent film. There were potted palms, tables and chairs of the outside kind, and a counter (under its own little roof) where you could buy kafe and doughnuts—stuff like that. A couple of the tables were already getting leaned on by patrons reading diskers they would probably get all spotted with kafe.
    The blond man picked a table