with Hjerald, had proposed that the Zen Journalist be given free rein in the Kawaminami’s library to better make progress on the group’s research; a good move, public-relations-wise: Hjerald couldn’t have been any happier if he’d just been told he was the new King of Prussia. Shingo also figured that the effort would pay off later in residual gratitude from Meredith.
Hjerald and Shingo had begun by digging around in the Kawaminami’s refuse pile, which was really anything but. Bristol had instituted an acquisitions system which culled duplicates or divestments from private and scholarly libraries all over the world, and because the Kawaminami’s paid a premium for items they liked, any source which had both a surplus of books and a constant need for funds—such as Universities—made attempts to gain their favor by constantly shipping entire cases of anything and everything which was on paper and not nailed down. Thus, at any given time there were several dozen boxes of literary bric-a-brac lining the walls of the reading rooms. On a hunch, Shingo checked the list of recent shipments, and had discovered that one had been received less than a month earlier from the University of Vienna— Michael Langbein’s University. Moreover, he also discovered that the divestment order had been authorized by one of the school’s Vice-Rectors—Mikaal Gunnar-Galen. Hagen himself.
“That doesn’t make sense,” Meredith said. “In that position, he wouldn’t be signing anything as trivial as a library divestment—that’s hardly even a professor’s job.”
“That’s the unusual part,” said Hjerald. “The department which got rid of the box was the Mathematics school.”
“Why is that unusual?”
“Because,” said Hjerald, “there are a few books in the box, but mostly it’s a collection of music—Schubert, actually.”
Meredith’s brow creased. “What would the Mathematics Department need with a box of Schubert?”
“Exactly why it’s weird. Anyway, there are a bunch of other things there which needed going through to accurately identify, and Shingo’s going to dig around in the archive for a while longer, to see if he can find any related material—he also wanted to wait to present what we have until we can get everyone together, so I thought now would be a good time to go over to …”
He stopped cold when he saw Delna.
“Umm, hey there, Mrs. Beecroft. Uh, how’re you doing?”
“Just fine, thanks, Hjerald,” she responded with her usual good cheer.
“And, uh, Mr. Beecroft? How’s …”
At that moment, Glen loped over and gave his wife a bite on her posterior, then, chortling, began to climb up the chimney until he was some twenty feet off of the ground. He leapt away from the wall, caught one of the antique chandeliers, and swung back and forth while he poured lamp oil into it from a pouch around his neck. When he finished, he dropped to the floor and looked at Hjerald.
“Beats having to get the ladder—it’s out under the snow, anyway.”
Meredith smiled. Hjerald blinked. Glen and Delna, arm in arm, went back over to the counter.
“Meredith? Do they look … I don’t know, hairier , to you?”
Meredith gave him a dirty look. “Hjerald! Shush—don’t be so loud.” She edged closer to him and whispered in his ear. “It’s been a long week—just because they don’t clean up well doesn’t give us the right to criticize. Just look at Eddie.”
Eddie Wallace was sitting dazed in front of an empty glass of lemonade; his head looked as if it had been dipped in lard, and he had a visible aura. Normally, he was a clean-cut, slicked-up, man-about-town. After three days of no showers, though, he looked like the Ugly Fairy had beaten the snot out of him.
“I guess you’re right,” said Hjerald. “Sorry.”
“That’s all right. Now, what were you saying?”
Hjerald scratched his head. “Mmm? Oh, yeah—I was wondering if you’d like to go over to Ottawa with me,
Hjerald and Shingo had begun by digging around in the Kawaminami’s refuse pile, which was really anything but. Bristol had instituted an acquisitions system which culled duplicates or divestments from private and scholarly libraries all over the world, and because the Kawaminami’s paid a premium for items they liked, any source which had both a surplus of books and a constant need for funds—such as Universities—made attempts to gain their favor by constantly shipping entire cases of anything and everything which was on paper and not nailed down. Thus, at any given time there were several dozen boxes of literary bric-a-brac lining the walls of the reading rooms. On a hunch, Shingo checked the list of recent shipments, and had discovered that one had been received less than a month earlier from the University of Vienna— Michael Langbein’s University. Moreover, he also discovered that the divestment order had been authorized by one of the school’s Vice-Rectors—Mikaal Gunnar-Galen. Hagen himself.
“That doesn’t make sense,” Meredith said. “In that position, he wouldn’t be signing anything as trivial as a library divestment—that’s hardly even a professor’s job.”
“That’s the unusual part,” said Hjerald. “The department which got rid of the box was the Mathematics school.”
“Why is that unusual?”
“Because,” said Hjerald, “there are a few books in the box, but mostly it’s a collection of music—Schubert, actually.”
Meredith’s brow creased. “What would the Mathematics Department need with a box of Schubert?”
“Exactly why it’s weird. Anyway, there are a bunch of other things there which needed going through to accurately identify, and Shingo’s going to dig around in the archive for a while longer, to see if he can find any related material—he also wanted to wait to present what we have until we can get everyone together, so I thought now would be a good time to go over to …”
He stopped cold when he saw Delna.
“Umm, hey there, Mrs. Beecroft. Uh, how’re you doing?”
“Just fine, thanks, Hjerald,” she responded with her usual good cheer.
“And, uh, Mr. Beecroft? How’s …”
At that moment, Glen loped over and gave his wife a bite on her posterior, then, chortling, began to climb up the chimney until he was some twenty feet off of the ground. He leapt away from the wall, caught one of the antique chandeliers, and swung back and forth while he poured lamp oil into it from a pouch around his neck. When he finished, he dropped to the floor and looked at Hjerald.
“Beats having to get the ladder—it’s out under the snow, anyway.”
Meredith smiled. Hjerald blinked. Glen and Delna, arm in arm, went back over to the counter.
“Meredith? Do they look … I don’t know, hairier , to you?”
Meredith gave him a dirty look. “Hjerald! Shush—don’t be so loud.” She edged closer to him and whispered in his ear. “It’s been a long week—just because they don’t clean up well doesn’t give us the right to criticize. Just look at Eddie.”
Eddie Wallace was sitting dazed in front of an empty glass of lemonade; his head looked as if it had been dipped in lard, and he had a visible aura. Normally, he was a clean-cut, slicked-up, man-about-town. After three days of no showers, though, he looked like the Ugly Fairy had beaten the snot out of him.
“I guess you’re right,” said Hjerald. “Sorry.”
“That’s all right. Now, what were you saying?”
Hjerald scratched his head. “Mmm? Oh, yeah—I was wondering if you’d like to go over to Ottawa with me,
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