Pathways - Jeri Taylor [61]
Nimembeh’s schedule for Harry was so grueling that it left little time for socialization, so Harry did his best to keep his mind off the female cadets. This wasn’t easy, as there were hundreds of bright, eager, talented and quite beautiful young women at the Academy; but Harry had learned strong self-discipline during his adolescence, when he had devoted himself to his studies in order to be admitted.
“Who needs women,” he laughed ruefully to George, “as long as we have each other?”
It was simply easier, and far more comfortable, to take a night off with George than to go to the effort of inviting a young woman he barely knew, make an evening of strained small talk, and then face the prospect of deciding whether or not he wanted to repeat the process. With George there was no awkwardness, no struggle to make conversation, no effort at all. When he had time on a weekend to transport home—a rarity—George often came with him, and his family had all but adopted his roommate as one of their own.
And so Harry was unprepared for what happened to him on a windy spring day in April, when San Francisco sparkled like crown jewels after a series of thunderstorms had blown through, leaving the air sweet and brisk, the streets and building glowing with dampness.
On this beautiful day, Harry was in a dark, cavelike building on an impossible quest. Nimembeh had ordered him to procure a book that wasn’t available in any form except the ancient one of printed, bound pages. Harry frankly thought that anything worth reading should be available on padds, but Nimembeh had insisted he find the centuries-old tale of a British sea captain who had piloted his men to safety after having been put overboard after a mutiny.
Old books were rare commodities on Earth. A few serious bibliophiles had collections, but these were privately held and carefully guarded. Only one possible source existed in San Francisco, a huge, multistoried building in the Embarcadero, lined with rows of old bookshelves, and onto which were jammed a chaotic, disorganized array of books—of all kinds, on all subjects, fiction, history, art, cooking, everything one could think of.
But there was virtually no way to locate a specific book. The building was manned by cheerful volunteers who claimed a love of old tomes, and who in fact read them almost constantly, but who had no idea just what books were in their keeping, nor how to find one that might be there. “It’s a browsing place,” said one robust, ample woman with neatly cut white hair and kindly gray eyes, and a rectangular tag on her bosom which read HARRIET. “There’s nothing more soothing than wandering around the stacks, just picking up a book that catches your eye and poring over it.”
“Yes, ma’am,” said Harry, a bit desperately, “I’m sure that’s true. But I have to find one specific book. Isn’t there any way to do that?”
Puzzlement registered in the woman’s eyes. “Charlotte,” she called to another volunteer, “this young man wants to find a particular book. Do we have any way to do that?”
Charlotte, who was a vision in neutrality—beige hair, beige eyes, beige sweater and skirt—seemed equally bewildered. “I don’t know of any,” she said vaguely.
“You mean the books aren’t catalogued?” asked Harry incredulously, which produced gentle laughter from both women. “Oh, no, of course not,” said Charlotte. “There are millions of books here. How could we ever catalogue them?”
Perspiration began to collect on Harry’s forehead. He wasn’t going to go back to Nimembeh and say he’d failed. “Maybe you’ve noticed the book I want,” he offered politely. “In your browsing, I mean.”
“What is it, dear?” asked the older woman sweetly. “I’ve rummaged through these books for years.”
“It’s called Men Against