the fact that from day to day the layout is rearranged."
"Rearranged! The rooms move?"
"A series of random routines in the master calculator. There are rules, but the
program isn't afraid to waste space, either. Some days only one room is changed,
moved off to some completely different place in the Indexing area. Other days,
everything is changed. The only constant is the archway leading in. I really wasn't
joking when I said you should come here and bellow."
"But-- the indexers must spend the whole moming just finding their stations."
"Not at all. Any indexer can work from any station."
"Ah. So they just call up the job they were working on the day before."
"No. They merely pick up on the job that is already in progress on the station
they happen to choose that day."
"Chaos!" said Leyel.
"Exactly. How do you think a good hyperindex is made? If one person alone indexes
a book, then the only connections that book will make are the ones that person knows
about. Instead, each indexer is forced to skim through what his predecessor did the
day before. Inevitably he'll add some new connections that the other indexer didn't
think of. The environment, the work pattern, everything is designed to break down
habits of thought, to make everything surprising, everything new."
"To keep everybody off balance."
"Exactly. Your mind works quickly when you're running along the edge of the
precipice."
"By that reckoning, acrobats should all be geniuses."
"Nonsense. The whole labor of acrobats is to learn their routines so perfectly
they never lose balance. An acrobat who improvises is soon dead. But indexers, when
they lose their balance, they fall into wonderful discoveries. That's why the
indexes of the Imperial Library are the only ones worth having. They startle and
challenge as you read. All the others are just-- clerical lists."
"Deet never mentioned this."
"Indexers rarely discuss what they're doing. You can't really explain it anyway."
"How long has Deet been an indexer?"
"Not long really. She's still a novice. But I hear she's very, very good."
"Where is she?"
Zay grinned. Then she tipped her head back and bellowed. "Deet!"
The sound seemed to be swallowed up at once in the labyrinth. There was no answer.
"Not nearby, I guess," said Zay. "We'll have to probe a little deeper."
"Couldn't we just ask somebody where she is?"
"Who would know?"
It took two more floors and three more shouts before they heard a faint answering
cry. "Over here!"
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They followed the sound. Deet kept calling out, so they could find her.
"I got the flower room today, Zay! Violets!"
The indexers they passed along the way all looked up-- some smiled, some frowned.
"Doesn't it interfere with things? " asked Leyel. "All this shouting?"
"Indexers need interruption. It breaks up the chain of thought. When they look
back down, they have to rethink what they were doing."
Deet, not so far away now, called again. "The smell is so intoxicating. Imagine--
the same room twice in a month!"
"Are indexers often hospitalized?" Leyel asked quietly.
"For what?"
"Stress."
"There's no stress on this job," said Zay. "Just play. We come up here as a reward
for working in other parts of the library."
"I see. This is the time when librarians actually get to read the books in the
library."
"We all chose this career because we love books for their own sake. Even the old
inefficient corruptible paper ones. Indexing is like-- writing in the margins."
The notion was startling. "Writing in someone else's book?"
"It used to be done all the time, Leyel. How can you possibly engage in dialogue
with the author without writing your answers and arguments in the margins? Here she
is." Zay preceded him under a low arch and down a few steps.
"I heard a man's voice with you, Zay," said Deet.
"Mine," said Leyel. He turned a comer and saw her there. After such a long journey
to reach her, he thought for a dizzying moment that he didn't recognize her. That
the library had randomized the librarians as well as the rooms, and he had happened
upon a woman who merely resembled his long-familiar wife; he would have to
reacquaint himself with her from the beginning.
"I thought so, " said Deet. She got up from her station and embraced him. Even
this startled him, though she usually embraced him upon meeting. It's only the
setting that's different, he told himself. I'm only surprised because usually she
greets me like this at home, in familiar surroundings. And usually it's Deet
arriving, not me.
Or was there, after all, a greater warmth in her greeting here? As if she loved
him more in this place than at home? Or, perhaps, as if the new Deet were simply a
warmer, more comfortable person?
I thought that she was comfortable with me.
Leyel felt uneasy, shy with her. "If I'd known my coming would cause so much
trouble," he began. Why did he need so badly to apologize?
"What trouble?" asked Zay.
"Shouting. Interrupting."
"Listen to him, Deet. He thinks the world has stopped because of a couple of
shouts."
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In the distance they could hear a man bellowing someone's name.
"Happens all the time," said Zay. "I'd better get back. Some lordling from
Mahagonny is probably fuming because I haven't granted his request for access to the
Imperial account books."
"Nice to meet you," said Leyel.
"Good luck finding your way back," said Deet.
"Easy this time," said Zay. She paused only once on her way through the door, not
to speak, but to slide a metallic wafer along an almost unnoticeable slot in the
doorframe, above eye level. She turned back and winked at Deet. Then she was gone.
Leyel didn't ask what she had done-- if it were his business, something would have
been said. But he suspected that Zay had either turned on or turned off a recording
system. Unsure of whether they had privacy here from the library staff, Leyel merely
stood for a moment, looking around. Deet's room really was filled with violets, real
ones, growing out of cracks and apertures in the floor and walls. The smell was
clear but not overpowering. "What is this room for?"
"For me. Today, anyway. I'm so glad you came."
"You never told me about this place."
"I didn't know about it until I was assigned to this section. Nobody talks about
Indexing. We never tell outsiders. The architect died three thousand years ago. Only
our own machinists understand how it works. It's like--"
"Fairyland."
"Exactly."
"A place where all the rules of the universe are suspended."
"Not all. We still stick with good old gravity. Inertia. That sort of thing."
"This place is right for you, Deet. This room."
"Most people go years without getting the flower room. It isn't always violets,
you know. Sometimes climbing roses. Sometimes periwinkle. They say there's really a
dozen flower rooms, but never more than one at a time is accessible. It's been
violets for me both times, though."
Leyel couldn't help himself. He laughed. It was funny. It was delightful. What did
this have to do with a library? And yet what a marvelous thing to have hidden away
in the heart of this somber place. He sat down on a chair. Violets grew out of the
top of the chairback, so that flowers brushed his shoulders.
"You finally got tired of staying in the apartment all day?" asked Deet.
Of course she would wonder why he finally came out, after all her invitations had
been so long ignored. Yet he wasn't sure ff he could speak frankly. "I needed to
talk with you." He glanced back at the slot Zay had used in the doorframe. "Alone,"
he said.
Was that a look of dread that crossed her face?
"We're alone," Deet said quietly. "Zay saw to that. Truly alone, as we can't be
even in the apartment." It took Leyel a moment to realize what she was asserting. He
dared not even speak the word. So he mouthed his question: Pubs?
"They never bother with the library in their normal spying. Even if they set up
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something special for you, there's now an interference field blocking out our
conversation. Chances are, though, that they won't bother to monitor you again until
you leave here."
She seemed edgy. Impatient. As if she didn't like having this conversation. As if
she wanted him to get on with it, or maybe just get it over with.
"If you don't mind," he said. "I haven't interrupted you here before, I thought
that just this once--"
"Of course," she said. But she was still tense. As if she feared what he might
say.
So he explained to her all his thoughts about language. All that he had gleaned
from Kispitorian's and Magolissian's work. She seemed to relax almost as soon as it
became clear he was talking about his research. What did she dread, he wondered. Was
she afraid I came to talk about our relationship? She hardly needed to fear that. He
had no intention of making things more difficult by whining about things that could
not be helped.
When he was through explaining the ideas that had come to him, she nodded
carefully-- as she had done a thousand times before, after he explained an idea or
argument. "I don't know," she finally said. As so many times before, she was
reluctant to commit herself to an immediate response.
And, as he had often done, he insisted. "But what do you think?"
She pursed her lips. "Just offhand-- I've never tried a serious linguistic
application of community theory, beyond jargon formation, so this is just my first
thought-- but try this. Maybe small isolated populations guard their language--
jealously, because it's part of who they are. Maybe language is the most powerful
ritual of all, so that people who have the same language are one in a way that
people who can't understand each other's speech never are. We'd never know, would
we, since everybody for ten thousand years has spoken Standard."
"So it isn't the size of the population, then, so much as--"
"How much they care about their language. How much it defines them as a community.
A large population starts to think that everybody talks like them. They want to
distinguish themselves, form a separate identity. Then they start developing jargons
and slangs to separate themselves from others. Isn't that what happens to common
speech? Children try to find ways of talking that their parents don't use.
Professionals talk in private vocabularies so laymen won't know the passwords. All
rituals for community definition."
Leyel nodded gravely, but he had one obvious doubt.
Obvious enough that Deet knew it, too. "Yes, yes, I know, Leyel. I immediately
interpreted your question in terms of my own discipline. Like physicists who think
that everything can be explained by physics."
Leyel laughed. "I thought of that, but what you said makes sense. And it would
explain why the natural tendency of communities is to diversify language. We want a
common tongue, a language of open discourse. But we also want private languages.
Except a completely private language would be useless-- whom would we talk to? So
wherever a community forms, it creates at least a few linguistic barriers to
outsiders, a few shibboleths that only insiders will know."
"And the more allegiance a person has to a community, the more fluent he'll become
in that language, and the more he'll speak it."
"Yes, it makes sense," said Leyel. "So easy. You see how much I need you?"
He knew that his words were a mild rebuke-- why weren't you home when I needed
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you-- but he couldn't resist saying it. Sitting here with Deet, even in this strange
and redolent place, felt right and comfortable. How could she have withdrawn from
him? To him, her presence was what made a place home. To her, this place was home
whether he was there or not.
He tried to put it in words-- in abstract words, so it wouldn't sting. "I think
the greatest tragedy is when one person has more allegiance to his community than
any of the other members."
Deet only half smiled and raised her eyebrows. She didn't know what he was getting
at.
"He speaks the community language all the time," said Leyel. "Only nobody else
ever speaks it to him, or not enough anyway. And the more he speaks it, the more he
alienates the others and drives them away, until he's alone. Can you imagine
anything more sad? Somebody who's filled up with a language, hungry to speak, to
hear it spoken, and yet there's no one left who understands a word of it."
She nodded, her eyes searching him. Does she understand what I'm saying? He waited
for her to speak. He had said all he dared to say.
"But imagine this," she finally said. "What if he left that little place where no
one understood him, and went over a hill to a new place, and all of a sudden he
heard a hundred voices, a thousand, speaking the words he had treasured all those
lonely years. And then he realized that he had never really known the language at
all. The words had hundreds of meanings and nuances he had never guessed. Because
each speaker changed the language a little just by speaking. And when he spoke at
last, his own voice sounded like music in his ears, and the others listened with
delight, with rapture, his music was like the water of life pouring from a fountain,
and he knew that he had never been home before."
Leyel couldn't remember hearing Deet sound so-- rhapsodic, that was it, she
herself was singing. She is the person she was talking about. In this place, her
voice is different, that's what she meant. At home with me, she's been alone. Here
in the library she's found others who speak her secret language. It isn't that she
didn't want our marriage to succeed. She hoped for it, but I never understood her.
These people did. Do. She's home here, that's what she's telling me.
"I understand," he said.
"Do you?" She looked searchingly into his face.
"I think so. It's all right."
<
br /> She gave him a quizzical look.
"I mean, it's fine. It's good. This place. It's fine."
She looked relieved, but not completely. "You shouldn't be so sad about it, Leyel.
This is a happy place. And you could do everything here that you ever did at home."
Except love you as the other part of me, and have you love me as the other part of
you. "Yes, I'm sure. "
"No, I mean it. What you're working on-- I can see that you're getting close to
something. Why not work on it here, where we can talk about it?"
Leyel shrugged.
"You are getting close, aren't you?"
"How do I know? I'm thrashing around like a drowning man in the ocean at night.
Maybe I'm close to shore, and maybe I'm just swimming farther out to sea."
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"Well, what do you have? Didn't we get closer just now?"
"No. This language thing-- if it's just an aspect of community theory, it can't be
the answer to human origin."
"Why not?"
"Because many primates have communities. A lot of other animals. Herding animals,
for instance. Even schools of fish. Bees. Ants. Every multicelled organism is a
community, for that matter. So if linguistic diversion grows out of community, then
it's inherent in prehuman animals and therefore isn't part of the definition of
humanity."
"Oh. I guess not."
"Right."
She looked disappointed. As if she had really hoped they would find the answer to
the origin question right there, that very day.
Leyel stood up. "Oh well. Thanks for your help."
"I don't think I helped."
"Oh, you did. You showed me I was going up a dead-end road. You saved me a lot of
wasted thought. That's progress, in science, to know which answers aren't true."
His words had a double meaning, of course. She had also shown him that their
marriage was a dead-end road. Maybe she understood him. Maybe not. It didn't
matter-- he had understood her. That little story about a lonely person finally
discovering a place where she could be at home-- how could he miss the point of
that?
"Leyel," she said. "Why not put your question to the indexers?"
"Do you think the library researchers could find answers where I haven't?"
"Not the research department. Indexing,"
"What do you mean?"
"Write down your questions. All the avenues you've pursued. Linguistic diversity.
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