Interlibrary Loan

by Gene Wolfe

  I could not help smiling. “You’re very kind. I won’t ask for it unless I need it.”

  “All right.” Chandra took a bite of her sandwich and chewed it thoughtfully. When she had swallowed, she said, “Suppose my father is back in High Plains, like you think. What are we going to do then?”

  I sighed. “First, let me say that I don’t think he’s there now. Shall I explain why?”

  She nodded.

  “First, because I just saw him in the library here picking up Millie Baumgartner and Rose Romain. If he has returned to High Plains already he must have a flitter, which I think is actually quite possible. Furthermore, he must have taken them there with him, which I think extremely improbable.”

  Stubbornly, “He could do that if he wanted to.”

  “No doubt he could. Still, I doubt very much that he did. Just look at it. They were in the Spice Grove Public Library with me. He requested that the library here get them on interlibrary loan just as it was getting me. Why do that if he intended to return them to Spice Grove as soon as he had them?”

  Chandra thought that one over. At last she said, “It would have to be because he wanted to show them to somebody here.”

  “I would reverse that. I’m quite sure that there’s someone in Spice Grove whom he wants to prevent from seeing them—certainly from seeing them with him.”

  “And if they’re here, that person in Spice Grove couldn’t see them at all.”

  “Correct, save for the pictures on the covers of their books.”

  Chandra finished her cocoa. “I still don’t understand why all three had to come from the same place. Have you figured that out, too?”

  “I don’t think it was necessary, just that it was probable. As I understand it, a professor is not granted a sabbatical until he has gotten tenure. Getting tenure generally takes ten years or more. That means your father probably taught in Spice Grove for at least ten years before he came here with your mother. Libraries don’t buy writers like me—or like Millie or Rose, for that matter—unless there is a good deal of interest at their libraries in those writers. Reclones are costly, but if they are checked out a lot, there will be no problem with the Board.”

  Chandra nodded.

  “When I spoke to your mother, she told me that she used to be a great reader. Since she asked the library for the help of a mystery writer, myself, she has presumably read a great many mysteries. She may have read some books of other kinds as well, but she almost certainly read a round dozen mysteries every year. Quite possibly more.”

  “She talks about them sometimes.”

  “I imagine so. We all talk, at least occasionally, about the things we read. No doubt she bought a few mysteries to read, and she may well have been given some; but it’s almost certain that a great many came from the Mystery section in the Polly’s Cove Public Library. Millie told me once that they had more of her books in Cooking than all the other authors combined.”

  “You think my father’s learning to cook.” Chandra sounded dubious.

  I shook my head. “I think he learned about Mrs. Heuse. Are there any other servants in this household?”

  “Only Mrs. Snow. She’s the housekeeper.”

  “Then he may have learned about it from her, or from Mrs. Heuse herself, or from one of the librarians. Now, when he wants a good cook who will be powerless to resign, he has decided to do the same thing.” I shrugged. “It’s even possible that he learned about someone whose name we have never heard doing what he wanted to do. If he did, he may have mentioned it to your mother one day over kafe, unintentionally planting the idea.”

  Slowly Chandra said, “I see.…”

  “Or he may have thought of it for himself.”

  6

  FROM LIBRARY CUSTODY

  Aunt Laura turned out to be a whole lot harder than I had expected. She was not at home—or if she was, she wasn’t answering her screen. Tenaciously questioned by Chandra, the Spice Grove Public Library supplied the title of the Greater Spice Grove Area Almanac Atlas & Directory, a surprisingly useful reference “book” that (deep sigh!) did not actually exist on paper.

  “Books,” I told Chandra, “ought to exist. They ought to be actual physical objects you can pick up and put down. We should not have to engage a medium and hold a séance.”

  She gave me a you-sure-are-weird look.

  “You don’t see why.”

  “No, I don’t!” (Spoken with heavy emphasis on the final word.) “It would take a ton of paper.”

  “You’re absolutely right. Still, it might mean that only books worth reading would achieve wide circulation.”

  “If you say so.”

  She sounded dubious; and now that I’ve had time to think about it, I know she was right.

  A screen search of this phantom Area Almanac gave us Laura Fevre’s address, and much later and only grudgingly the names and addresses of several residents of apartments and houses in the area. The screens Chandra made to a dozen of them got us only negative information. Not one of Aunt Laura’s neighbors knew where she had gone or whether she might return to her home later today. One helpful lady suggested half a dozen probable destinations however, and another, about twenty minutes later, gave us Aunt Laura’s eephone number, a detail none of her other neighbors had admitted to knowing. This time I screened, feeling that I would have to fine-tune my later questions to Aunt Laura Fevre’s first replies. After a deep breath and a brave smile I began my call by politely hoping that I was not interfering with her shopping.

  “Oh, I’m not shopping, Mr. Smithe. I’m at work.” Aunt Laura looked and sounded younger than I had expected. “What can I do for you?”

  “First let me explain that I’m trying to help out your brother’s wife, Adah Fevre. I’m sure you know that your brother is married; I’m told that you took care of little Chandra for your brother and his wife some years ago.”

  “I did. Barry and his wife are separated, though; and his wife has custody of their daughter. Is this something about Chandra?”

  “Only indirectly. It’s urgent that Adah get in touch with Barry, however. Do you know where he is?”

  “Yes, he’s on sabbatical.”

  I nodded. Seven years since they had chartered the Three Sisters; I ought to have thought of that. “Where he is physically. Chandra and I need to talk to him.”

  “Really, I have no idea.” Aunt Laura paused, looking thoughtful. “Couldn’t he be off where he gets all those cadavers for his classes? I know he goes there and comes back with cadavers. I believe it’s some island or other.”

  I took a deep breath. “I suppose he could. Do you know where it is?”

  “Why, I haven’t the foggiest idea. It sounds like a perfectly awful place, though. Have you talked to Peggy?”

  I glanced at Chandra, who looked as puzzled as I felt, then back to the screen. “I’m afraid not. Who is she?”

  “She’s Dr. Fevre’s assistant. His intern, or whatever they call them at the university. He’s mentioned her, Peggy something. She might know.”

  “I’m sure you’re right. Can you give us a number for her?”

  “No. I have no idea, but she must have one. Everybody does.”

  There was nothing for it but to screen the university and ask for Dr. Fevre.

  A pleasant female voice said, “Anatomy.” The face on the screen was quite pretty, youthful and framed in dark curls.

  I tried to sound both pleasant and important. “May I speak to Dr. Fevre?”

  “He’s not here, and I can’t say when he’ll be back.” When I didn’t speak, Peggy something added, “Shall I put you on his message board?”

  “That shouldn’t be necessary. Do you have his eephone number?”

  “It’s off, I’m sure. He often turns it off when he’s busy.”

  “I’d like the number, even so. If it’s off, I’ll screen him again later.”

  The pretty crimson mouth tried not to smile; Peggy was enjoying this. “I’m afraid I can’t
give that out, sir. May I ask who’s screening?”

  I would have tried to look less like a reclone if only I had known how. I didn’t think she had made me yet, but I couldn’t be sure. “My name is Smithe, Doctor-ah…?”

  “Pepper. I’m Professor Margaret Pepper.”

  I gave her the most charming smile I could manage. “My name is Ern A. Smithe, Professor Pepper. That’s Smith with a final E. I’m looking for Dr. Fevre on behalf of Adah Fevre, Dr. Fevre’s wife. She’s bedridden. No doubt you know.”

  It brought a smile from Prof. Pepper. “His estranged wife.”

  At that moment I knew exactly how a bloodhound feels when it catches the scent of blood. Trying hard not to sound as eager as I felt, I said, “Correct. It concerns Chandra, their daughter. You’re aware that Dr. Fevre has a daughter?”

  “Yes, certainly.”

  “Is he on that island?”

  “Lichholm?” Peggy Pepper hesitated. “I wouldn’t know. I suppose it’s possible, but in winter…”

  “No doubt it’s unpleasant.” I was trying hard not to sound as pleased as I felt. “Still, if his research required it I would think he might go there, even in winter. Do you know if he has a flitter?”

  Pretty Professor Pepper looked a trifle startled. “Why, no. No, he doesn’t … not as far as I know. I feel sure that would be terribly expensive.”

  I said, “Thank you very much; you’ve been most helpful. You’re Professor Margaret Pepper? Have I got that right?”

  “Yes. The next time Dr. Fevre checks in with me, I’ll tell him you screened.”

  When I had thanked Prof. Peggy Pepper and terminated the screen, I turned to Chandra. “I hope you found that as interesting as I did.”

  She shook her head, making her braids dance. “I don’t think I understood much at all. Could he really fly there in a flitter? Get to the island?”

  “If half a dozen cadavers would suffice, I don’t see why not. It might require a good deal of range, but since we don’t know where this island is I don’t really know. The flitter might have, ah, sanitary conveniences.”

  “Sure, a pee-pot or something.”

  “Sleeping quarters would be nice, too. If, ah—”

  A new voice, low, female, and energetic, announced, “I’m coming too! You have to take me.” Adah Fevre wore tough-looking green halfpants and a shining, soft blouse whose colors depended on the angle at which the light struck it; turn a little, and yellow vanished where scarlet or crimson appeared. The biggest butcher knife I have ever seen had been pushed through her belt without a sheath. “Do you have a lot of money?”

  I tried to say hell no, but it came out polite: “I’m afraid not.”

  “Neither do I. We’ll have to charter a boat. Do you know how to handle one?”

  I shook my head.

  “Well then, is there another reclone at that library of yours who might help us?”

  “I don’t know. I haven’t been there long enough to get acquainted. Do you know of anyone?”

  Adah Fevre shook her head.

  “Then what about a fully human? That might be better.”

  “Like me? It would be worse, Mr. Smithe. Much, much worse, since both of us would try to command. And no, I don’t know of anyone who might be of help.” Adah hesitated. “I haven’t the least idea, but I’ll try to think of someone. Meanwhile you really ought to get acquainted with the other reclones at that library of yours.”

  “I certainly will. Have we got enough money to charter a boat?”

  “I think so, but we can steal one if we don’t.” Adah Fevre’s hand found the ponticwood handle of her butcher knife. “Piracy’s traditional in my family; I’m a Morgan on my mother’s side.” For a moment she smiled savagely at her daughter. “You must try to remember that, Chandra, and tell your brats.”

  Adah’s attention returned to me. “I have no idea what my husband’s up to, but whatever it is we’ll find out and put a stop to it.”

  On my way back to the library, I thought of a cartoon I’d seen somewhere. A little boy was telling his dog about all the arrangements his parents had made for a long family vacation. There were twenty or thirty at least, all the way from a neighbor who had promised to take in the paper to a service that was supposed to have someone trustworthy come into the house to water his mother’s African violets and dust. Through all that, his pet thought over and over: Who’s going to feed the dog?

  In this case that could be dismissed, I felt sure. Mrs. Heuse would, just as she must have before. But with Adah Fevre gone, would a simple bowl of dog food or table scraps be enough? It seemed almost certain that the dog had once been hers. Had she really forgotten it completely?

  I worried over another question, too. What do you call it when a man sets out to avenge his own murder? Suicide works, but I did not care for that one.

  The Spice Grove Public Library had boasted of having no less than twenty-six reclones of (somewhat) famous writers, including me. The Polly’s Cove Public Library had a scant six. Nigel Hart was a military historian. Hans von Rhein had written texts on horology. The other four were just names to me, and nothing in their conversation at dinner that night—or at least nothing in the snatches that I could overhear—told me what they had written about. Even so I learned their names, and noted them down on a scrap of paper as soon as I got the chance.

  The library’s screens were supposed to be out of bounds for us; but when it was closed and all the doors were locked, there were only three ’bots to keep me from using a screen. As soon as a patrolling ’bot had passed, I typed in the name of one of my new teammates.

  The Rudiments of Sailing, Building a Small Racing Sloop, A Lifetime’s Slavery to the Wind, Let’s Revive the Topsail Schooner …

  On to the next. Primitive Navigation, Polynesians and Phoenicians, A Deep Breath and a Big Stone, Lost at Sea … That seemed promising. I made a check mark beside the author’s name: Audrey Hopkins.

  A quarter of an hour later, I went looking for her. She was already asleep, and I was tempted to wake her up but on further reflection that seemed like a bad idea. Dog tired, I turned in myself instead.

  Next morning I was able to get a seat next to her at breakfast. I had rehearsed the first few lines.

  “May I sit here, Ms. Hopkins? And introduce myself? I’m Ern Smithe—that’s Smith with an E at the end—and I wrote mysteries. I wanted to tell you how much I enjoyed The Boats of the Yerba Buena.”

  She had a charming smile. “Did you really read that? I’m flattered.”

  “I hoped you would be.” I smiled back. “Yes, I did. It’s a fine book and an unusual book. One usually finds men writing about men’s adventures, while women write about love affairs, gowns, balls, and intrigues.”

  “But I wrote about men’s adventures?”

  “No. Even though that would be sufficiently unusual. You wrote about men’s misadventures. Far from a common topic, even from men.”

  The smile again. “Somehow, we women rarely make it into the lifeboats. I can scarcely imagine a lifeboat full of us.”

  Play long enough and you’ve got to get lucky. It had been a favorite saying of the first me’s father; I could almost see him smiling down from wherever. I said, “I can’t offer that, but I’m going to come close. Two women, a girl, the boat, and me. Do you get checked out a lot?”

  The smile faded. “Must I tell you?”

  “No. I have no authority, meaning no way verifying your veracity.” I paused, as though composing a truly wonderful tale. “On one unforgettable occasion—here I give a single example when I might give you several—I was checked out by two patrons at once. It was the wonder of the Spice Grove Public Library and remains so to this day, but what outsider would believe it?”

  One shapely feminine eyebrow challenged me. “And they credited you for both?”

  “They did. Circumstances demanded it and so did I. My patrons on that well-remembered occasion, should you care to investigate further, were an heiress, Ms.
Colette Coldbrook, and a plainclothes detective named Payne. I have reason to doubt that you frequently encounter checkouts like that here in Polly’s Cove.”

  She shook her head; the gesture held a charm I could not have explained in a week. “I’ve been checked out twice in the past four years, Mr. Smithe.”

  I’m not good at sympathetic, but I tried when I said, “A checkout every two years is better than nothing.”

  “But not much better; I’m well aware of it.”

  Taking a deep breath and picking my words, I told her, “I can arrange for you to be checked out today, Ms. Hopkins. I’m not boasting; I can do it and I will do it if you want me to. I could—only to be fair I ought to tell you about the circumstances first.”

  “You’re serious?”

  I nodded, striving to look as serious as a judge. “Completely.”

  “Call me Audrey, please.”

  I said, “I’m dead serious, Audrey. Absolutely serious. This isn’t a joke and it isn’t some kind of swindle.”

  “Then why aren’t you checked out yourself?”

  “I am. I was sent back to the library to find—all right if I say ‘recruit’?—somebody like you. My patron and I had no particular person in mind. I was to find the right person.”

  “As you have?” There was no smile.

  “I hope so. If you’ll agree, you and I will visit the waterfront and charter a fishing boat. We’ll charter the one called the Three Sisters, if we can get it.”

  “This is real?” Audrey’s hopeful voice was deeper than many men’s.

  “Very. We’re not treasure hunters. We’ll be looking for my patron’s husband, Dr. Barry Fevre. He’s been away from home for seven years, roughly.” For a few seconds I stopped talking to think. When Audrey didn’t speak, I said, “Mrs. Fevre sometimes says twelve years. That may be a lie or an error, or some sort of subjective truth; I wish I knew which.”

  Audrey was silent, so I added, “He may have gone to look for cadavers. We think that’s the most probable reason.”

  Her eyes went wide.

  “He teaches anatomy to medical students. He needs cadavers for them to dissect, and they’re hard to find.”