iancaldwell&dustinthomason.theruleoffour-第10节

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　shop　was　louder　now。　Paul　began　talking；　trying　to　mend　things。　He　told　me　how；　after　his　parents　died；　he'd　been　raised　at　a　parochial　school　that　boarded　orphans　and　runaways。　How；　after　spending　most　of　high　school　in　the　pany　of　books；　he'd　e　to　college　determined　to　make　something　better　of　his　life。　How　he　was　looking　for　friends　who　could　talk　back。　Finally　he　fell　quiet；　an　embarrassed　look　on　his　face；　sensing　that　he'd　killed　the　conversation。
　〃So　what　dorm　do　you　live　in？〃　I　asked　him；　knowing　how　he　felt。
　〃Holder。　Same　as　you。〃
　He　pulled　out　a　copy　of　the　freshman　face…book　and　showed　me　the　dog…eared　page。
　〃How　long　have　you　been　looking　for　me？〃　I　asked。
　〃I　just　found　your　name。〃
　I　looked　out　the　window。　A　single　red　umbrella　floated　past。　It　paused　at　the　coffee　shop　window　and　seemed　to　hover　there　before　going　on。
　I　turned　back　to　Paul。　〃Want　another　cup？〃
　〃Sure。　Thanks。〃
　And　so　it　began。
　　
　What　a　strange　thing；　to　build　a　castle　in　the　air。　We　made　a　friendship　out　of　nothing；　because　nothing　was　the　heart　of　what　we　shared。　After　that　night　it　seemed　more　and　more　natural；　talking　to　Paul。　Before　long　I　even　started　to　feel　the　way　he　did　about　my　father：　that　maybe　we　shared　him　too。
　〃You　know　what　he　used　to　say？〃　I　asked　him　one　night　in　his　bedroom　when　we　talked　about　the　accident。
　〃What？〃
　〃The　strong　take　from　the　weak；　but　the　smart　take　from　the　strong。〃
　Paul　smiled。
　〃There　was　an　old　Princeton　basketball　coach　who　used　to　say　that；〃　I　told　him。　〃Freshman　year　in　high　school；　I　tried　out　for　basketball。　My　dad　would　pick　me　up　from　practice　every　day；　and　when　I　would　plain　about　how　much　shorter　I　was　than　everybody　else；　he　would　say；　'It　doesn't　matter　how　big　they　are；　Tom。　Remember：　The　strong　take　from　the　weak；　but　the　smart　take　from　the　strong。'　Always　the　same　thing。〃　I　shook　my　head。　〃God；　I　got　sick　of　that。〃
　〃Do　you　think　it's　true？〃
　〃That　the　smart　take　from　the　strong？〃
　〃Yeah。〃
　I　laughed。　〃You've　never　seen　me　play　basketball。〃
　〃Well；　I　believe　it；〃　he　said。　〃I　definitely　do。〃
　〃You're　kidding　。　。　。〃
　He'd　been　stuffed　in　more　lockers　and　browbeaten　by　more　bullies　during　high　school　than　anyone　I'd　ever　known。
　〃No。　Not　at　all。〃　He　lifted　his　hands。　〃We're　here；　aren't　we？〃
　He　placed　the　faintest　emphasis　on　we。
　In　the　silence；　I　looked　at　the　three　books　on　his　desk。　Strunk　and　White；　the　Bible；　The　Belladonna　Document。　Princeton　was　a　gift　to　him。　He　could　forget　everything　else。
　
　Chapter　5
　
　Paul；　Gil；　and　I　continue　south　from　Holder　into　the　belly　of　campus。　To　the　east；　the　tall；　thin　windows　of　Firestone　Library　streak　the　snow　with　fiery　light。　At　dark　the　building　looks　like　an　ancient　furnace；　stone　walls　insulating　the　outside　world　from　the　heat　and　blush　of　learning。　In　a　dream　once；　I　visited　Firestone　in　the　middle　of　the　night　and　found　it　full　of　insects；　thousands　of　bookworms　wearing　tiny　glasses　and　sleeping　caps；　magically　feeding　themselves　by　reading　stories。　They　wriggled　from　page　to　page；　journeying　through　the　words；　and　as　tensions　grew　and　lovers　kissed　and　villains　met　their　ends；　the　bookworms'　tails　began　to　glow；　until　finally　the　whole　library　was　a　church　of　candles　swaying　gently　from　left　to　right。
　〃Bill's　waiting　for　me　in　there；〃　Paul　says；　stopping　short。
　〃You　want　us　to　e　with　you？〃　Gil　asks。
　Paul　shakes　his　head。　〃It's　okay。〃
　But　I　hear　the　catch　in　his　voice。
　〃I'll　e；〃　I　say。
　〃I'll　meet　you　guys　back　at　the　room；〃　Gil　says。　〃You'll　be　back　in　time　for　Taft's　lecture　at　nine？〃
　〃Yes；〃　Paul　says。　〃Of　course。〃
　Gil　waves　and　turns。　Paul　and　I　continue　down　the　path　toward　Firestone。
　Once　we're　alone；　I　realize　that　neither　of　us　knows　what　to　say。　Days　have　passed　since　our　last　real　conversation。　Like　brothers　who　disapprove　of　each　other's　wives；　we　can't　even　manage　small　talk　without　tripping　over　our　differences：　he　thinks　I　gave　up　on　the　Hypnerotomachia　to　be　with　Katie；　I　think　he's　given　up　more　for　the　Hypnerotomachia　than　he　knows。
　〃What　does　Bill　want？〃　I　ask　as　we　approach　the　main　entrance。
　〃I　don't　know。　He　wouldn't　say。〃
　〃Where　are　we　meeting　him？〃
　〃In　the　Rare　Books　Room。〃
　Where　Princeton　keeps　its　copy　of　the　Hypnerotomachia。
　〃I　think　he　found　something　important。〃
　〃Like　what？〃
　〃I　don't　know。〃　Paul　hesitates；　as　if　he's　looking　for　the　right　words。　〃But　the　book　is　even　more　than　we　thought。　I'm　sure　of　it。　Bill　and　I　both　feel　like　we're　on　the　cusp　of　something　big。〃
　It's　been　weeks　since　I've　caught　a　glimpse　of　Bill　Stein。　Wallowing　in　the　sixth　year　of　a　seemingly　endless　graduate　program；　Stein　has　slowly　been　assembling　a　dissertation　on　the　technology　of　Renaissance　printing。　A　jangling　skeleton　of　a　man；　he　aimed　at　being　a　professional　librarian　until　larger　ambitions　got　in　his　way：　tenure；　professorships；　advancement…all　the　fixations　that　e　with　wanting　to　serve　books；　then　gradually　wanting　books　to　serve　you。　Every　time　I　see　him　outside　Firestone　he　looks　like　an　escaped　ghost；　a　purse　of　bones　drawn　up　too　tight；　with　the　pale　eyes　and　strange　curled…red　hair　of　a　half　Jew；　half　Irishman。　He　smells　of　library　mold；　of　the　books　everyone　else　has　forgotten；　and　after　talking　to　him　I　sometimes　have　nightmares　that　the　University　of　Chicago　will　be　inhabited　by　armies　of　Bill　Steins；　grad　students　who　bring　to　their　work　a　robotic　drive　I've　never　had；　whose　nickel…colored　eyes　see　right　through　me。
　Paul　sees　it　differently。　He　says　that　Bill；　impressive　as　he　is；　has　one　intellectual　flaw：　the　absence　of　a　living　spark。　Stein　crawls　through　the　library　like　a　spider　in　an　attic；　eating　up　dead　books　and　spinning　them　into　fine　thread。　What　he　makes　from　them　is　always　mechanical　and　uninspired；　driven　by　a　symmetry　he　can　never　change。
　〃This　way？〃　I　ask。
　Paul　leads　me　down　the　corridor。　The　Rare　Books　Room　stands　off　in　a　corner　of　Firestone；　easy　to　pass　without　noticing。　Inside　it；　where　some　of　the　youngest　books　are　centuries　old；　the　scale　of　age　bees　relative。　Upperclassmen　in　literature　seminars　are　brought　here　like　children　on　field　trips；　their　pens　and　pencils　confiscated；　their　dirty　fingers　monitored。　Librarians　can　be　heard　scolding　tenure…track　professors　to　look　without　touching。　Emeritus　faculty　e　here　to　feel　young　again。
　〃It　should　be　closed；〃　Paul　says；　glancing　at　his　digital　watch。　〃Bill　must've　talked　Mrs。　Lockhart　into　keeping　it　open。〃
　We　are　in　Stein's　world　now。　Mrs。　Lockhart；　the　librarian　time　forgot；　probably　darned　socks　with　Gutenberg's　wife　in　her　day。　She　has　smooth　white　skin　draped　on　a　wispy　frame　made　for　floating　through　the　stacks。　Most　of　the　day　she　can　be　found　muttering　in　dead　languages　to　the　books　around　her；　a　taxidermist　whispering　to　her　pets。　We　pass　by　without　making　eye　contact；　signing　a　clipboard　with　a　pen　chained　to　her　desk。
　〃He's　in　there；〃　she　says　to　Paul；　recognizing　him。　To　me　she　gives　only　a　sniff。
　Through　a　narrow　connecting　area　we　arrive　before　a　door　I've　never　opened。　Paul　approaches；　knocks　twice；　and　waits　for　a　sound。
　〃Mrs。　Lockhart？〃　es　the　reply　in　a　high；　shifting　voice。
　〃It's　me；〃　Paul　says。
　A　lock　clicks　on　the　other　side；　and　the　door　opens　slowly。　Bill　Stein　appears　before　us；　a　half…foot　taller　than　either　Paul　or　me。　The　first　thing　I　notice　is　the　gunmetal　eyes；　how　bloodshot　they　are。　The　first　thing　they　notice　is　me。
　〃Tom　came　with　you；〃　he　says；　scratching　at　his　face。　〃Okay。　Good；　fine。〃
　Bill　speaks　in　shades　of　the　obvious；　some　stopgap　between　his　mouth　and　mind　gone　missing。　The　impression　is　misleading。　After　a　few　minutes　of　the　mundane　you　see　flashes　of　his　aptitude。
　〃It　was　a　bad　day；〃　he　says；　guiding　us　in。　〃A　bad　week。　Not　a　big　deal。　I'm　fine。〃
　〃Why　couldn't　we　talk　on　the　phone？〃　Paul　asks。
　Stein's　mouth　opens；　but　he　doesn't　answer。　Now　he's　scratching　at　something　between　his　front　teeth。　He　unzips　his　jacket；　then　turns　back　to　Paul。　〃Has　someone　been　checking　out　your　books？〃　he　asks。
　〃What？〃
　〃Because　someone's　been　checking　out　mine。〃
　〃Bill；　it　happens。〃
　〃My　William　Caxton　paper？　My　Aldus　microfilm？〃
　〃Caxton's　a　major　figure；〃　Paul　says。
　I've　never　heard　of　William　Caxton　in　my　life。
　〃The　1877　paper　on　him？〃　Bill　says。　〃It's　only　at　the　Forrestal　Annex。　And　Aldus's　Letters　of　Saint　Catherine…〃　He　turns　to　me。　〃Not；　as　generally　believed；　the　first　use　of　italics…〃　Then　back　to　Paul。　〃Microfilm　last　viewed　by　someone　other　than　you　or　me　in　the　seventies。　Seventy…one；　seventy…two。　Someone　put　a　hold　on　it　yesterday。　This　isn't　happening　to　you？〃
　Paul　frowns。　〃Have　you　talked　to　Circulation？〃
　〃Circulation？　I　talked　to　Rhoda　Carter。　They　know　nothing。〃
　Rhoda　Carter；　head　librarian　of　Firestone。　Where　the　book　stops。
　〃I　don't　know；〃　Paul　says；　trying　not　to　get　Bill　more　excited。　〃It's　probably　nothing。　I　wouldn't　worry　about　it。〃
　〃I　don't。　I'm　not。　But　here's　the　thing。〃　Bill　works　his　way　around　the　far　edge　of　the　room；　where　the　space　between　the　wall　and　the　table　seems　too　narrow　to　pass。　He　slips　through　without　a　sound　and　pats　at　the　pocket　of　his　old　leather　jacket。　〃I　get　these　phone　calls。　Pick　u