Revolting librarians > Identity crisis
Revolting librarians > Identity crisis
Ranganathan Phlox swore softly to himself as he slowly got to his feet. The platform was totaled all right. Luckily, the jars had bounced clear, with only a little of the precious powder spilled onto the crater's dusty surface. There was nothing to do but pray that one of those librarians rumored insane, working underground for INFORMATION (Information Nexus for Operative Recreational Media and Technical Indexing Output Nebula), would gyroplat by. Rumor had it that after three years in the "hole," no librarian ever again had the power to cloud men's minds. He counted on that. It shouldn't be hard to lure down a gyroplatist, transfer his load, and continue the bootlegging in the commandeered platform. With any luck, he could still make the rendezvous.
Thirty minutes later he spotted it. The platform was light and maneuverable, and the pilot had a glazed look in the eyes. She was obviously a necro - one of those forgotten librarians who spent her life buried in the bowels of the moon, determining death dates in compliance to the old 2005 copyright and xerography law. It was no wonder that the most revolting insult on Mars was "lower than a Jovian blatbeetle and dumber than a lunar necro."
She responded to his hail, and swerved down to pick him up. Her eyesight was obviously failing. "Need a lift, honey?" she cackled lewdly, cocking an eye at Phlox. He hastily moved his five jars of toner to her bin. Since a means had been found to monitor photoelemetry and laser xerography, detecting violations of the 2005 law, illegal xerography was done on a few ancient photocopiers, running on toner and guts. It was dangerous, but a few librarians, their licenses lifted, had succumbed to the glamour of easy minimum wage, and turned renegade. The risk was high - getting caught with 1/4 ounce of toner meant automatic expulsion to a time warp beyond bibliographic control - but Phlox and others like him continued to play the game, which could only end in the inevitable due date with living death.
The crone had continued her monolog, in a high, broken voice. "Want to buy the INFO porno classification schedules?" she wheezed, "only 40 grots." She jabbed him in the stomach with a dessicated elbow and snickered suggestively "fresh additions and changes."
Phlox winced. He hadn't expected that old approach. Better just get out of here, and ignore the niceties of library chitchat. He had just launched into his phony story when the old woman suddenly began humming "Double your pleasure, Double your fun." Phlox stopped in mid-sentence. His contact's signal! The wizened necro leered up at him meaningfully. Phlox shook his head. Something about the set-up bothered him. What was it? By century law, he wasn't guilty of anything until he was photon-searched by the Space Corps or had negotiated a deal. The old woman just didn't seem like a librarian. Still, she was too dumb to be a paraprofessional.... Phlox stopped and thought for a moment, and then had it! In the ten minutes they had been there, not one stray gyroplatist had zoomed down to ask directions! That "library aura" Phlox had worked so hard to get rid of was not operating in the crater. But where was hers - that haunting emanation which elicits questions from all normals within a 4 meter radius?
He quizzed her, knowing that a necro would not have the independence to object - and that anyone posing as a necro would know that.
"How do you Cutter for the Martian ' " ''' " '?"
"What is main entry under the revised Astro Cataloging Code for Big Tiny Little?"
"Spell rhomboid."
The necro answered his questions with smug nonchalance. Phlox changed his tactics.
"Name the executive secretary of the Interstellar Library Association."
The necro looked blank. Obviously she had been coached superbly. No one could tell her from a real librarian. He would have to find some other way of checking his doubts. If he didn't, he might end up on Penal Colony 6, reading spine labels to retired librarians. Phlox shuddered. A terrified ex-con had once told him they smeared library paste in the ventilating shafts to discourage escapes. The Director claimed it controlled flies. To his knowledge, five of Phlox's friends had died on 6 - three by asphyxiation and two by being stuck to death. On the other hand, it was a professional way to go.
The necro wiggled impatiently and redoubled her efforts, humming loudly and determinedly. If she was Space Corps, this was the only way to trap him. By the time she could laser Grand Central he could hitch another ride, trade the toner, and pay off his library fines. If only he could be sure.
"How'd you like to run INFO?" he shot at the old woman. Phlox was elated. Instead of the terror that a normal librarian would exhibit at the prospect of administration, the necro's eyes lit with pleasure and greed.
Phlox unloaded the toner from her platform. "Changed my mind," he drawled casually. The old woman's face mottled with rage. "Brodart!" she spat at him, continuing to hurl invectives until she had gyroed from sight.
Phlox slowly relaxed. One more narrow escape to put on the books. The Space Corps would keep sending agents, and he would keep dodging them. He hadn't aged as much since library school. The thought braced him. He had already been through the fire; the rest was so much descriptive cataloging. Jauntily, he turned to flag another gyroplatist.