Tommie Lyn

Death Is No Object

Library collections can be unusual...

Owen Thrushwait looked again at the numbers on his digital watch. They weren't changing fast enough to suit him. He tapped the face impatiently with his forefinger, as though that would make time increase its velocity. He shifted again on the hard plastic seat but couldn't find a comfortable position.

The assistant librarian emerged from the office of her superior and told him, "Ms Albanaca will see you now."

Thrushwait stood, breezed past the underling and through the open door. And stopped. Mellie Albanaca, if that's who was sitting behind the battered desk, was not who he expected to see. The voluptuous young woman who sat regarding him with a cool stare looked like anything other than a head librarian. It made him momentarily forget his usual loquacious spiel. And it was a few moments, tick, tick, tick, before he was able to close his gaping mouth and remember his mission.

He swallowed. "Ms, ah, Ms Albanaca?" He extended his hand, held it out for a moment, then let it drop unshaken.

Owen cleared his throat. And waited for an invitation to sit. At last, he appropriated the wooden chair at the corner of the head librarian's desk and perched on the edge of the seat. He placed his briefcase on his knees, popped the latches and opened it. He reached inside and retrieved a small red envelope.

"This, ah, I believe you sent this to our office?" he said as he extended the envelope toward the head librarian.

She nodded, almost imperceptibly.

Owen dropped the envelope to the blotter in front of her and drew his hand back to wipe a trickle of perspiration from the side of his face.

"We, ah, we don't normally process requests like yours," he began, "but--"

"But you will. This time," Mellie interrupted.

"Yes," he said, squirming uncomfortably on the hard chair.

"Did Stephanie show you our layout? Let you see our problem?" she asked.

"No."

She rose from her chair and passed by, a faint unpleasant medicinal odor floating behind her like a bride's train. "Come with me."

Owen closed his briefcase, rose and followed the head librarian out of the office. She turned left and approached a heavy metal door which she opened by placing her thumb on a fingerprint reader. As they crossed the threshold, a sensor activated and banks of florescent lights flickered to brightness, revealing the rows and rows of standing shelves which reached almost to the ceiling.

"As you can see, our acquisitions team has been quite prolific," she said, gesturing to the shelves, which were crammed to overflowing.

He nodded slowly, staring, his mouth agape. He'd never seen a library with a collection quite so varied nor complete. He guessed there must be hundreds, no, judging by the length of the room, whose far wall he couldn't see, maybe thousands of . . .

"And we simply must have a better card catalogue, better retrieval system designed. We're quite willing to pay," she said and looked at the disembodied head on the nearest shelf, brushed its bangs back from its forehead with a forefinger. She smiled brightly at Owen. "And death is no object."