“Here we are,” said George, with the pride of a navigator making landfall,
“the fabulous Boyce collection in Its new home. I wonder just how many of them Rupert has really read.”
The library ran the whole width of the house, but was virtually divided into half a dozen small rooms by the great bookcases extending across it. These held, if George remembered correctly, some fifteen thousand volumes — almost everything of importance that had ever been published on the nebulous subjects of magic, psychic research, divining, telepathy, and the whole range of elusive phenomena lumped in the category of paraphysics. It was a very peculiar hobby for anyone to have in this age of reason. Presumably it was simply Rupert’s particular form of escapism.
George noticed the smell the moment he entered the room. It was faint but penetrating, not so much unpleasant as puzzling. Jean had observed it too; her forehead was wrinkled in the effort of identification. Acetic acid, thought George — that’s the nearest thing to it. But it’s got something else as well….
The library terminated in a small open space just large enough for a table, two chairs and some cushions. This, presumably, was where Rupert did most of his reading. Someone was reading there now, in an unnaturally dim light.
Jean gave a little gasp and clutched at George’s hand. Her reaction was, perhaps excusable. It was one thing to watch a television picture, quite another to meet the reality. George, who was seldom surprised by anything, rose to the occasion at once.
“I hope we haven’t disturbed you, sir,” he said politely. “We’d no idea that there was anyone here. Rupert never told us…”
The Overlord put down the book, looked at them closely, then commenced reading again. There was nothing impolite about the action, coming as it did from a being who could read, talk, and probably do several other things at the same time. Nevertheless, to human observers the spectacle was disturbingly schizophrenic.
“My name is Rashaverak,” said the Overlord amiably. “I’m afraid I’m not being very sociable, but Rupert’s library is a difficult place from which to escape.”
Jean managed to suppress a nervous giggle. Their unexpected fellow guest was, she noticed, reading at the rate of a page every two seconds. She did not doubt that he was assimilating every word, and she wondered if he could manage to read a book with each eye. “And then, of course,” she thought to herself, “he could go on to learn braille so he could use his fingers. ” The resulting mental picture was too comic to be comfortable, so she tried to suppress it by entering into the conversation. After all, it was not every day that one had a chance of talking to one of the masters of Earth.