"Because I am an old fool," chuckled Willy Fritsh.
The chuckle emboldened Walther to ask one more question:
"Will Maria be there?"
"Now you are a fool!"
Willy took a step away, then returned, flicked on his cigarette lighter and studied Walther thoughtfully.
"Or maybe not," he murmured. "Maybe not. Perhaps Maria could be there, this once...."
He snapped out the lighter.
With another chuckle, Willy disappeared into the darkness.
1400 Avenue B, apartment 21. Eight o'clock tomorrow evening. The directions whirled all night through Walther's fitful sleep. They intermingled with a strange company of servo-robots, unintelligible phrases, the dry chuckle of Willy Fritsh and the haunting voice of Maria Piavi, beginning an aria she would never finish.
The next day, Walther determined to find out how the cult of brevity had changed other fields of Earth's culture. He went first to the library, where foreboding hardened into bitter reality. Classic after classic was cut to its essence. Hamlet was reduced to a total reading time of seven minutes. But the old librarian seemed embarrassed about this.