Newling leaned against the shelves for a full five minutes before he summoned up enough strength to finish emptying the book truck.
Still shaking, he rolled it out of the vault, slammed the great door, automatically twirled the dials and started back down the corridor.
He was cold and weak. He had scarcely strength enough to slide open the elevator doors.
He stepped out of the elevator into the large open-shelf room of the library with a feeling of indescribable relief. He felt as if he had ascended from a tomb.
Mr. Twais, the head librarian, was coming down the aisle. He stopped when he came abreast of Newling. He was about to say something, but at the sight of Newling's face, his mouth fell open.
"What is it, man?" he exclaimed. "You look positively shaken!"
"Oh—nothing," Newling whispered. "I'll be all right. Just—the air—in the vault. I guess I felt a trifle faint."
Mr. Twais seemed satisfied. He nodded. "You'd better go in the lounge and rest for a few minutes. Oh, by the way, have you heard the news?"
Newling shook his head.
Mr. Twais' expression became properly sober. "Preston Haver, our generous benefactor, died during the night."