For a few minutes he simply dithered, like the proverbial ass between two haystacks. Then he decided that Cassiodorus would have the most valuable information to impart, as it dealt with an environment in which he himself was living. So he lugged the big volumes out and set to work. It was hard work, too, even for a man who knew Latin. The books were written in a semi-cursive minuscule hand with all the words run together. The incredibly wordy and affected style of the writer didn't bother him as it would have if he had been reading English; he was after facts.
"Excuse me, sir," said the librarian, "but is that tall barbarian with the yellow mustache your man?"
"I suppose so," said Padway. "What is it?"
"He's gone to sleep in the Oriental section, and he's snoring so that the readers are complaining."
"I'll tend to him," said Padway.
He went over and awakened Fritharik. "Can't you read?" he asked.
"No," said Fritharik quite simply. "Why should I? When I had my beautiful estate in Africa, there was no occasion—"
"Yes, I know all about your beautiful estate, old man. But you'll have to learn to read, or else do your snoring outside."
Fritharik went out somewhat huffily, muttering in his own East-German dialect. Padway's guess was that he was calling reading a sissy accomplishment.
When Padway got back to his table, he found an elderly Italian dressed with simple elegance going through his Cassiodorus. The man looked up and said: "I'm sorry; were you reading these?"