His reading was painfully slow, and he stumbled over the pronunciation of many words. The people in the room watched him so intensely, with such absolute concentration, that they gave the impression of reading his lips rather than listening to his words. Frequently, he would have to translate a word or phrase into the new language, and there would be nods of understanding and relief. Willy's bright blue eyes sparkled more brightly than ever. He ran his fingers constantly through his thin bristle of white hair. The elderly woman on the sofa beside the Digester was so flushed and breathing so rapidly that Walther feared she was on the verge of a stroke. Even the urbane heart surgeon showed the emotional impact of this experience. His long, tapered fingers were clenched together, and he ran his under lip constantly over the edge of his greying mustache. Maria seemed the only one in the room who was not affected by the reading. Only a slight tightening of her lips marred her careful composure. Soon Walther lost himself in the tingling excitement of the room, and he forgot about watching the others. Word by word, sentence by sentence, the Digester led them along with Don Cervante. The reading, with its many pauses for translation, took almost two hours. When it was over, everyone was emotionally and physically exhausted. The little Digester was so pale he looked ill; his high forehead dripped with perspiration. Walther drew a long breath, and brought himself reluctantly back to reality. Willy asked quietly: "What do you think of our intellectual underworld?" An outbreak of almost hysterical conversation made it useless for Walther to answer. Maria, with a look of reproach at Willy, moved across the room to speak to their hostess. Willy lit one of his cigars and leaned closer to Walther. There was a gleam of amusement in his twinkling blue eyes. "You look more worn out than Don Cervante!" he chuckled. The contrast between this evening and the disillusionment of the day made it hard for Walther to put his gratitude into words. "I can't thank you enough--" he began. "Don't try," said Willy. "I may have had my own devious reasons for inviting you." He glanced toward Maria, who was making an effort at polite conversation with the hostess. "I'm afraid our young diva isn't an ardent admirer of the unexpurgated Don Quixote." There were many questions Walther wanted to ask about Maria, but he tactfully inquired, instead: "How often does this group meet?" "Whenever there is something to share--a chapter of literature--a copy of an old painting--a recording. It all depends on what our few Digester friends can manage--They don't have an easy time of it, you know." "Is it difficult for them to take things out of the vaults?" "Difficult ... and dangerous," Willy answered grimly. "But why...?"