“Ah, Hodgins, you see how neatly the script works out. Nothing left to chance or choice. If you hadnt been relieved of your trifling capital by a man of enterprise whose methods were more successful than subtle you might have fumbled at the edge of the academic world for four years and then, having substituted a wad of unrelated facts for common sense and whatever ability to think you may have possessed, fumbled for the rest of your life at the edge of the economic world. You wouldnt have met George Pondible or gotten here where you could discover your own mind without adjustment to a professorial iron maiden.” “I thought it was all arbitrary.” He gave me a reproachful look. “Arbitrary and predetermined are not synonymous, Hodgins, nor does either rule out artistry. Mindless artistry of course, like that of the snowflake or crystal. And how artistic this development is! You will go on to become a professor yourself and construct iron maidens for promising students who might become your competitors. You will write learned histories, for you are—havent I said this before?—the spectator type. The part written for you does not call for you to be a participant, an instrument for—apparently—influencing events. Hence it is proper that you report them so future generations may get the illusion they arent puppets.” He grinned at me. At another time I would have been delighted to pounce on the assortment of inconsistencies he had just offered; at the moment I could think of nothing but my failure to mention the Confederate agent’s visit. It almost seemed his mechanist notions were valid and I was destined always to be the ungrateful recipient of kindness. “All right,” he said, swallowing the last of his bread and half-raw meat; “so long as your sentimentality impels you to respect obligations I can find work for you. Those boxes over there go upstairs. Pondible’s bringing a van around for them this afternoon.” Ive heard the assumption that working in a bookstore must be light and pleasant. Many times during the years with Roger Tyss I had reason to be thankful for my strength and farm training. The boxes were deceptively small but so heavy they could only have been solidly packed with paper. Even with Tyss carrying box for box with me I was vastly relieved when I had to quit to run an errand. When I got back he went out to make an offer on someone’s library. “There are only four left. The last two are paper-wrapped; didnt have enough boxes.” It was characteristic of him to leave the lighter packages for me. I ran up the stairs with one of the two remaining wooden containers. Returning, I tripped on the lowest step and sprawled forward. Reflexively I threw out my hands and landed on one of the paper parcels. The tight-stretched covering cracked and split under the impact; the contents—neatly tied rectangular bundles—spilled out.