mistaken another number for Fourteen. No, he was sure he had seen the indicator change from a one and a round number, and he was certain it wasn’t 10. Also, it would have been quicker to walk down the two short flights of stairs. Capturing the elevator, he held the door open with one hand and punched at the last two studs in the double column. They refused to light up, obviously waiting for the key to be turned in the locks below to activate them. The door surged under his hand, and from somewhere in the bowels of the mechanism, the elevator emitted an imperative BEEPum BEEPum BEEPum . Petulantly, Keith gave the door a sharp shove before letting it slide closed. It thrummed away, the beeping fading into the floors above.
Carl and Marcy weren’t on any of the four floors. That left the two security floors. What was so special about this meeting that it had to be held down there? Of all the inconvenient locations! At this hour of the evening, ninety percent of the classrooms on campus were empty. Maybe he was about to stumble into a communist satrap, or a weird religious cult. He mentally scratched the latter option; he couldn’t really see Carl dancing around in a pastel muslin robe.
How about a spy ring? he speculated as he stood in the stairwell, prying at the locked door to level Thirteen. Keith loved a mystery, especially one he didn’t have to take seriously. He could see through the edge of the door that it wasn’t quite latched, but that there was no knob on this side. With the tips of his fingers, he dragged at the painted metal door, pulling it a quarter inch out from the jamb. The hinges groaned and scraped, echoing deafeningly in the dim hall. He scrabbled at the emerging edge with one hand, but it slipped back flush. It was simply too heavy for him to hold it open with just one set of fingers.
He needed to get something between the door and the frame to keep it from slamming shut until he could get his hands free. A pencil was the only thing he had on him that was light and strong enough. It went between his teeth, eraser end outward, and he pulled at the door again. The rubber eraser skipped across the paint, jabbing the point of the pencil into his tongue. “Aagh,” he mumbled around it, and then winced at the sound.
Carefully, he maneuvered it into the tiny opening of the door. It took him four tries before he could pull the door wide enough for the pencil to go through. It occurred to him too late that the point would have helped him widen the opening. Never mind. He let go of the door when the pencil was in place. It snicked shut onto the wood, and Keith stepped back, spitting out graphite.
Dusting his tingling fingertips together, he levered the door open and let himself through. A crumpled candy wrapper pressed into the latch socket was what had prevented the door from locking automatically. Keith deduced in his best consulting detective method that someone else without keys wanted access to these floors. In the pitiful light of a wavering fluorescent bulb high up in the stairwell, nothing out of the ordinary would have been visible.
Level Thirteen was poorly lit. It was also neglected, Keith learned, as he prowled around the room, peering into alcoves. Checkout cards lay strewn on the floor with scuffed foot-prints and dust on them, and here and there the end of an internal shelf had slipped, letting the books on it fall sideways, as if they were reclining, bored to be here in the dark. Just as in the twelve levels above, carrels and study nooks occupied two walls, and the elevator descended down a shaft drilled straight through the middle of the level, visible over the metal bookshelves. The room was surprisingly cold. They must have all the heating ducts closed, since no one used this floor much. It didn’t have to be fit for human habitation, or for librarians, either. Keith wasn’t sure about librarians.
Children’s librarians were a little different. They seemed to like people, and all
Carl and Marcy weren’t on any of the four floors. That left the two security floors. What was so special about this meeting that it had to be held down there? Of all the inconvenient locations! At this hour of the evening, ninety percent of the classrooms on campus were empty. Maybe he was about to stumble into a communist satrap, or a weird religious cult. He mentally scratched the latter option; he couldn’t really see Carl dancing around in a pastel muslin robe.
How about a spy ring? he speculated as he stood in the stairwell, prying at the locked door to level Thirteen. Keith loved a mystery, especially one he didn’t have to take seriously. He could see through the edge of the door that it wasn’t quite latched, but that there was no knob on this side. With the tips of his fingers, he dragged at the painted metal door, pulling it a quarter inch out from the jamb. The hinges groaned and scraped, echoing deafeningly in the dim hall. He scrabbled at the emerging edge with one hand, but it slipped back flush. It was simply too heavy for him to hold it open with just one set of fingers.
He needed to get something between the door and the frame to keep it from slamming shut until he could get his hands free. A pencil was the only thing he had on him that was light and strong enough. It went between his teeth, eraser end outward, and he pulled at the door again. The rubber eraser skipped across the paint, jabbing the point of the pencil into his tongue. “Aagh,” he mumbled around it, and then winced at the sound.
Carefully, he maneuvered it into the tiny opening of the door. It took him four tries before he could pull the door wide enough for the pencil to go through. It occurred to him too late that the point would have helped him widen the opening. Never mind. He let go of the door when the pencil was in place. It snicked shut onto the wood, and Keith stepped back, spitting out graphite.
Dusting his tingling fingertips together, he levered the door open and let himself through. A crumpled candy wrapper pressed into the latch socket was what had prevented the door from locking automatically. Keith deduced in his best consulting detective method that someone else without keys wanted access to these floors. In the pitiful light of a wavering fluorescent bulb high up in the stairwell, nothing out of the ordinary would have been visible.
Level Thirteen was poorly lit. It was also neglected, Keith learned, as he prowled around the room, peering into alcoves. Checkout cards lay strewn on the floor with scuffed foot-prints and dust on them, and here and there the end of an internal shelf had slipped, letting the books on it fall sideways, as if they were reclining, bored to be here in the dark. Just as in the twelve levels above, carrels and study nooks occupied two walls, and the elevator descended down a shaft drilled straight through the middle of the level, visible over the metal bookshelves. The room was surprisingly cold. They must have all the heating ducts closed, since no one used this floor much. It didn’t have to be fit for human habitation, or for librarians, either. Keith wasn’t sure about librarians.
Children’s librarians were a little different. They seemed to like people, and all
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