Signatures are too easy to forge, so I don’t sweat on that score either. There’s an art to using these blanks. Sometimes it is simple, like a subway ticket, pitched into the trash once the use has been exhausted, and sometimes it gets tricky when they keep it on file. If the book the ‘visiting scholar’ wants to borrow goes missing, phone calls and emails are made to the people named in the letter. You can imagine what happens after that: ‘I never authorized someone by the name of so-and-so to remove the text in question’, to which the librarian replies that a signed letter is present stating just that fact, etc. A scandal ensues, a minor one, and so the department head marches down to the library to salvage reputation, sees the letter, declares it a forgery, and you know what happens next?”
“No.”
“Well, piece it together… It comes to light that forged letters purporting to be on the authority of the Chair of the Department are circulating, which means some industrious individual has access to the official letterhead. To avoid further complications and miscommunications, the letterhead is changed and a closer guard is kept on it, since they are more willing to suspect internal individuals who have access to it than someone on the outside. That means my letterhead becomes useless. Sometimes I only get to use the blank once before I have to find another strategy if I want to remove another text from the same library. It can be potentially embarrassing if I don’t get word of the change and I try to use the same old letterhead. That’s where talk comes in handy, to - as I said earlier - get out of sticky situations. If a mass email goes out to all the librarians to be on the lookout for forged official letters, then one can be sunk. What I don’t want you to think is that this is the only means available for plucking books - it is one strategy among thousands. Today I am employing this one. It isn't always necessary since one can pinch books in regular circulation quite easily; it's the stuff behind the counter that requires special permissions and the right documentation, or stuff in rare manuscript libraries that need the forms.”
“Have you ever used the letterhead of this institution before?”
“Yes, which makes this potentially risky. I’ve actually used it before since this library is one of those where the boss’ books seem to pop up most frequently. A weird kind of rift thing he would be better disposed to explaining. So the general rule is supreme caution, no matter what. I’m the backup in this. That is, ask to see the book first before showing the letters. Have it in your hands, and then top up the performance with the official business. Introduce yourself as a visiting scholar right from the start, ask to see the book, and then provide the evidence of your claim to it. This works five times out of ten, depending on the librarian, and the other times you have to have the letter first for their inspection. Should there be any problem, I am dressed appropriately to function as plan C. If I suspect that things are going to make a turn for the worse, then I will cause a spectacle, maybe some public drunkenness, a violent tipping over of shelves, something startling… at which point you can fade away into the crowd or bolt - it’s your choice. Either way, we will have to dodge security. I only hope that I don’t have to resort to this unpalatable option.”
“So what is plan B, since you have C covered.”
“Ah! This is where you can start practising the gift of gab. What would you do if the librarian knows the letterhead to be stale, and therefore a forgery?”
“I, um… hm. I guess I would stall.”
“Your hesitation, even now, speaks volumes on your immediate guilt, gives away the game before it even starts. Here’s what you do: you have to act, perform, and believe yourself to be the genuine article and not some rogue goliard. Your first reaction must be shock, then
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