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"We'd better ask Brother Armbruster about that," the abbot de-
cided, and then noticing the monk's sudden discomfort: "What's the matter?
Have you and Brother Armbruster been--"
Kornhoer's face twisted apologetically. "Really, Father Abbot, I
haven't lost my temper with him even once. Oh, we've had words, but--" He
shrugged. "He doesn't want anything moved. He keeps mumbling about witchcraft
and the like. It's not easy to reason with him. His eyes are half-
blind now from reading by dim light-- and yet he says it's Devil's work we're
up to. I don't know what to say."
Dom Paulo frowned slightly as they crossed the room toward the alcove where
Brother Armbruster still stood glowering upon the proceed-
ings.
"Well, you've got your way now," the librarian said to Kornhoer as they
approached. "When'll you be putting in a mechanical librarian, Brother?"
"We find hints, Brother, that once there were such things," the in-
ventor growled. "In descriptions of the Machina analytica, you'll find refer-
ences to--"
"Enough, enough," the abbot interposed; then to the librarian:
"Thon Taddeo will need a place to work. What do you suggest?"
Armbruster jerked one thumb toward the Natural Science alcove.
"Let him read at the lectern in there like anyone else."
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gional. Nobodys heard of the Pancratzian Military Order in a hundred
years."
Armbruster reddened angrily. "Oh no you don't," he snapped. "The chains stay
on."
"But why?"
"It's not the book burners now. It's the villagers we have to worry about. The
chains stay on."
Kornhoer turned to the abbot and spread his hands. "See, m'Lord?"
"He's right," said Dom Paulo. "There's too much agitation in the vil-
lage. The town council expropriated our school, don't forget. Now they've got
a village library, and they want us to fill its shelves. Preferably with rare
volumes, of course. Not only that, we had trouble with thieves last year.
Brother Armbruster's right. The rare volumes stay chained."
"All right," Kornhoer sighed. "So he'll have to work in the alcove?"
"Now, where do we hang your wondrous lamp?"
The monks glanced toward the cubicle. It was one of fourteen iden-
tical stalls, sectioned according to subject matter, which faced the central
floor. Each alcove had its archway, and from an iron hook imbedded in the
keystone of each arch hung a heavy crucifix.
"Well, if he's going to work in the alcove," said Kornhoer, "we'll just have
to take the crucifix down and hang it there, temporarily. There's no other--"
"Heathen!" hissed the librarian. "Pagan! Desecrator!" Armbruster raised
trembling hands heavenward. "God help me, lest I tear him apart with these
hands! Where will he stop? Take him away, away!" He turned his back on them,
his hands still trembling aloft.
Dom Paulo himself had winced slightly at the inventor's suggestion, but now he
frowned sharply at the back of Brother Armbruster's habit. He had never
expected him to feign a meekness that was alien to Armbruster's nature, but
the aged monk's querulous disposition had grown definitely worse.
"Brother Armbruster, turn around, please."
The librarian turned.
Youd make Our Lord move over to make room for progress!
"Brother Armbruster!"
"Why don't you just hang the witch-light around His neck?"
The abbot's face went frigid. "I do not force your obedience, Brother. See me
in my study after Compline."
The librarian wilted. "I'll get the ladder, Father Abbot," he whis-
pered, and shuffled unsteadily away.
Dom Paulo glanced up at the Christ of the rood in the archway. Do
You mind? he wondered.
There was a knot in his stomach. He knew the knot would exact its price of him
later. He left the basement before anyone could notice his dis-
comfort. It was not good to let the community see how such trivial unpleas-
antness could overcome him these days.
The installation was completed the following day, but Dom Paulo remained in
his study during the test. Twice he had been forced to warn
Brother Armbruster privately, and then to rebuke him publicly during
Chapter. And yet he felt more sympathy for the librarian's stand than he did
for Kornhoer's. He sat slumped at his desk and waited for the news from the
basement, feeling small concern for the test's success or failure. He kept one
hand tucked into the front of his habit. He patted his stomach as though
trying to calm a hysterical child.
Internal cramping again. It seemed to come whenever unpleasant-
ness threatened, and sometimes went away again when unpleasantness exploded
into the open where he could wrestle with it. But now it was not going away.
He was being warned, and he knew it. Whether the warning came from an angel,
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