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Oct. 3rd, 2021 02:22 pmJohn wouldn't classify his and Martin's investigatory trip to the public library's rare books cage as a waste by any stretch. It would have been a worthwhile distraction during a difficult time even if it had been otherwise insignificant (which it certainly wasn't). But after assembling and studying the catalogue of title pages they'd collected, John does reach the reluctant conclusion that the books themselves are about as useless as he'd half-anticipated. Many of them are off-brand equivalents of what he might expect to find in the rare books section of a shop back in London: first editions of Jim Henderson's The Strike of the Nail and the like. Ridiculous. Some are harder to pin down, the reason for their inclusion a little less obvious — were the cage easier to access, he might guess that they were simply mis-shelved from their usual places in the general collection. Regardless, he isn't sure anything that they've turned up actually warrants further investigation.
It's a little disappointing. But the more he thinks about it, the more he wonders if they simply chose the wrong target at the outset. Perhaps the collections at Darrow's academic institutions would bear more fruit, if he was at liberty to peruse them.
With the native population restored, gaining access is a little more complicated than simply walking onto campus. He doesn't flatter himself for one moment that blending in with the student body will be an option, so he dresses as academically as he can, intending to pass himself off as a guest lecturer or something. All it takes is a few corroborating details courtesy of his patron — that he's working on a project with Dr. Sokolowski (who was expecting someone before the appointment was cancelled, and who never bothered to relay the cancellation to guest services), that it shouldn't take more than a few hours — and then he's in, a visitor pass hanging like a bloody albatross around his neck.
At least the Eye's assistance saves him the embarrassment (or the conspicuousness) of bumbling about in search of the library; instead, he heads there with a directness that could probably pass for familiarity to any casual observers. The employee behind the circulation desk does a double-take that isn't as covert as they might want it to be, but John's tweed jacket and the visitor pass, by their combined powers, are enough to excuse the rest of him. He's allowed to proceed without comment.
And then he's walking past the more open study area and into the stacks, where he finally allows himself to slow, his posture belying his uncertainty. He knows better than to try and Know how best to proceed, and he has little traditional knowledge (beyond the Dewey Decimal System) to fall back on. With only a cursory fiction section to avoid, the question of where to begin looms large, begging for acknowledgment.
But there's no better way to blow his cover than to start spouting plasma all over the collection, so John deliberately nudges aside the temptation to ask, even rhetorically in his own mind. Instead, he shuffles down the nearest aisle, canting his head to frown at the titles as he tries to get his bearings.
It's a little disappointing. But the more he thinks about it, the more he wonders if they simply chose the wrong target at the outset. Perhaps the collections at Darrow's academic institutions would bear more fruit, if he was at liberty to peruse them.
With the native population restored, gaining access is a little more complicated than simply walking onto campus. He doesn't flatter himself for one moment that blending in with the student body will be an option, so he dresses as academically as he can, intending to pass himself off as a guest lecturer or something. All it takes is a few corroborating details courtesy of his patron — that he's working on a project with Dr. Sokolowski (who was expecting someone before the appointment was cancelled, and who never bothered to relay the cancellation to guest services), that it shouldn't take more than a few hours — and then he's in, a visitor pass hanging like a bloody albatross around his neck.
At least the Eye's assistance saves him the embarrassment (or the conspicuousness) of bumbling about in search of the library; instead, he heads there with a directness that could probably pass for familiarity to any casual observers. The employee behind the circulation desk does a double-take that isn't as covert as they might want it to be, but John's tweed jacket and the visitor pass, by their combined powers, are enough to excuse the rest of him. He's allowed to proceed without comment.
And then he's walking past the more open study area and into the stacks, where he finally allows himself to slow, his posture belying his uncertainty. He knows better than to try and Know how best to proceed, and he has little traditional knowledge (beyond the Dewey Decimal System) to fall back on. With only a cursory fiction section to avoid, the question of where to begin looms large, begging for acknowledgment.
But there's no better way to blow his cover than to start spouting plasma all over the collection, so John deliberately nudges aside the temptation to ask, even rhetorically in his own mind. Instead, he shuffles down the nearest aisle, canting his head to frown at the titles as he tries to get his bearings.
