Rachel
cringed and covered her ears to block out the relentless sound of
upbeat but still light and casual music, playing over the transport
speakers, combined with a hideous noise that was clearly meant to be
women laughing. Doubtless that was why it was in a radio commercial
because either negotiating the contract with a brothel to allow a
real woman in your video or trying to convincingly computer generate
one were usually both too much work. Susan looked far more serene,
staring impassively straight ahead, clearly trying to tune out the
annoyance without drawing attention. “Have a night out planned
with your girls?” the announcer inquired with aggravating
over-enthusiasm. “Shopping spree, clubbing trip, gossip and
corpritinis at that swanky bistro you've been eyeing? Make sure all
eyes are on you when you arrive in one of the innovative new designs
from Hexaport, the transportation of choice for you and your
bestagons.” But before Rachel's feelings of derision for this
latest idiotic commercial from Hexaport were even fully formed, the
transport came skidding to a stop, caught suddenly in a traffic jam,
and both Rachel and Susan felt their stomachs lurch at the abrupt
jarring.
"Oh, I hate
these economy transports," Susan fretted, tugging at the knot of
the decorative scarf around her neck.
"But we
decided we didn't want to call attention to ourselves," said
Rachel weakly, tightening her hold on her own stomach as the
transport turned at a sharp angle to slip through an opening in the
crowd.
"Any halfway
decent vehicle could have flown over this." Then Susan wiped
the frown off her face and smiled tentatively over at Rachel. "But,
at least, I hope this makes you feel better." Two days ago,
Susan had sought out Rachel and attempted to patch things up from
their last fight. Rachel had been summoning her best Demon snarl to
tell her to get lost, but then had another idea. Would Susan be
willing to do her a favor to earn forgiveness? Susan hadn't been
thrilled about the favor but said it was worth it. So, here they
were now, stuck in traffic in a poor-grade transport, trying to get
to the library. "Why do you want to know so much about woofs
anyway?" asked Susan, trying to pass the time as they heard the
underside of another vehicle grate against the roof of their
transport.
"Wolves.
Not woofs," Rachel corrected tartly.
"Whatever.
Why are you so interested in them? "
"I saw one
at the museum and was fascinated by it." Susan raised an
eyebrow. "I can't really explain why. I just...felt something
when I looked at it."
"I suppose
there are worse things you could be interested in,” Susan admitted,
as the transport tilted nearly sideways in order to squeeze up next
to their stop and they had to crawl out the door, almost as if it
were a manhole.
“Good
riddance,” Rachel snarled after it as it went lurching off into
traffic at an angle. The two took a couple of deep breaths then
shouldered their overnight bags, styled to look like trendy purses,
meant to discretely hold anything they might need for if they got
hired for the evening while out and about. Rachel tried not to think
too hard about the implications of this, of the risk she was running
just by walking down the street, and kept her face slightly angled
away from the road just in case. Once they were inside the library
they would probably be safe, as men in their league were unlikely to
go there, but, out here, literally anyone could be passing by.
Rachel was glad Susan was with her. With her loud colors and
energetic personality she was far more likely to be the first thing a
would-be-client noticed. Susan herself, however, seemed to be having
some trouble with her pager, shaking the thing, jabbing buttons with
an extended finger, and holding it so close to her face as they
walked that she was in danger of tripping. “You didn't suddenly
get an appointment, did you?” asked Rachel with a sinking feeling.
“No.” Susan
swore angrily. “And if I had, if not sure I would have been able
to look up the details. The buttons on this thing don't work half
the time. I bet it's jammed,” she finished savagely.
“Maybe the
batteries are running low,” said Rachel without much conviction.
“Impossible.
This pager is made by Silkone Highway. They make only the very best.
The batteries are supposed to be good for at least twenty years.”
“Well, maybe
you got a faulty unit. Anyway, you should have it looked at before
it starts to make those horrible, high pitched noises.” Now Rachel
was angry too and kicked viciously at some concrete that had come
loose from a cracked section of the sidewalk, sending it skittering
away. Of course women at five-star brothels were too well trained to
allow their pagers to get to the point of making the low battery
noise, which was considered the social equivalent of farting loudly
during a CEO's yearly company report speech, so she had heard it only
once, when she had been in a non-exclusive park and an absolutely
horrible shrill beeping had started coming from the one-star taxi
line loitering near the entrance. All the women but one emulated
Rachel and clapped their hands over their ears while the lone
exception fled down the street, fumbling desperately in her purse,
followed by taunts and jeers and even some thrown pebbles from the
others when they realized the offender was making a getaway. At the
time, Rachel had been so distressed by the noise, which had given her
a splitting headache for hours, that she felt inclined to agree with
the one-star ladies. But now she seethed in rage, realizing the
awfulness of the sound was probably deliberate in order to ensure
that low batteries could never be used as an effective excuse for not
getting a pager message.
“I just wanted
to check the weather,” Susan cried in exasperation, startling
Rachel out of her thoughts. “That shouldn't be such an ordeal to
do.”
“Here, let me
check it for you.” Rachel pulled out her pager, wanting to keep
Susan in a good mood so she would still be useful when they made it
to the library. But, after a few moments, she was swearing angrily
as well.
“Don't tell me
yours is being difficult too,” Susan called out to her.
“No but, these
things are useless. Yes, I
understand that the weather is sponsored by Zen Zen: the
Inside is the Outside
but I want to know if it will change later.”
“I knew I would regret not bringing a sweater.” Susan threw up
her hands in frustration.
“You don't know that. Zen Zen is much more likely to sponsor rain
or something than cool temperatures...just so they can trot out their
horrible fake rainbow. Come on, let's hurry. The sooner we get
inside, the sooner the weather won't matter any more.” She
increased her speed as quickly as possible, before Susan could point
out that it would start mattering again when they came back out of
the library. They moved on at the most rapid pace they could manage
in their heels, especially given that the pavement in this section of
the sidewalk was cracked and uneven in places. Rachel muttered a
curse as she felt her heel graze against a raised edge of concrete.
Only a quick correction of her stride saved her from being sent
sprawling.
As she had intended, their pace, and the concentration needed to
keep their ankles from being wrenched, left them with no resources to
spare for talking and, she hoped, also for thinking, so Susan could
not seize on her lack of a sweater as the final straw and a
convenient excuse for aborting their mission. And so, they hurried
on in silence, the gaps between the whoosh of saucers going by
overhead filled only with the thump of their heels on the ground and
the sound of their elevated breathing. Gradually, however, Rachel
began to hear another noise creep into her awareness. It too was
rhythmic but slightly off from the rhythm of their feet, creating a
discordant counterpoint. Once she had gotten past how annoying this
was, Rachel began to notice the sound itself, a kind of shrill
wailing and bleating, rising and falling just on the edge of hearing,
but steadily getting louder.
“Susan, your pager,” she cried in frustration, grabbing her head
with her hands. “The batteries must be much further along then you
made out.” This was a disaster. There was absolutely no way they
could go into the library with a low battery pager. Even if Rachel's
plan had not relied on a high degree of subtlety, Luther's reputation
would be damaged if anyone discovered its members displaying such
negligence. Rachel staggered to a halt, glancing around wildly and
feeling her heart hammer. She could not even afford to think of her
own disappointment as it was imperative they disappear immediately,
but public transport was out of the question. They would probably
have to shell out the money to charter an expensive private saucer
and, while it was highly unlikely the other women at Luther's would
actually do much of anything, they would, doubtless, complain a lot
and make their lives very unpleasant.
“Are not,” snapped Susan, who had pulled up beside her. “See
for yourself,” She waved the offending pager in Rachel's face and,
sure enough, the sound became no louder when she removed it from her
purse. Rachel leaned closer, turning her ear towards the hated
plasticite box, and was able to hear clearly that it was not actually
emitting any sound. And yet the strident electronic noises
continued, and now they were growing louder, even though they were
not coming from the pager. Instead, the noise was coming from
somewhere off down the street, loud enough to make the high walls
around them echo and then, in a moment of horrible clarity, in the
midst of her nascent headache and throbbing ears, Rachel realized
what she was hearing: the siren of an emergency medical, and it was
heading straight towards them.
Absolute panic seized her. She wanted to run, to hide, to get away.
But that would only make her look suspicious. If she had not been
the target before, such odd behavior could easily turn her into one.
And, the next moment, Rachel found herself, completely unable to
move, all her limbs rigid. Breath raced shallow in her upper chest,
and she could feel tiny tremblings in her fingers, her upper arm and
outer calf muscles, but she could make no voluntary movement. This
must be like the dreaded “dear in the headlights” effect that
could happen to people at night, when, blinded by the lights of an
oncoming vehicle, they would become frozen in terror, leaving the
“poor dear” flattened on the pavement, or hurled from an upper
walkway by the force of the impact, like her, helpless to take any
action to evade the oncoming doom.
Of course, she
had no reason to think it was coming for her but, then again, that
was far from impossible. Who knew which of the million and one
seemingly ordinary things she had done since leaving the brothel
might be read by an outside observer as dangerous emotional
instability, in need of medical correction for her own good, or even,
perhaps, she had been recognized by someone who remembered her from
one of her earlier “inappropriate” incidents and decided it was
best to have her checked up on. Since absolutely anyone could call a
medical on someone anonymously, there was nothing, other than the
ambulance fee of course, to disincentivize someone from doing it
casually or even on false pretenses—well, anyone male that is.
Women, lacking cell phones, were unable to make such calls and only
had a code they could put into their pagers that would signal that a
medical was needed in their current location. This was incredibly
fortunate as, otherwise rival brothels would be forever calling
medicals on each other.
The saucer came
swooping around the upper corner of one of the buildings and barreled
down the street, lights flashing and alarms blasting. Although
unable to turn her head, Rachel could just see Susan out of the
corner of her eye put up her hand to shield her eyes from the lights
but, behind it, she was still trying to peer at her pager, completely
unconcerned. How could she be so calm? How could she not care that
someone close to her was about to be taken away? The saucer was
directly overhead. Rachel could see its shadow move across the dark
pavement. This was the end. In moments she would be locked away,
never to feel the wind or see the sky again, as she was mentally
brain-detoxed into nothingness. Oh, she would resist but doubted it
would be very effective especially in the long term. How long could
she keep some spark of her true self intact?
The emergency
medical passed and went careening around the corner. The echos of
the sirens slowly faded into silence and Rachel felt her frozen limbs
loosen as, to her horror, she began to shake all over. She wanted to
get away from the place as quickly as possible but Susan was still
prodding and rattling her pager and Rachel did not want to interrupt
her as this also meant she did not notice the state Rachel was in.
It took a few more moments, and no response from the pager, for her
to give up. Fortunately, it was only a block to the end of the
street where it turned out onto the main road and Rachel could feel
more at ease as the other people around made her less conspicuous.
Should she go back to the brothel? Someone might decided that
interest in non-female-approved books needed medical intervention.
What if the near miss she had just had was a sign, like she had read
about in Dream-journeying
for Self-Determination, warning her
to turn back before it was too late? No, she clenched her fists
grimly, just as Susan shouldered her to the side to evade a delivery
boy on a flying two wheel scooter from Nons Equitur Inc barreled
passed, not even bothering to sound his buzzer to warn them.
“One side,
we're out of your league, fucker,” Rachel yelled, shaking her fist
at his back. The fact that he clearly was aware of them and his
buzzer clearly worked, as he sounded it in response, only added
insult to narrowly avoided injury. The anger helped shore up
Rachel's resolve. Almost everything about her, her very existence,
qualified her for a medical. If she was going to let fear stop her,
she would have to do nothing but hide in her room from now on...and
that, in itself, was a commit-able action, for which the other girls
could call a medical to the brothel, where she would be trapped. No,
far better to maintain some facade of normalcy by being out and about
where she only has to worry about medicals called by strangers and
she could run or hide, blend into crowds. In the grand scheme of
things, going to the library was a low risk activity. Except in very
extreme cases, reading inappropriate books was likely to be
considered a bed rest and pills level offense, rather than a reason
to call a medical and, she could always try to use the excuse that
she had a client who was extremely interested in the topic in
question so she needed at least a basic grasp of it.
“You do realize
this is the stupidest idea in the world," Susan said crossly, as
they climbed the broad black steps to the library, her offending
pager still clutched in her hand. "You've been acting very
strange recently and I can't help but worry."
"There are
many things a person could do, much stupider than going to the
library," Rachel countered with a confidence she did not
completely feel, despite her recent reflections. "Besides, I
need you. You're my cover since you can supply verifiable
information about all those dreadful sensuality novels you read."
Susan sniffed.
"Yes, I know about sensuality novels but I order them online
like a respectable woman because I can afford to. You do realize
we're compromising Luther's
reputation by being here? People will think we're poor or
something."
"Oh, fuck
off," Rachel muttered, then became silent as they approached the
entrance.
"And what
are you girls doing here?" asked the man at the front desk with
a combination of lasciviousness and suspicion.
"Oh, we're
just here to look at some erotic literature," said Rachel in a
teasing tone, prodding Susan who looked rather uncomfortable.
She took the hint
and put on her best flirty pout. "Yes, I very much want to read
Corporate Passions," she giggled. "I've heard it's
very exciting."
"You'll find
those kinds of books up the stairs on the second floor, wing 1000,"
he said more agreeably, pointed and turned back to his work.
"Now don't
tell me," Rachel went on in a low voice. "That you never
snuck out here to read when you were out of allowance and couldn’t
justify it as a business expense?"
Susan bowed her
head in shame and the hot pink feather scarf tied around her pony
tail swung slowly back and forth. "Maybe once or twice,"
she said sheepishly.
"I'll bet,"
Rachel growled. "I wish you'd worn a less eye-catching outfit."
She noticed with disgust that Susan's bow matched the rest of her
clothing, hardly the kind of thing to make her unobtrusive in a
building full of sober cheap-suited business men. "Anyway,
that's enough for you to know how the filing system works. Come,
show me how to use it." They moved quickly across the large
front room, their heels, unusually, making no sound on the dull gray
carpet as they made their way towards the search computers, lined up
along one wall and Rachel chose one near the corner, though she had
small hope that it would keep them concealed. "Now, how does
this work?" she asked, bewildered.
"Well, that
depends...Do you want to find a specific work or do you want to
browse?"
"I don't
know any specific works. What's browsing?"
"You find a
bunch of stuff that's all related by some general quality."
"That sounds
good," said Rachel, still unsure of what was going on.
Susan selected
browse from the computer menu, then clicked a button that read
"subject keyword." Rachel had no idea what that meant
which was bad because then Susan backed away and sourly said, "It's
all yours."
"What do I
do with it?" Rachel felt an almost visceral pain go through her
hands as she placed them on the smooth, synthetic plaZtic of the
keyboard. It was the first time she had touched a full-blown
computer since... But she set her teeth grimly. This was important
enough for her to fight down her revulsion. She still did not know
why it was important, but she could tell it was.
"Type your
keyword. Then hit search. It's like using the internet, sort of."
"Except the
library isn't restricted like the brothel’s internet,” Rachel
though sourly. “Which is one reason why I'm not using that.” The
“Brothel Special” internet package, used by Luther's—and
every single other brothel Rachel had ever heard of--was much less
costly than full service internet, or even than the mid-level
“businessman's relaxation” package, but it only allowed access to
those sites which a professionally focused brothel girl would need to
know about, allowing full access to sites on fashion, make-up,
etiquette, and sex tips as well as web pages where you could buy
clothes, food, appliances, bath products, and other necessaries, or
call a transport, book an appointment with a clothing artist, or make
a restaurant reservation. You could look up reviews of all the
trendiest places to visit to sound sophisticated to clients and, of
course, every crumb of inane gossip, no matter how trivial or far
fetched, was repeated ad-nausium. Sports were well represented, and
there was even a smattering of business information, in case you
needed to look like you knew what clients were talking about. But
any kind of material on history, or science, or extinct animals, or
really anything that had no practical use, was blocked on the
argument that it would only “get in the way” and waste the girls'
“valuable time” as they had to wade through it to find the sites
they “really” wanted. Aloud, she asked, “Keyword is the thing
the entries all have in common, right?" Ignoring the annoyance
in Susan's response, Rachel quickly entered the letters W-O-L-F and
was shocked by the number of results she got. "What now?"
she asked. "There are so many."
"Read the
descriptions and write down the numbers of the ones you want,"
said Susan. But, as she was explaining the process, something
happened that made them even more anxious to get out of sight. One
of the suited men slapped Rachel on the ass and loudly made a
condescending compliment about their shoes as he walked past.
"Hey, no
touching without paying," Rachel yelled after him. No point in
being discreet since everyone was already looking at them anyway.
"We aren't giving out free samples today. Or any day to the
likes of you,” she added vindictively.
"Please
hurry up," Susan whispered tensely. As fast as possible, Rachel
read the descriptions and jotted down the numbers of the ones that
looked useful, cursing her clumsy handwriting that made it hard to
make readable numbers quickly. Men could input numbers into their
phones but brothel pagers were not that sophisticated. Now that
almost all transactions took place through computers--computer,
Esteban, twitch--writing was a useless skill except for showing off.
A couple girls at Luther's
knew how to write so they could impress preferred customers by
sending them hand written invitations and thank you notes, but Rachel
had never had the knack. In the end, she left with about ten
numbers, having read through the descriptions of less than five of
them. But Susan had become so edgy that any form of concentration
was now impossible. They quickly made their way to a door that let
them out into a stairwell where there was a map of the library.
Unfortunately, the stairwell was not carpeted and, as soon as they
stepped into it, their heels began clicking on the hard floor.
Worse, the sound echoed and magnified in the open spaces around the
stairs. Susan cringed and hurried over to the map. "You see
the numbers you wrote down all begin with a four...except that one."
"That is
a four," cried Rachel indignantly.
"Whatever.
It looks more like an x with a tail. Anyway, we, therefore, have to
go to the 4000 wing of the library and you can see from the map that
it's right there."
"Yes, which
means we have to go back through the main room to another door and go
upstairs and across the walkway to get there. Great."
"However,
the sensuality novels are also across the walkway, which is lucky, in
case anyone does see you." Uneasily, they crossed back
through the main room. Fortunately, most of the men seemed involved
in whatever business had brought them to the library but, just as
they reached the door, they heard someone whistle. As they stepped
through, Rachel saw that Susan was pale and shaking from the strain,
a strain which became even worse when their shoes started clicking
once again.
"Not much
longer now," Rachel said with compassion. "Just show me
how to find the books I want and then you can go for all I care."
"In here."
Susan took her into the nearest room of bookshelves, though it was a
small reading room instead of the 4000 wing, and showed her how to
match the numbers on the shelves and on the spines of the books with
the numbers she had written down, while warning her it would be much
harder to find them in an area as large as the 4000 wing. Then, she
said good-bye but, as she was leaving, she called back, "If
anyone asks, say you're looking for Passion from the Power
Company, or Enrapturing an Executive. They're super
popular right now. Or, you could talk about Sacrificed to
Seduction, an old favorite. You know about that one, right?"
"Oh yes,"
said Rachel dryly. It would have been impossible not to know
after spending any length of time around Susan, let alone the among
of time Rachel had spent. "But, for once I'm glad of it."
Rachel felt deep gratitude towards Susan because she had tried to
help her so much, despite her misgivings and fears but, at the same
time, she was very glad Susan was gone, with her nerves and her pink
clothes, as Rachel's job would be much easier now. Crossing the
bridge from the main library building to the side extension where the
4000 wing was kept, she walked quickly and without attempting
concealment. For all anyone knew, she was going where she was
supposed to be. But, even though the 4000 wing and the "feminine"
reading room opened onto the same corridor, the 4000 wing was near
the back and the other was near the front. Soon she had passed it
and anyone who saw her would know she was not heading for the
feminine reading room. She tried to walk quickly but this made her
stumble and the impact of her shoes on the floor was even louder.
She put a hand on the wall to steady herself. Only three doors were
left between her and the door she wanted. Now, two doors, now one
door and, just as she reached this last door, it opened and a man
came out. He did not appear to see her at first and almost walked
past. But, then, Rachel attempted an extra burst of speed to get out
of his line of sight and tripped. The sharp sound of her heel
striking the floor rang loudly in the silence and, as the man turned,
looking at her in shock, Rachel felt the back of her throat close in
terror and was afraid she was going to choke.
"Well, what
are you doing here?" he asked somewhat stupidly.
"Oh, I'm
just here to pick up some sensuality novels," she said
pleasantly, faking a confidence she did not feel.
"There are
none down this way," he said awkwardly. "You shouldn't
have to worry your beautiful self about where things are in a
library." There was a moment of silence but Rachel's composure
was rapidly returning. From his clumsy manner and slightly worn suit
she guessed this man was of a less wealthy sort then she was used to
dealing with, not surprising seeing as he was in a library. It was
highly unlikely that he would ever be able to afford someone of her
caliber and, she guessed, even getting a glimpse of such a glamorous
woman was so rare that it was enough to completely unman him. She
drew herself up and gave him a cold look, as much as to say, "You're
not worth my time."
"My, you are
gorgeous," he burst out.
Just as she
suspected. "I must have gotten lost," she said, her voice
proud. "I've never been in a library before. All my
books are specially delivered to my room. But I simply had to have a
copy of Enrapturing an Executive and it's so popular that the
bookstore was all out, I certainly can't buy it online and wait for
it to be delivered, even if I paid for overnight shipping, and I
wouldn’t stoop to getting a virtual copy. Reading on a computer is
so bad for the posture.” She noticed the man made a futile
attempt to straighten his slightly hunched stance as she spoke.
“Maybe there's a copy here."
"Let me show
you the way," he said, holding out his hand.
"That would
be most appreciated," she said. "Kindly direct me."
But she declined to take the offered hand and simply followed him
back along the hall to the door she had known all along was there.
Once inside, she leaned against the wall, waiting for her would-be
admirer to go on his way and considering her next move. It was
obvious the shoes had to go. She needed to be fast and silent, so
she carefully undid the strap on each of her shiny black heels and,
slipping them off, hid them at the end of one of the bookshelves
where some books were missing. Then, she opened the doorway just a
crack and peered out, her heart pounding. Yes, taking off her shoes
would make it less likely to be spotted but it would also leave her
without any conceivable excuse if she was. No self-respecting
prostitute would ever be seen in public without her heels and
brothels took such things very seriously. One was expected to
maintain the illusion that, except possibly while having sex, a
woman’s feet just naturally curved into an exaggerated arch so that
it was impossible for her to walk flat.
But there was nothing for it. She would just have to take the risk
now. From what she could see, the hallway was deserted and so,
taking a deep breath, she ran. The floor was cold under her bare
feet and she felt so light without her awkward shoes on that it was
like flying, her feet hardly seeming to make contact with the floor.
So quickly did her skin engage and disengage with the cool smooth
surface that it felt like a sheet of silkone was being drawn over her
soles and there was almost no sound. Her feet only made a dull
thudding noise that fell dead and did not echo. The hallway was not
long now that she could move freely, and she was hardly out of breath
when she reached the door and listened outside for a moment but there
was no sound of any movement within.
Rachel stepped
through the door and stared in amazement, never having seen the
inside of a library wing before. Line after line of shelves filled
with books stood at regular intervals in their pattern of giant
stripes, looking like the inner workings of a strange machine or the
rib cage of some vast animal long extinct. It was nothing at all
like the reading rooms she had just been in, especially the women's
reading room. First of all, that had been well lit and comparatively
small, as there was not a great deal of material a normal woman would
be interested it. The shelves were decorative woodide, and their
code numbers were large and clearly printed on their sides. Almost
reverently, Rachel laid her hand against the cold and unadorned black
metal of the nearest shelf and saw that the numbers were so tiny she
had to look hard to read them in the dark. Like the shelves, the
books were all the same, with un-decorated covers of pale gray
plasticite with only the code number printed on the spine. Her eyes
traveled up and down the rows again, overcome by the physical
vastness of the place and even more by the mental vastness of the
knowledge it contained.
Deciding to begin
her search on the far side of the room, away from the door, just in
case someone came in while she was looking, she began, slowly, to
walk down the nearest aisle. The room seemed longer than it actually
was since the very low ceiling distorted her perception of horizontal
distance. Therefore, it took her only a couple minutes to reach the
midway point. Here, she found a second aisle, running perpendicular
to the shelves and now she had to keep an eye on both sides. On the
back wall, she saw something that made her uneasy. At the head of
each row was a desk, some of which had small piles of books on them,
implying there were other people in the wing who might return to
their seats at any moment. Both to stay out of direct view of the
desks and to take advantage of the double numbers, she decided to
walk down the middle aisle. Checking the number on the nearest
shelf, she saw she was at 4284 and she was looking for 4906. Knowing
she had some way to go, she stared off walking quickly.
After a time, she
began to move more slowly, stopping to check the numbers frequently.
At 4889 the silence was suddenly broken by dry coughing.
Instinctively, Rachel dropped to her knees, glancing around wildly
for the source of the sound. A man was sitting at the desk at the
head of the row but, fortunately, he was looking intently at his book
and did not seem to have noticed her. Carefully, she rose and slid
silently around the corner to the next row, 4906. Here it was, what
she had come to find, but the single wall of books between her and
the man at the desk seemed all too thin for comfort. Quickly, she
located three of the books she had written down, Wolves in the
Wild, The Way of the Pack, and Geronimo, Last of a Great Race,
then, immediately, Rachel began to read, as if in a frenzy.
There was no way she could take the books with her and it was
dangerous to come back, so she felt she needed to cram as much
information as possible into herself now. Quickly, she sat down on
the cold floor and opened Wolves in the Wild, fascinated just
by the spelling change between wolf singular and wolves plural.
Though she was in
a panic of haste, at first she could hardly bring herself to read the
words, she was so overwhelmed by the beautiful pictures. Because it
was such an old book, the pictures were all stationary but, in some
ways, this made their stark beauty all the clearer. Page after page
showed old photos of wolves in strange wild landscapes filled with
black rocks, white snow, and dark green pines. There were wolves
marching in a line through thickly falling snow, their shaggy coats
flecked with white particles, wolves racing over bare stones on a
clear night with blazing points of silver light overhead, the photo
taken at such close range that Rachel could see the bunch and stretch
of the muscles in their legs. In one picture, a sizable group of
wolves had surrounded a large brown thing and were tearing it to
pieces. Their lips were drawn back over their gums, exposing sharp
yellow teeth and their eyes were filled with raging fury and a fierce
exaltation, with which Rachel was able to identify immediately. They
had already ripped a great gash in the beast and its blood was
sprayed across the clean snow in arcs of red. Some of the wolves
sported ruby smears on the teeth and lips of their snarling mouths.
But, despite, or perhaps because of, their viciousness and savagery,
they were beautiful, moving like dancers. The fluid grace could be
seen even in the still shots of a crouch, a leap, a sudden stop
sending up a shower of snow.
With a great
effort, Rachel forced herself to shut the book. If she didn't make
an effort to stop herself, she would simply stare at the pictures for
hours and would never get any reading done. But, as soon as she
opened it again, the words grabbed her almost as once. The wolf
is a fascinating and majestic creature, long maligned because of
false beliefs about mass killing of humans, frequently whipped into a
veritable frenzy by the absurd werewolf legend. Rachel wondered
briefly what a werewolf was. Were—wolf. It sounded like a wolf
that used to be, or something like that. So, at this point, all the
wolves must be werewolves, which didn't sound so scary, more sad
actually. Maybe past (were) wolves actually meant dead ghost wolves.
Rachel didn't really believe in ghosts. But she did know that some
of the business men who had died from taking too many production
enhancement pills were rumored to haunt their former office buildings
and she sometimes did feel a little relieved when she was passed over
for parties in those buildings. But this was wasting her precious
time. Back to the wolves.
Although the
wolf is a worthy object of study merely because of the brilliance of
its physiological design, the almost human quality of its mental and
emotional state is what makes it truly marvelous. Its complex pack
structure shows the ability to bond closely with others. Unlike the
dull herbivore who gathers in a “selfish herd,” a simple
aggregation of each individual's predator detection instincts into a
greater, but messy and inelegant whole, the wolves' hunting strategy
involves far greater sophistication and active involvement on the
part of the pack members. The joint pursuit of larger animals
requires that they act, and therefore think, as one in order to
provide even a slim chance of success.
Rachel wrinkled
her nose. This author was sounding uncomfortably like a brothel
propagandist now and she was pretty sure she didn't like it. On the
other hand, the wolves were working together to challenge and bring
down those who were larger and more powerful, instead of trying to
placate them. If they were like the brothels, they would all form a
relay service for carrying leaves to the fat brown thing so it
wouldn't kick them. She wouldn't mind cooperating with the other
girls if there were trying to actually do something useful and
interesting—and preferably rebellious—instead of just doing what
was expected of them, as predictable and unthinking as automatons.
She snarled like the wolves themselves before moving to the next page
and continuing to read.
Indeed, the
sight of a wolf pack taking down prey contains all the intricate
coordination of a carefully choreographed dance number. In addition
to the way they work as one to obtain food, wolves also contribute to
the good of the pack in many other ways as well. It has been
observed that they will care for one another's wounds, keep each
other warm in the winter snow, bring back food for sick or injured
pack members who cannot join the hunt, and even care for their
offspring as a joint effort. The true beauty of these activities is
that they not only contribute to the material well-being of the pack
but seem, on some level, to indicate affection among its members as
well. Wolves recognize pack members by smell and voice and will
frequently go out of their way to greet one another individually,
especially if they have been separated for some time. They will
nuzzle and lick each other, then nip, chase one another, play fight,
and roll in the snow together, actions that seem to simply bring them
joy far beyond any concrete advantage which science can discover.
Rachel was
suddenly startled back to reality by a sound, the first she had heard
in that still place for ages. Who knew how many hours had passed
since she had picked up the book? The long, windowless chamber
offered no changing light to mark the passage of time. The sound
came again and she nervously shrank up against the side of the
bookcase, hoping to hide in the shadows at its base. The noise she
had heard was the scrape of chair legs on the floor as the man at the
desk stood up and then pushed in his chair. At first, she was glad
he was leaving, then realized he was walking down the aisle on the
other side of the shelf where she crouched. She could see the
shadows of his legs slowly approaching through the spaces between the
books. Then, suddenly, they stopped, directly opposite her. The
space at the top of the lowest shelf was right at Rachel's eye level
and, through it, she could see the dull black legs of the suit pants,
the neat crease on the front within easy reach of her hand. Why was
he stopping just here? If he has seen her, surely he would say
something or take some action. Rachel felt sweat form on her neck
and back and took slow shallow breaths to make her breathing as
silent as possible. Then, his hand went out and began to push apart
the books on his side of the shelf. Only the line of books on
Rachel's side, ragged and full of holes, shielded her from sight.
That and the fact that she was on the floor, well below his line of
sight, but neither made a particularly good defense. He placed one
of his books in the gap on the shelf, turned, and went on down the
row. Rachel slumped down on the cold floor, dizzy with relief, but
it had been such a close thing. Only after a few minutes of deep
breathing to regain her composure, was she able to continue reading.
In many ways,
the wolf pack could be seen as an ideal society, certainly more
advanced than many other animals. But its sophistication is offset
by a brutal, primal, element. In wolf politics, the leader is the
strongest beast, who obtains its position by ripping out the throat
of its predecessor or, at least, driving them forever from the
special society we have just spent such effort praising. Apart from
any emotional pain we may surmise this causes, if wolves do, indeed,
feel affection for their pack members, it is little less than a death
sentence. Without a supportive pack structure, they can barely
manage to feed themselves, they have no recourse if they fall ill or
are injured, especially because the deposed leader is almost
always already in the latter state, merely by dint of being disposed.
Rachel's knuckles
turned white as she clutched the book. It was like the Metal Brain
concert, a window opening inside a mind constantly battered by the
deadening forces outside, a voice giving word and form to the
shapeless flame inside her. She was like a pack leader, powerful and
violent, and the others, like Elissa, were petty challengers nipping
at her heels as they tried in vain to break her and bring her down.
She held the book close against her for a moment, as if it were a
dear friend, then began to read again with renewed frenzy, desperate
to devour as much as possible of this new thing that would help her
to know herself.
Sometime later,
she was again distracted, this time by hunger pains in the stomach.
While she knew she could last several hours without eating, she
couldn't do it forever and, also, there was the problem of time. If
she was gone too long, people at the brothel would notice her absence
and wonder where she was. Certainly, she couldn't stay here all
night and there was no way to tell how much time had passed already.
She should have been able to check the time on her pager but,
out of rage at being chained to the thing again, she had messed with
the clock settings until they had become hopelessly bugged. The only
safe move was to leave now. But how could she bring herself to go?
She gazed longingly at the book in her lap. This page had a picture
of a wolf sitting alone on a hill, howling at the sky. The curving
line of its neck, continuing into its head, thrown back at a sharp
angle, was grace itself. And its expression, with closed eyes and
parted mouth, seemed to perfectly portray great pain and suffering.
Rachel felt a lump in her throat and tore her eyes away. She had
read less than a third of the first book and she would probably never
get another chance to read it. Sadly, she closed the book and
stacked it with the others, then prepared to get up. But she was so
sore and stiff from sitting on the cold floor that she had to extend
her leg slowly and carefully, feeling an ache all along it, then set
her foot on the floor. Her bare feet were so frozen she could hardly
feel them, reminding her how she had hidden her shoes in the reading
room. She would have to go back and get them before she could leave.
Luckily she had found such a perfect spot for hiding things, she
thought as she moved to slide the wonderful books back onto the
shelf.
Then she froze.
Her body shivered and prickled all over at the marvelous thought she
had just had. When she had put her shoes back on, the spot would be
perfect for hiding something else in, specifically these books. Her
knuckles whitened on the dull gray covers. Nothing could stop her
from going to the feminine room and reading to her heart's content.
But, first, she conducted a more thorough search and discovered four
more of the books on her list. Then, clutching her precious finds
tightly to her heart, she rushed out of the wing and down the hall,
bounding lightly on her frozen toes and ignoring the burst of pain as
they were shocked back into consciousness. The hall was empty and
the swap of books for shoes was quick and effective. Then, Rachel
walked out of the library with a saucy sway to her walk, confident
she'd fooled them all and, soon, she would know everything there was
to know about wolves.
©Amanda RR Hamlin 2025
