Book Three of the Travelers (9 page)

C
uriosity. Orderliness. A passion for understanding.” Patrick Mac looked around at his students. “To become a great librarian, you must have passion and a sense of mission. Because you will have to confront extraordinary challenges, challenges which—”

Jay Oh, one of his top students—but also one of his most disruptive kids—interrupted. “Yeah, like trying not to be bored to death!”

Patrick frowned. “Now, come on, Jay. I'm making a serious point here,” he said. He tried to look as stern as he could.

But the truth was, he sometimes wondered if Jay wasn't right. Patrick loved teaching, loved working as a researcher in the world's most important library. And yet sometimes he wondered—was this it? Was this all he'd been put on earth to do? He was good at his job. Very good. But sometimes it seemed like poking around in computers full of ancient facts and figures—or teaching young people how to poke around in computers—just wasn't all that important.

It wasn't like the fate of the universe depended on whether you could dig up some old piece of information. He was talking to the class about having a sense of mission. But did he really feel that way himself? He used to think he did. But now he wasn't so sure. Maybe he was saying all this to convince himself.

As Patrick tried to refocus on the point he'd been making, there was a knock on the door of his classroom. The door opened a crack. Patrick could see one bright green eye looking through the door. There was only one person in the building who had eyes quite that color. It was the director of the New York Public Library herself.

“Mr. Mac?” The director's voice came through the door. “A word, if I may?”

 

Patrick took a deep breath. The air in the office of the director of the New York Public Library had a special smell to it—the smell of ancient books, of history, of human achievement. For five thousand years the building in which Patrick sat had been devoted to recording and keeping all the knowledge of humankind. And to sit in the office of the director herself! Well, it was a great feeling.

The director was a small, wizened woman with long white hair. She gave Patrick a wincing smile. “We have a problem.”

Patrick Mac sat up straighter. Had he done something wrong? He had been a teacher at the School of the New York Public Library for several years now and was still one of the junior members of the library staff. Despite having a natural talent for the work, he was frequently
made to feel his inexperience by the older members of the organization. “I'm sorry,” he said. “What did I do?”

“You? Who said anything about you?”

“Well, I assumed—”

The director cut him off with a wave of her hand. “Don't assume.” She pointed at the rows of books on the shelves of her large, wood-paneled office. Most of the library's real books were kept in rooms deep underground, but a certain group was on display in the director's office. “Our collection contains many of the most valuable, rare, and magnificent books in the world. The Gutenberg Bible, the Nag Hammadi scrolls, the early Shakespeare folios—I could go on and on.”

Patrick Mac knew this. Of course, all the books had been copied as digital images, and the information they contained was stored in computers. But the books had a value beyond the information they contained. They were an actual, physical connection to the entire history of human beings on Earth.

“Several books have gone missing, Patrick,” the director said.

“Missing?” Patrick frowned. “How is that possible?”

“They've been stolen.”

Patrick's eyes widened. Stolen! The word itself had an old-fashioned sound to it. People didn't steal things anymore. Sure, occasionally a kid would grab somebody's lunch as a prank. But this was a world of bounty, a world in which no one was poor, no one wanted for anything. There was literally no point in stealing. “But…why?”

The director shook her head. “I was hoping you would be able to tell us.”

Patrick swallowed. “Do you think that I—”

“Don't be ridiculous!” the director said irritably.

“Then why me?”

“Two reasons. A long time ago, back when breaking the law was common, there were people who solved crimes.”

“Detectives!” Patrick said excitedly. He'd gone through a phase when he was a boy, reading ancient books about crime solvers. “Sleuths, private eyes, investigators—”

“You don't have to try to impress me with all the words you know, Patrick,” the director said sharply.

Patrick cleared his throat. “Yes, yes, of course. I'm sorry.”

“You have distinguished yourself as a person with an unusual ability to dig up information.”

“Thank you, Director.”

“That skill may—I repeat,
may
—be of use to us at some point.”

“Wow!”

The Director narrowed her eyes. She was famous for her dislike of emotional displays.

“I'm sorry!” Patrick said. Then he frowned. “You said there were two reasons you wanted me to investigate the theft.”

“I did.”

Patrick waited.

“I'm sorry to be the one to tell you this,” the director said. “But the thief appears to be one of your students.”

“That's not possible!” Patrick said.

“I'm afraid it is. As you know, your students have
pass codes that allow them entry to certain areas of the library. The thief was able to alter his or her code so as to enter and exit the building without being identified. But what the student apparently didn't realize was that every pass code also contains information about what group or organization they are connected to. The group code points straight at the class you teach.”

“What about video? There are vid scanners in the library, aren't there?”

“Of course.”

“Then we should be able to see who it is.”

“Unfortunately, however, we are not.”

“Why not?”

“There have been certain…alterations to the hologram video files. The identity of the thief has been masked.”

Masked? How was that possible? Patrick decided not to pursue the matter. “Then what about the books? The thief must be doing something with them, right? Giving them to someone, storing them, selling them, sharing them…”

“No.”

Patrick looked at the director curiously. “Then…”

“They're burning them.”

A wave of horror flooded through him. Burning books! There wasn't a book in the library that wasn't at least two thousand years old. It had been eons since books were actually printed. Even the most trivial books were important artifacts of earlier times. “But that's sick!” he said.

The director nodded.

“So…I guess you want me to investigate?”

The director looked puzzled for a moment. “Oh!” she said. “My goodness, no. You've quite misunderstood me.”

“But I thought you said—”

“I simply called you here today to inform you that a police investigator would be coming to your class today. His name is Sergeant Lane. I wanted to make certain that you extend him every courtesy.”

Patrick's excitement evaporated. For a moment there, he thought she'd wanted him to take on an exciting assignment—investigator! Sleuth! Detective! But apparently not.

“Oh,” Patrick said.

“You're disappointed,” the director said.

Patrick sighed. “No, I just…Well, when you started talking about investigators…”

“I understand.” The director smiled kindly. “You're an excellent teacher and a good librarian. We appreciate that. But let's not get carried away.”

Patrick saw that it was almost time for his class to start. “Well, I'd better get going.”

“Keep your eyes open, Patrick.”

“I will.”

P
atrick walked slowly down the hallway to the elevator that took him down to sublevel twenty-six, where class was about to start. He'd been teaching for about five years now. It was good work, really it was. He liked the kids, he enjoyed the work. But still, he kept feeling like something was missing. There was no excitement, no feeling that anything really huge was at stake.

His students were good kids. Sometimes he felt as if they didn't need him at all. They all did their work. They logged on to their computers, and the computers fed them assignments at a rate that was determined by tests that were administered and graded by the computers. Sure, Patrick lectured every day. Sure, he tried to help the kids when they had problems that the teaching programs couldn't get them past.

But really. Did the kids need him? Sometimes he felt as if he were nothing but a high-class babysitter.

He needed a challenge!

But
what
? He sometimes wished that he could have been born a few thousand years ago, back when
bad things actually happened, back when people had real problems that demanded courage and strength and tenacity. Today everything was safe and easy and perfect.

And boring.

As he approached the class, he saw a man standing by the door. The man's clothes looked normal—except for a thin gold band on each shoulder. It reminded Patrick of the gold braid that soldiers and police had worn years and years ago. As he got closer, Patrick saw that the gold band was formed of tiny numerals—a row of nines.

“My goodness!” Patrick said. “You're from Unit Nine!”

The man turned and smiled confidently. He had a smooth, handsome face with a square jaw and brown eyes. He looked like an actor from the vids. “Guilty as charged,” he said, winking. “Sergeant Eric Lane, at your service.”

“Unit Nine!” Patrick couldn't believe it. The vids were full of stories about the supersecret Unit 9 of the Global Police Force. “I always assumed Unit Nine was totally fictional.”

“You're not the only one,” Sergeant Lane said. “We like it that way. Keeps the villains on their toes.” The Unit 9 investigator threw a mock punch, stopping only inches from Patrick's face.

“Whoa!” Patrick said, flinching. “For a second I thought you were going to do me harm.”

Sergeant Lane laughed genially. He had a rich baritone voice. “I trust you've been briefed?”

“Briefed?” Patrick was momentarily confused. “Oh, sure. The director told me you were coming.”

“Out
standing
!” Sergeant Lane said. Then he pointed at the room. “Let's get the show on the road, shall we?”

Patrick walked into the class and said, “Everyone take your places.”

There were slightly more than a dozen kids in the class, seven boys and seven girls, all of them around fifteen years of age. They grumbled good-naturedly as they sat.

Patrick explained to the students that they had a special guest for the day, Sergeant Lane from Unit 9. This caused a stir in the class.

Sergeant Lane stood at the front of the class and said, “Well, I'm going to ask you some questions. A couple of items have gone missing from the library, and I've been tasked to recover them.” He looked around the room expectantly. Patrick wondered what he was waiting for. He assumed that the investigator would be talking to the students individually. “So…anybody, uh, anybody know what I'm talking about? Anybody aware of some missing items?”

The class looked at him blankly.

Sergeant Lane had seemed very confident at first. But now he seemed somewhat uncomfortable. “Hm? Anybody? Anybody want to help me out?”

“What's missing?” said Em Stickler, a willowy girl with short blond hair.

Sergeant Lane cleared his throat. “Not at liberty to say, I'm afraid.” He looked around the room. “Anybody?”

Patrick Mac was feeling a little puzzled. He'd read a lot of ancient books about crime solving. And no
detective he'd ever read about would have done things the way Sergeant Lane was doing them.

“Well…if you don't tell us what's missing,” said Jay Oh, “then how can we tell you if we know what happened to it?”

Sergeant Lane looked at Patrick. “Help me out here, Patrick,” he said. “These kids don't seem like they've got a helping attitude.”

Patrick smiled nervously. “Don't you think it would be a good idea to question them individually?” he said. “Then you could compare their stories and see if they add up.”

Sergeant Lane scratched his face uneasily. “Uh—well, yes, sure, that's probably—yes, let's go ahead and do that.” He looked around the room as though searching for a spot to question the students.

“There's an empty classroom next door. Maybe I could bring them in there one by one?”

“Out
standing
!” Sergeant Lane said. “I'll be next door then.”

He wheeled and walked out of the room.

The students looked at one another with perplexed expressions on their faces.

 

After the class was over and he'd questioned each of the students, Sergeant Lane said to Patrick, “Well, I thought that went really well! Really well indeed!” Patrick noticed that the detective was sweating heavily, as if he were nervous about something.

“What did you find out?”

“Find out?” The investigator blinked. “Uh…
well…not much.” He showed off his straight, white teeth. “Can't expect too much on the first round of questioning though.”

“Oh, okay.” Patrick was a little surprised. In the crime novels he'd read, the detective usually found out all kinds of stuff when they talked to suspects.

“Good call on the—uh—the separate room thing. I never would have thought of that.”

Patrick frowned. “Really? How do you usually do it?”

Sergeant Lane looked at the floor uncomfortably. “Actually?” He cleared his throat. “Actually this is my first major investigation.”

Patrick was a little surprised. “How long have you been in Unit Nine?”

“Twelve years next month.”

Patrick stared. “And you've never investigated anything?”

Sergeant Lane looked insulted. “Of course I have! It's just this is my first
major
case.”

“I'm relieved to hear that. I thought—”

“In fact, I've made
nine
arrests!” The investigator nodded sagely. “I'll never forget my first, though.'” He narrowed his eyes thoughtfully. “Six-year-old boy. Stole a communicator from his teacher. I put in three months on that case. Very instructive. Very instructive indeed.”

Patrick tried not to look appalled. Someone was stealing priceless volumes from the library and the best investigator they could find had never investigated anything more complex than a kid who stole a minor electronic gizmo?

“Of course,” Sergeant Lane said, “I've also completed
several excellent simulations. There was an out
standing
one where I had to crack a ring of gunrunners who were smuggling weapons to terrorists in a…” His smile faded. “Of course, that simulation was several thousand years old. Since we don't really have weapons anymore. Or terrorists. Or smugglers. Or…”

Suddenly Patrick was not feeling very hopeful about the detective's ability to solve the crime. If he hadn't known better, he'd have thought this was a joke. “But you do feel confident you can solve this crime?”

The sergeant smiled broadly. “Unit Nine always gets their man,” he said. His self-possession seemed to be coming back now.

“Great,” Patrick said. He hesitated. There was still a question that had been bothering him. “The library has surveillance vid scanners. Didn't the scanners capture the theft on video?”

The detective looked at him sternly. “That's information I really can't release to you. Strictly need-to-know.”

“I mean, if the theft is on video, you should be able to avoid all this. Right?”

Sergeant Lane said nothing. He was looking increasingly annoyed.

Patrick couldn't help himself though. He was really curious to know what was going on. “You think it would be helpful if I spoke to the students myself?”

Sergeant Lane held up one hand, palm out. “Okay, okay, stop right there, Pat. I know you're eager to help. But you need to let the professionals handle this.”

Patrick hated being called “Pat.” “I just thought—”

The investigator's face hardened. Patrick couldn't
help thinking that the expression looked like something the investigator had practiced a lot in a mirror. “Do me a favor, Pat. Don't think. Leave the thinking to me.”

Patrick felt his brow furrowing.

Sergeant Lane whirled and began walking briskly off down the hallway.

“Um…Sergeant?” Patrick called.

The policeman stopped, turned.

“That's a dead end,” Patrick said. “You want to go in the other direction.”

“I knew that!” Sergeant Lane said, marching back the other way. His shoes clicked sharply on the floor until he was gone.