Scholarly exercise

Rule 39:  Any book that you suddenly need on a wet night, 25 minutes before the Circ. Desk closes—say, a volume of Erasmus's Colloquies—will be shelved on P3.  That means a half-mile scurry and slither on dead leaves; up the endless black waterfall of stone steps (and don't even think of falling down them or you will); card point; trot; card point; trot; down four flights; through a long tunnel; down another flight; to the end of the stacks, where—whoever wrote this episode should DIE—it's all electronic shelving that could crush you FLAT like a flower in a quarto.  To make the thing less like Galaxy Quest, they've thoughtfully installed safety swtches, which mean you have to run up and down the aisle looking for whatever blinking button is holding up the works and punch it.  Mellon. Then the whole apparatus parts and rolls back, creaking like the crypt.  At least the light went on this time.  I've found books in the pitch dark before.

And I made it to the Circ. Desk—puffed and dishevelled—at 9:43.

Nine