test.
The library was surprisingly crowded for a weeknight. Students primarily. Most of them Asian. Aside from the occasional runaway, he seldom came into contact with kids these days, and his perception of the younger generation was formed mostly by movies and television.
Which was why it surprised him to see what looked like normal, happy, welladjusted,teenagers laughing quietly, talking together in low voices, and copying notes while sitting around large round tables piled with books.
Perhaps society wasn't doomed after all.
His father immediately wandered away, and Miles headed over to the bank of monitors and keyboards that had replaced the card catalog. It still felt strange to him to be using a computer in a library, and though the machines were part of both his work and his everyday life, he mourned its intrusion into this world. It seemed incongruous to him. And unnecessary. There'd been an article last week in the Los
Angeles Times about magnetic storage media and the rapid pace of technological change. The gist of the article was that storing information on computer discs or CDs required translating technology--a machine to read the encrypted information and translate it into words--and that things were moving so quickly that a lot of information was being saved in dying formats and would be impossible to retrieve even ten years hence. Written words, however, needed no interpretive mechanism, and information stored in books and printed on acid-free paper would remain easily accessible far longer than those using newer storage methods.
Which made him wonder why the library had ever scrapped its card catalog, a series of beautiful oak cabinets that were not only functional but added immeasurably to the library's ambience.
Sighing, Miles sat down on a stool. He had jotted down several keywords, and he went down the list, typing them in and then writing down each book and periodical reference that appeared. He was working on a case for Graham Donaldson, one of his oldest clients, a lawyer who was currently filing a discrimination suit on behalf of an African American man who'd been fired by Thompson Industries. Miles had already gotten some information from an inside source at the corporation, but he wanted to bolster it with some background. None of the information he'd received from the source was admissible in court, but then Graham was gambling that the case wouldn't even reach that stage. Thompson was extraordinarily concerned about its public image, and Graham was counting on a settlement. Just in case, though, he needed some fallback data.
It was amazing how easy it was to dig up background information. People on the outside always thought he spent his time walking city streets, canvassing neighborhoods, interviewing people, paying bribes for info, using hidden mikes and cameras to listen in on conversations. But sometimes a
short trip to the library and a few hours of reading provided him with everything he needed. That wasn't the case here, but he did find two books and one article in a business journal that would prove useful.
His father was already through, sitting on a bench near the front counter, and the old man stood, silently handing Miles his pile of books. Miles gave the librarian his card and glanced down at the titles his dad had chosen: Past Lives, Future Lives; Perception and Precognition; Witchcraft and Satanism in Early America; and The Prophecies of Nostradamus. He frowned but didn't say anything until the two of them were outside and in the car. Strapping on his shoulder harness, he casually motioned toward the materials between them. 'What is this all about?' he asked. 'What?' 'Your books.'
'Do I have to have my reading list approved by you?' 'No, but ' 'Okay then.'
'But you've never been interested in the occult.'
'I am now.' The old man looked at him Stubbornly, but for an instant the defensiveness faltered. A flicker of uncertainty-fear?--crossed his father's features, but it was gone before it really registered.
'What's going oft?' Miles asked.
'Nothing.'
'It's not nothing.'
'Just drop it, okay?'
There was anger in his father's voice, and Miles held up a hand in surrender. 'Okay. God, I wasn't trying to make a federal case out of it.'
But he thought of his father's dream and felt uneasy. He was used to working on hunches, following feelings, but it was usually in the pursuit of facts, and it was the nebulous occult aspect of this that troubled him.
He backed out of his parking spot and pulled onto the street, heading toward home.
His father changed the subject. 'I know you're not seeing anyone right now, but do you have any prospects?'
'What?' Miles looked at him, surprised. 'What brought this on?'
'I'm just curious. It's not natural for a full-grown man not to be interested in sex.'
'First of all, I don't even want to talk about this with you, and, second of all, who says I'm not interested. 'You don't seem like it.'
'I'm going through a dry spell right now.'
'Awful long dry spell.'
'Why are you suddenly so concerned about my love life?' 'A man gets to a certain age, he wants to know that his son will be settled and happy and taken care of when he's gone.'
When he's gone.
Maybe his father hadn't changed the subject after all. Miles kept his tone light. 'You planning to die on me?' 'I'm just asking.' Bob grinned. 'Besides, no man likes to think that he's been a failure as a father, that he's raised a son who's a pathetic loser and can't even get a date.'
'Who can't get a date?'
'When's the last time you went out?'
'Well, there was Janice. That was almost a kind of sort of semi-date.
In a way.'
'She was married! And you just went out to lunch!' 'She wasn't married. She had a boyfriend.'
'Same difference.' Bob shook his head. 'Thank God you're on a never seen a man not ball team.
I've strike out as much as you.'
'It's not that bad.'
'What about Mary?'
Miles' face clouded over. 'I haven't seen her in a long time.' ' ' l'hat's what I mean. Why don't you call her up, ask her out?'
Miles shook his head. 'I can't. I couldn't. Besides, she's probably seeing someone else by now.' ,
'Maybe not. Maybe she's in the same boat you are. Who knows? Maybe she's just waiting for you to call.'
Miles said nothing. He couldn't tell his dad that Mary was not waiting for him to call, that he had seen her outside a movie theater several months ago, dressed to the hilt, looking gorgeous, laughing happily and intimately touching a tall athletic-looking man wearing an expensive sports coat.
'You can't tell,' Bob prodded. 'Call her and see. It can't hurt.'
It could hurt, though, Miles thought. He turned away. 'No, Dad. I'm not calling her.'
'You'll be alone until you die.'
'I can live with that.'
Bob sighed. 'l'hat's the sad part. I think you could.' They drove in silence for several blocks, and it was Bob who finally broke the silence. 'You'll never do better than
Claire. You know that, don't you?' Miles nodded, staring slraight ahead. 'I know that.' 'You should have never let that girl go.'
'I didn't let her go. She wanted out, she wasn't happy, we got a divorce.'
'You could've fought a little harder.'
Miles didn't reply. He'd thought the same thing himself. Many times.
He'd agreed to the divorce, but he hadn't wanted it. He'd loved her then, and he probably still loved her now,
