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High on his left； now； rose up one of the University buildings。 He could not remember what department had been housed there。 The shrubbery； which once had been kept neatly trimmed； had now grown up high and shaggy； masking the lower windows。
He went on toward his goal。 It was only a little way ahead； now。 He burst through another thicket； and saw the great Library building。
He looked。 This building also was half masked by the shrubbery。 One window was broken； apparently because the branch of a pine tree had grown out across it； and then slapped back and forth in some high wind。 That accident had happened since he had last been here； several years back。 He kept the University Library as a reserve for the future。 He had even taught the children to respect it。 Yes； he had even； he was afraid； put a kind of taboo upon it。 In fact； not only here but everywhere； he had always tried to impress the children with an almost mystical value of books。 Still he kept the symbol of the burning of the books as one of the worst things that men could do。
He circled the Library； here and there having difficulty in breaking his way through bushes。 Once he had to crawl over the fallen trunk of a pine tree。 The building； as far as he could see； was still in sound condition。 He came at last to the window which he had broken many years before； and then boarded up。 With the hammer he began to knock off a board。 He was careful not to break the board； so that he could replace it。 After all； he realized with pleasure； there had been a rational background for his bringing the hammer along with him。
Having knocked off the board； he was able to climb through into the building。 Now he recalled the first time that he had gained entrance through the window。 He had e when Em had told him she was going to have a baby； and he had been hunting for books on obstetrics。 All that had seemed a tremendous problem at the time； and yet it had solved itself without difficulty。 Why could he never learn to worry less about problems？ Problems not infrequently solved themselves。
He went on through the hall； and found the old door into the stacks。 Things were not as clean as they might be。 In spite of his precautions； bats had apparently found their way into the building； perhaps through the recently broken window。 There was also the litter of some kind of rodent。 But the droppings had done no damage to the books。 He put out a finger； rubbed the tops of some books； and brought it away dusty。 That was natural； and there was not even a very surprising amount of dust。
Yes； they were all still there…well over a million volumes； almost all the accumulated learning of the world still safe within these four wals。 He felt a sudden sense of security and safety and hope。 He gloated； like a miser。
He went down one flight of the little circular stairway； and headed toward the part of the library； the geography section； which as a graduate student he had known best。 He came to the familiar alcoves； and in spite of all the years he felt a sense of having e home。 Looking at the shelves； he began to spot books which he had read and studied。
One； in particular； caught his attention； a well…worn volume； rebound in red buckram。 He stretched out a hand； took it from the shelf； and blew the dust from its top。 Looking at his find； he saw the name Brooks and the title。 Climate through the Ages。 He remembered the book。 Opening it； he saw the card； and noticed that the last borrower of the book…the date only a month before the Great Disaster…had been someone named with the unusual name of Isherwood Williams。 Only after a few seconds did he realize that he himself was Isherwood Williams。 Nobody had called him by his full name for many years。 Now he could actually remember that he had been reading this book during his last semester。 It was a good book and interesting； although largely superseded； he curiously found himself remembering； by the later studies of…well； someone with a German name…Zeimer； perhaps。
He laid the hammer down； so as to have both hands for the book。 Then he went to where light shone in through a dusty window； and looked curiously through the pages。 Actually； this book was not of the slightest value to human progress。 Climatic change was not a practical problem。 In any case； this book had been superseded。 He could just as well throw it away or tear it to pieces； but he did not。 He went back； and put it almost reverently into its place。
He walked away； and then suddenly everything was dust and ashes in his mind again。 What would be the use of all these books now？ Why worry about one of them？ Why worry about all the millions of them？ There was no one left； now； to carry on。 Books themselves； mere wood…pulp and lamp…black； were nothing…without a mind to use them。
Sorrowfully he went away； and he was just starting to climb the circular stairway when he realized that something was missing。 He no longer had the hammer。 He was suddenly frightened； and returned rapidly to the alcove from which he had taken the book。 He had a great feeling of relief when he saw the hammer still resting where he had laid it on the floor when he wanted both hands for the book。 He took it up and retraced his steps。
He climbed out through the broken window； and automatically started to replace the board。 Then； he stopped。 The great feeling of desolation came over him again。 Why replace the board？ It would make no difference。 No one was left who would e here； in the future； to read。 He paused； swinging the hammer idly。
At last； slowly； without enthusiasm； he picked up the board； and with the hammer pounded the nails in again。 There was no enthusiasm。 There was no hope。 Yet this was merely part of his life。 Just as George would always work at his carpentry； just as Ezra would always be good with people； so he； Ish； would keep some illusion of books； and the future。
After that he went around and sat down to rest on the granite steps at the front of the Library。 Everything was overgrown and half ruinous。 He thought of an old picture which he remembered。 Who was it…Caesar？ Hannibal？…someone； sitting in the ruins of Carthage？ He pounded idly with his hammer at the edge of one of the granite steps。 It was sheer vandalism。 He did not ordinarily do such a thing。 The edge of the step chipped off。 Still； wantonly； he pounded harder。 A three…inch flake loosened and fell。 The fresh edge of the broken granite looked out roughly at him。
As he sat there still pounding gently with the hammer； he felt himself for the first time remember Joey without merely dissolving into sorrow。 How would it have been anyway？ Joey might not have been able to do anything。 He was only a bright little boy。 He could not have changed things。 He could not have stood against all the pressing current of this altered world。 He would only have struggled and struggled； and in the end he would not have succeeded。 He would have been unhappy。
〃Joey；〃 he thought； and he put the thoughts into words。 〃Joey was too much like me。 I always struggle。 I can never merely be happy。〃
He concentrated on a small chip of granite； and vindictively pounded it into bits。
〃Relax； relax！〃 he again thought in words。 〃It's time to relax。〃
Thoreau and Gauguin…we remember them。 But should we forget the tens of thousands of others？ They neither wrote books nor painted pictures； but equally they renounced。 And what of those others； the millions who turned their backs on imagination？
You have heard them speak； and seen their eyes。。。 〃It was fine there； where we camped on our fishing…trip…sometimes I wished…of course I had to get back for the sales…conference。〃 。。。 〃Do you ever think； George； of a desert island？〃 。。。 〃Just a cabin； in the woods； no telephone。〃 。。。 〃The sand…spit by the lagoon； I like to fancy…but； you know； there's Maud； and the children。〃
What a strange thing then is this great civilization； that no sooner have men attained it than they seek to flee from it！
The Chaldeans told that Oannes the fish…god came up from the sea and taught men these new ways。 But was he god or demon？
Why do the legends look back toward some golden day of simplicity？
Must we not think then that this great civilization grew up； not by men's desires； but rather by Forces and Pressures。 Step by step； as villages grew larger； men must give up the free wandering life of berry…picking and seed…gathering and tie themselves to the security （and drudgery） of agriculture。 Step by step； as villages grew more numerous； men must renounce the excitement of the hunt for the security （and drudgery） of cattle…keeping。
Then at last it was like Frankenstein's vast monster。 They had not willed it； but it ruled them all。 And so by a thousand little surreptitious paths they tried to escape。
How then； once overthrown； shall this great civilization； except by renewed Forces and Pressures； ever e again？
And then suddenly he knew that he was old。 In years he was only in his forties； but he was the youngest of the older group； and beneath him a long gap opened before you came to the oldest of the younger ones。 It was a long gap in Years； and an immensely longer gap in culture and tradition。 Never had there been…never could there possibly have been…such another gap between the older and the younger generations。
Sitting there； on the Library steps； pounding the chip of granite into smaller and smaller grains； he began now to have what seemed a little clearer vision of the future。 It was all tied up in that same old question。 How much did man strike outward to affect all his surroundings and how much did the surroundings press in upon him？ Did the Napoleonic age produce Napoleon or did he produce it？ So； even if Joey had lived； the welter of circumstances； the circumstances that made Jack and Roger and Ralph； would probably have affected Joey too； and one small boy was not much to set up against all of that。 Yes； even if Joey had lived； things would probably have continued to move in the way they already seemed to be moving。 Now that Joey was dead； it was certain…certain； that is； as far as anyone could reasonably expect； granting always some unforeseeable accident。
The stars in their courses！ （The chip of granite was nothing but powder under the blows of the harnmer。） The stars in their courses！ No； he did not believe in astrology； and yet the shifting of the stars showed that the solar system too was changing； and that the earth itself was being a more or a less habitable place for man。 Thus； at some profounder depth of reality； astrology might be right； and the changes in the sky could be taken as symbol of all the grinding wheels of circumstance。 The stars in their courses！ What was man； little man； to withstand them？
Yes； the future was certain。 The Tribe was not going to restore civilization。 It did not want civilization。 For a while the scavenging would go on…this opening of cans； this expending of cartridges and matches stored up from the past； all this uncreative but happy manner of life。 Then at last； sooner or later； there would be more and more people； and the supplies would fail。 There would perhaps be no quick catastrophe because many cattle could be had for the taking； and life would go on。 So； he thought； and then a new idea came to him with a sudden impact。 Even though cattle were left； though there was much food； what would happen when the ammunition for the rifles was exhasted？ When the matches were gone？ In fact； one might not even have to wait until the ammunition was exhausted。 Powder deteriorated with time。 Three or four generations； and all who were left might be merely some groveling primitives who had lost civilization and yet； on the other hand； had not learned all those thousand basic skills which enabled savages to live with some degree of stability and fort！ Possibly； indeed…and perhaps this would best…in three or four generations the race would not be able to survive at all； would not be able to make the transition between the scavenging； uncreative life； and some new level of life at which they could remain permanently； or from which they could once more begin a slow advance。
Again he pounded heavily on the edge of the step。 Ano