"Alan Dean Foster - With friends like these." - читать интересную книгу автора (Foster Alan Dean)

seat for myself on a stack of old papers and examined the thing more closely. It was quite an
ordinary-looking green box, except for the rather formidable-seeming lock on its cover and what I
imagined (falsely, of course) to be some faint lingering phosphorescence around the edges. I tried
the lid idly and discovered that the lock had not been fastened. More out of boredom than anything
else, I then reached in and brought out the enclosed sheaf of papers. Most of these seemed quite
new, but there were also a few scraps of some thick, coarse vellum which gave some indication of
having been burnt at the sides. I imagined that they had been treated with .some chemical
preservative, for when I first opened the box, an odor issued forth which' was noxious in the
extreme. It dissipated very rapidly, however, and I thought no more on it.
The contents of the box included typed letters on which were inscribed in longhand various notes,
charts, and a sketch, in addition to the yellowed bits of vellum. As the letters seemed to bear
somewhat on my area of study, I carried the box and its contents to the main room and began to
Xerox the material for later, more leisurely study.
Presently an elderly librarian chanced to pass. Espying the box, she became unaccountably
agitated, and quite vigorously insisted that I make a halt to what I was doing. The poor woman was
in such a state that I agreed to pause while she went to fetch the librarian-in-charge. At the
sight of the box and its revealed contents, that portly gentleman became quite as incensed as the
old lady, and the very first thing he did was to return every scrap of paper to the container in
question and lock it securely. Containing his obvious anger, he took the old woman off to one
side, carefully keeping the box tucked tightly under one arm. Puzzled, I strained to -hear their
conversation, but I could make out only a few disjointed phrases, for they were careful to speak
very softly. The man said, "...who is he?... not permitted... should have been locked... delicate
situation."
And the woman, "...didn't see!... no reason to suspect... ask him... safe..."
At this point they halted and the man returned to stare down at me intently. "Did you copy any of
the material in this box, son?" I replied that I had not, at which words he seemed unaccountably
relieved. When I ventured to inquire as to why I could not copy them, he replied that the
manuscripts were as yet unpublished, and therefore not covered by copyright. He smiled for the
first time since I had laid eyes on him and said, "No harm done, then!" and shook my hand.
Continuing to play .out the role, I replied that the material did not seem to offer me such aid
anyway, so I was perfectly willing to forget the entire incident.
By a fortuitous coincidence, I had stopped earlier at the post office, having need to refresh my
stock of envelopes and stamps. Now it so happens I have a friend who is also desirous of obtaining
a position on our departmental expedition, and so I had placed my first copies in an envelope and
sent them off to him by way of the library mail chute. As things turned out, it was unnecessary
for me to write him and request the return of these copies, as the original envelope was returned
to my apartment the next day, unopened, stamped "insufficient postage." Despite all my efforts to
relocate that mysterious green box, I could find not a trace of it in its former cubbyhole, and
deemed it injudicious to make inquiries.
The few copies I had succeeded in making consisted of the hand-marked letters and the scraps of
yellowed paper. A quick survey of the materials convinced me that I was fortunate to obtain what
little I had, as there was apparently a considerable defect in the copying machine. The old
scraps, which had been printed in a dark black ink and covered with faded red stains, had failed
entirely to be reproduced. It is most curious, as the stains themselves had been reprinted with
perfect clarity. I have written to complain to the company, and in typically evasive manner, they
replied that they never heard of such a thing.
The letters were apparently the work of two UCLA professors, and I was able to obtain some little
information concerning them, which I here include:
"Jonathan Turner, Professor of Anthropology and Linguistics. Born, Providence, R.I., 1910. B.A.,
University of Maine, 1931. Worked way through college at height of Depression performing heavy