She didn’t speak.
At a loss for what else to do, Clive stepped in and sat down on the teetering stool and looked about the tiny, dim office.
“What’s with all the books?”
“I’m a librarian.”
“A basement librarian?”
She might have smiled. She might not.
“Maybe you’re an alien librarian. Is there a tunnel here under the White House that leads to Area 51?”
“That’s a long way off,” she kept knitting without looking down. He could do that sometimes, when it was a simple pattern and thick yarn. She was doing it on a Fair Isle design, flipping the two yarn colors back and forth with perfect surety.
“Maybe you have a time-space warp under your desk.” He wouldn’t put it past her. It might explain a few things. “Like in Star Trek, you know.”
“Yes, I know Star Trek.”
Clive waited for a while,
