ceilinged rooms.

"It's back here," Bob whispered.

He led them to a panelled door in a shelved wall. Reverently he turned the knob and the door swung open. He pushed them inside and followed, quietly shutting the door. When neither Nelson nor Reece spoke he stopped smiling.

"What-what do you think of it?"

The room was little more than a closet with a window. An old upright piano with yellowed keys occupied almost one entire wall, its top stacked with music. In a corner with its battered lid gaping stood a console record player dating, Nelson guessed, from the forties. The wall opposite was lined by green metal shelves. Most were empty but upon half a dozen or so there leaned and lay in no evident order perhaps a hundred shabby long play records and maybe another hundred battered albums containing old 78 rpms.

"This " Nelson asked hoarsely, "this is the record library?"

"Yes. And see, you can play them here if you want to." Without noticing how Reece smirked at Nelson, Bob walked to the old player and ran his hands affectionately over its scarred cabinet.

"Fine." Nelson opened one of the 78 albums. Through the opening in the first envelope he noticed there was a needle scratch across the label.

"I have to play them here," Bob explained, "I don't have any player at home. But they don't mind." He looked over Nelson's shoulder. "See, they have symphonies and operas, whole ones, and everything." He watched Nelson pull down lp sleeves and glance over them. "I'll bet I've heard almost every record here by now."

"I'll bet you have," Reece said.

Nelson frowned at him, then said to Bob, "You really like music, don't you?" "Yes." Bob nodded. "It's very interesting. I can get books outside there and bring them in and read them-read about composers and things while I listen.' Reece took down albums, lifted out worn old records, shook his head, snickered. "Is there anything you'd like to hear?" Bob asked.

"On these? Are you kidding? All you'd hear is surface noise. Hell, some of these are older than we are.

"Well, sure-I guess so. But-well, the music's just the same."

Reece tossed a soiled lp jacket back on the shelf. "Only recorded on a tinfoil cylinder in Edison's lab. Hell, even the lp's here are monaural. This is 1962, Nickerson. Didn't you ever hear of stereo?"

Bob looked bleakly from his face to the shelves and back again. The corner of his mouth twitched. Nelson feared he was going to cry. He laid a hand on his arm.

"Listen," he said, "why don't you come over to my place this afternoon? Dave and I are going to listen to some new records I just bought. I rigged my own components-Bogen amps, Thorens table, Shure pickup, twelve speakers. I'd like you to hear it."

"Could I? I mean, you would? Jeez, that's-." He broke off and shook his head. "No, I can't."

"Too bad, too bad." Reece opened the door.

"Wait a minute, Dave. Why not, Bob?"

"Well, you live quite a ways off, don't you? And I-" he stared out the window and spoke softly. "I've got to be home by four to-help my stepmother with some stuff."

"I'll drive you home," Nelson said.