Moving Pictures

Master?”
    “Use your common sense, man! It’s dark outside and the damn walls are made of stone. You don’t expect me to shoot at the damn walls?”
    “Ah,” said the Bursar. “The door is, er, five hundred years old, you know,” he added, with finely-tuned reproach.
    “Looks it,” said the Archchancellor, bluntly. “Damn great black thing. What we need around here, man, is a lot less stone and wood and a bit more jolliness. A few sportin’ prints, yer know. An ornament or two.”
    “I shall see to it directly,” lied the Bursar smoothly. He remembered the sheaf of papers under his arm. “In the meantime, Master, perhaps you would care to—”
    “Right,” said the Archchancellor, ramming his pointed hat on his head. “Good man. Now, got a sick dragon to see to. Little devil hasn’t touched his tar oil for days.”
    “Your signature on one or two of—” the Bursar burbled hurriedly.
    “Can’t be havin’ with all that stuff,” said the Archchancellor, waving him away. “Too much damn paper around here as it is. And—” He stared through the Bursar, as if he had just remembered something. “Saw a funny thing this mornin’,” he said. “Saw a monkey in the quad. Bold as brass.”
    “Oh, yes,” said the Bursar, cheerfully. “That would be the Librarian.”
    “Got a pet, has he?”
    “No, you misunderstand me, Archchancellor,” said the Bursar cheerfully. “That was the Librarian.”
    The Archchancellor stared at him.
    The Bursar’s smile began to glaze.
    “The Librarian’s a monkey ?”
    It took some time for the Bursar to explain matters clearly, and then the Archchancellor said: “What yer tellin’ me, then, is that this chap got himself turned into a monkey by magic?”
    “An accident in the Library, yes. Magical explosion. One minute a human, next minute an orangutan. And you mustn’t call him a monkey, Master. He’s an ape.”
    “Same damn difference, surely?”
    “Apparently not. He gets very, er, aggressive if you call him a monkey.”
    “He doesn’t stick his bottom at people, does he?”
    The Bursar closed his eyes and shuddered. “No, Master. You’re thinking of baboons.”
    “Ah.” The Archchancellor considered this. “Haven’t got any of them workin’ here, then?”
    “No, Master. Just the Librarian, Master.”
    “Can’t have it. Can’t have it, yer know. Can’t have damn great hairy things shambling around the place,” said the Archchancellor firmly. “Get rid of him.”
    “Good grief, no! He’s the best Librarian we’ve ever had. And tremendous value for money.”
    “Why? What d’we pay him?”
    “Peanuts,” said the Bursar promptly. “Besides, he’s the only one who knows how the Library actually works.”
    “Turn him back, then. No life for a man, bein’ a monkey.”
    “ Ape , Archchancellor. And he seems to prefer it, I’m afraid.”
    “How d’yer know?” said the Archchancellor suspiciously.
    “Speaks, does he?”
    The Bursar hesitated. There was always this trouble with the Librarian. Everyone had got so accustomed to him it was hard to remember a time when the Library was not run by a yellow-fanged ape with the strength of three men. If the abnormal goes on long enough it becomes the normal. It was just that, when you came to explain it to a third party, it sounded odd. He coughed nervously.
    “He says ‘oook,’ Archchancellor,” he said.
    “And what’s that mean?”
    “Means ‘no,’ Archchancellor.”
    “And how does he say ‘yes,’ then?”
    The Bursar had been dreading this. “‘Oook,’ Archchancellor,” he said.
    “That was the same oook as the other oook!”
    “Oh, no. No. I assure you. There’s a different inflection…I mean, when you get used to…,” the Bursar shrugged. “I suppose we’ve just got into the way of understanding him, Archchancellor.”
    “Well, at least he keeps himself fit,” said the Archchancellor nastily. “Not like the rest of you fellows. I went into the Uncommon Room this morning, and it was full of chaps snoring!”
    “That would be the senior masters, Master,” said the Bursar. “I would say they are supremely fit, myself.”
    “ Fit? The Dean looks like a man who’s swallered a bed!”
    “Ah, but Master,” said the Bursar, smiling indulgently,
    “the word ‘fit,’ as I understand it, means ‘appropriate to a purpose,’ and I would say the body of the Dean is supremely appropriate to the purpose of sitting around all day and eating big heavy