 What is ironic about keeping their books stored away in an airtight compartment?
[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Worlds of If Science Fiction, August 1957. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed. ] I was wandering among the tall grass of the slopes, listening to the soft whistling of the wind; allowing the grass to caress my toga and thighs. It was a day soft and clear; a day accepted by the young, cherished by we old. I do not, of course, believe in the gods per se; still there is a grandeur in the very stones that transcends their human sculptors, and it is no wonder to me that many cling tenaciously, and ignorantly, to the old religion. In whose names Man killed and plundered, while struggling up. In whose names Man finally left this earth, to seek his cousins among the stars. Gone now are all the ancient evils, wars, emergencies. Everything has evaporated in Maternite. In moments of emergency, it is wise to speak with caution. A man my age does not hurry in the heat of the midday sun—maddugs nenglishmin go out in the midday sun, as the ancients say, although I often wonder why—but Xeon and Melia ran all the way down to the city. They are of an age to enter manhood, and have all the energy such young men do. They were aware that they stood in the midst of an unprecedented happening; indeed, an emergency. They were created so long ago, indeed, that the ignorant believe them to have been constructed by the gods themselves. Indeed, the watcher is more a tradition than a necessity. They accompanied me past the marble pillars into the cool recesses of the Hall, then seated themselves on the floor as I took my place by the great table. At such a time, many men feel impelled to make speeches, and one must not be disrespectful. By this time, unfortunately, many of the Conclave had departed for home and supper. Yet perhaps it is for the best, for those left were the most earnest and intelligent. The machines bear the exact number of children each year to balance the number of us whom the gods claim. Such it has always been from time immemorial." "But now," he continued, however, with less assurance and indeed with even a stutter here and there, "an unprecedented situation has arisen. It is at such times that I most revere the wisdom of the ancients, who decreed seventy years the minimum age for a member of the Conclave.
 There is little use in preserving something if the meaning is lost upon those preserving it
 There is nothing in the books that can help Melopolis repair the Maternite or save its population  The books were already designed with technology that would keep them intact forever  There is little use in preserving something if the meaning is lost upon those preserving it  The books contain antiquated knowledge that will only set Melopolis back further