"They're afraid," said Pepper. "I am too. I'm afraid for myself but I'm afraid for you as well. You don't know them after all, yet. Even I don't know them at all well. All I know is they're capable of any extreme, the furthest extremes of stupidity and wisdom, cruelty and pity, fury and restraint. There's only one thing they lack - understanding. They always substituted some sort of surrogate for understanding, be it faith, disbelief, indifference, or neglect. That always turned out to be the simplest way. Easier to believe than comprehend. Easier to become disenchanted than to comprehend. I'm leaving tomorrow, by the way, not that that matters. I can't help you here, here everything's too solid and well-established. I'm just too obviously superfluous here, alien. I'll find the pressure point though, don't worry. It's true they can ruin you irretrievably, but that needs time and plenty of it. They've yet to find the most effective, economic, and above all, cheap method of approach. We'll keep up the struggle, it will have been worth it... Good-bye."
Pepper got up from his knees and wandered back by way of the bushes, the park, the alley. He tried without success to locate his suitcase. After that he got back to the main street, empty and illuminated only by the moon. It was already after one when he halted outside the Directorate library, it was open invitingly. The windows were hung with heavy curtains but inside it was brightly lit, like a dance hall. The parquet floor had dried out and squeaked desperately; all around were books. The shelves groaned under the weight of books, books lay in heaps on tables and in corners, and apart from Pepper and the books there wasn't a soul in the library.
Pepper lowered himself into a big old armchair and stretched out his legs; reclining he calmly placed his arms on the rests. Well now, what are you standing there for, said he to the books. Lazy devils! That's not what you were written for? Tell us, you tell me how the sowing went, how many acres? How many acres "of the wise, the good, the everlasting"? What are the prospects for the harvest? Above all - how is it sprouting? Quiet now, you there, what's your name two-volume! How many people have read you? How many understood? I've a lot of affection for you, old man, you're a good, honest friend. You never bawled or boasted or beat your chest. Good and honest. Those who read you also become good and honest, at least for a time. At least to themselves. You know, though, don't you, that some are of the opinion that goodness and honesty are not all that indispensable if we're to forge ahead. For that you need legs. And boots. Even unwashed legs and dirty boots. Progress can be perfectly indifferent to concepts of goodness and honor, as it has been indifferent up to now. The Directorate, for example, has no need of goodness or honor in order to function properly. Pleasant, desirable, but by no means essential. Like a knowledge of Latin to a bathhouse attendant, or biceps on an accountant. Or respect for women to Hausbotcher... It all depends on your definition of progress. You can define it so the famous "for all that" appears: an alcoholic but for all that an outstanding specialist; a lecher but for all that an excellent preacher; a thief, you know, a rogue, but for all that what an executive! A murderer but for all that, what discipline and dedication... You can also look on progress as a transformation of everyone into good and honest men. Then we'll live to hear people say: he's a specialist, of course, knows his stuff, but he's a dirty type, he'll have to go...
