nd the public
library, fat as ever, their numbers greater, their appetites grosser.
The ancient library, he knew, had changed little inside: stacks and
shelves would still be packed thick with reading matter. Books are
bulky, so only the rare editions had been taken beyond the stars; the
rest had been microfilmed and their originals left to Johnson and decay.
It was his library now, and he had all the time in the world to read all
the books in the world--for there were more than he could possibly read
in the years that, even at the most generous estimate, were left to him.

He had been wondering where to make his permanent residence for, with
the whole world his, he would be a fool to confine himself to some
modest dwelling. Now he fancied it might be a good idea to move right
into the library. Very few places in Manhattan could boast a garden of
their own.

He stopped the car to stare thoughtfully at the little park behind the
grimy monument to Neoclassicism. Like Central Park, Bryant had already
slipped its boundaries and encroached upon Sixth Avenue--Avenue of the
World, the street signs said now, and before that it had been Avenue of
the Nations and Avenue of the Americas, but to the public it had always
been Sixth Avenue and to Johnson, the last man on Earth, it was Sixth
Avenue.

He'd live in the library, while he stayed in New York, that was--he'd
thought that in a few weeks, when it got really hot, he might strike
north. He had always meant to spend a summer in Canada. His surface car
would probably never last the trip, but the Museum of Ancient Vehicles
had been glad to bestow half a dozen of the bicycles from their exhibits
upon him. After all, he was, in effect, a museum piece himself and so as
worth preserving as the bicycles; moreover, bicycles are difficult to
pack for an interstellar trip. With reasonable care, these might last
him his lifetime....

But he had to have a permanent residence somewhere, and the library was
an elegant and commodious dwelling, centrally located. New York would
have to be his headquarters, for all the possessions he had carefully
amassed and collected and begged and--since money would do him no good
any more--bought, were here. And there were by far too many of them to
be transported to any really distant location. He loved to own things.

He was by no means an advocate of Rousseau's complete return to nature;
whatever civilization had left that he could use without compro