He stopped it again with his thumb; once more the divination was wild. Still he lingered in the office and dreaded going "home" again. "Home" was only across the highway, in the haunted halls of those ancient buildings whose walls still contained stones which had been the nibbled concrete of a civilization that had died eighteen centuries ago. Crossing the highway to the old abbey was like crossing an eon. Here in the new aluminum and glass buildings, he was a technician at a workbench where events were only phenomena to be observed with regard for their How, not questioning their Why. On this side of the road, the falling of Lucifer was only an inference derived by cold arithmetic from the chatter of radiation counters, from the sudden swing of a seismograph pen. But in the old abbey, he ceased to be a technician; over there he was a monk of Christ, a booklegger and memorizer in the community of Leibowitz. Over there, the question would be: "Why, Lord, why?" But the question had already come, and the abbot had said: "See me."