"Great," Serrin muttered, turning on his heel. He wandered off to the nearest canteen, bought a garishly headlined Times from the vending machine, and sat down to read it over a cup of soykaf and a Danish. No one read a cheap tabloid like this for news in 2055, but even its wild sensationalism couldn’t distract the elf from his irritation. The grimoires he needed to consult were under the most highly restricted access, and this was the only place in the world that had them. The most he’d been able to get was permission for a week’s access to the magical collection here at Columbia, and now he was going to lose a whole day of it.