Mr Penumbra's 24 Hour Bookstore (24 page)

“You’re giving a medieval publisher a lot of credit,” I say.

“They figured out the circumference of the earth a thousand years before they invented printing,” she sniffs. Then she pokes a chopstick at me: “Could
you
figure out the circumference of the earth?”

“Well—no.” I pause for a moment. “Wait, could you?”

She nods. “Yeah, it’s actually pretty easy. The point is, they knew their stuff back then. And there’s stuff they knew that we still haven’t rediscovered. OK and TK, remember? Old knowledge. This might be the ultimate OK.”

After dinner, Kat won’t come back to the apartment with me. She says she has email to read, prototypes to review, wiki pages to edit. Did I really just lose out to a wiki on a Thursday night?

I walk alone in the darkness and wonder how a person would begin to determine the circumference of the earth. I have no idea. I’d probably just google it.

THE CALL

I
T IS THE NIGHT
before the morning on which Kat Potente has scheduled an all-out assault on the centuries-old
codex vitae
of Aldus Manutius. Her Googler platoon is assembled. Penumbra’s posse is invited. It’s exciting—I have to admit, it’s really exciting—but it’s also unnerving, because I have no idea what’s next for Mr. Penumbra’s 24-Hour Bookstore. The man himself hasn’t said a word, but I feel like Penumbra might be winding this place down. Because, I mean, sure: Who needs the burden of an old bookstore when eternal life is imminent?

We’ll see what tomorrow holds. It’s going to be a good show, whatever happens. Maybe afterward he’ll be ready to talk about the future. I still want to buy a billboard on that bus shelter.

It’s a quiet night, with only two customers so far. I browse the shelves, straightening my new acquisitions. I promote
The Dragon-Song Chronicles
to a higher shelf, then idly flip the first volume over in my hands. The back cover bears a small black-and-white portrait of Clark Moffat in his thirties. He has shaggy blond hair and a bushy beard, and he’s wearing a plain white T-shirt, grinning a toothy grin. Below the portrait, it says:

Clark Moffat (1952–1999) was a writer who lived in Bolinas, California. He is best known for the bestselling
The Dragon-Song Chronicles
, as well as
Further Tales of Fernwen
, a book for children. He graduated from the United States Naval Academy and served as a communications specialist aboard the nuclear submarine U.S.S.
West Virginia.

Something occurs to me. It’s something I’ve never done before—something I’ve never thought to do, not in all the time I’ve worked here. I’m going to search for someone in the logbooks.

It’s logbook
VII
I want, the one I smuggled down to Google, because it runs through the mid-eighties and early nineties. I find the raw text on my laptop and command-F a particular description: someone with shaggy blond hair and a beard.

It takes a while, trying different keywords, skimming through false positives. (There are a lot of beards in here, it turns out.) I’m looking at OCR’d text, not handwriting, so I can’t tell who wrote what here, but I know some of these must be Edgar Deckle’s notes. It would be nice if he was the one who— There.

Member number 6HV8SQ:

The novice takes possession of
KINGSLAKE
with thanks and good cheer. Wears a white T-shirt celebrating the bicentennial. Levi 501 jeans and heavy work boots. Voice rough with smoke; package of cigarettes, approximately half-empty, visible in pocket. Pale blond hair is longer than has ever been recorded by this clerk. Upon remark, the novice explains: “I want it wizard-length.” Monday the 23rd of September, 1:19 in the morning. Clear skies and the smell of the ocean.

That’s Clark Moffat. It’s got to be. The note is after midnight, which means the late shift, which means “this clerk” is indeed Edgar Deckle. There’s another one:

The novice is moving quickly through the Founder’s Puzzle. But even more than his speed, it is his confidence that is striking. There is none of the hesitation or frustration that has characterized other novices (this clerk included). It is as if he is playing a familiar song or dancing a familiar dance. Blue T-shirt, Levi 501s, work boots. Hair is longer still. Receives
BRITO.
Friday the 11th of October, 2:31 in the morning. A foghorn sounds.

It goes on. The notes are concise but the message is clear: Clark Moffat was a savant of the Unbroken Spine. Is it possible … was he the dark moss constellation in the visualization? Was he the one who raced around the Founder’s whole face in the time it took other novices to trace out an eyelash or an earlobe? There’s probably some way to link specific notes to the visualization and—

The bell tinkles and I jerk my head up out of the endless scrolling text. It’s late, and I expect to see a member of the fellowship, but instead it’s Mat Mittelbrand, hauling a black plastic case. It’s huge, bigger than he is, and it’s stuck in the doorway.

“What are you doing here?” I ask, helping to pry it loose. The case’s surface is tough and knobby and it has heavy metal buckles.

“I’m here on a mission,” Mat says, breathing hard. “This is your last night, right?”

I’ve been complaining to him about Penumbra’s neglect. “Maybe,” I say. “Probably. What’s all this?”

He tips his case over on the floor, flips the buckles (they make a serious-sounding
snap snap
), and opens it wide. Inside, cushioned in a bed of gray foam, there’s photography gear: crystalline lights with sturdy wire shields, thick collapsible aluminum stalks, and wide coils of bright orange cable.

“We’re going to document this place,” Mat says. He sets his hands on his hips and peers appreciatively around. “It must be recorded.”

“So, what, like—a photo shoot?”

Mat shakes his head. “No, that would be selective recording. I hate selective recording. We’re going to take a picture of every surface, from every angle, under bright, even light.” He pauses. “So we can re-create it.”

My mouth hangs open.

He continues, “I’ve done photo recon on castles and mansions. This store is tiny. It’ll only take three or four thousand shots.”

Mat’s intention is completely over-the-top, obsessive, and maybe impossible. In other words: it’s perfect for this place.

“So, where’s the camera?” I ask.

On cue, the bell over the front door tinkles again, and Neel Shah comes barreling through with a monstrous Nikon hanging from his neck and a bottle of bright green kale juice in either hand. “Got some refreshments,” he says, holding them aloft.

“You two are going to be my assistants,” Mat says. He taps the black plastic case with his toe. “Start setting up.”

*   *   *

The bookstore is bursting with heat and light. Mat’s lamps are daisy-chained together, all plugged into the one power outlet behind the front desk. I’m pretty sure it’s going to blow a fuse, or maybe a whole street-level transformer. Booty’s neon sign might be at risk tonight.

Mat is up on one of Penumbra’s ladders. He’s using it as a makeshift dolly, with Neel pushing him slowly across the span of the store. Mat holds the Nikon steady in front of his face and fires off a shot for each of Neel’s long, even strides. The camera triggers the lights, which are set up in all the corners and behind the front desk, and they all go
pop pop
with every shot.

“You know,” Neel says, “we could use these shots to make a 3-D model.” He looks over at me. “I mean, another one. Yours was good.”

“No, I get it,” I say. I’m at the front desk, making a checklist of all the details we need to capture: the tall letters on the windows and their rough, crenelated edges, worn away by time. The bell and its clapper and the curling iron bracket that holds it in place. “Mine looked like Galaga.”

“We can make it interactive,” Neel says. “First-person view, totally photorealistic and explorable. You could choose the time of day. We can make the shelves cast shadows.”

“No,” Mat groans from the ladder. “Those 3-D models suck. I want to make a miniature store with miniature books.”

“And a miniature Clay?” Neel asks.

“Sure, maybe a little LEGO dude,” Mat says. He hauls himself up higher on the ladder and Neel starts pushing him back across the store. The lights go
pop pop
, leaving red spots in my eyes. Neel is ticking off the advantages of 3-D models as he pushes the ladder: they’re more detailed, more immersive, you can make infinite copies. Mat is groaning.
Pop pop.

In all the bright noise, I almost miss the ring.

It’s just a tickle in my ear, but yes: somewhere in the bookstore, a phone is ringing. I cut through the shelves parallel to the photo shoot, with the lights still going
pop pop
, and emerge into the tiny break room. The sound is coming from Penumbra’s study. I push through the door marked
PRIVATE
and hop up the steps.

The
pop pop
of the lights is softer up here, and the
ring ring
from the phone (next to the old modem) is loud and insistent, produced by some powerful old-fashioned mechanical noisemaker. It keeps ringing, and it occurs to me that my usual strategy for strange phone calls—wait them out—might not work here.

Ring ring.

These days, the phone only carries bad news. It’s all “your student loan is past due” and “your uncle Chris is in the hospital.” If it’s anything fun or exciting, like an invitation to a party or a secret project in the works, it will come through the internet.

Ring ring.

Okay, well, maybe it’s an inquisitive neighbor calling to ask what the commotion is all about—all the flashing lights. Maybe it’s North Face over at Booty’s checking to make sure everything’s okay. That’s sweet. I pick up the phone and announce, with relish: “Mr. Penumbra’s 24-Hour Bookstore.”

“You must stop him,” a voice says, without introduction or preamble.

“Um, I think you have the wrong number.” It’s not North Face.

“I definitely do not have the wrong number. I know you. You’re the boy—you’re the clerk.”

I recognize the voice now. The quiet power. The crisp syllables. It’s Corvina.

“What’s your name?” he says.

“I’m Clay.” But then: “You probably want to talk to Penumbra directly. You should call back in the morning…”

“No,” Corvina says matter-of-factly. “Penumbra’s not the one who stole our most precious treasure.” He knows. Of course he knows. How? Another one of his crows, I suppose. Word must have gotten out here in San Francisco.

“Well, it’s really not technically stealing, I don’t think,” I say, looking down at my shoes as if he’s here in the room with me, “because, I mean, it’s probably in the public domain…” I trail off. This is not going to get me anywhere.

“Clay,” Corvina says, smooth and dark, “you must stop him.”

“I’m sorry, but I just don’t believe in your … religion,” I say. I would probably not be able to say this to his face. I’m clutching the black curve of the phone tight to my cheek. “So I don’t think it matters if we scan an old book. Or if we don’t. I don’t think it’s, like, of any cosmic importance whatsoever. I’m just helping my boss—my friend.”

“You’re doing exactly the opposite,” Corvina says quietly.

I don’t have any response to that.

“I know you don’t believe what we believe,” he says. “Of course you don’t. But you don’t need faith to realize that Ajax Penumbra is on the razor’s edge.” He pauses to let that sink in. “I’ve known him longer than you have, Clay—far longer. So let me tell you about him. He’s always been a dreamer, a great optimist. I understand why you’re drawn to him. All of you in California—I used to live there. I know what it’s like.”

Right. The young man in front of the Golden Gate Bridge. He’s smiling at me across the room, giving me a big thumbs-up.

“You probably think I’m just the cold New York CEO. You probably think I’m too severe. But, Clay—sometimes discipline is the truest form of kindness.”

He’s using my first name a lot. Mostly it’s salesmen who do that.

“My friend Ajax Penumbra has tried many things in his life—many schemes—and they have always been so elaborate. He has always been just on the cusp of a breakthrough—in his own mind, at least. I’ve known him for fifty years, Clay—fifty years! And in that time, do you know how many of his schemes have succeeded?”

I don’t like where—

“None. Zero. He has maintained that store where you’re standing—barely—and accomplished absolutely nothing else of note. And this, the last and greatest of his schemes—it will not succeed, either. You just said so yourself. It is foolishness, and it will fail, and what then? I worry about him, Clay, truly—as his oldest friend.”

I know he’s using a Jedi mind trick on me right now. But it’s a really good Jedi mind trick.

“Okay,” I say, “I get it. I know Penumbra’s a little weird. Obviously. What am I supposed to do?”

“You must do what I can’t. I would delete the copy you stole. I would delete every copy. But I’m too far away, so you must help me, and you must help our friend.”

Now it sounds like he’s standing right beside me:

“You must stop Penumbra, or this final failure will destroy him.”

*   *   *

The phone is back in its cradle, even though I am not totally conscious of having hung up. The store is quiet; there’s no more
pop pop
from the front. I cast my eyes slowly around Penumbra’s study, at the wreckage of decades of digital dreams, and Corvina’s warning starts to make sense. I think of the look on Penumbra’s face as he was explaining his scheme to us in New York, and it makes even more sense. I look across at the photo again. Suddenly it’s not Corvina who’s the wayward friend—it’s Penumbra.

Neel appears at the top of the stairs.

“Mat needs your help,” he says. “You have to hold a light or something.”

“Okay, sure.” I take a sharp breath, push Corvina’s voice out of my head, and follow Neel back down into the store. We’ve raised a lot of dust, and now the lamps are making bright shapes in the air, punching through spaces in the shelves, catching feathery motes—microscopic scraps of paper, bits of Penumbra’s skin, of mine—and making them shine.