Mr Penumbra's 24 Hour Bookstore

Amendment: his cult has a messiah and a first disciple. But at least the disciple is a designer. That’s cool. And codex vitae … I’ve heard that before. But Rosemary Lapin said the books on the Waybacklist were codex vitae. I’m confused—

“We, the students of Manutius, have worked for centuries to unlock his codex vitae. We believe it contains all the secrets he discovered in his study of the ancients—first among them, the secret to eternal life.”

Rain spatters on the window. Penumbra takes a deep breath.

“We believe that when this secret is finally unlocked, every member of the Unbroken Spine who ever lived … will live again.”

A messiah, a first disciple, and a rapture. Check, check, and double-check. Penumbra is, right now, teetering right on the boundary between charmingly weird old guy and disturbingly weird old guy. Two things tip the scales toward charm: First, his wry smile, which is not the smile of the disturbed, and micromuscles don’t lie. Second, the look in Kat’s eyes. She’s enthralled. I guess people believe weirder things than this, right? Presidents and popes believe weirder things than this.

“How many members are we talking about here?” Neel asks.

“Not so many,” Penumbra says, scooting his chair back and lifting himself up, “that they cannot still fit in a single chamber. Come, my friends. The Reading Room awaits.”

CODEX VITAE

WE WALK THROUGH THE RAIN, all sharing a broad black umbrella borrowed from the Dolphin and Anchor. Neel holds it up above us—the warrior always holds the umbrella—with Penumbra in the middle and Kat and I hugging in close on either side of him. Penumbra doesn’t take up much space.

We come to the dark doorway. This place could not possibly be more different from the bookstore in San Francisco: where Penumbra’s has a wall of windows and warm light spilling out from inside, this place has blank stone and two dim lamps. Penumbra’s invites you inside. This place says: Nah, you’re probably better off out there.

Kat pulls the door open. I’m the last one through, and I give her wrist a squeeze as I step inside.

I am unprepared for the banality that confronts us. I was expecting gargoyles. Instead, two low couches and a square glass table form a small waiting area. Gossip magazines fan out across the table. Directly ahead, there’s a narrow front desk, and behind it sits the young man with the shaved head who I saw on the sidewalk this morning. He’s wearing a blue cardigan. Above him, on the wall, square sans-serif capitals announce:

F L C

“We are back to see Mr. Deckle,” Penumbra says to the receptionist, who barely looks up. There’s a door of frosted glass and Penumbra leads us through it. I’m still holding my breath for gargoyles, but no: it’s a gray-green still life, a cool savanna of wide monitors and low dividers and curving black desk chairs. It’s an office. It looks just like NewBagel.

Fluorescent lights buzz behind ceiling panels. Desks are set up in clusters, and they are manned by the people I saw through the Stormtrooper binoculars this morning. Most of them are wearing headphones; none of them look up from their monitors. Over slumped shoulders, I see a spreadsheet and an inbox and a Facebook page.

I’m confused. This place seems to have plenty of computers.

We weave a path through the pods. All the totems of office ennui have been erected here: the instant coffee machine, the humming half-sized refrigerator, the huge multipurpose laser printer flashing PAPER JAM in red. There’s a whiteboard showing faded generations of brainstorms. Right now, in bright blue strokes, it says:

OUTSTANDING LAWSUITS: 7!!

I keep expecting someone to look up and notice our little procession, but they all seem intent on their work. The quiet clatter of keys sounds just like the rain outside. There’s a chuckle from the far corner; I look over, and it’s the man in the green sweater, smirking into his screen. He’s eating yogurt out of a plastic cup. I think he’s watching a video.

There are private offices and conference rooms around the perimeter, all with frosted glass doors and tiny nameplates. The one we’re vectoring for is at the farthest end of the room and the nameplate reads:

EDGAR DECKLE / SPECIAL PROJECTS

Penumbra clasps a thin hand around the knob, raps once on the glass, and pushes the door open.

*   *   *

The office is tiny, but totally different from the space outside. My eyes stretch to adjust to the new color balance: here, the walls are dark and rich, papered in whirls of gold on green. Here, the floor is made of wood; it springs and whines under my shoes, and Penumbra’s heels make light clicks as he moves to close the door behind us. Here, the light is different, because it comes from warm lamps, not overhead fluorescents. And when the door closes, the ambient buzz is banished, replaced by a sweet, heavy silence.