Mr Penumbra's 24 Hour Bookstore

“What you must understand, my friends,” Penumbra says, “is that this fellowship has operated in almost exactly the same way since its formation five hundred years ago.” He pokes a finger over to indicate the bustling black-robes: “We use chalk and slate, ink and paper.” Here, his tone shifts. “Corvina believes we must adhere to these techniques exactly. He believes that if we change anything at all, we will forfeit our prize.”

“And you,” I say—you, the man with the Mac Plus—“you disagree.”

In reply, Penumbra turns to Kat, and now his voice really is just a breath: “We come now to my proposal. If I am not mistaken, dear girl, your company has shepherded a great number of books”—he pauses, searching for words—“onto digital shelves.”

She nods and her reply is a sharp whisper: “Sixty-one percent of everything ever published.”

“But you do not have the Founder’s codex vitae,” Penumbra says. “No one does.” A pause. “Perhaps you should.”

I get it in a flash: Penumbra is proposing bibliographic burglary.

One of the black-robes shuffles past our table carrying a fat green book from the shelves. She’s tall and lean, in her forties, with sleepy eyes and black hair chopped short. Beneath her robe, I see a blue floral print. We stay quiet, waiting for her to pass.

“I believe we must break with tradition,” Penumbra continues. “I am old, and if it is possible, I would see this work completed before all that is left of me is a book on these shelves.”

Another flash: Penumbra is one of the bound, so his own codex vitae must be here, in this cave. The thought makes my head spin a little. What’s inside? What story does it tell?

Kat’s eyes are shining. “We can scan this,” she says, patting the book on the table. “And if there’s a code, we can break it. We have machines that are so powerful—you have no idea.”

There’s a murmur in the Reading Room and a ripple of awareness passes through the black-robes. They all sit up straight and make whispers and whistles of attention and warning.

At the far end of the chamber, where the wide steps come down from above, a tall figure has emerged. His robe is different from the rest; it’s more elaborate, with extra folds of black fabric around the neck and slashes of red down the sleeves. It’s hanging from his shoulders as if he’s just thrown it on; underneath, a gleaming gray suit peeks out.

He’s heading straight for us.

“Mr. Penumbra,” I whisper, “I think maybe—”

“Penumbra,” the figure intones. His voice isn’t loud, but it comes from down low and it carries through the chamber. “Penumbra,” he says again, striding fast. He’s old—not as old as Penumbra, but close. He’s much more solid, though. He doesn’t stoop or totter, and I think he might be hiding pectoral muscles under that suit. His head is shaved starkly bald and he has a dark, neat mustache. He’s Nosferatu as a Marine Corps sergeant.

And now I recognize him. This is the man from the photo with young Penumbra, the strong young man giving a thumbs-up in front of the Golden Gate Bridge. This is Penumbra’s boss, the one who keeps the lights on at the bookstore, the CEO of the generous Festina Lente Company. This is Corvina.

Penumbra lifts himself up out of his chair. “Please, meet three unbound of San Francisco,” he says. To us: “This is the First Reader, and our patron.” Suddenly he’s playing the solicitous subordinate. He’s acting.

Corvina appraises us coldly. His eyes are dark and glinting—there’s a fierce, chomping intelligence there. He looks straight at Neel, considering, then says, “Tell me: Which of Aristotle’s works did the Founder print first?” The question is soft but implacable, each word a bullet from a silenced pistol.

Neel’s face is blank. There’s an uncomfortable pause.

Corvina folds his arms and turns to Kat: “Well, what about you? Any idea?”

Kat’s fingers twitch like she wants to look it up on her phone.

“Ajax, you have work to do,” Corvina says, rounding on Penumbra. Still quiet. “They should be reciting the whole corpus. They should be saying it backwards in the original Greek.”

I would frown at that if my head wasn’t spinning with the revelation that Penumbra possesses a first name, and that it is—

“They are new to their work,” Ajax Penumbra says with a sigh. He’s a few inches shorter than Corvina and he’s stretching to stand up straight, wobbling slightly. He sweeps his big blue eyes around the room and makes a skeptical face. “I was hoping to inspire them with a visit here, but the chains are a bit much. I am not sure they are in keeping with the spirit—”

“We are not so careless with our books here, Ajax,” Corvina cuts in. “Here, we don’t lose them.”

“Oh, a logbook is hardly the Founder’s codex vitae, and it was not lost. You grab at any excuse—”

“Because you offer them,” Corvina says flatly. His voice is matter-of-fact, but it rings in the chamber. The Reading Room has grown silent now. None of the black-robes are talking, or moving, or possibly even breathing.