Mr Penumbra's 24 Hour Bookstore

I claw my phone out of my pocket and swipe madly at the screen, bringing it back to life. It’s almost eight in the morning. How did this happen? How long was I circumnavigating the shelves here? How long was I scanning PENVMBRA?

The lights are on, and now I hear a voice.

When I was a kid, I had a pet hamster. He always seemed to be afraid of absolutely everything—permanently trapped and trembling. This made hamster ownership pretty much totally unpleasant for the whole eighteen months that it lasted.

Now, for the first time in my life, I empathize 100 percent with Fluff McFly. My heart is beating at hamster-speed and I am throwing my eyes around the room, looking for some way out. The bright lamps are like prison-yard spotlights. I can see my own hands, and I can see the pile of charred paper at my feet, and I can see the table with my laptop and the skeletal scanner set up on top of it.

I can also see the dark shape of a door directly across the chamber.

I sprint to my laptop, scoop it up, then grab the scanner, too—crushing the cardboard under my arms—and make for the door. I have no idea what it is or where it leads—to the canned beans?—but now I hear voices, plural.

My fingers are on the door handle. I hold my breath—please, please be unlocked—and I push it down. Poor tormented Fluff McFly never felt anything like the relief of that door giving way. I slide through and close it behind me.

*   *   *

On the other side, it’s all darkness again. I stand frozen for a moment, cradling my awkward cargo in my arms, my back pressed up against the door. I force myself to take shallow breaths; I ask my hamster-heart to please, please slow down.

There is the sound of motion and conversation behind me. The door is not set tightly into its frame of rock; it’s like one of those bathroom stalls that feels way too see-through. But it does give me the chance to set the scanner aside and flatten myself down on the cold, smooth floor and peek through the half inch of empty space beneath it:

Black-robes are flooding into the Reading Room. There are a dozen here already, and more coming down the steps. What’s going on? Did Deckle forget to check the calendar? Did he betray us? Is today the annual convention?

I sit up straight and do the first thing a person is supposed to do in an emergency, which is send a text message. No such luck. My phone flashes NO SERVICE, even if I stand on tiptoe and wave it up near the ceiling.

I need to hide. I’ll find a little spot, curl up in a ball, and wait until tomorrow night to slink out. There will be the issue of hunger and thirst, and maybe going to the bathroom … but one thing at a time. My eyes are adjusting to the darkness again, and if I beam my headlamp around in a wide circle, I can make out the shape of the space around me. It’s a small, low-ceilinged chamber packed with dark shapes, all interconnected and overlapping. In the gloom, it looks like something from a science fiction movie: there are sharp-edged metal ribs and long tubes that reach up into the ceiling.

I am still feeling my way forward when there’s a soft click from the door, which sends me back into hamster mode. I scuttle forward and crouch down behind one of the dark shapes. Something pokes me in the back and wobbles there, so I reach around to steady it—it’s an iron rod, painfully cold and slippery with dust. Can I whack the black-robe with this rod? Where will I whack him? In the face? I’m not sure I can whack somebody in the face. I’m a rogue, not a warrior.

Warm light falls into the chamber, and I see a figure framed in the doorway. It is a round figure. It’s Edgar Deckle.

He shuffles through, and there’s a sloshing sound. He’s carrying a mop and bucket, which he holds awkwardly with one hand while he feels along the wall. There’s a low buzz, and the room is bathed in orange light. I grimace and squint.

Deckle makes a sharp gasp when he sees me crouched in the corner, iron rod raised like some Gothic baseball bat. His eyes go wide. “You were supposed to be gone by now!” he hisses.

I decide not to reveal that I got distracted by MOFFAT and PENVMBRA. “It was really dark,” I say.

Deckle sets aside his mop and bucket with a clack and a plop. He sighs and wipes a black sleeve across his forehead. I lower the rod. I can see now that I’m crouched next to a huge furnace; the rod is an iron poker.

I survey the scene, and it’s not science fiction anymore. I’m surrounded by printing machines. There are refugees from many eras: an old Monotype bristling with knobs and levers; a wide, heavy cylinder set on a long track; and something straight out of Gutenberg’s garage—a heavy whorled block of wood with an enormous corkscrew poking out at the top.