Mr Penumbra's 24 Hour Bookstore

More groans from the black-robes. Corvina’s disappointment, his disdain, is feeding into them, circling back, amplifying. The tall dark shapes have all drawn together into one big sulking shadow. It’s a massacre of crows. I’ve already picked out a path toward the steps. I’m ready to run for it.

“Note this well,” Corvina says, his voice rising just a little. “Penumbra is one of the bound. His codex vitae sits on these shelves, just as Zaid’s will. Yet his destiny is not assured.” His voice is swift and sure, and it carries through the chamber: “Brothers and sisters, let me be clear: when a burden is this heavy and a purpose this serious, friendship is no shield. Another mistake, and Penumbra will be burned.”

There are gasps at this, followed by quick whispered exchanges. Glancing around, I see expressions of shock and surprise. The First Reader might have gone too far just then.

“Do not take your work for granted,” he says more gently, “whether you are bound or unbound. We must be disciplined. We must be determined. We cannot allow ourselves to be”—he pauses here—“distracted.” He takes a breath. He could be a presidential candidate—a good one—stumping with total conviction and sincerity. “It is the text that matters, brothers and sisters. Remember this. Everything we need is already here in the text. As long as we have that, and as long as we have our minds”—he raises a finger and taps his sleek forehead—“we don’t need anything else.”

*   *   *

After that, the crows take flight. Black-robes swirl around Zaid, congratulating him, asking him questions. Above his rough red cheeks, his eyes are still wet.

The Unbroken Spine is returning to its labors. Black-robes are bending down over black books and pulling the chains tight. Near the dais, Corvina confers with a middle-aged woman. She’s making broad gestures, explaining something as he gazes down and nods. Deckle is hovering just behind them. His eyes meet mine. He makes a sharp motion with his chin, and the message is clear: Go.

I keep my head down and my bag tucked in tight and I march the length of the chamber, keeping close to the shelves. But halfway to the steps, I trip on a chain and stumble down onto one knee. My palm smacks the floor and a black-robe cocks an eye at me. He’s tall, with a beard that juts out from his jaw like a bullet.

I say softly: “Festina lente.”

Then I look straight down and shuffle fast toward the steps. I take them two at a time all the way back up to the surface of planet earth.

*   *   *

I meet Kat, Neel, and Penumbra in the Northbridge lobby. They are sitting, waiting, on massive gray couches with coffee and breakfast set up in front of them; the scene is an oasis of sanity and modernity. Penumbra is frowning.

“My boy!” he says, rising to his feet. He looks me up and down and raises an eyebrow. I realize I’m still wearing the black robe. I shrug my bag onto the floor and peel it off. It’s smooth in my hands, shiny in the lobby’s half-light.

“You had us worried,” Penumbra says. “What took you so long?”

I explain what happened. I tell them Grumble’s scanner worked, and then I dump the contraption’s crumpled remains out onto the low table. I tell them about Zaid’s ceremony.

“A binding,” Penumbra says. “They are few and far between. Unlucky that it would happen today.” He tilts his chin. “Or lucky, perhaps. Now you know more of the patience that the Unbroken Spine demands.”

I wave down a Northbridge waiter and desperately order a bowl of oatmeal and a Blue Screen of Death. It’s still early in the morning but I need a drink.

Then I tell them what Corvina said about Penumbra.

My erstwhile employer waves a bony hand: “His words do not matter. Not anymore. What matters is what is on those pages. I cannot believe it worked. I cannot believe we have in our possession the codex vitae of Aldus Manutius!”

Kat nods, grinning. “Let’s get started,” she says. “We can OCR the book and make sure everything works.”

She hauls out her MacBook and brings it to life. I plug in the tiny hard drive and copy its contents—most of them. I drag MANVTIVS over to Kat’s laptop, but I keep PENVMBRA for myself. I’m not going to tell Penumbra, or anyone, that I scanned his book. That can wait—with luck, maybe forever. Manutius’s codex vitae is a project. Penumbra’s is just an insurance policy.

I eat my oatmeal and watch the progress bar grow. It finishes copying with a quiet plink and then Kat’s fingers fly across the keyboard. “All right,” she says. “It’s on its way. We’re going to need help back in Mountain View to actually crack the code … but we can at least kick off the Hadoop job to turn the pages into plain text. Ready?”

I smile. This is exciting. Kat’s cheeks are glowing; she’s in digital empress mode. Also, I think the Blue Screen of Death is going to my head. I hoist my blinking glass: “Long live Aldus Manutius!”