Ajax Penumbra 1969

  He turns now to another task, one that he will not leave without attempting. At the library, in a thick Palo Alto phone book, he finds NOVAK, CLAUDE CASIMIR. His old roommate went to Stanford and he never left.

  The Peninsula Commute train takes him chugging through a loose necklace of towns: San Mateo, Hillsdale, San Carlos, Redwood City, Menlo Park, and finally, Palo Alto.

  Traveling up and down the peninsula, Penumbra has come to the conclusion that San Francisco is not actually part of California. The city is pale and windswept; Palo Alto is green and still, with the scent of eucalyptus strong in the air. The sky here is pearlescent blue, not platinum gray. Penumbra lifts his face to the generous sun and wonders: Why did I wait so long to visit my old roommate here?

  Claude Novak’s house is a small stucco box with a red-tile roof, the lawn dry and brown beneath a tree that rises to dwarf the house utterly. It is, Penumbra realizes, a redwood. Claude lives beneath a redwood tree.

  Inside, there is no furniture. Everything sits on the floor, on the green shag carpet. Thick pads of graph paper are stacked in squat towers; pencils and pens are collected in coffee cups, or poking out of the carpet. There are piles of books with intimidating titles: Finite State Machines, Modern Matrix Algebra, Detours in Hilbert Space. Claude’s other library has grown, too. It is gathered in a long block, forming a sort of low wall around the brown-tiled kitchen. Creased paperback spines show the authors’ names in bold capitals: ASIMOV BRADBURY CLARKE DEL REY… A fuzzy gray cat skulks behind the science fiction and mewls at the intruder.

  “Make yourself comfortable,” Claude says. He plops down on the floor, where there is also a pizza box, a San Jose Mercury News, a single wilted plant, and, in the center of the room, roughly where a dining table should sit, rising between two precarious heaps of books and binders …

  “Claude, is that a computer?”

  He nods. “I built it myself.” If the machine at Galvanic was sleek and stylish, this one is rough-hewn and functional—a plywood box with a loose, soapbox-derby look. It is much smaller, too: a piece of luggage, not a kitchen appliance. The top panel has been pulled back, and the computer’s guts poke out from inside: long boards studded with electronic components that glint like tiny stones and shells.

  “To put this in perspective,” Claude says, “it’s about one-fourth the size of that old IBM, but twice as powerful.”

  The computer is running; lights flutter and flow across the front panel. There is a keyboard and a boxy green and black monitor showing fuzzy characters. Penumbra gazes at it, mesmerized. Claude built this himself.

  Building a computer is just not a thing that a person does.

  “How are you?” Claude asks. “I mean—how’s life?”

  Penumbra sits, and he tells him everything. He tells him about his job at the library, the Techne Tycheon, his odyssey in San Francisco, the William Gray.

  “That’s fantastic,” Claude says. “It suits you, buddy. You’ve found your calling. Cigarette?”

  Penumbra demurs and watches his old roommate light one on his own.

  “A ship buried beneath the city,” Claude says. “Heavy.” He exhales slowly and taps his cigarette into an ashtray that says STAR TREK across the side.

  “It is an unfortunate conclusion,” Penumbra admits, “but it is, at least, a conclusion. Better to know the truth, I think, than—”

  “Wait,” Claude says suddenly. He taps his finger on the ashtray. Tap, tap tap tap. “BART. Yes. I worked on the projections. Ridership, regional uptake, route scenarios, et cetera. I have the … hold on …” He is up on his feet, bent over, rummaging through one of his piles. Folders are sliding tectonically down onto the carpet. The cat yowls. “It’s in here somewhere … system map, timetables, et cetera … aha!” He lifts a sheaf of paper triumphantly. “BART!”

  “Who is … Bart?”

  “BART, buddy. B-A-R-T, Bay Area Rapid Transit. The train system, you know? They’re building it now. You must have seen it … the whole city is torn to hell.”

  “Of course. BART.”

  “Now … look at this.” Claude unfolds the sheaf, showing a geometric approximation of the Bay Area. There’s the long peninsula, the blocky knob of the city, and across the bay, the crenellated curve of Oakland and Berkeley. The contours are drawn in plain black and white, but laid across the landscape there is a bundle of colored lines: red, yellow, blue, and green. Claude points to the bundle where it cuts through San Francisco. “They’re digging this right now. I mean, right now.”

  “And you worked on this? Planning it?”

  “Like I said, ridership projections. Different scenarios. High gas prices, low gas prices, thermonuclear war, et cetera.”

  “Claude.” Penumbra beams. “You are a psychohistorian after all.”

  “Ha! You read Foundation. I wish the people I work with appreciated that…. Not too many Asimov fans in my department. Anyway, the point is, I hear plenty about the excavation. They’re finding things. Old underground speakeasies … basements people didn’t know they had.”

  Penumbra’s eyes go wide. “And ships?”

  “Maybe, maybe not. All I can tell you is that this tunnel—” He points to the rainbow bundle where it crosses a point labeled EMBARCADERO. “—runs straight through landfill. They have to go slow there … dig carefully.”

  Penumbra’s brain is buzzing. “How would I determine if the wreck of the William Gray lies in their path?”

  “I can’t help you there. I can tell you that two hundred fifty-eight thousand people are going to be riding this thing on January 1, 1975. But—ha—my model has nothing to say about sunken ships.” He drags on his cigarette. “I thought the old stuff was your specialty, buddy.”

  Penumbra thinks of their rickety bookcase: his classics on one shelf, Claude’s science fiction on the other. It is, he realizes, an image that would fit the cover of one of his old roommate’s books: a ghostly shipwreck rising from below a futuristic city….

  He smiles. “You are right. I can manage this on my own.”

  The San Francisco Public Library is a pale marble fortress facing City Hall across a bleak promenade lined with palm trees. Inside, a grand central stairway is flanked by pale murals showing swaths of empty ocean, with wispy clouds floating at the upper edges. The effect is, Penumbra thinks, quite depressing.

  He has been here once before, and he left in a foul mood after a full day of fruitless searching. Then, he was looking at birth certificates, deeds of sale, court records—the sources you consult when you are searching for a man with a business. This morning, he is looking for a ship with a street address.

  He makes for the map room. It is narrow and crowded, dominated by tall brown filing cabinets with wide, flat drawers. The librarian, a woman in a flower-print dress, is bent over reading Portnoy’s Complaint.

  “I wish to see every map of San Francisco produced between 1849 and 1861,” Penumbra declares.

  She looks up, startled. “You want … all of them?”

  He wants all of them.

  He has not yet purchased a train ticket home.

  The Gift

  He comes hustling into the bookstore before noon; the overnight crowd has not yet gathered. A pair of tourists browses the WHOLE EARTH table, speaking to one another quietly in German, gesturing up toward the tall shelves.

  Penumbra plants his palms on the wide desk. He is out of breath; cheeks flushed; shirt askew. He has come running from the library. Corvina regards him with a raised eyebrow and the rumor of a smile. “Welcome back.”

  “I—whew. Oh, goodness.” He takes a gulp of air. “I have a map!”

  Penumbra produces his treasure. It shows a city with two coastlines. One, the modern coast, is drawn smoothly; the other, older coast is a wandering dotted line. The old coast bites deep into downtown, flooding whole neighborhoods. Along the dotted line, there is a dusting of neat numerals, and in the map’s corner, there is a broad legend that matches numbers to names: Cadmus, Canonicu
s, Euphemia … the Martha Watson, the Thomas Bennett, the Philip Hone … and then, there it sits, along the angled cut of Market Street. There it rests, number 43, the William Gray, snuggled up against the dotted coast.

  Corvina looks from the map to Penumbra; from Penumbra back to the map; up again. “You found this?”

  “It was a simple matter once I knew—whew—where to look. And, I suppose, why to look.” Penumbra drags a finger down Market Street. “This is the path of the BART tunnel. They are digging straight past the ship, Marcus.”

  Corvina nods once. “Take this to Mo.”

  At the back of the store, there are three doors. The first is ajar, and inside, Penumbra sees the detritus of a small break room: a table, two chairs, a lunch box. The next door is shut tight, and two small brass letters label it the WC; below them, a sign scrawled in jagged capitals reserves it FOR PAYING CUSTOMERS ONLY. Finally, there is a third door, also marked with two brass letters—but these letters spell MO.

  The door is open, and behind it, stairs rise steeply into darkness. Penumbra pokes his head through and calls out: “Hello?” There is no reply. He begins the climb. From above, a spicy smell wafts down and tickles his nose.

  He emerges at the top into a sprawling space, the walls hung with tapestries, all of them densely embroidered, some with metallic threads that shine in the low golden light. They show dancers in pointed shoes, musicians clutching curling horns, scribes wielding feather pens as tall as themselves. If the room has windows, the tapestries cover them. Penumbra’s shoes thud quietly; the fabric muffles the sound and give the space an eerie sense of absorption. It feels a step removed from space and time.

  “Mr. Al-Asmari?” Penumbra says tentatively.

  There is a massive desk in the center of the room, twin to the one in the store below. On the desk, there sits a lamp, its light focused into a tight pool, and above the pool there floats a face, lit starkly from below.

  “Mr. Penumbra,” the face intones. It is Mo, but here, he is transformed. His glasses reflect lunar ovals of lamplight; the eyes behind them are obscured. “How many times must I beg you? Call me Mo.”

  “But you—”

  “Please.”

  “Of course. Mo.” It feels awkward on his lips. “I was just at the public library—I was doing some research, and—well, I found a map.”

  “Maps are good. I like maps. Can I offer you some coffee? My special blend.” The spicy smell resolves: cardamom. There is a plume of steam rising from a pale cup on the desk, coiling up into the lamplight, glowing almost gold.

  “Yes, please. Thank you.”

  Mo pours fragrant coffee from a filigreed pot swaddled in a purple cloth—altogether, a very classy thermos—and clinks the cup down under the lamp. “Sit. Sip. Enjoy.”

  Penumbra obeys. The coffee is very hot and very thick; it seems to coat his throat. He sees that Mo has been consulting a serious-looking book—clearly one of the volumes from the tall shelves. The pages are covered with Chinese characters.

  Mo catches his gaze. “Ah! This is not the public library, Mr. Penumbra. These books are not for browsing.” He snaps the cover shut. “Although I should confess that I have been doing some research of my own.” He lifts the books to show Penumbra the spine. White letters, widely spaced, spell out FANG.

  “Fang, as in the bookseller Fang?”

  “Yes. The first of my predecessors. Mr. Friedrich would share that distinction, except of course that he sank his own ship and sent his partner scrambling for a new home. Mr. Fang found this building—did I tell you that? And Friedrich has been … erased from our records.”

  “What does Fang have to say there?” Penumbra asks, indicating the book.

  Mo removes his glasses and rubs his eyes. “What indeed? Like many of—ah—his associates, Mr. Fang took pains to guard his memoir against casual inspection. The book is encrypted.”

  “Encrypted!”

  “It is simple enough, but to work in cipher and Chinese at the same time … ah.” Mo puts his glasses back into place on his nose. He regards Penumbra quietly. Then, he speaks: “This is not an ordinary bookstore.”

  “Indeed. It seems more akin to a youth hostel—”

  “No, no, not that,” Mo says, shaking his head; his glasses glint like searchlights. “They will go as quickly as they came … they are already going. Haven’t you heard, Mr. Penumbra? Their Summer of Love is fading.”

  “No, I had not heard. But then—well. I did not come to San Francisco for the Summer of Love.”

  “Of course, of course. Drugs, music, a new age dawning … and you came for an old book.”

  Penumbra recoils, stung. But he sees that Mo is smiling: not with any kind of mockery, but with genuine warmth.

  “Mr. Corvina also came to this city looking for a book,” Mo says. “He came from—where was it? San Diego, I believe. I do not think he intended to stay, but I offered him a post as my clerk, and, well. There he sits.”

  “You have both been very helpful.”

  “Yes, well. Mr. Corvina is quite engaged by your quest, you know. He told me we ought to help you however we can. I told him it was foolishness.”

  Stung again. “I am sorry that you feel that way, Mr. Al-Asmari.”

  This time, Mo suffers the honorific without complaint. “I have known people like you before, Mr. Penumbra. People with your gift.”

  “Oh, if I have any skill at research, it is only—”

  “No, no. Anyone can fuss in the archives. I am speaking of the willingness to entertain absurd ideas. It is a habit that is highly prized among … my peers.”

  Penumbra is silent at that.

  “I wish that I possessed it myself, but alas, I can only appreciate it.” Mo sips his coffee. “Well. I suppose I can do more than that. I can follow Mr. Corvina’s exhortation and find a way to assist you. Tell me about this map.”

  Penumbra shows Mo what he’s discovered. Under the lamplight, he points to number 43, the William Gray, and to the BART tunnel’s intercept course.

  Mo frowns. “Here, I must demonstrate my failing, Mr. Penumbra, and tell you the truth: it’s extremely unlikely that anything remains down there.”

  “You are right,” Penumbra says, “and yet, the letter from San Francisco mentioned a ‘place of safekeeping.’ It is possible—not probable, I admit—but possible that the Tycheon was somehow protected.”

  “There! Your gift. I would like nothing more than for you to be correct, and perhaps for other treasures to be preserved there, as well … you see? It is mildly contagious.” He laces his fingers together and rests his chin there. “What do you need from me, Mr. Penumbra?”

  “Well. I do not—ah. I know the ship’s location, and I know that the excavation suggests … the possibility of access. But, in truth—” He lets out a single great guffaw, laughing at his own foolishness. “—I have no idea what to do with this information!”

  Mo’s face splits into a grin. “Oh, I know what to do, Mr. Penumbra. More coffee? Good—yes, I know exactly what to do.”

  Members Only

  Mohammed Al-Asmari has a posse—or at least that’s how he makes it sound, conferring with Penumbra and Corvina down on the floor of the bookstore, across the bulk of the wide desk.

  “The measure of a bookstore is not its receipts, but its friends,” he says, “and here, we are rich indeed.” Penumbra sees Corvina clench his jaw just slightly; he gets the sense that Mo’s clerk wishes they had some receipts, too.

  “They reside in every part of this city,” Mo continues. “Every neighborhood, every social stratum. I assure you, someone will know someone … who knows someone … who is connected to this excavation.” He divvies up the labor: “I will make the calls. Mr. Corvina, you will do the legwork. But while you are occupied … someone must take your place here.” He swivels to look at Penumbra.

  “Me?”

  “Are we to be collaborators in this quest or not?”

  “Well. I suppose—yes. I can watch the store.
”

  Corvina eyes Mo darkly. “Are you going to tell him the rules?”

  “Of course.” Mo draws himself up straight. “Mr. Penumbra: Please make yourself at home here. Do whatever you must to prevent the store from being ransacked, burned down, or raided by the police. Sell a few books if you can. But do not, under any circumstances, browse, read, or otherwise inspect the shelved volumes.”

  Penumbra peers up at the tall shelves. “They are off-limits entirely?”

  “If you are called upon by a member to retrieve one, you may do so.”

  “A member. I see. How does one become a member?”

  Mo adjusts his glasses. “There is a way of progressing through this bookstore. Before one can become a member, one must be a customer. And—ah, wait.” He plays at recollecting: “Have you by chance … purchased a book yet, Mr. Penumbra?”

  He smiles, shakes his head. “I have not.”

  Mo smiles, too. “Then spend some time browsing, why don’t you? I recommend the poetry table. Have you read Brautigan? Oh, you must, you must.”

  Penumbra takes Corvina’s place that night and presides over the clamor of the twenty-four-hour bookstore. He fears the long-haired throng will consider him even more hopelessly square than Corvina, but in fact, they seem to regard him as a novelty, and one by one, they wander over to chat. The customer named Coyote asks for help finding Rosemary’s Baby and then actually buys it. The woman with the portable radio inquires about Corvina, then reveals that the bushy-bearded duo orbiting the CINEMA table, George and Francis, are local filmmakers. Felix presents his now preposterously tattered copy of Dune and asks if he can trade it in for The Drowned World. Penumbra is not sure if that is part of Mo’s business model, but he says yes anyway.

  Later, with the scrum at its swollen peak, a dark-eyed woman glances at Penumbra: once, twice. Then she crosses the store, a plume of smoke tracking her progress, like a little steam engine. When she draws near, Penumbra can see that she is carrying a slender joint. She holds it out toward him.