Bright sunlight presses in through the strip of green wallpaper. Outside, Penumbra knows, it is nothing but cornfields for miles and miles.
“I am grateful for the offer, sir,” he says, “but I have decided to return to San Francisco.”
Armitage’s lips pull into a tight line. “San Francisco,” he repeats. This time, he does not break into song.
The bell above the door tinkles. Penumbra finds Corvina and Mo huddled across the wide desk, deep in deliberation. They turn, and the surprise is plain on their faces. He says nothing; instead, he makes his way slowly through the tables, wandering and browsing. Corvina and Mo are silent as they watch him meander from POETRY to PSYCHEDELIA to MO’S PICKS. When he reaches them, he takes a breath and announces: “I have delivered the Tycheon to my former employer at Galvanic.”
Corvina nods slowly. Mo does, too, and says: “It was your right, Mr. Penumbra. I should never have suggested otherwise. Well. I can only say that it was a rare pleasure to—”
“I would like to purchase this,” Penumbra interrupts, sliding a book across the desk. It is a new paperback edition of Through the Looking-Glass with a mildly hallucinogenic cover. Corvina raises an eyebrow. Mo cocks his head; waiting.
Penumbra continues: “And I would like to inquire about … membership.”
Mo’s face splits into a grin. “Of course, of course. Ring him up, Mr. Corvina!” He pauses. “Did I hear you correctly? Did you say your former employer, Mr. Penumbra?”
“I did, Mr. Al-Asmari. I have relocated. I am staying with a friend in Palo Alto until I find a place of my own. In the city.”
Mo circles around to join Penumbra at the front of the desk. “Then perhaps we should entertain … a rather absurd idea. Perhaps we should entertain the idea of employment.” Mo peers up at the younger man, his round glasses glinting. “Tell me, how do you feel about those ladders?”
Thanksgiving. It’s cold again, but the morning is bright and clear. Penumbra is alone in the bookstore; Corvina is away in New York, on what Mo dubs a research trip.
The bell above the door tinkles. Penumbra looks up from his labors at the logbook to see Claude Novak stepping into the store.
“Nice digs, buddy.”
“It is a comfortable place. At night, it becomes quite lively.”
Claude wanders through the store, pausing to peruse the table marked SCIENCE FICTION. He finds a book there and brings it to the desk. Stand on Zanzibar.
“I’m glad you’re here,” Claude says. He taps the book’s cover: tap, tap tap tap. “It’s good to have you around.”
“It is good to be here,” Penumbra replies. “In fact, I feel almost indignant that you did not sing this city’s praises more stridently. Claude, you have been hoarding California to yourself.”
He laughs at that, and nods agreeably. Then he tells Penumbra that his colleagues, only days ago, established a cross-country computer link. “Not just a network,” he says, “but an inter-network.”
“What did they transmit?”
“Just a few characters—barely anything. Then it crashed. But it was pretty neat. It was—huh.” He stops in midthought, really noticing, for the first time, the tall shelves rising in the back of the store. “What are those?”
Claude takes a step forward, magnetized, inter-networks forgotten. He stares up into the shadows, the books in rows and columns extending into what looks like infinity. He cannot see the ceiling; cannot see the dark mural commissioned by Mr. Fang himself. It is visible only to those who climb the ladders to the very top, and if Ajax Penumbra, in later years, climbs them less, he never forgets for a moment what is painted there.
Climbers in cloaks on a steep rocky trail, arms outstretched, clasping hands. Climbers pulling each other along.
APPENDIX
Books on display in Al-Asmari’s 24-Hour Bookstore in September 1969, on the low table labeled MO’S PICKS:
The High King, Lloyd Alexander
I Know Why the Caged Bird Sings, Maya Angelou
Naked Came the Stranger, Penelope Ashe
The Edible Woman, Margaret Atwood
The Drowned World, J. G. Ballard
In Watermelon Sugar, Richard Brautigan
Stand on Zanzibar, John Brunner
The Andromeda Strain, Michael Crichton
Do Androids Dream of Electric Sheep?, Philip K. Dick
The Secret Meaning of Things, Lawrence Ferlinghetti
Fantastic Four #89, Stan Lee and Jack Kirby
The Left Hand of Darkness, Ursula K. LeGuin
The Armies of the Night, Norman Mailer
Behold the Man, Michael Moorcock
Portnoy’s Complaint, Philip Roth
City of the Chasch, Jack Vance
Slaughterhouse-Five, Kurt Vonnegut
The Electric Kool-Aid Acid Test, Tom Wolfe
Also by Robin Sloan
Mr. Penumbra’s 24-Hour Bookstore
A Note About the Author
Robin Sloan is the author of Mr. Penumbra’s 24-Hour Bookstore. He grew up in Michigan and now splits his time between San Francisco and the internet.
Farrar, Straus and Giroux
18 West 18th Street, New York 10011
Copyright © 2013 by Robin Sloan
All rights reserved
First E-book Edition: October 2013
Author photograph by Helen Price
Cover design by Rodrigo Corral
eISBN 9780374711849
www.fsgoriginals.com
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“Part love letter to books, part technological meditation, part thrilling adventure, part requiem … Eminently enjoyable, full of warmth and intelligence.” —The New York Times Book Review
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Robin Sloan, Ajax Penumbra 1969
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