64

“What’s this guy’s problem?”

That’s what people ask themselves when they step inside Herman’s used bookstore. A bookstore is a somewhat suspicious and unsavory enterprise in the third decade of the third millennium. After the Great Uprising, books were “temporarily” banned as a security procedure.

But these aren’t just books. They’re collectibles, so the security agents allow Herman’s store to operate—under a watchful eye.

In Herman’s store, many of the books are wrapped in plastic. You can’t open them without Herman’s permission. But you could look at the pictures on the cover and read the back of the dust jacket.

Which is great! Because the pictures and dust jacket text are astounding! Even without opening the books, you can’t put them down. They’ve got cool old-style front covers, decorated with flat drawn images and poster-like expanses of color and irresistible teaser copy on the back covers. And all this contained inside a room not much bigger than a walk-in closet.

A short red-faced man in a thick black coat ducks into the store, closing the door against the wind.

“Customer or refugee from the winter?” Herman asks himself.

The cold man looks around at the books.

“Looking. Might buy something,” he said through clenched near-chattering teeth. He began surveying the shelves and stopped a few times to blow on his hands. No gloves.

Herman wasn’t fooled. “Where’s Charlie? Couldn’t make it? Flu?”

The man turned, disappointed that his cover was blown. “Charlie’s got no resistance. He’s useless in winter.”

Herman wants more. “What’s your name? Why do they keep sending you guys?”

“Just call me…Eric. I’m here doing my job, if you don’t mind.”

Herman backed off. “I don’t mind, but you make the customers nervous.”

“What customers? There aren’t any in here,” Eric (or whoever) snapped.

“My point exactly,” said Herman, sighing. This wouldn’t be fun.

Security agents had been coming to the store since opening day. It was always easy to spot them. They took up too much time and space and bought nothing. Whenever they came, actual customers didn’t. Herman recognized this as a cost of doing business and tried to minimize the damage. But he never liked it.

“You got a footstool or something?” said Eric, reaching for a wrapped book on the top shelf.

“We both know you’re not going to buy it. Why not look at something closer? I won’t tell your bosses,” Herman suggested.

Eric modified his inspection and lazily pulled a book off a lower shelf. It was an unwrapped one. He leafed through it.

Herman has things under control. This is good. Everyone knows what a bookstore raid does to business—even if they find nothing. Sales plummet. The store is all Herman has. He needs it to live. He even sleeps on a cot on the tiny second floor. No holo-TV, no VersaNet. Nothing. Off the grid sleep quarters.

The door opens again. Two people enter, younger. Not your typical book buyers. It’s really crowded now, and Herman hopes Eric will just go away.

“Excuse me,” Herman says to Eric, holding his gaze long enough to make the point. “I have some customers.”

Eric put down the book and picked up another.

“May I help you?” Herman asks the pair, male and female, possibly a couple.

“We’re looking for a gift,” the guy says. “For her dad. He’s a collector.”

“Anything in particular? We have many fine rare collectible books. Artifacts, of course. Not subversive materials.”

“We’ve heard you have a special book. Her dad would like a special book.”

Eric perked up, turning swiftly and then back, unmoving again. He stared at the dull volume in his hands, but his stillness suggested careful listening. All the security agents did that. Fooled no one.

Then, the raid started. Six security agents entered, laser pistols drawn. “Everybody freeze!” says one. With the winter air streaming in, everyone does.

The agents begin seizing books. Herman yells: “Okay! Take the books! But leave the wrapped ones. They’re artifacts, irreplaceable. They are all I have.” Many of the agents have known Herman for a long time. They returned the wrapped books in a pile. A few minutes later, they exited with the cheap stuff.

Herman had a bad day, but his business survived. He reached into the pile, unwrapped a book and started reading. It didn’t matter which wrapped book because inside, despite the varied dust jackets, all the book were identical.

“It was a bright cold day in April, and the clocks were striking thirteen. Winston Smith, his chin nuzzled into his breast in an effort to escape the vile wind, slipped quickly through the glass doors of Victory Mansions, though not quickly enough to prevent a swirl of gritty dust from entering along with him.”

Herman’s eyes misted over as they always did. This was a special book.