[Steven Lyle Jordan]

The bookstore was, as I expected, one of those truly anachronistic-looking places, a decades-old storefront on a side-street, with their name hand-painted to the plate glass, and the sight of what had to be hundreds of thousands of books crammed into the space of a downtown Kyoto efficiency apartment. Amy pushed the door open, ringing the inevitable bell poised above the door.

Inside, a bearded, severely overweight man sat behind a counter covered with books and magazines. He was reading a magazine himself... looked like F&SF to me, from what I could see over his protective book-shield... and barely looked up when we came in. "CanIhelpyou?" he mumbled out, his eyes already back into his magazine before the last syllable came out.

"We're looking for a book," Amy said simply.

"Good call," the man responded. "We've got a few of those."

"This one is by John Drake," Amy stated. "Memoirs of Portmeirion. Sixth edition."

She paused, and waited while the proprietor slowly lifted his eyes from his magazine. He regarded us both cautiously, while trying not to look cautious. "I have that, but it's the one with the abridged ending."

"Does it have a red cover?" Amy asked.

"That's the one," the proprietor nodded at the clearly coded exchange, slowly climbing down from his stool and starting around the counter. As he moved from his seat, I could now see the small computer he had on the counter behind him. It was like a laptop, but much smaller, and made of white plastic. I'd bet it was a great PC for portable work... it looked ultra-mobile. He tapped a single key on it as he walked past, and I heard what sounded like a deadbolt being pulled at the front door.

He looked at me. "Author?"

"Yeah."

"Poli-sci? Espionage?"

"Science fiction."

He winced. "Idealist. Won't know what to watch out for. They'll catch you in less than a week."

"Or not," Amy told him, looking at me. "He'll have an editor's help."

The proprietor looked at Amy. "I see. Okay, then: Let's get going."

He led us through the bookstore... how his bulk managed not to knock over half the books he passed, in those narrow aisles, I will never know. We took a few turns, until I was honestly not sure which way the front door was. Then he stopped in what looked to be an old closet, surrounded by books.

"Get in, get in," he urged, and waited until we were all in that tiny space, chest-to-chest-to-chest. (Take your own mental picture... I'm not going there.) Then he reached up to a tiny chain, hanging from a bare light bulb set in the ceiling. He tugged the chain six times, then waited. Six seconds later, the floor started to drop, the books that had been residing on it somehow staying in place, hovering above us as we dropped past them.

We descended perhaps thirty feet down before we reached bottom. It was almost pitch dark when we stopped moving, but immediately a light snapped on, revealing an old city service tunnel. The proprietor alighted and started down the tunnel. Amy followed him. I shrugged and followed along.

"Haven't had anyone down here in awhile," the proprietor started talking as we continued along. "Thanks to better laptops and encryption software, more of our authors have been able to work on-the-run, instead of hanging down here."

"Don't tell me," I said. "You've got a secret subterranean cavern set up with PCs, and dozens of secret writers recording classic books before they are lost."

The proprietor looked back at me, glancing at Amy for confirmation. "Dude... where have you been? All the classics are already in multiple e-book formats! You never heard of Project Gutenberg? Or the Darknet?"

E-books... Amy had mentioned them earlier, and I knew what they were. Project Gutenberg I'd never heard of... much less the "Darknet." Feeling like I was out of my element, I shut up and kept walking.

The tunnel was long... we may have travelled three city blocks, though we made some turns along the way. Then we came to a closed door on one wall. The proprietor put his hand onto the bricks to the right of the door, and after a moment, a lock snapped open. He pushed the door open with a mighty creak, and entered, beckoning us to follow him.

I still expected to see a dank, damp room with a boatload of kids at ancient PCs, cranking out who knew what kind of propaganda. Imagine my surprise, therefore, when I found myself walking into... a Starbucks.