Ajax Penumbra 1969 (Mr. Penumbra's 24-Hour Bookstore, #0.5)

by Robin Sloan

Your parents are weirdos, in the best possible way. They do not celebrate birthdays; never in your life have you received a present on the tenth of December. Instead, you are given books on the days that their authors were born.

Claude did the math—divided processor cycles by campus population—and decided that Galvanic, not the University of Illinois, would be his best shot at computer time.

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

When the train arrives, you shake Claude’s hand, and then you grow solemn. “I am grateful to the computerized process that matched us,” you tell your erstwhile roommate. “I hope you will write algorithms of your own that produce such happy results.”

he sings: “If you’re gooo-ing … to Saaan Fraaan-cisco …” He breaks off. Casts a glance up at your buzz cut. Stabs a finger. “Not much to hold the flowers up there, Ajax.” You exhale. Gather yourself. “So I should go West?” “My boy! You should already be gone.”

Corvina interjects: “He’s looking for a very particular book, Mo.” “As are we all, Mr. Corvina, as are we all. Most don’t realize it yet. So on that count, our friend Ajax Penumbra is ahead.”

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

“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.”

“Well, you know our saying: ‘It’s not over until you hold the book’s ashes in your hands, weeping at the years you’ve lost.’”

“I don’t entertain ideas,” he says. “I work for them.”