The Bookseller

The explorers drive the Conquistador up the incline towards the looming building. The walls are concrete, as are the watchtowers. No guards man them, but someone has placed strange machines in the shadow under the flat roofs - too far in the darkness to make them out clearly. If there are buildings apart from the large tower in the middle, the walls are high enough to hide them from sight. As the vehicle gets closer, the travelers can make out signs, letters and words on the walls, some as high as a few feet, others miniscule, as if written with a pencil. They find the campsite; a level field with a water pump at the side and another surveillance camera on a pole in the middle. The only entry to the jail-monastery is just across: It looks as if someone bolted a rusted metal box at one side of the perfect hexagon. This box is quite large , a square ten meters long and slightly higher than the walls. It has a gate big enough for a truck. There is a door cut into this gate, just big enough for one man, standing open and leading into the darkness.

Dan Hawking stays with the jeep, cradling his rifle and eyeing the camera balefully, while the others step into the convent gate. It is a gloomy, cluttered place, lit only by ancient, blind skylights. A metal gangway crosses the room at half height, and there, between a jumble of humming juice brains and monochrome monitors sits the master of the gate: The visitors just see his big, jowly face, the severe half-moon glasses and a corona of wispy white hair, lit by the greenish glow off the monitors. His voice fills the gate “Ah, new faces! That’s swell, swell indeed. I am Brother Chaucer, and responsible for all and any deals, trades, requests and agreements between Refugium and the outside world.” By now, their eyes have adapted to the murk, and the explorers see two youngish men in cowls, their heads shaven, standing right next to the small door. They carry submachine guns. The hall itself is filled with low tables full merchandise: household items, electronics, clothing and books. Many, many books. There are lockers with guns behind wire mesh. “We pay in scripts for any equipment that you might sell us. We are paid in scripts for wares that are on offer here and for the special services that we deliver.” “Great,” Mal thinks “another crackpot currency to join the collection.” But he remains silent. Chaucer goes on: “If you have come for information, I will help you formulating the correct inquiry, estimate the chances of success and the probable duration of the query. I will also set down a non-negotiable price for this service, if we are successful. If you want a certain piece of text multiplied or changed from an electronic source into a real book, the cost is fixed at three pages per script.” “So, what’s a script then?” Zed asks. Chaucer seems just too happy to answer. “A script is a promissory note, guaranteeing the bearer of one script the instant issue of ten sheets of white paper in this hall. That means that one script is worth ten sheets of paper.” Mal makes some calculations in his head. Rod speaks up “Would it be possible to pay with our own services rendered? I am a very proficient physician, and if one of your brothers or sisters needs treatment…” “No, benefactor, we have our own people for that. But thank you for your generous offer. So, if you have a query to be answered, just ask me.” He gives a strange smile “I’ll be here all day. You may also look at the selection on the tables, but in any case I must ask you to leave your weapons with the two brothers at the door.” Zed has spent the whole exchange looking around. As Chaucer comes to an end, he spots movement just below the ceiling: two machine guns sit on rails in the shadowy corners, away from the skylight. No one seems to operate them, but there seem to be cameras fixed to the weapons. Mal leaves the hall, while Rod and Zed study the merchandise under the watchful eyes of the young monks. Chaucer seems to be busy on his machines. Nothing on the tables interests the two adventurers as much as Zed is interested in the machine guns under the ceiling. They track him as he moves about the hall, fingers a book here, has a look at a knife there. As he suddenly turns and looks straight at the cameras, the guns return to a neutral position with a short whir. Rod asks “You surely sell many books. I thought you collected them?” “These are duplicates. We sell them at good prices – they are surely not useful to anyone rotting in storage. But we pay very good prices for new books.” “I see. Excuse me, but I have to ask. Part of our modus operandi, really. When did the last benefactor visit Refugium?” “Oh, there hasn’t been a visit for more than a year. It seems the people of your order working these parts know that a doctor is present. You are very welcome anyway.” Mal returns, having left his guns in the Conquistador with Dan, carrying a sizeable package wrapped in cloth. He strides up to the gangway and addresses Chaucer “I have something valuable to sell. I’ll take scripts if those scripts buy me certain things we agree to beforehand.” He opens the package and pulls out a book. This book is unlike the many damaged and warped paperbacks on the tables. It looks like something that was already old when the Long Ago fell and yet was preserved through some lucky coincidence. It is bound in thick leather; its pages are of a strange strong paper, the letters of a very unfamiliar type. “It’s a bible, but it is also very old. Older than the Long Ago. Very rare, possible the last of its kind. I thought this might be a good place to keep it safe, but I also recognize value when I see it. And I expect to be paid for value.” Although Chaucer keeps quiet when he receives the ancient bible, his hands tremble as he puts down his glasses and examines the book. This takes some time, with Mal reading every twitch and every breath of the gatekeeper. “Ah, yes, quite so, truly old, although possibly not older than the Long Ago. A common misconception. Surely very valuable. Indeed, this is one of the rare purchases where I will have to confer with other people. Someone is on his way as we speak.” A few minutes later, a young black woman in a cowl enters from the other side of the convent gate. Rod can’t help but think of an old acquaintance back home, although this one wears her hair quite short. She introduces herself as Sister Zola, responsible for the acquisition of books. She, Chaucer and Mal start a serious discussion about prices, possible deals take the unique nature of the item into account. After a short while, one comes to the conclusion that Father Ling will have to decide if Refugium needs “another bible”, as Zola puts it, and what kind of resources he would be willing to spend on such a vanity item, or as Mal puts it, this unique and basically priceless work of art and last remnant of our heritage. This will take a day – Chaucer recommends the two hotels down in the settlement, tomorrow afternoon at the latest the master of Refugium will have an answer concerning this surprising offer. "I see you tomorrow" he says as the explorers leave "Do not forget to write your name somewhere on the monastery's walls - if you can."