Glasshouse - Charles Stross [62]
I’m thinking these thoughts as Mr. Harshaw tells our zombie driver to take us to the municipal library. The library is in a part of town I haven’t visited before, on the same block as City Hall and what Mr. Harshaw points out to me as the police station. “Police station?” I ask, looking blank.
“Yes, where the police hang out.” He looks at me as if I’m very slightly mad.
“I would have thought the crime rate here was too low to need a real police force,” I say.
“So far it is,” he replies, with a smile I can’t interpret. “But things are changing.”
The library is a low brick building, with a glass facade opening onto a reception area, and turnstiles leading into a couple of big rooms full of shelves. There are books—bound sheaves of dumb paper—on all the shelves, and there are a lot of shelves. In fact, I’ve never seen so many books in my life. It’s ironic, really. My netlink could bring a million times as much information to me on a whim, if it was working. But in the informationally impoverished society we’re restricted to, these rows of dead trees represent the total wealth of available human knowledge. Static, crude scratchings are all we’re to be permitted, it seems. “Who can access these?” I ask.
“I’ll leave it to Janis to explain the procedures,” he says, running his hand over his shiny crown, “but anyone who wants can withdraw—borrow—books from the lending department. The reference department is a bit different, and there’s also the private collection.” He clears his throat. “That’s confidential, and you’re not supposed to lend it to anyone who isn’t authorized to read it. That probably sounds dramatic, by the way, but it’s actually not very romantic. We just keep a lot of the documentation for the project on paper, so we don’t need to violate the experimental protocol by bringing in advanced knowledge-management tools, and we have to store the paper somewhere when it’s not in use, so we use the library.” He holds the door open. “Let’s go find Janis, shall we? Then we’ll have lunch. We can discuss whether you want to work here, and if so, what your pay and conditions will be, and then if you take the job, we can work out when you’ll start training.”
JANIS is skinny and blond, with a haggard, worried-looking expression and long, bony hands that flutter like trapped insects as she describes things. After having to put up with Jen’s machinations, she’s like a breath of fresh air. On my first day I arrive at my new job early, but Janis is already there. She whisks me into a dingy little staff room round the back of one of the bookcases that I’d never suspected existed on yesterday’s tour.
“I’m so glad you’re here,” she tells me, clasping her hands. “Tea? Or coffee? We’ve got both”—there’s an electric kettle in the corner and she switches it on—“but someone’s going to have to run out and fetch some milk soon.” She sighs. “This is the staff room. When there’s nobody about, you can take your breaks here or go out for lunch—we close between noon and one o’clock—and there’s also a terminal into the library computer.” She points at a boxy device not unlike a baby television set, connected by a coiled cable to a panel studded with buttons.
“The library has a computer?” I say, intrigued. “Can’t I just use my netlink?”
Janis flushes, her cheeks turning pink. “I’m afraid not,” she apologizes. “They make us use them just like the ancients would have, through a keyboard and screen.”
“But I thought none of the ancient thinking machines survived, except in emulation. How do we know what its physical manifestation looked like?”
“I’m not sure.” Janis