The Infinite Library (42 page)

“
Think of that tumbler lock. They are circular – much like our mysterious shelves here. How many letters and numbers will there be per box?”

“36?”

“Yes, but why? Look carefully again at the table. If I subtract five steps on each row, look how I can continue the table beginning from the first position:

AGMSY4

5BHNTZ

06CIOU

V17DJP

QW28EK

LRX39F

GMSY4A

BHNTZ5

6CIOU0

17DJPV

W28EKQ

RX39FL

MSY4AG

HNTZ5B

CIOU06

7DJPV1

28EKQW

X39FLR

SY4AGM

NTZ5BH

IOU06C

DJPV17

8EKQW2

39FLRX

Y4AGMS

TZ5BHN

OU06CI

JPV17D

EKQW28

9FLRX3

4AGMSY

Z5BHNT

U06CIO

PV17DJ

KQW28E

FLRX39

“
So, there you have it. The table shows us 36 characters in the combination of a total of 216. When I turn a combination lock and display A, all the rest are also in position, but hidden. If you like your number nine hypothesis, 216 in numerology comes up to that as well.”

“Yes, but that doesn't explain why there are only four revolving shelves. There ought to be six,” I countered. “If this is the tumbler lock, these shelves, then how are we able to control the orientation, or... Oh, I don't know.”

Angelo tapped his head and shook the code pages knowingly. “It's a good thing I wrote out what the entire combination would be. It's going to help us immensely. This table has already given us 6 codes for free. We've been able to, through simple arithmetic, get the remaining 30.”

Angelo walked to the shelves, comparing his notes to the books that were rotating into view. He pounced on one that came out easily and tossed it to me. I read the spine: LRX39F. That was the sequence of letters and numbers in the sixth row of the code table.

“This may take a while,” said Angelo. “Especially with the slower-moving shelves. But I'm going to assign you 18 books to keep an eye out for, while I scope out the remaining 17.”

And that is what we did, a task that was far from simple since the sequence of numbers and letters were not easily memorable. After a few hours, mostly due to our missing books that rotated too quickly on the bottom shelf, we had 36 books.

“Now what?” I asked. “I don't think we can give ourselves the luxury of time to read them all.”

“We might not have to,” Angelo said, not revealing what he had in mind. He opened the first book on top of his pile and we saw that the number of pages was 216. The same went for all the volumes, each uniform in their number of pages. However, we were stuck yet again when considering the content, which was written in the same unintelligible code, seemingly a random scattering of numbers and letters.

We had come so far, but frustration was getting the better of us. Angelo's earlier flash of insight had not recurred in aiding us. Whereas he had cracked the previous code with incredible celerity, this new and longer code baffled us both. I decided to return to our guide, the code papers, retracing our steps in case we may have overlooked some vital key.

“Angelo, what do you suppose this means?” I asked, pointing to the note on the combination table.

“Tablature, 9 sigs,” he recited, as if this would bring about an answer. For him, it did produce another sudden insight. “Aha! Any bookbinder would know what this means. Sigs is just short for signatures. As you know, when a book is bound, one large leaf is printed on both sides, and then folded, making four pages, recto verso. Nine signatures would yield 36 pages – there's our friend number 36 again. Each of the tables I drew up from the original have nine signatures each, or 36 pages. Six books, one for each table. Do you not see? The mysterious seventh book will be the product of six prior ones, put in their proper arrangement.”

I was admittedly quite impressed with the deftness of his thought, but we were still stuck. “Angelo, we have 36 books here, each with 216 pages. That's nearly 8000 pages from which we are to – do what? - cherry pick 216 pages?”

“There's only the equivalent of one correct book, but it is scattered over 36 volumes. Our task will be to find the right six pages out of each of them. Look at the table again and break it down into bookbinding sheets, and start folding them:

“
And then, fold once more, left on right:

“
This leaves us with nine signatures. What remains here is for us to follow the code. The signatures in these cells are actually textual coordinates.”

“I don't follow.”

“I know. We have to repeat this same process for all six tables, the ones I deduced from the original.”

We did as he suggested, constructing the remaining five. The coordinate system led us to pinpoint the right pages according to book and section, and, as it turned out, Angelo's system worked since every book yielded up exactly six pages. Despite my reluctance to damage books, we tore these pages from their binding and collected them together. Another curious similarity emerged: on the overleaf of each page was the same acronym:
o.p., n.d., n.p, n.a.

“What do you think this signifies? Are these the initials of the authors?” Angelo asked.

I thought on it a while before offering up my speculation, which seemed spot on at the time. “These are the bibliographic details of each page. It says its state, time, and place.”

“Come again?”

“O.p. means 'out of print.' N.d. means 'no date'. N.p. means 'no place', and n.a. means 'no author'. We are dealing here with a book that has no printed origin and no known authorship.”

“Judging by what seems to be a random collection of orthographic marks, perhaps it was produced by a machine. You did tell me that Setzer had a variety of machines for that very purpose.”

“That I did. But the fact that each of these pages has this series of acronyms on the bottom of their verso side suggests quite strongly that your decoding system was correct. But now that we have this book, what do we do with it?”

“I say this room has been exhausted of any further clues,” Angelo said. “It may be time to mosey on. The sticky question is in choosing the way. We have a door to our right and another on the left.”

“I don't want to abandon the significance of the numbers 9, 36, and 216. As much as I loath numerology, it seems to be the key to Setzer's domain. There is a riddle in these three numbers. Not to mention, of course, the coincidence of six books forming a seventh and this notion of a synthesis formed of six parts.”

“We'll need to consider this in more detail, but only when we can assess from a larger collection of clues. What remains is what door we are to enter. But, since both seem equally feasible, perhaps the labyrinth is determined to split us up.”

Perhaps in more ways than Angelo had let on. Perhaps the labyrinth would indeed separate us in both space and partnership, our cooperation dissolving into a heated and mistrustful enmity where only one would emerge alive. The type was set, and this may be what Setzer had in mind – a man whose very name was derived from the Yiddish “Zetser”, meaning “typesetter.” A somewhat apropos name, the kind where what is assigned at birth becomes a destiny. The two doors leading out of the room were identical save for a faint inscription on each:
timor
and
amor
.

“A Machiavellian touch,” smirked Angelo. “To prefer to be feared rather than loved, the true political expedient.”

“I propose that we cover more ground by parting, although we do risk losing each other.”

“That was done a long time ago, if ever there was communion,” Angelo said rather cryptically. “Your idea is sound enough. Keep in mind, though, that these are one-way doors: they lock behind us, forcing us deeper into this maze with no chance of retracing our steps. I will enter
timor
and you should choose the other.”

Angelo was intent on his idea, and despite my recurring doubts about his allegiances, he had thus far been on the mark about the code. I saw him open the door and enter just as I was doing the same at the opposite end of the room. He allowed me to be the carrier of the book we had collated.

Amor
. What is it to be loved too much? For Angelo, he would have to consider the tragic outcome of what it was to be feared too much. These were my speculations, in a particular frame of mind that was being set by a man now murdered and the labyrinth he had woven perhaps for us. The first room was, in my interpretation, a testament to self-love: a monstrous speculum, mirrors on every surface. Greeted with an infinity of my own reflections, I knew there to be little love lost for myself. There was most likely a deeper meaning to this room, one that was already announced in the
Backstory
, jumbled and superficial as the narrative was. All thought, all reflections, were in vain, for every thought that attempted to triumph over a question to obtain an answer would only produce more thoughts, more questions, more doubt. Every thought would only bring us back to ourselves, our projections upon a world without actually seeing it, only seeing ourselves. I saw no other possible interpretation at that given moment. I wagered that Angelo's first room would be identical to this one, an enormous speculum where the fear of oneself and the infinite multiplication of thoughts without answer or cease produce a kind of terror, the dissolution of one's reason in this infinity of reflections. Etched into glass, upon the lintel of a door leading away from this vertiginous room, read an inscription:
a door, a mirror, a book, a tunnel, a staircase...

What this meant I could only guess. The cover of a book was its door, its pages a collection of mirrors, and the attainment of knowledge was the staircase leading up or down. This was what I idly conjectured. I pushed on beyond this door in search of more answers. In a corner, where the mirrored edges of floor, walls, and ceiling met, was a small folded broadside, upon it was printed
Tain
. It was placed there for perhaps no other reason but for the benefit of my reading. There was no mention of the author, and it ran only a few pages: