Angelo was becoming unnerved by my silence and reflection. “Are we going in, or are we going to sit here and figure out pi?”
“I'm sorry. I was lost in thought. We really ought to get a move on.”
“Which door?”
“The one with the mystery prize, I suppose. Setzer was an artificer, and so I think it would be a good idea to go through the archives of the fictional volumes.”
“Do you know which door leads where?”
“Yes. One is the room of unfinished novels, another the room of books that were left unfinished by readers, and the last a room for anonymizing books by effacing authorship.”
Angelo sniffed at all this. “So, which door?”
“The door marked with the 'A' – not because it would be the convenient place to start, but because it is the one closest to Setzer's function as an artificer.”
The door was very well hand-crafted, politely recessed with an elaborate, almost Carolingian 'A' in gold leaf on brass, bolted into the wood upon a placard of dull metal. It differed from when I saw it before. There was a circuitous relief in wood depicting the usual elements of French restrained Baroque ornamentation: vine leaves and winged cherubs playing harps and blowing horns – the whole of it symmetrical, an ordered mimicry of nature. I consulted the code papers having forgotten them. There was only one legible line before the writing fell into pure code:
The crime of Gutenberg is not righted by a return of singular inscriptions.
“What do you suppose that means?” asked Angelo, peering over my shoulder.
“To be honest, it sounds like a Luddite's lament, really: a sentimental longing for a time now gone when books were written by hand instead of reproduced through mechanical means.”
With some force, I was able to push open the door and enter that most arcane of spaces, that which lay beyond Door A. We were immediately confronted with the strange geometry of the room, which was pie shaped. On the left and right were two doors, and lodged in the thinnest wedge of the room were four circular shelves, each about two feet high. The bottom one was moving at a considerable click, while the one above it was slower. The one above that was even slower, and the top one seemed almost stationary. There were six equal sized books on each shelf.
“A revolving display,” mused Angelo.
“Yes, but I am sure there is a reason as to why these four shelves are moving at different speeds. Let's tarry here for a while – we cannot risk missing out on any clues.”
I looked at the books on the shelves. On their spines were not titles or authors, but a series of 6 letters and numbers with no intelligible order. I tried to pull one out, but they seemed wedged in too tightly, perhape glued together. I consulted the code papers and looked for anything to suggest anything remotely four in number.
Chiffre 1: 3(2)6, 6(3)18, 18(4)72, 72(5)360
The number 360 resonated with me for obvious reasons; this was a circular shelf rotating on a central axis, performing its revolution of 360 degrees. The pattern to the numbers would have been rather easily solved by a child writing their elevenses. The relationship between the numbers was particularly evident: 3 x 2 = 6, 6 x 3 = 18, 18 x 4 = 72, and so forth. The sum of each multiplication would then be multiplied by a number ascending by one to eventually result in 360. The relationship of the simple equation was no problem to deduce, but what did it have to do with these rotating shelves? It then dawned on me.
“Angelo, do you have a watch?”
“Yeah.”
“On my signal, count me off one full minute.”
Angelo did as I asked, and I kept my focus on one book on the top shelf. Angelo announced the end of the minute, which corresponded precisely to the book I had been keeping track of disappearing into the left hand side of the wall, revolving away from view. I repeated the experiment with the second shelf from the top and discovered that three books rotated from view. The shelf below that tucked away 12 books, while the fast-moving bottom shelf caused books to disappear at one a second.
“I have it,” I declared. “Each of these shelves has 360 books, or 1440 books total. The fast-moving shelf at the bottom rotates them in and out of view every second. The sums on this code sheet are all divisible by 6 in order to determine the number of seconds.”
“I don't entirely follow you.”
“Let's call the top shelf 'A' and the bottom shelf 'D'. A's sum makes a book appear to view every minute. Shelf B gives us 3 books in that minute, or one every 20 seconds. Shelf C gives us 12 books a minute, or one every 5 seconds. While the rather rapid shelf D displays them at a rate of one per second.”
“Then how do you know there are 360 books per shelf?”
“Simple deduction and observation. In just a few minutes, the first book I saw on shelf D will be returning.”
We waited out the minutes, and my reasoning proved correct.
“Okay,” Angelo figured. “We are always presented with 6 books per shelf for a total of 24 at any given moment, leaving 1416 we cannot see until the shelves rotate them into our view. Heh, 24 visible books corresponding to the hours in the day: how numerologically predictable. But what is the purpose?”
“That, I am unsure of.”
I took out a pencil and wrote on the blank side of the code papers.
6 books / shelf, 4 shelves = 24 visible books at time T
Each book has 6 characters on its spine (A-Z and 0-9). Total visible characters = 144.
1440 books total, characters total = 8640
1+4+4+0 = 9, 8+6+4+0 = 18 -> 1+8 = 9
Chiffre 1's sums all equal 9, except for the first sum that equals 6: 18, 72, 360 (all add up in numerology to 9).
I referred to the next page of the code and discovered a small table circled in red with a hard to decipher note: tablature, 9 sigs.
A
G
M
S
Y
4
5
B
H
N
T
Z
0
6
C
I
O
U
V
1
7
D
J
P
Q
W
2
8
E
K
L
R
X
3
9
F
“Does this mean anything to you?” I asked Angelo, showing him the table.
He took it from my hand for closer inspection, looking for some kind of intelligible pattern. I couldn't see one. He laughed as if the discovery was too obvious.
“Gimaldi, do you not see the pattern? Start with A and run down diagonally. B, C, D, E, F... And then it starts again at the top with G down to K, with L having no place but at the beginning of the bottom row. All of them are here, A to Z, 0 to 9. If you wanted to predict a seventh row at the bottom, you would just have to subtract 5 steps... L would be G and so on. If you wanted to predict a seventh column on the right, just add 6 steps so that four would become A, and so on. It's a code for a combination lock. So,” Angelo took the pencil from my hand and drew:
“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
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:
AL
GR
MX
S3
Y9
4F
5Q
BW
H2
N8
TE
ZK
0V
61
C7
ID
OJ
UP
“And then, fold once more, left on right:
AL4F
GRY9
MXS3
5QZK
BWTE
H2N8
0VUP
61OJ
C7ID
“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 op
en 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...
The Infinite Library Page 29