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[This is the third instalment of Mr. Amazon’s Bookshop. A list of all instalments is here.]
No matter how often I went back to Mr. Amazon’s shop, I never could understand its workings. I often hinted to the man behind the desk that I would like to know, but he ignored me. I even asked him once in a direct and semi-serious manner: “what do you have down there behind that desk Amazon? How do you get these books? Is it mole-people, Amazon? Do you have hoards hordes of mole-people slaving in darkness down below, running back and forth in some gigantic basement-warehouse bringing you the books you need?” He smiled vaguely. “Not at all sir. No mole-people for us. We keep our books in a Cloud.” And that obscure remark was all I could get from him.
Fortunately, there was someone I could always ask when I needed information, and that was Google, the butler. So one evening in June, as he brought me my glass of sherry and teaspoon of laudanum, I asked him what he knew about Amazon
“Amazon sir? Oh yes, I know him well.” Google’s usually impassive expression revealed a hint of disdain. “Can’t say I like the fellow very much - a bit big for his own boots if you ask me - but I do find I often recommend his book shop when people ask me where to get books. He has a remarkable collection.”
“How does he do it Google? He only has one tiny corner shop and it looks like he has no room to store anything, yet whenever you ask him about a book he comes up with it. I can’t fathom the man.”
“One shop? I think not! You don’t get out much these days do you sir? Mr. Amazon has set up shops in every city, town and village I can think of. And in each one they look the same. A desk, a person, and an empty room, and yet he produces the books you are looking for when you ask. Some people say all these stores are connected by a series of tubes that run from one to another underground, so books can be shipped from one to another at a moment’s notice.”
“With mole-people, right! Mole-people with preternaturally strong forearms pushing trolleys underground from shop to shop! I knew it!”
“Er no, sir. No mole-people that I know of, although you may of course be right… But I do have my own theory.”
“And what’s that?” I asked, rather deflated at his understated scorn for my idea.
“They aren’t books at all. He never lets you touch them, does he? It’s some kind of an illusion. A clever one, but an illusion nevertheless. It’s about as real as that Cloud he talks about. Oh yes, I’ve heard that one. Believe me, he has warehouses. Big ones. And mole-people too, I wouldn’t doubt. Almost certainly mole-people.”
“You don’t like him very much do you, Google?”
“Well, we do cross paths from time to time. Let’s just say he doesn’t stock my guidebook and leave it at that.”
I had to admit, once the laudanum calmed me down, that Google’s idea was more probable than my own. But both were just hypotheses, with no obvious way of testing them. I was drifting off to sleep, with visions of smoke and mirrors dancing in my head, when I suddenly realized how I could put his theory to the test…