We step through the door, one at a time, staring at what should have been ruins. But there is no rot, no debris, and no sign of past turmoil. Nor are there any signs of life. The streetlights blaze. Many of the buildings glow from within. But there is no movement. No breeze. The massive cap overhead, like a black sky, prevents airflow from the world above. While the city looks almost new, the air tastes old. “Smells like books,” Harry says. “Books?” I ask. Harry turns his head to me, but takes a moment to pull his eyes from the pristine downtown. “Information in text form printed on paper.” Paper, I think. Thin sheets formed of wood pulp, straw or other fibrous material, for writing and printing. “How inefficient,” I conclude. “They bound vast quantities of paper into books,” Harry says. “At one time, it was the only form of communicating ideas and history to large numbers of people. There was even a time before books, when all information was passed between people orally.”
