Free Lest Darkness Fall by L. Sprague de Camp

multiple record — that is, printing. Not even the
most diligently destructive barbarian can extirpate the written word from a
culture wherein the minimum edition of most books is fifteen hundred
copies. There are just too many books.
     
                So he would be a printer.
The web might be tough, but maybe it had never been attacked by a Martin
Padway.
     
    -
     
                "Good morning, my dear
Martinus," said Thomasus. "How is the copper-rolling business?"
     
                "So-so. The local
smiths are pretty well stocked with strip, and not many of the shippers are
interested in paying my prices for such a heavy commodity. But I think I'll
clean up that last note in a few weeks."
     
                "I'm glad to hear that.
What will you do then?"
     
                "That's what I came to
see you about. Who's publishing books in Rome now?"
     
                "Books? Books? Nobody,
unless you count the copyists who replace wornout copies for the libraries.
There are a couple of bookstores down in the Agiletum, but their stock is all
imported. The last man who tried to run a publishing business in Rome went
broke years ago. Not enough demand, and not enough good authors. You're not
thinking of going into it, I hope?"
     
                "Yes, I am. I'll make
money at it, too."
     
                "What? You're crazy,
Martinus. Don't consider it. I don't want to see you go broke after making such
a fine start."
     
                "I shan't go broke. But
I'll need some capital to start."
     
                "What? Another loan?
But I've just told you that nobody can make money publishing in Rome. It's a
proven fact. I won't lend you an as on such a harebrained scheme. How much do
you think you'd need?"
     
                "About five hundred
solidi."
     
                " Ai, ai! You've
gone mad, my boy! What would you need such a lot for? All you have to do is buy
or hire a couple of scribes —"
     
                Padway grinned. "Oh,
no. That's the point. It takes a scribe months to copy out a work like
Cassiodorus' Gothic History by hand, and that's only one copy. No wonder
a work like that costs fifty solidi per copy! I can build a machine that will
turn out five hundred or a thousand copies in a few weeks, to retail for five
or ten solidi. But it will take time and money to build the machine and teach
an operator how to run it."
     
                "But that's real money!
God, are You listening? Well, please make my misguided young friend listen to
reason! For the last time, Martinus, I won't consider it! How does the machine
work?"
     
                If Padway had known the
travail that was in store for him, he might have been less confident about the
possibilities of starting a printshop in a world that knew neither printing
presses, type, printer's ink, nor paper. Writing ink was available, and so was
papyrus. But it didn't take Padway long to decide that these would be
impractical for his purposes.
     
                His press, seemingly the
most formidable job, proved the easiest. A carpenter down in the warehouse district
promised to knock one together for him in a few weeks, though he manifested a
not unnatural curiosity as to what Padway proposed to do with the contraption.
Padway wouldn't tell him.
     
                "It's not like any
press I ever saw," said the man. "It doesn't look like a felt press. I know! You're the city's new executioner, and this is a newfangled torture
instrument! Why didn't you want to tell me, boss? It's a perfectly respectable
trade! But say, how about giving me a pass to the torture chamber the first time
you use it? I want to be sure my work holds up, you know!"
     
                For a bed they used a piece
sawn off the top of a section of a broken marble column and mounted on wheels.
All Padway's instincts revolted