Free Cyberbooks by Ben Bova

this."
    Carl felt a surge of—what? Satisfaction. Relief. Joy. Justification for all the months he had spent half starving and working twenty hours a day to create the electro-optical marvel that rested modestly on the desk of this woman in white. He felt gratitude, too. For deep within him, buried in the innermost convolutions of his mind, there lurked a stubborn fear that his invention was worthless, that any half-trained TV repair man could have figured it out, that it was nothing but a toy without any real value whatsoever.
    But she thinks it's great, Carl told himself. She thinks it's going to transform the publishing industry, he rejoiced triumphantly to that inner voice of fear.
    And the voice answered, Maybe so. She also thinks Victor Hugo is a Broadway playwright.
    Carl found that he had to swallow a lump in his throat before he could say, "I'm very pleased, Mrs. Bunker. How do you want to proceed from here?"
    "Proceed?" Her face suddenly looked blank.
    "Do we sign a consulting agreement, or do you want me to become a contractor to Bunker Books? What kind of payments will Bunker Books make for the invention? What rights do you want to purchase? That sort of thing."
    With a glance toward her son, Mrs. Bunker answered, "I'm not empowered to make any commitments of that sort. Only Mr. Bunker himself can do that."
    "Then I suppose I'll have to demonstrate the device to him," Carl said, reaching for the reader.
    Mrs. Bunker put on a smile that showed some teeth. "Couldn't you let me borrow it overnight? I'll show it to my husband this evening."
    With alarm bells tingling in every nerve, Carl slowly slid the reader to the edge of the desk and gripped it in both his hands. "This is the only prototype in existence. I'm afraid I can't let it out of my sight. I'd be glad to show it to Mr. Bunker myself. . . ."
    Mrs. Bee bit her lower lip. "That may be difficult. He's such a busy man. . . ."
    Holding the reader firmly in his lap, Carl gestured with his other hand to the six wafers still resting on the desk top. "I can let you show the wafers to him. To give him an idea of how small and cheap books can be made."
    "But he won't be able to read them without your device, will he?"
    "I'm afraid not."
    "What's the matter, don't you trust us?" Junior asked. His tone was light enough, almost bantering. But there was no levity in his face.
    Carl replied, "This isn't personal. I decided before I left Boston hat I would not let the prototype out of my sight."
    A cloud of silence dimmed the all-white office.
    "I'd be glad to show it to Mr. Bunker personally," Carl repeated.
    "I suppose that's what we'll have to do, then," said Mrs. Bunker. "I'll see what I can arrange."
    Feeling vastly relieved, Carl shot to his feet. "Thank you! You won't regret it."
    He put out his hand to her, still staunchly grasping the prototype in his left hand. She made a sweet smile without getting up from her chair and touched his hand briefly, like a queen dispensing a blessing. Junior's eyes never left the device until Carl tucked it back into his black courier case.
    Lori and Carl got as far as the door. Mrs. Bunker called, "Oh, Lori, dear. Could you stay a moment longer? There's something want to discuss with you."
    Carl stepped outside into the busy corridor where editors and other unidentified frenzied objects were dashing about. Mrs. Bunker had no secretary, no outer office. Bunker Books was a tightly run ship where computers and communications were used in place of salaried employees, Carl realized. It's criminal to use human beings in lackey jobs like secretarial work, he told himself. Nothing but ostentatious show for the people who hire them and degrading drudgery for the people who take such jobs. Electrons work more efficiently. And cheaper. Any job that can be done twice the same way ought to be done by a machine.
    Then why do they have editors? he asked himself. Computers can check a manuscript's spelling and grammar much more thoroughly than any