What nonsense! Fleets of spacecraft commanded by wavy-haired six year olds. Humanity boiled down to an even tan shade. Time travel back to the 1930’s to stop Hitler and the interminable spread of Godless Communism in one fell swoop. With a romantic subplot. Hawkins’ Roman nose wrinkled with distaste at more than the books’ musty aroma.

He browsed to the next rack, dog-eared visions of a future now passed. He selected a book for its refreshing, pale cover, and casually gave it a skim. The year 2037. All history’s oppression at last overthrown. Women liberated from the burden of childbirth, effete men dutifully breastfeeding the young. Hawkins examined the copyright: sure enough, he held a relic from the braburner’s heyday. What crap they wrote in the past! Space wars, government conspiracies, serial killers. Their science fiction was always just veiled concerns about the present in which it was written.

To relieve his keen reading eyes from short-focus strain, Hawkins habitually focused on the library’s distant walls and corners, deliberately sought its cobwebs, security cameras and clock. Four PM! He had been browsing for two hours, finding only mouldy evidence to reinforce his disdain. Moving purposefully on, he thumbed and rejected a crowded space tavern filled with heart o’ gold rapscallions and an eye-patch wearing barkeep. He scorned a long-lost tribe of psychic Neanderthal’s for inherently aspiring to Twentieth-century middle-class American virtues. He doubted that nuclear holocaust burning the rest of the world would make Antarctica a temperate Eden.

Shortly before closing, the empty-handed Hawkins felt the final insult. The "Classics Your Library Recommends…" rack was hidden back beside the utility closet. Flickered by a Securicon 7000 control box’s blinking lights, there rested undisturbed the usual imprinted anxieties of authors now rag-eared and dead. One space opera held Hawkins’ attention. The tale was built around the fantastic mineral fortunes just waiting "out there" and the bold yet sensitive heroes who found glory controlling them. Hawkins’ brow wrinkled with disbelief- disbelief that people had bought this pipe dream, this distraction. Throughout a century when conditions were unbearable, this space-travel notion had been humanity’s favorite diversion, a perennial bestseller. Incalculable resources had been poured into the endeavour: generations taxed into poverty, rewarded with Tang. Teflon coating for empty pans.

How this misguided author glorified the roar of imaginary engines! Only now, when the task was complete, did men realise that this Space Race had been one of humanity’s greatest crimes against itself. 3-General Motors’ commercial mining venture annually lost billions for their stockholders. Sure, it was today physically possible to retrieve certain elements and compounds from extra-terrestrial sources, but no amount of marketing spin could fool people into believing the effort was practical. The waste, even after decades of refinement, far outweighed any inert benefits the program brought home. Big Government had bequeathed 3GM with a colossal boondoggle, the legacy of its colossally poor judgement. Much the same poor judgement that burdened this community, to this day, with vacuous trash like this book. Poor judgement on a Little Government scale, but equally despicable. Hawkins discarded the moth-eaten tome without interest.

Fluorescents overhead flicked on and off, the librarian’s signal that the building was closing for the day. Empty-handed, Hawkins joined the eleven other patrons trudging their encumbered way toward the door. The least chubby of the young assistants wore the slick new Genca Stylist wristwatch; Hawk nodded politely. The Rent-a-Cop past checkout yawned.

Fresh autumn air! The nondescript Ford van pulled up just as he set the Ray-Bans on his nose. Hawkins climbed in and they merged into the traffic out of town. "Find anything?" asked Phelan, at the wheel. Hawk grimaced.

"Your typical suburban library." He rolled down the window, lit himself a Camel. Bush handed him a Killian’s Irish Red. No more elaboration was needed. All three knew, precisely.

Phelan sniffed, and commented, "Some pindajo’s burning leaves."

Hawkins felt amused. Bold yet sensitive heroes, my ass!

"A good, good smell." He drank deeply, savouring.

Hawk was going to enjoy this.

"Not so many years ago," the final speaker began, "when certain easily-led hooligans made it ‘fad’ to cause such devastation, Time Warner-Disney produced what I consider a very important motion picture. In the nightmare world of Fahrenheit 451 that was so skilfully portrayed, the enemies of knowledge, truth and the American way set the torch against what we all hold so dear. As that movie taught us, books are more than products. They are a part of who we are. A library is a safe place where our children, after school, pass the afternoon assisting each other on research projects. It’s the scene for coffee klatches and for meetings for the American Foreign Legion, on summer evenings. It is a bright showcase of all the advances we as a society have made, all our fathers’ fathers proud achievements collected. It is a friendly meeting point, where both our knowledge, and ourselves, come together."

The sentiments generated an unexpected smattering of applause. The well-dressed man at the podium smiled nervously. Various municipal officials had spoken at fiery length, riling the town meeting up. He paused, with discretion, before continuing. "When I learned of the horrible crime that had been committed here, to you, I knew I had to come. I am not ashamed to say, I felt something move within me. While my heart sank, something else stirred. No, I’m not ashamed: summoning the best reasoning that I could, I went on my lunch hour and knocked at my boss’s door. And I said to the big man, "Sir, sir there has been another one. Another fire, another municipality’s library burned, all its books destroyed. Sir, I know it’s not my place, but I have to go there." I said that in the best words than a man can set atop a feeling. You know what I mean. You all, you know precisely what I mean." Applause built, kept building, assured him that yes, they did. They sure enough did.

Again, the exec awkwardly smiled. The assembly murmured as they clapped: look, we’ve embarrassed him! But see the spark in his eye, that’s something he just has to say, no matter the personal discomfort! What a fine man!

"Well," the speaker continued. "The old man gazed down at me, made the sweat that I’d kept under my skin burst on out! Bosses have a way of doing that to all of us. It’s just like the way that they always know what to do, what’s right. He said to me at last, ‘You’ve got to go to that town. You must tell them personally, face to face, that we’re beside them through their misfortune.’

"Now whether that fire sprung from that bug that Securicon keeps denying they have in their integrated fire and security systems, or whether that fire is the work of a darker adversary, I can’t say. Either way, you and your family, your neighbours, have been robbed of something very special. Something that we cannot allow to die. The library must be rebuilt! Say that the fire was the work of angry and reckless dropouts: where will they learn the error of their actions? Where will they learn to one day protect our treasured values for their own children? Where, if not from the storehouse of those treasures? The library must be rebuilt! Like the Creator himself, we must stoop to collect the ashes, and, with care, form men of them. Like that brave phoenix of a community that made us all feel so good in the Time Warner-Disney hit, we must pitch in together and overcome any obstacle thrown before us! The library must be rebuilt!"

Who was this visitor, who had come so far and so quickly to address them? He spoke with such authority, such passion! So trim! Such strength, self-discipline! He understood their community far better than their own mayor, bouncing exuberantly in the wings!

"Well, after I got that nod, the very next stop was our own library, downstairs. When I was packing books into a crate, my friend, the prize-winning author Barbara Higgins Cussler, came up to me to inquire what I was doing. Well, I tell you, no one has a heart like Barbara. She was visibly moved when she heard. And so, that FedEx van, pulling up outside, has not one, but two big packing crates- one from our own reserve library in New York, and one from Barbara, containing a hand-packed selection of her favourite works!" The buzz, the excitement, that began at the first mention of Barbara Higgins Cussler had mounted steadily since. The crowd roared as soon as the speaker paused, but his hands were held up politely. He was not done. He was just drawing breath. "We wish to assist your municipality as it struggles to rebuild its collection! The man himself has very generously approved a subsidy of up to one million dollars, redeemable as a fifteen percent discount toward any new titles purchased!"

One million dollars! With one voice each townsman echoed the visitor’s words. One million dollars! From complete loss to two crates of handpicked favourites, in twenty-four hours! The approval so voiced was flattened by the wall of acclaim. The words lost did not matter. The humble man, the dedicated man now modestly retiring from the podium and respectfully shaking the jubilant mayor’s hand, certainly knew precisely what they meant.

"Speaking on behalf of everybody here- we thank you, Mr. Hawkins!" At their mention, the jubilant townsfolk were on their feet, applauding so loudly, drowningly, that they almost overwhelmed the most important part: "-And, we heartily thank Jovanovich Publishing!"

Erie County lay ahead. Phelan and Bush slept soundly; the back of the Ford converted comfortably into living accommodations for these long excursions. As the white highway lines passed, Hawkins had their snoring and the top-of-the-hour news bulletins to listen to. The rest he tuned out. He had read every history book Jovanovich Publishing had produced, and had his thoughts to keep him company through the overnight haul.

Corey Flintov’s ancient intones introduced Montana Sheep Farmer John Smith. "Who, I say, Who, is the fedral gov-ment to tell me where I can stick my johnson?!" raged the soundbyte. "We here want Washinton outta our trousers!" Hawkins smiled because it was funny. Still, he recognised a quote out of context. The Team had been to Montana. That community copped that an arson had been pulled, and, frankly, the Team had escaped only due to a convenient scapegoat. National Public Radio exchanged real news for implications of sheepshagging only because its government funders and corporate sponsors had lost sway up there. Jovanovich, for instance, had never returned to that territory. But then again, the Team’s services had not really been required. Those folks up there did enough book burning on their own.

It really all started with Napster, Hawkins considered. The impact of the Napster assassinations matched solely, for changes afterwards, the shooting of Martin Luther King in 1968. When Sony’s Yakuzi commandos stormed the offices, smashed the servers, permanently eliminated the thieving masterminds- that was the moment. Corporations, through their success, had evolved more power than nations themselves. Why confine their battles in courtrooms—what gain to keep the inherent relationship between power and force a step abstracted, a step diluted? As in the wake of MLK, a primitive, artificial social barrier was deconstructed. Society was freed to enjoy a purer, more direct, more efficient relationship.

It had not happened over night, of course. The history of the early 2K’s was a story of recriminations and adjustments. Sony itself had collapsed in the wake, for one. But, taking direct and responsible action cut so much of that red tape that no one had cared for anyway. It soon became evident, this new norm was far swifter and more efficient. What purpose had those decades of traditional litigation served? Napster had blatantly disregarded or weaselled out of any legal ruling raised against it, for one. All the trillions thrown to lawyers, all throughout the twentieth century- that was as much a crime as the trillions sunk into the space program. And all the lawyers that had become judges, congressmen and presidents- they constructed a self-perpetuating beast that had not, for one hundred and fifty years, turned a profit. How had people in the past stood for it?

Thanks be that Rush Limbaugh won. Thanks be that Big Government was dismantled. Good-bye and good riddance to the days of non-profit and non-progress. Corporations existed solely to ensure progress, security, efficiency, and production. Pirates and lawyers who meant to benefit from merchandise they did not produce hadn’t a chance, now.

A road sign passed, counting down in halogen the miles to Corning and Jamestown. Things were so much better off, so much easier. Hawkins couldn’t imagine living in his parents’ generation or, more primitive yet, his grandparents. Crushing taxes, hours spent in inactivity, fixations with placing computers in each home. So much waste, and none of that had ever overthrown the pleasure of ownership. Those computer screens, displaying all their prophecies of doom, had never been able to defeat the good, old-fashioned, book. Hawkins loved books, and loved his work. Bringing new ones to communities that desperately needed pruning and regrowth. Bringing the revenue of large municipal bulk orders in, to say nothing of the PR and good press the swift visits made for Jovanovich.

And the nerve of all these boondock yokels! When the matter was objectively analysed, what were these libraries but paper Napsters? Places where hundreds of people took the benefit of Jovanovich’s products, without shelling out a dime. Cheapskates, the lot of them. They only got what they deserved.

Out of date. Out of fashion. Hawk thumbed idly through dusty shelves, Tr-W. He habitually glanced to far corners. Six cameras in all. Canon 450’s, by the look of them. That likely implied a Securicon 8500. Securicon’s salesmen bundled a special six-camera deal in with a unified control box, targeting the package to municipalities with Orchard Park’s revenue and resource demographic. Targeting them in exactly the same way the Team did. Hawkins turned his gaze back toward the racks, planning to casually make his way around to the corner where a control box probably hid. Shelves and shelves; his nose creased involuntarily, as it always did when faced with imbecility. All these horrible books, out of print.

Pretending to consider the split-covered Time Warner-Disney rewrite of Gulliver’s Travels, Hawk was wondering whether they could risk shorting out the Securicon again. It was the easiest way to start a fire, sure, but the MO was in danger of overuse. If Consumer Reports ran an independent investigation, there’d be trouble. Best to switch tactics and pin the blame on some local wastoid. Phelan would get the dropout so blitzed the stoner wouldn’t remember-

It was then that he was riveted. Hawk had browsed on, picked up a very old book, and initially been half-curious as the main character shared his name. There hid this twelve-year old boy named Hawkins. But, the words!

He raced through the passage once, then re-read where he stood. His judgement had to have been mistaken. But, it was not- Hawkins had read correctly. The characters in this book were alive!

Taking the book to the sunlit table, he set the tome carefully down and examined it to the full powers of observation. The faded title he knew. Everyone knew Treasure Island. Hawkins had seen it many times at the Ster Century Cinema as a child: it was one of the first summers when Time Warner-Disney’s had acquired Complete Rights. Schools, TV, food, 3GM toys- that summer, everything had been Treasure Island. Hawkins only remembered pieces of the story, now; something about how delicious food waited at Long John Silvers, and how wise mariners knew the value of Spyglass Hill Gold Bonds. Those were the early days, and Treasure Island had been an entirely forgettable, 50-megaton, bomb. Time Warner-Disney hadn’t the formula down to a science until The Godfather was released, a few years later.

Like all Time Warner-Disney promotions, Treasure Island had been billed as a Classic. Hawkins deduced that he held that original version, now.

Hawk was deeply startled when a touch landed on his shoulder. How could someone sneak- he wondered, alarmed. Time enough to worry later: he slipped into role as the old librarian hurried an apology.

"No, no," answered Hawkins. "No harm done- I’m a bit hearing-impaired- just didn’t hear you coming. I was-"

"Lost in a book?" her smile was weak, yet warm. Hawk supposed there were no teeth behind those old lips, but the old bat was smiling away regardless. Hawk chuckled, self-depreciatively.

"Yeah, I guess I was."

"Treasure Island," she read, and a hand caressed the imitation leather. "Understandable, how you could get lost in a book like that! I got lost in there myself, deep in the woods on Skeleton Island with Jim and Dr. Livesey, when I was a girl."

As the fat old woman went on, Hawkins saw that the gleam on her spectacles came not from extinguished fluorescent lights, but from her eyes behind. "…those rascals Black Dog, Billy Bones, and the murderous coxswain, Israel Hands. Old Captain Flint too wicked to even be put in the tale, just his parrot and the reverent stories the pirates whispered, afraid to wake his ghost! And jolly, commanding, wicked old Long John Silver. . . ." The woman shook here head, in reverie. Hawkins found himself sincerely touched, inside. The old woman was speaking truth. "Can’t hardly find a copy of the real book, any more. It’s a shame what those Disney people did to it."

"Time Warner-Disney," corrected Hawkins automatically, but the remark was inconsequential to the conversation. Like the cover story he had prepared, it fell away. "It’s funny, a book like that," Hawkins struggled. "I’m generally very perceptive. I take pride in it. But the whole library closed around me, people getting up and leaving, lights going out-" The bright-eyed old librarian’s smile spread wider, nodding in perfect communion. "What’s that word, when you forget exactly where you are, and become transported to someplace that seems more real?"

"Magic," she shared, still caressing the tome.

Hawk worried. He had been entirely unawares, today. Those details even now occupied his thoughts. He recognised, they had remained immediate for that old librarian for seventy or more years. There would be no rest, Hawkins knew. His thoughts were preoccupied with the smell of tar and tobacco, three crosses inked in red, and the cries of wild sea-songs. Taciturn Bush broke form to comment that the chief was not at 100% this night. Hawk snapped at him to shut up, for reassurance.

Phelan prodded his grin with a toothpick, returning. "Freakin’ pindajo’s so high, he’ll be amazed he only torched one library, when he comes down!" Phelan laughed like a maniac. "Greedy minimum-wage coupon cutter! Amateur potfiend who don’t respect his limits. Fat-ass, undisciplined…."

The book was still in there. Hawkins grumbled, to through brakes on before Phelan got started. But Phelan’s tirade had quickly become superheated. Larger measures would be necessary, to silence it. Hawkins decided not to fight this one. He determined to guzzle the whole six of Killian’s Irish Red that he had chilling in the motel sink. His subordinate was feeling an expressive need for victory brew, and the two soon exchanged sharp words. The goon sulked. Hawkins grimaced at the sour concoction, recognising it had nothing in common with the rich brown ale Jim served at The Admiral Benbow Inn. The book was still in there.

Dawn arrived several hours later. Bush was already gone, igniting the diversionary brush fire that stretched the far end of the local fire department’s range. Hawk and Phelan slipped by foot through the park, along the NiagrEnergy power lines and into Nativity of our Lord Parish Cemetery. The local teen was still babbling incoherently away where Phelan had tied him.

She said, can’t hardly find a copy of the real book, any more, recycled a thought that Hawkins already knew too well.

"I want to go in and have another look," announced Hawkins, with conviction. Phelan, still sore from his upbraiding, glared at Hawk questioningly. "It’s decided, Phelan. I’m going."

Phelan waved his Genca stylist his chief’s face. "There ain’t time, not to do it safely. And my ass ain’t going on no line-"

Hawkins swotted him. Phelan silenced, but his glare maintained that he was still right and Hawkins knew it. Hawk did not bother with an explanation for his need. His cohort and he knew every aspect of this routine; there was no valid excuse to set foot again in the library. He thrust the scapegoat into Phelan’s grip and rose to sprint across the road. Sirens in the distance stifled his plan; he had not judged adequate time. It was too late, and he’d made himself an impractical fool in front of his Teammate. The trim man sunk back to hallowed earth until the patrol car hurtled well around the far bend.

Racing across the pavement with stoner in tow, Hawk grew desperate: how could he get in? But it was Phelan who always made the smash, hurled the cocktail. Hawkins slugged the local, dropping him hard beside the fake marble columns flanking the entrance. Automatically Hawk sprinted to pluck the generator from the AC-intake, where it had spent the night filling the building’s interior with concentrated methane. These were the roles they had trained to perform, and the roles played themselves automatically. Twenty seconds after initiation, the operatives lay, again, flattened behind headstones. The time was too short: Hawkins’ desperation had not released him. Phelan grinned, delighted, as his meaty face flushed with heat. Hawkins gazed at the fresh flames, the building consumed. And the truth seared: The book was still in there.

A year went up in smoke. He had found his magic- something that knocked him off his practical, goal-meeting ass- and burned it. New Rochelle, Springfield, Madison, Dawes, Oak Ridge…. Bush ceased speaking altogether. Phelan’s tirades grew outrageous, and more violent. Hawkins’ preoccupation prevented him from keeping atop his Team. All three lost definition, and gained weight.

Jovanovich worried that the corporate rate of growth was slowing. The reliable income generated by the operative Team became more important. Each quarterly review back in New York gave glowing encouragement as he sat thinking, the Hispanola’s crew are actually Flint’s own men. Overwhelmingly! How can Jim and the others possibly escape? Can they keep it a secret they know? It was obvious, Hawkins feared, that his concentration was no longer focused upon the work.

There arrived updated schedules, new deadlines: revenue justified all. FedExed manifests displayed Hawkins’ uninterested signature.

And then, again, it was in his hands. The original and unabridged 1883 text. Hawkins felt surprised; hope and expectation had become separate things. He felt his heart pound. How he’d lost control, this last year! His heart was actually pounding.

Impulsive, Hawkins spied openly around him. The library assistant behind checkout looked to be a dowdy, dim-witted young thing. He could breeze past without her noticing. The rest of the staff gossiped behind Venetian blinds, a library "lunch meeting" convenient to Hawkins as well. There were few other patrons- a senior citizen too lazy to work, a school group making out in the alcove at the back, an enormous slob with his back turned, at the photocopy machine. Easy. Hawkins set his course for the door.

Out in the parking lot, he heard a voice cry out. He ignored it once, and then it cried after him again, closer. "Hey! Stop it right there!" Amused, Hawk turned. The poorly dressed man from the photocopier was closing on him, confronting him.

"You didn’t check that book out. I saw you leave."

Hawk dropped his Ray Bans onto his nose in answer. The big man closed. Not too perceptive, thought Hawk. He doesn’t notice I’m not cowering from conflict; he won’t be able to offer a useful description to the police.

But Hawkins’ thoughts centred on the book tucked under one arm, the treasure he was not going to lose again. Not until the two men were nose to nose did Hawkins realise that it was not the standard, couch-potato fat which made this man huge. He was an old-fashioned bodybuilder, V-shaped torso of Hollywood proportions. The forearms visible appeared to have steaks rolling inside them. His hands were of granite. Hawkins let the man stare him in the glasses, and did not flinch.

"You nicked that book." The giant pronounced book so that it rhymed with spook. "I saw you do it."

"You’re not from these parts. It’s none of your concern."

"What you did isn’t right. That is my concern."

Hawkins caressed the leather under his arm. "You English?"

The giant snorted. "It’s making no difference where I’m from. Thieving books isn’t right."

Maybe it was his heart still pumping; Hawkins felt aggression, felt it welling up to a long-overdue head. There was no way he was surrendering this. Out of shape and outclassed, he persisted. "There’s no way I’m handing this over. I’ll flatten your ass." Rage seeped like swift mist through him. Hawk felt it stream out, every important exhalation nearly clouding his vision.

"What’s so important about it?"

"Read one and you’ll see, musclebrain."

"What is it?"

Hawkins told him.

"The Disney version or the real one?"

Hawk let a snort of his own serve as answer.

The giant’s manner changed. "Give us a look?"

Feeling no threat, Hawkins let the musclebrain see it. Treasure Island looked like a toy, disappearing into that stone walls of hands. He skimmed it, turning the pages and reading. Hawkins targeted the flattened nose, then a Dr. Martin Rider to the groin. He could rip his prize from this ape and casually melt down the side street. He would tussle on the asphalt, jabbing for the eyes, but he would not leave empty-handed!

"You’re willing to fight a man, probably get yer ass soundly kicked, over this book?" The question- and it was a question, not a challenge- carried all 280 pounds of the foreigner’s weight.

Hawkins screamed full in his face, "Yes! Yes, I am!" Self-control was lost; Hawkins felt himself unleash. He was panting, thinking murder and cursing.

The poorly dressed giant casually tucked his business card between pages. He extended the volume to the passionate fanatic with utter calm, turned, and walked back through the glass doors.

Hawkins, heaving, retrieved the Ray Bans he had not noticed flying off. He watched the man’s back disappear purposefully back inside, and wondered, staring at the spot for a long minute after. With shaking fingers, he took Liam Brady’s business card from Treasure Island, and read it.

What was written dumbfounded him.

Hawkins opened the first bag, pulling free the six of Killian’s Irish Red. He smiled: it had been a private joke between them for twenty years.

"Jaysus, you’re not still drinking that stuff. Coors with red food colouring, that!" Ever powerful, Brophy invoked damning curses upon the Time Warner-Disney version of real beer. "Come on inside. I’ve got me some home-brew porter that’ll get you right locked!"

Hawk’s smile hardened into a grimace. "Can’t today, Brother. It’s getting worse, down there." He removed his sunglasses; though Hawkins prided himself that his stomach was even trimmer than at their first meeting, the canyons around his eyes were weathered deep. "They’d be suspicious; I was lucky to get the few hours to detour up to you. It’s---" Hawkins felt a dam burst within. "Everyone’s working fourteen a day now, on average. But no one can seem to keep up with the debts! There’s no time for reading, illiteracy is rocketing. Lip service is paid to peace and prosperity, but it’s getting to be open economic warfare between competitors. Factories are fortresses. And even those inside them, they’re literally backstabbing, one another, for another rung up the ladder."

The damage done. . . . reflected Brophy, and compassion again overflowed. He urged, "Come inside, brother! For good, I mean: many young men and women are finding a refuge, a peace, within these walls! There is an ancient joy in our life, here. Come in; you’ve done your share."

Hawkins’ face was still hard, strong. He held up the second bag. "Brought some good ones, this trip. Some that have been on the Wish List for a long while." The determination in his voice gave the answer. Brother Brophy always extended his invitation only once per visit: Hawkins appreciated that, being reassured in his welcome, as well as his free will to chose his own course.

The two conferred passionately over the finds. "I found T. C. Boyle’s Descent of Man, Davies’ Murther and Walking Spirits, Halpern’s Memoir from Antproof Case--- and this one."

The monk exclaimed with surprise, delighted.