Fantastic Metropolis

 

To Mike Moorcock, a good man.

 

E-mail isn’t perfect. Although Internet providers probably do their best to protect us from receiving unwanted messages, there seems to be no remedy. Whenever I open up the in-box on my screen, I almost always find at least one from an unknown sender. Usually there are several; the record was thirteen junk mail messages, sent over just a few hours, in between two sessions at the computer.

When that happened I really got irritated and changed my e-address, despite considerable inconvenience. I gave my new address only to a small number of people, but to no avail. The pesky e-mails soon began to arrive once again. I complained to my provider, who admitted in a roundabout way that they could do nothing to help. They advised me just to delete everything that didn’t interest me, particularly since dangerous computer viruses often spread through junk mail.

The recommendation was unnecessary as I had already been deleting my junk mail, even though I was unaware of the viruses. At first, I’d read these messages in bewilderment, but after I realized what was going on, I deleted every e-message of unknown origin without delay. I didn’t even give them a cursory reading, in spite of the fact that the senders took all kinds of pains to attract my attention. Bombastic, flickering headings with fancy, ostentatious illustrations advertised a variety of exceptional offers not to be missed at any cost.

One proposal, for example, would make me rich overnight if I invested money through a glamorous-sounding agency from some Pacific Rim country I had never heard of. Or, after a two-week correspondence course, I could become a preacher in any Christian church I wanted, authorized to carry out baptismal, wedding, and funeral rites. I also had the opportunity, regardless of my age, to turn back the clock twenty-five years using some new macrobiotic remedy. I was offered the unique opportunity, for the modest commission of forty-nine percent, to finally get hold of the money that had been awarded to me by the court, if I had any such claims. I could also satisfy my assumed passion for gambling at any hour of the day or night, playing in some virtual casino guaranteed to be honest. Finally, to top it all off, I was offered at a mere pittance, under the counter, two and a half million verified, active e-addresses to which I could send whatever I wanted as many times as I wanted.

Perhaps the e-mail that started it all would have ended up in the recycle bin, along with the others, if it had not been so brief that I inadvertently read it. Against a black background, devoid of decoration, the first line announced: VIRTUAL LIBRARY in large, yellow letters, while under it the slogan “We have everything!”—written in considerably smaller blue letters—did not exactly assume the aggressive tone typical of this type of message.

Of all the exaggeration I had come across on the Internet, this one took the cake. Really, “everything!” Such a claim would be absurd even for web sites from the largest world libraries. Whoever had come up with this scheme certainly had no notion of how many books have been published in the last five thousand years. No one has ever managed to put such a library together in one place, even without all those works that have disappeared into oblivion.

And then there was that word “virtual.” Used in its truest sense, “virtual” should mean a library composed of electronic books. The Internet has several sites containing such e-editions and I visit them from time to time. But they offer slim pickings. Only several hundred titles are available, just a drop in the ocean compared to “everything” in the literal sense. Who would even dare to hope that this vast multitude could ever be transferred into computer form? And who would ever find it worth the effort?

Although I was convinced this must be a hoax, my curiosity stopped me from proceeding as usual. If it had involved anything other than books, I would have ignored the message without a second thought. But for a writer this was like waving a red flag in front of a bull. Instead of deleting the message, I positioned the cursor on the text. The arrow turned into a hand with a raised index finger and I found myself at the Virtual Library site.

The change was barely noticeable. The background stayed black, with two small additions appearing under the name of the site and the slogan. The first was the standard search field: a narrow white rectangular space in which to type the search text. This, however, could not be the title of a work or some other data, since the word “Author” appeared at the beginning. I shook my head. More sophisticated capabilities were to be expected from a library that prided itself on being the “ultimate.” At the very bottom of the screen was a short e-address.

I typed in my own name. This was not out of vanity, although it might have appeared so. I chose myself because, obviously, I am most familiar with my own work. If the Virtual Library truly contained what it claimed in its slogan, then my three books should be no exception. I am certainly not a well-known or popular writer, but I still should be included in a library containing all authors. In such a place there should be no discrimination of any type.