Fantastic Metropolis

There were two possible outcomes. If the search did not produce the expected result, which was quite likely, then the whole thing was probably a practical joke. Someone had decided to have some fun at the expense of writers, or perhaps publishers, critics, librarians, bookshop owners, and the book world in general. Who knew what kind of trick might be played instead of a page listing my works. But I had no right to complain; no one had forced me to visit the site. A joke would serve me right for not minding my own business.

If, however, my books appeared in electronic form, then the situation was considerably worse. I had not ceded my rights to anyone for such publication, which would mean they were pirated editions. That would really be a problem. The Internet is inundated with this type of abuse, and as far as I have heard, protection from it is just as difficult as protection from unwanted e-messages.

If my work did exist in the Virtual Library, the search would have to last some time. Regardless of increases in computer speed, the gigantic corpus involved could certainly not be searched momentarily. But that is just what happened. As soon as I clicked the mouse to begin the search, a new page appeared on the screen. This time it had a gray background, with black and white writing. A smaller picture also appeared in color, disturbing the uniformity.

At first, I thought that the speed with which it had been found was a sure sign of something fishy. But when I found myself squinting at my own face on the screen, a shudder ran down my spine. That was me, no doubt about it, although I had no idea when and where the picture had been taken. I appeared to be somewhat younger, but it was hard to tell how much younger.

Under the picture, on the left side of the screen, I found a brief biography. All the information was correct, except for the end. Unless something had happened without my noticing it, I was still very much alive. The facts about my death, though, were strangely undefined. The word “died” was followed by nine different years, separated by commas. Unlike the black letters before them, these numbers were white. The closest year was a decade and a half in the future, while the most distant was almost half a century away. Whoever had edited the entry obviously had a morbid sense of humor.

On the right side of the screen, I found a list of my books. It did not end, however, after the third book. It continued all the way to number twenty-one which, of course, was ridiculous. I’m not saying that such a voluminous bibliography didn’t please me, but it simply was not mine. Two colors had been used here as well. The three books I had actually published appeared in black type, while the other eighteen works appeared in white. These other titles were presented in chronological order. The first dated from the following year, and forty-five years had to pass until the last date. So I was dealing not only with a twisted prankster, but someone who seemed to imagine himself a clairvoyant.

None of this mattered, however; I still had to find out the most important thing. Was this just the work of some idler who had nothing better to do than fool around with such nonsense? The Internet is full of people who think nothing of putting time and effort into pulling off stunts like this. Hackers are a good example. They invent and spread destructive viruses, even though they gain no benefit other than an insular satisfaction. I clicked the cursor on the first of my three books, certain that nothing would happen. But the arrow, unfortunately, turned into a hand again and the screen soon filled with text.

I only had to read the first sentence to confirm that this really was my first novel. A wave of anger rolled over me. My book was accessible to the whole world without any permission or payment! How dare they! Why, this was highway robbery! And then suddenly I was filled with the hope that perhaps it wasn’t all there, that maybe only an excerpt had been posted, which might be somewhat bearable. But as soon as I scrolled down to the end of the page, I lost this faint hope. The whole book was there, from the first word to the last. I didn’t even have to open the other two titles. I knew perfectly well what I would find there.

Enraged, I reached for the mouse again, clicked on the button, and returned to the previous page. I brought the cursor to the e-address at the bottom, then clicked once again. My browser opened a blank e-mail window with the site’s e-mail address in the “To” field. I stared at the empty page for a few moments, deliberating. Finally, I wrote “Piracy” in the “Subject” line, then started to write.

Dear Sir,

A very unpleasant surprise awaited me when I visited the Virtual Library site. I found my three novels there freely accessible to anyone. Since I, as the copyright holder, never gave permission for such publication, it clearly represents an act of publishing piracy, punishable by law. I order you to withdraw my works from your site without delay. I would also like to inform you that my lawyer will soon be sending you a request for due compensation for damages, not only for the unauthorized placement of my books on your site but also for the inaccurate, and insulting, additions to my biography and bibliography.