Fantastic Metropolis

I signed my name at the end, without any closing salutation. It was impolite, but I couldn’t think of anything that sounded appropriate. It would have been hard to put the formal “sincerely yours” or “yours truly.” I also had trouble using a properly severe tone for my missive; I had no experience in this sort of thing. The letter, I suppose, must have appeared harsh enough and a warning, although, to tell the truth, I did not count on it having much effect. The most that could be expected was for them to remove the page containing my works, while I hadn’t the slightest hope of receiving any compensation.

I even doubted that I would receive a reply. But I was wrong. Just after I sent the e-mail, a message came back in response. The only explanation was that the editors of the Virtual Library, flooded with similar protest letters, had a ready-made reply to be sent automatically upon receipt of such a complaint. They probably didn’t receive any other kind of letter. What did they say in their defense?

Highly esteemed sir,

First, please allow us to express our deepest gratitude to you for having shown us the honor of visiting the Virtual Library.

We hasten to dispel your fears. This is not an unauthorized publication of your works. Although the page devoted to you does contain the texts of your books, access to that page is not at all free, as you have assumed. It is allowed exclusively to you, and only once. Since you have just used this opportunity, you may rest assured that no one will ever again be able to access the page containing your bio-bibliography. You will see this for yourself should you try to return to it.

Regarding the information that you have concluded is incorrect, please rest assured that it is accurate.

Sincerely yours,
Virtual Library

So they had it all worked out. As soon as an author complained, they quickly removed the page. No page, no proof of piracy. I had nonetheless expected something more ingenious. That page still existed in the “cache” memory of my computer as irrefutable proof. All I had to do was hit the “Back” button and save it. Nothing easier. In addition, it seemed the Virtual Library considered writers to be so computer illiterate and na�ve that they would easily swallow the story about access to their page. Nonsense. As if something like that was even possible. Or that bit about the accuracy of the invented data. What a misjudgment.

I quickly clicked “Back” on the toolbar. But something unexpected happened. Instead of showing the previous page, the window with the letter from the Virtual Library closed, and the “Back” button became inactive, as though nothing had been stored in the “cache” file. I stared in bewilderment at the primarily black picture on the screen, without understanding. The page had to be there. I had been on it just a few minutes before and had done nothing in the meantime to delete it.

Obviously, something had gone wrong. I wasn’t computer illiterate, but I also was not skilled enough to figure out everything that could go wrong with these strange machines. But it made no difference, I would enter my name once again in the search rectangle. Although I had been informed that access to my page would henceforth be blocked, it would be hard for them to do so instantaneously. Unfortunately, the search came up blank this time. The program informed me that no writer with my name could be found in the library that included all authors who had ever existed.

Confusion and anger started to get the upper hand. I looked like a fool who, by his own rashness, had been taken in by a cheap trick. It even crossed my mind that a throng of happy people from some television station might burst into my study at any moment, revealing that all of this had been just a cleverly organized candid camera episode. But no one appeared and, after several long minutes, I did the only thing I could do. I clicked once again on the lower e-address and started to type a new e-mail.