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chapter-2

Halfway across town, Dr. Yanina Zinchenko, the world-famous librarian, was walking briskly through the cavernous building that was only days away from its gala grand opening.

Alexandriaville’s new public library had been under construction for five years. All work had been done with the utmost secrecy under the tightest possible security. One crew did the exterior renovations on what had once been the small Ohio city’s most magnificent building, the Gold Leaf Bank. Other crews—carpenters, masons, electricians, and plumbers—worked on the interior.

No single construction crew stayed on the job longer than six weeks.

No crew knew what any of the other crews had done (or would be doing).

And when all those crews were finished, several super-secret covert crews (highly paid workers who would deny ever having been near the library, Alexandriaville, or the state of Ohio) stealthily applied the final touches.

Dr. Zinchenko had supervised the construction project for her employer—a very eccentric (some would say loony) billionaire. Only she knew all the marvels and wonders the incredible new library would hold (and hide) within its walls.

Dr. Zinchenko was a tall woman with blazing-red hair. She wore an expensive, custom-tailored business suit, jazzy high-heeled shoes, a Bluetooth earpiece, and glasses with thick red frames.

Heels clicking on the marble floor, fingers tapping on the glass of her very advanced tablet computer, Dr. Zinchenko strode past the control center’s red door, under an arch, and into the breathtakingly large circular reading room beneath the library’s three-story-tall rotunda.

The bank building, which provided the shell for the new library, had been built in 1931. With towering Corinthian columns, an arched entryway, lots of fancy trim, and a mammoth shimmering gold dome, the building looked like it belonged next door to the triumphant memorials in Washington, D.C.—not on this small Ohio town’s quaint streets.

Dr. Zinchenko paused to stare up at the library’s most stunning visual effect: the Wonder Dome. Ten wedge-shaped, high-definition video screens—as brilliant as those in Times Square—lined the underbelly of the dome like so many orange slices. Each screen could operate independently or as part of a spectacular whole. The Wonder Dome could become the constellations of the night sky; a flight through the clouds that made viewers below sense that the whole building had somehow lifted off the ground; or, in Dewey decimal mode, ten sections depicting vibrant and constantly changing images associated with each category in the library cataloging system.

“I have the final numbers for the fourth sector of the Wonder Dome in Dewey mode,” Dr. Zinchenko said into her Bluetooth earpiece. “364 point 1092.” She carefully over-enunciated each word to make certain the video artist knew what specific numbers should occasionally drift across the fourth wedge amid the swirling social-sciences montage featuring a floating judge’s gavel, a tumbling teacher’s apple, and a gentle snowfall of holiday icons. “The numbers, however, should not appear until eleven a.m. Sunday. Is that clear?” “Yes, Dr. Zinchenko,” replied the tinny voice in her ear.

Next Dr. Zinchenko studied the holographic statues projected into black crepe-lined recesses cut into the massive stone piers that supported the arched windows from which the Wonder Dome rose.

“Why are Shakespeare and Dickens still here? They’re not on the list for opening night.” “Sorry,” replied the library’s director of holographic imagery, who was also on the conference call. “I’ll fix it.” “Thank you.”

Exiting the rotunda, the librarian entered the Children’s Room.

It was dim, with only a few work lights glowing, but Dr. Zinchenko had memorized the layout of the miniature tables and was able to march, without bumping her shins, to the Story Corner for a final check on her recently installed geese.

The flock of six audio-animatronic goslings—fluffy robots with ping-pongish eyeballs (created for the new library by imagineers who used to work at Disney World)—stood perched atop an angled bookcase in the corner. Mother Goose, in her bonnet and granny glasses, was frozen in the center.

“This is librarian One,” said Dr. Zinchenko, loud enough for the microphones hidden in the ceiling to pick up her voice. “Initiate story-time sequence.” The geese sprang to mechanical life.

“Nursery rhyme.”

The geese honked out “Baa-Baa Black Sheep” in six-part harmony.

“Treasure Island?”

The birds yo-ho-ho’ed their way through “Fifteen Men on a Dead Man’s Chest.” Dr. Zinchenko clapped her hands. The rollicking geese stopped singing and swaying.

“One more,” she said. Squinting, she saw a book sitting on a nearby table. “Walter the Farting Dog.” The six geese spun around and farted, their tail feathers flipping up in sync with the noisy blasts.

“Excellent. End story time.”

The geese slumped back into their sleep mode. Dr. Zinchenko made one more tick on her computer tablet. Her final punch list was growing shorter and shorter, which was a very good thing. The library’s grand opening was set for Friday night. Dr. Z and her army of associates had only a few days left to smooth out any kinks in the library’s complex operating system.

Suddenly, Dr. Zinchenko heard a low, rumbling growl.

Turning around, she was eyeball to icy-blue eyeball with a very rare white tiger.

Dr. Zinchenko sighed and touched her Bluetooth earpiece.

“Ms. G? This is Dr. Z. What is our white Bengal tiger doing in the children’s department? … I see. Apparently, there was a slight misunderstanding. We do not want him permanently positioned near The Jungle Book. Check the call number. 599 point 757…. Right. He should be in Zoology.… Yes, please. Right away. Thank you, Ms. G.” And like a vanishing mirage, the tiger disappeared.