Shatterproof by Roland Smith Page A

her watch, but Bazzi and Jake didn’t seem to notice.
    “Ah, yes,” Bazzi said. “It is doodling, as you might say in your country. Back when the scholars were here, paper was worth more than gold. They had to use any blank paper they could find, even if it was another scholar’s manuscript.”
    “What kind of doodling?”
    “Diary entries, scientific theories, to-do lists, maps, poetry —”
    “That’s all fascinating,” Amy said, making sure they both saw her look at her watch this time. “But I’m afraid we’re on a tight schedule.”
    “Of course.” Bazzi gave her an apologetic nod. “I do get carried away. Not many outside people come to the institute to talk about the manuscripts.”
    Jake nudged Amy’s side. “Just a couple more questions,” he said.
    Amy could have killed him.
    “Have you ever come across any manuscripts written in Latin?” she asked, thinking back to Vesper One’s text. Perhaps that would help them narrow their search.
    “No. But as you probably know, Arabic is considered the Latin of Africa. And Timbuktu was the center of learning. At its peak, there were twenty-five thousand scholars and students in the city, sharing information in much the same way information is now shared on the Internet. Millions of documents were created here during that time.”
    “What happened?” Amy asked, curious despite herself.
    “Invasion,” Bazzi answered. “The manuscripts were hidden in the walls of houses, in dry wells, buried in the sands of the Sahara so the invaders could not destroy them. The manuscripts were preserved by the dry air for hundreds of years. It wasn’t until quite recently that people felt secure enough to start bringing them to light. Last week, five hundred manuscripts were brought in. The week before, twice that many. It is one of the biggest collections of ancient manuscripts in the world, but because of our isolation few people know about them.”
    “Who brings them in?” Jake asked.
    “Old Timbuktu families, the military, desert tribes. We pay them what we can for retrieving our heritage, but funding is limited.”
    Amy looked around at the thick walls that housed thousands of manuscripts. It was as if rivers of ancient knowledge converged within the institute, safe for another century. “We’ll make a donation before we leave,” Amy said.
    “That’s very kind of you. We will accept it, but you can do something else for us.”
    “Sure,” Amy said.
    “Most people know about the famous cathedrals of Europe, or the caravan routes in the East,” Bazzi said. “But few people know about the ancient route where knowledge was shared. We call it the Ink Road, and you are at its epicenter.” He pointed at the manuscript in the glass case. “Who’s to say? Perhaps there is something in one of the manuscripts that has yet to be discovered by modern man. Will you tell people about our manuscripts? The only way to preserve them is for people to know.”
    “We’ll tell everyone,” she promised, and mentally wrote out a check that would ensure the institute was funded for another fifty years. It wasn’t always awful to be a Cahill.
    “Thank you,” Bazzi said. “Now, if you will follow me, our best computer is in our cataloging room.”
    He led them through a maze of glass cases to a small door in the back. When he opened it, a blast of stale air hit them.
    “Preservatives,” Bazzi explained. “Perhaps a little mold. You will get used to the odor.” He switched on the lights and then headed back to his desk.
    It wasn’t a room. It was a warehouse. Manuscripts were stacked on racks twenty feet high.
    Amy went pale. “It looks like an ancient recycling center. We’ll never find the ‘Apology’ here.”
    “It’s not as hopeless as you think,” Jake said. “Remember the margin of error.”
    “What are you talking about?”
    “Vesper’s note,” Jake said. “‘Off to Timbuktu you go. No margin for error.’”
    Amy was still confused.
    Jake