“Well, I. . .” Editorial saw that she was going to be the sacrificial lamb. She blushed and lapsed into silence.
“How much would an electronic book sell for?” Marketing asked.
Lipton shrugged. “One dollar? Two?”
Rockmore, from the far end of the table, spoke up. “According to the technical people I’ve spoken to, the price of a book could be less than one dollar.”
“Instead of fifteen to twenty,” Lipton said, “which is what our hardcovers are priced at now.”
“One dollar?” Marketing looked stunned. “We could sell zillions of books at a dollar apiece!”
“We could wipe out the paperback market,” Lipton agreed, happily.
“But that would cut off a major source of income for us,” cried Sub Rights.
“There would still be foreign sales,” said Lipton. “And film and TV rights.”
“I don’t know about TV,” Legal chimed in. “After all, by displaying a book on what is essentially a television screen, we may be construed as utilizing the broadcast TV rights. . .”
The discussion continued right through the morning. Lipton had sandwiches and coffee brought in, and the executive board stayed in conference well past quitting time.
In the port city of Numazu, not far from the blissful snow-covered cone of divine Fujiyama, Kanagawa Industries began the urgent task of converting one of its electronics plants to building the first production run of Mitsui Minimata’s electronic book. Mitsui was given the position of advisor to the chief production engineer, who ran the plant with rigid military discipline. His staff of six hundred (five hundred eighty-eight of them robots) worked happily and efficiently, converting the plant from building navigation computers to the new product.
The Resistance
Editorial sipped her Bloody Mary while Sub Rights stared out the restaurant window at the snarling Manhattan midtown traffic. The restaurant was only half-filled, even though this was the height of the lunch hour rush; the publishing business had been in the doldrums for some time. Suave waiters with slicked-back hair and European accents hovered over each table, anxious to generate tips through quality of service, when it was obvious that quantity of customers was lacking.
Sub Rights was a pale, ash-blonde woman in her late thirties. She had worked for Hubris Books since graduating from Barnard with stars in her eyes and dreams of a romantic career in the world of literature. Her most romantic moment had come when a French publisher’s representative had seduced her, at the height of the Frankfurt Book Fair, and thus obtained a very favorable deal on Hubris’s entire line of “How To” books for that year.
“I think you’ve hit it on the head,” Sub Rights said, idly stirring her Campari-and-soda with its plastic straw. “Books should be made of paper, not this electric machine thing.”
Editorial had worked for six publishers in the twelve years since she had arrived in New York from Kansas. Somehow, whenever the final sales figures for the books she had bought became known to management, she was invited to look for work elsewhere. Still, there were plenty of publishing houses in midtown Manhattan which operated on the same principle: fire the editor when sales don’t pan out, and then hire an editor fired by one of your competitors for the same reason.
“That’s what I think, too,” she said. Her speech was just a little blurred, her tinted auburn hair just a bit frazzled. This was her third Bloody Mary and they had not ordered lunch yet.
“I love to curl up with a book. It’s cozy,” said Sub Rights.
“Books are supposed to be made of paper,” Editorial agreed. “With pages that you can turn.”
Sub Rights nodded unhappily. “I said that to Production, and do you know what he said?”
“No. What?”
“He said I was wrong, and that books were supposed to be made of clay tablets with cuneiform marks pressed into them.”
Editorial’s eyes filled with tears. “It’s the end of an era. The next thing you know, they’ll replace us with robots.”
The chief engineer paced back and forth, hands clasped behind his back, as the two technicians worked feverishly on the robot. The entire assembly area of the factory was absolutely still; not a machine moved, all across the wide floor. Both technicians’ white coveralls were stained with sweat and oil, a considerable loss of face for men who prided themselves on keeping their machines in perfect working order.
The chief engineer, in his golden-tan coveralls and plastic hard hat, alternately glared at the technicians and gazed up at the huge digital clock dominating the far wall of the assembly area. Up in the glass-panelled gallery above the clock, he could see Mitsui Minimata’s young, eager face peering intently at them.
A shout of triumph from one of the technicians made the chief engineer spin around. The technician held a tiny silicon chip delicately between his thumb and forefinger, took two steps forward and offered the offending electronic unit to the chief engineer. The chief took it, looked down at the thumbnail-sized chip, so small and insignificant-seeming in the palm of his hand. Hard to believe that this tiny grain of sand caused the robot to malfunction and ruined an entire day’s work. He sighed to himself, and thought that this evening, as he relaxed in a hot bath, he would try to compose a haiku on the subject of how small things can cause great troubles.
The junior of the two technicians, in the meantime, had dashed to the automated supply dispenser across the big assembly room, dialed up a replacement chip, and come running back with the new unit pressed between his palms. The senior technicians installed it quickly, buttoned up the robot’s access panel, turned and bowed to the chief engineer.
The chief grunted a grudging approval. The junior technician bowed to the chief and asked permission to activate the robot. The chief nodded. The robot stirred to life, and it too bowed to the chief engineer. Only then did production resume.
The Sales Manager for Hubris Books stroked his chin thoughtfully as he sat behind his desk conversing with his western district sales director.
“But if they ever start selling these electronic doohickeys,” the western district man was saying, “they’ll bypass the wholesalers, the distributors, even the retail stores, for cryin’ out loud! They’ll sell those little computer disks direct to the customer! They’ll sell ‘em through the mail!”
“And over the phone,” the Sales Manager added wearily. “They’re talking about doing the whole thing electronically.”
“Where’s that leave us?”
“Out in the cold, buddy. Right out in the cold.”
