“Now tell me why you came.”

I showed him the softcover books, told him how I’d taken them to Niemand for a professional assessment. Confessed my own bafflement.

Ziegler took the books into his lap. He looked at them briefly and took a long drag from his oxygen mask. He didn’t seem especially impressed. “I’m hardly responsible for every volume that comes into the store.”

“Of course not. And I’m not complaining. I just wondered—”

“If I knew where they came from? If I could offer you a meaningful explanation?”

“Basically, yes.”

“Well,” Ziegler said. “Well. Yes and no. Yes and no.”

“I’m sorry?”

“That is… no, I can’t tell you precisely where they came from. Deirdre probably bought them from someone off the street. Cash or credit, and I don’t keep detailed records. But it doesn’t really matter.”

“Doesn’t it?”

He took another lungful from the oxygen bottle. “Oh, it could have been anyone. Even if you tracked down the original vendor—which I guarantee you won’t be able to do—you wouldn’t learn anything useful.”

“You don’t seem especially surprised by this.”

“Implying that I know more than I’m saying.” He smiled ruefully. “I’ve never been in this position before, though you’re right, it doesn’t surprise me. Did you know, Mr. Keller, that I am immortal?”

Here we go, I thought. The pitch. Ziegler didn’t care about the books. I had come for an explanation; he wanted to sell me a religion.

“And you, Mr. Keller. You’re immortal, too.”

What was I doing here, in this shabby place with this shabby old man? There was nothing to say.

“But I can’t explain it,” Ziegler went on; “that is, not in the depth it deserves. There’s a volume here—I’ll lend it to you—” He stood, precariously, and huffed across the room.

I looked at his books again while he rummaged for the volume in question. Below the precambrian deposits of the occult was a small sediment of literature. First editions, presumably valuable.