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room since his dad’s disappearance — but a peculiar odor brought him to a stop. It was a strange smell, sharp, but not unpleasant. Where was it coming from? After hesitating briefly, Felix crossed the threshold.
    Things were as his father had left them, the books, the pens and paper (who else wrote with a pen?), the Latin dictionary, the magnifying glass, the leather-bound armchair, the old Roman coins. And … oh. A glass of wine was resting on his desk. Was this the source of that penetrating odour?
    Felix drew closer. He ran his hand along the desk’s smooth surface and installed himself in its throne-like chair. The room was thick with his father’s presence and Felix half expected him to walk in at that moment. Being careful not to disturb anything, he leaned forward and sniffed the contents of the glass.
    It was the source of the smell. Over time, the wine had turned to vinegar, hence the sour, pungent aroma. Felix smiled. “Vinegary,” Aceticus, was the author of the book that his father had been reading …
    His smile faded. He recalled his father’s statement, how the book had something to say about the plague. “It’s all in there,” he’d murmured, motioning to the tome. At the time Felix had been too scared to pay attention, but he wondered now what his father had meant. He exited the study with a purposeful step.
    â€œWould you like a game of chess?”
    â€œNot now, Mentor. I’m looking for a book.”
    â€œWhat book would that be?”
    â€œAceticus’s Historiae . It’s thin and bound in dark blue leather.”
    â€œIt is on the table next to the entrance.”
    â€œThank you, Mentor. That’s very helpful.”
    Felix ran to the front door and, yes, the book was there. Caressing it, he remembered with a pang how he’d seen it last in his father’s hands. He opened it slowly to a page with a bookmark — the paper was yellow and dusty with age.
    A paragraph jumped out at him.
    The book almost slipped from his fingers. Stumbling to the couch on legs as weak as jelly, he fumbled with the book and read the passage over.
    He shook his head in disbelief. Turning back three pages, he read their contents, too, studying every sentence with painstaking care. At one point he consulted a Latin lexicon, to check the exact meaning of a couple of words.
    An hour passed. Mentor suggested that he eat something but Felix replied he wasn’t a bit hungry. An hour later Mentor spoke again, but Felix shrugged him off.
    When the old clock in the dining room struck six, Felix put the book away. He’d read the Latin ten times over and still couldn’t believe the story it told. No wonder the text had absorbed his father. “ Lupus ridens ,” he murmured to himself.
    He considered his options. The facts he’d discovered were of vital importance and had to be brought to someone’s attention but … how? It would take days to contact the Information Bureau, and even if he did get through, the auto-clerks weren’t programmed to forward his call.
    But the information was crucial and he had to do something.
    â€œYou seem pensive,” Mentor stated, breaking in on his thoughts.
    â€œI have a problem,” Felix answered. “I’ve found some information that the authorities should hear.”
    â€œIt will take four days and sixteen hours to reach the Information Bureau ….”
    â€œYes,” Felix snapped. “That’s why I’m debating what my next step should be.”
    â€œOn the other hand,” Mentor went on, ignoring Felix’s burst of temper, “you can inform the authorities by communicating with a talk-show host.”
    â€œLike whom?” Felix asked, his interest piqued.
    â€œMonitoring,” Mentor said, initiating a search of the broadcast network. “At present there are 17573 talk shows worldwide.”
    â€œI need one with a wide viewing