"I'm sorry, Mr. London, but your MarsCorp insurance plan won't pay for another pair of blue-filter lenses this period. You really should be more careful."

 

"Three unavoidable accidents, not one of them my fault," he said politely to the face on the screen — no sense drawing attention from passers-by. "I've got paperwork demonstrating—"

 

"Fault doesn't enter into it, Mr. London. It's a question of fairness. If we start making exceptions, it's an unfair burden on your fellow rate-payers."

 

He faked a laugh through gritted teeth. "How expensive could they be? Just flimsy plastic, as you can see."

 

He held his shattered pair up to the camera atop the kiosk. A casual bump on the Inter-Dome Tramway had been all it took.

 

The figure on the screen was unmoved. "I'm sorry, sir, but there's nothing I can do. If you'd like me to enter an appeal on your behalf—"

 

"Yes, please do. Meanwhile, is there any way I can purchase a replacement from my own funds? Under the... uh..."

 

"Over the counter, you mean? No, sir; these are prescription only. You'll just have to make do."

 

"But I can't read without them! Not at night, before bed." A few heads turned due to his raised voice. Careful! The last thing you need is a fine for disturbing the peace.

 

"That is not a medical necessity, sir. I suggest you try a podcast."

 

Jack rang off before he said something unforgivable. Maybe I can mug someone for their reading glasses, he thought, half seriously. No, it's no good. They'd break too, and I'd be in jail.

 

He'd already tried taping together the fragments of his last pair, but the thought of bringing those sharp edges close to his eyes repulsed him. He considered it again — briefly.

 

Giving up for the moment, he began walking down the crowded corridor toward the zócalo. The sky overhead was darkening, and he could see pinpoints in the dome reflected from the commercial markets below. Must be about dinnertime.

 

* * *

 

Unlike his namesake, the famous author, this modern Martian Jack London was anything but impressive. He was extremely short, with skinny limbs poorly concealed within threadbare, shabby clothing designed for someone at least two sizes larger.

 

Yet those he passed granted him a wide berth, possibly due to the scowl on his face, his lowered brow, and fists stuffed in his pockets. Without seeming to make any special effort, they drifted to each side, merging again behind as he passed. He remained unaware of this, focused on his own dark thoughts.

 

Not a medical necessity! How dare they? Every night for twenty years, ever since he'd gotten his first rented room, he'd read himself to sleep. It had been the only way to drown out the noise from his neighbors, whose lives were hardly private given the thin walls characteristic of cheap construction.

 

He'd tried audiobooks first, but he was far too sensitive to the verbal tics of AI readers. They irritated him beyond reason. He needed words on a screen. Yet, scientists had known for many years that such screens interfered with natural sleep by disturbing circadian rhythms. Certainly, nobody read physical books anymore—

 

Jack stopped cold in the middle of the aisle, causing half a dozen collisions among his fellows. He looked around the market square, flimsy stalls overflowing with junk on every side, huddling in the dimness beneath crossed strings of fairy lights. Everything on Mars was either instantly disposable or got reused forever, a fact that kept hundreds minimally employed scrounging and reselling. Somewhere, in all this mess, there must surely be at least one physical book!

 

All thoughts of dinner forgotten, Jack dashed from stall to stall, asking his question of every vendor willing to spare him a glance. In his single-mindedness, he walked straight past a display of light-filtering glasses, the words Special — On Sale — Cheap blending unnoticed into the sparkling neon background.

 

He was on a mission.

 

* * *

 

Nearly three hours had passed, and the shops were closing. He'd need to hurry to get back to his room before the hostel shut its doors for the night. But there was one last store left to try, a junk store off a back alley he'd been told of by a drug-addled curio vendor stinking of lime.

 

The door's bell rattled tinnily over his head as he charged in. Cobwebs overhead, undisturbed for decades, waved about in the wind of his passage. Blithely ignoring the muttered Cerrado, Señor from behind the counter, he repeated once again his demand. "Anything, so long as it's a book. Paper. Physical pages."

 

Sighing wearily, and with a sidelong put-upon expression that spoke eloquently of massive markups, the old man stood and stepped into a cramped side room hitherto concealed by a rack of plastic Disneyana. Stooping and muttering, he rummaged about, then pawed through a small shipping crate until he spied his objective.

 

Jack grabbed the ratty yellowed object and handed over the demanded credits without even a marginal effort at bargaining, an eccentricity that startled the shopkeeper into something near affability. Scarcely believing his luck, London didn't notice, much less acknowledge, the offered pleasantries. Delighted beyond measure, he dashed out into the night, clutching his newfound treasure to his hollowed bosom.

 

He made it home just as Mrs. Cho was barring the door. Exhausted, hungry, unkempt — and none of it mattered, not a bit! He ducked inside his cramped cubicle, adjusted the tiny overhead lamp, and began to read.

 

Buck was a strong, healthy dog, but he was also civilized and moral...