The bookshop door opened; the bells above the door jingled. Mr. Victor, almost asleep behind the counter, glanced at the newcomer, then did a double-take. He rose to his feet.

Was that...?

"Good evening." Sunbeams slanting in from outside framed the visitor in the doorway like stadium spotlights—Bernard Sweetin. The Reverend Bernard Sweetin.

"Oh! Hey." Victor dusted himself off, offered his hand. "You can call me Vic."

Sweetin's hand closed completely over the bookstore owner's. Like a human tower was the evangelist, with salt and pepper hair; Vic had heard somewhere that he had played basketball in college, and wore size fourteen shoes.

"Why the long face?" Sweetin asked with a smile. (According to a newspaper article Victor once read, he also tended to be forward.)

"It's not because I need Jesus," Victor said quickly. "It's because...well..."

He wondered. Why did this man come in? Had subliminal prayers escaped from Victor's subconscious mind over the past four weeks and rose to be answered? He had gone to Sunday school at age six, colored pictures of Noah's Ark and Nebuchadnezzar's great golden statue.

"Just got into town," the evangelist explained, "and checked into the hotel. Now I need a leg stretch—get to know the city a bit." Spoken as if he was no more important than Joe Preacher in the shack church on the corner, before it closed.

"Interesting neighborhood you picked," Victor muttered. Across the street, visible through the shop's plate-glass display window, was a STRIP BAR XXX sign in glaring pink neon. And didn't Sweetin smell the garbage littering the neighborhood? Everyone else did.

But back to the subject at hand...

Victor took a deep breath. Here goes.

"It's like this," he said. "Art reflects life—right? Books reflect life." He swept his arms here and there, pointing. "A month ago,"(it seemed like another lifetime now) "my shop did just that. The horror section in the back? Death and evil. The detective and true crime section down the left aisle? The clash of order and chaos. The fantasy and sci-fi section in the right aisle? Imagination and escape. The classics in the middle aisle? Man's aspirations to greatness and nobility. And those shelves on the wall are your department, Rev—Bibles and religion."

Sweetin turned to look. He ran his fingers over the ancient volumes, pulled out a small hardcover. "Ah. Pilgrim's Progress." He opened it, flipped through yellowed pages, smiling. His smile turned into a frown.

"Mr. Victor?" He held the book aloft. "What edition is this? I don't recall a 'Joey Tell' character being in there. Or any character with a real name, as opposed to 'Pilgrim' or 'Faithful.' And he seems to appear all through the book..." he rustled through the volume. "But especially towards the end. Why, it's changed. It's all the Celestial City now."

"Surprise, surprise," the bookstore owner muttered.

Sweetin looked up. "What does that mean?"

Victor shifted his weight from foot to foot. "Look at some of the other books."

Sweetin did so. He walked around, up and down the aisles, glancing at titles, every so often taking down a volume and opening it. After perusing its pages he would glance back at Victor, who followed at a short distance, and every time he looked his face screwed up a little more in befuddlement.

"I don't get this. Swiss Family Robinson—but it's another family, another island, with a village full of Christian natives. Jules Verne's Journey To The Center Of The Earth is now Journey To The Summit Of The Heavens."

"And not an adventure story anymore," Victor added, nodding. "More like a Christian-bookstore Valentine. I skimmed through it."

"And here's 'Moby Decked.' The whale's harpooned and Ahab finds peace with the help of a new crew member who just lives for Jesus. And Hemingway—'The Son's Also Risen?'"

More books, same result. Shelf after shelf, on the wire racks in front of the counter where Victor kept the cash register, in alcoves where the paperbacks were stuffed; all heaven, goodness and eternal light—the shop fairly glowed.

Sweetin scratched his head. "Can you shed some light on this?" Victor almost laughed out loud at the (apparently unintended) pun.

"I'm not sure you'd believe me. No, I'm sure you wouldn't believe me."

"Mr. Victor. I've met men who claimed to be the third coming of Christ. The second coming, according to them, happened with Napoleon or JFK. And that's just the tip of the iceberg. When you travel as much as I do, meet as many people as I do, you hear just about everything under the sun. Feel free to fire away."

Victor hesitated. Then he took a deep breath. "All right. It's like this. That Joey Tell guy? I met him here, in my shop, about a month ago."

"Oh. He wrote himself into Pilgrim's Progress, then had it printed and gave you a copy?"

Victor shook his head. "Nope. It got rewritten after he arrived."

"I don't follow."

"All right, then." Another deep breath. "It was a Saturday evening. The place was bustling. Out of the crowd and up to the counter shuffled a guy in a blue shirt. Had a sad, lost face—one of those homely types. He asked me where the religious section was. He wore one of those company badges on his shirt, with his picture on it—must have been on his way home from work. 'Joey Tell,' it said. I remember this because, seeing it, I flashed a big grin and said, 'Well, Joey Tell, what can I do for you?' He blushed and shoved the badge into his pants pocket. Then he asked where the religious section was. I told him, and he disappeared back into the crowd. That's the last I saw of him until I'd closed up shop and was getting ready to leave."

"What happened then?"

"What do you think? I saw that." He pointed at the new edition. "I found it on the floor in a corner, while I was sweeping the aisles." He plucked the book out of the Reverend's hands and tapped a finger to the cover illustration, a colorful artwork like a Sistine fresco. "His face. It looked happier now, of course, but I remembered it. Then I opened it and saw his name everywhere, like you just did. 'Joey Tell.' Not even Joe or Joseph, but Joey, like on his badge."

The evangelist stared at the illustration. "Oh."

"And that was just the start! It was the middle of next week, Wednesday or Thursday. This time it was a double-chinned walrus of a man. I'd seen him before, poking around the shelves. He waddled back toward the religious section, grabbed a book and disappeared down the aisles."

"And you also found it later on, also changed."

"It was a children's picture book about the Peaceable Kingdom. There he was, all three hundred pounds of him, unmistakable, sitting just as happy as could be among the lambs and the grass-eating lions."

"Ummm."

"Look, I really don't care if you believe it or not. I wouldn't believe it if it hadn't happened to me. And happen it did, over and over, person after person. My books about heaven or God started changing in droves. No, I never actually saw anyone phase into one, but night after night I found books on the floor, all changed—one or two, one night half a dozen. I was going nuts. Why me? And how did they all know? Who were they, anyway? Business was good, lots of people coming and going, asking me about things and calling me on the phone; no way to keep an eye on everyone. Forlorn-looking ones like Joey Tell, athletic ones, even a business-suited executive with a briefcase. A thirtyish housewife, an elderly couple, even a family of five! My store was turning into some kind of underground railroad to Utopia. You can imagine my state by this time."

"I believe I can."

"Enough was enough. One evening I closed the shop and drew the curtains. Then I gathered up all the possessed books, spread them out on the floor, and opened them up. 'See here!' I said, standing over them with my hands on my hips. 'Those books are not your property! First buy them and take them home, then do what you want with them!' I'm sure I saw an illustration or two twitch, but that was it. Nothing more.

"I went across the street and surveyed my shop from there, scratching my head. What was the deal? It was just a brick, one-story building. A door and a display window with 'Volumes Inc.' stenciled in white across it. Was there some big sign saying 'Escape Into A Book, Yes, It's For Real' and only I couldn't see it?

"After that I decided to throw them a curve. I had about two dozen un-invaded Christian books left, and ten Bibles. Sixteen of the hardcovers had heaven in them someplace. I removed the dust covers and hid the books under the counter. Then I fitted the covers over classic editions of Lovecraft, Poe and Stephen King, and put them on the religious-book shelves. Ha!" He chuckled and rubbed his hands.

"So what happened?"

"You really want to know?"

Sweetin nodded.

"The worst! For me, at least. I was hoping that anyone who tried to slip into them would jump right back out, yelling and howling. Maybe at least they'd think twice about hijacking my books. Well, the Lovecraft volume disappeared and turned up on a back corner floor the next day. When I opened it, I found a thriving Godly community in Innsmouth, preaching and holding church services, right among the fish-monsters and the ape-lumbering mutants—now stop grinning like that."

"Sorry."

"Turned out to be a bad move in any event. The whole thing kicked into high gear after that. It wasn't just Christian books now; it was everything. Even the non-fiction volumes on geography and other planets! It's as if my move gave them ideas." Victor spat out a curse, then he blushed and covered his mouth. "Oh! Sorry! But...well, I'd say about eighty-five percent of my inventory's changed now. Most of what's left is just the encyclopedias, atlases, things like that. The rest have all become...Christian books."

The Reverend turned and looked at him. Victor knew why; it was the way he'd said Christian.

Quickly he elaborated. "Rev, you can say what you like, but this isn't a Christian world. I mean, look at this neighborhood—"

"It doesn't look like the best of places."

"Nope. A guy was mugged in an alley last week. And you saw the bar across the street. They got strippers in there on Saturday nights, and why deny it? I like going there. That's the world, Rev, that's reality. The shack church on the corner was reality, too, but Joe Preacher had a stroke and it closed down. Now that I think of it, I seemed to stock less Christian books after that, more horror and true crime. My shop represented my neighborhood, warts and all. But not anymore. Now it's all...Polyanna pie-in-the-sky stuff!"

For a minute neither man spoke. The Reverend looked around the place, perused the shelves, the ninety-nine cent bin, the boxes, the volumes piled by the counter. Books of sweetness and light all, either created that way or morphed into it.

"You said they can hear you in there?"

"I'm pretty sure of it."

The copy of Pilgrim's Progress lay on the counter beside the cash register. Sweetin walked over to it, studied the illustration. He drew himself up, cleared his throat.

"Joey Tell. Do you know who this is? I'm Bernard Sweetin. Yes, that one. The evangelist."

Victor held his breath.

"Brother, I have to tell you something. Why did you not listen to the bookshop owner? That book is not your property to do with as you wish. I have no idea how you did this, but..."

Victor clasped his hands, his eyes shining.

"Brother, I'm sure you're familiar with the Transfiguration story. Old Peter, he wanted to stay up on that glorious mountaintop and fellowship with Moses and Elijah as well as Jesus. I guess no one could blame him for that. But that's not what God wanted, was it? No!" He was thundering now with the voice that had won him fame on the tent revival circuit, then meeting halls, then stadium crusades. Victor thought he could hear the windows rattle. "He wanted them down to earth, my friend, because that's where the people were! People choked by sin, living in a world of, say, muggings...and strip joints..."

The bookshop owner squinted at the book. Was it just barely shaking?

Sweetin threw open the cover. "Brother, I know it must be bliss in there for you, but the people out here need you! Jesus said we're to be the salt of the earth and the light of the world! How about it? Will you come down from that mountain for the lost, even as Christ Himself came down from heaven for us?"

Something happened then. It happened so quickly that Victor's eyes could not follow it, nor his ears track it; just a kind of scuffling, and then a clomping of shoes on the wood floor.

"Joey Tell!" Victor cried.

There were now three men in the bookshop. The newcomer staggered here and there, rubbing his eyes. Then he looked up, gaped at the evangelist. "Bernard Sweetin?"

"Bless you, brother! Come stand next to me, that's it. Hey!" He squeezed Joey around the waist. Joey's skin was more tanned than before—he must have gotten lots of sunshine in that Celestial City—somewhat befuddled, but with a big smile on his still-homely face.

The evangelist now addressed the entire shop.

"How about you?" He flung his voice here, there, down the aisles. "The Lord asked 'who will go for us?' and Isaiah and Joey replied, 'Here am I, send me!' Will you come down from your mountains too, as Joey has done, and join us in being what Jesus was?"

The floor, the shelves, started to rumble. Victor wondered if an earthquake was really starting or if Sweetin's voice always shook buildings this way. The windows rattled so loudly that he thought they would break. Then a fluttering of pages, books tumbling from their shelves, and a rising of voices, cries, yells as an army of footfalls shook the aisles.

"Hallelujah!" Sweetin's voice boomed like the last trump. He stretched out his arms. "Welcome, everyone, welcome back! My word, it's crowded in here!"

And so it was. Victor found himself jostled by a crowd like that of the Aerosmith and Kiss concerts he had attended in his youth; he always fought his way close to the stage, despite the crush. It was the same here, the packed bodies and the smell of sweat. People elbowed, squirmed about, either greeting Sweetin or thanking Victor or both.

"Why-Dr.-Sweetin-you'd-never-guess-it-was-incredible-never-thought-I-could-do-such-a-thing-but—"

"Woah! Hush. Hush!" The evangelist held up his hands. "Not a word! Whatever you did and however you found out about it, I don't want to know! Don't tempt an aging man who carries my responsibilities. Now, we've made a mess in here. Let's clean it up, shall we?"

Some people cleared out of the store to make room; others gathered up the books now littering the floor, and shelved them in their proper places. Then they rained apologies on the bewildered bookstore owner, patting his shoulder, pumping his unresponsive hand.

"Thank you." Sweetin was beaming. "I'm so glad I came in, Mr. Victor! Thank you for confiding in me. Here's my card. If there's any damage to your shop or inventory, I'll personally compensate you for it. Everyone!" he yelled to the mob. "What do you think? Is today Pentecost, and this store the upper room? Well, why not? Let's go!" And he sprang to the door, yanking it open and holding it while he waved the streaming people through, yelling, cheering them on.

Someone pressed a book into Victor's hands. "Thanks!" Joey Tell. Then the young man stampeded outside with the rest. Finally the door banged closed, the bells above it stopped jingling, and Victor stood alone in the shop, the book in his numb hands.

He looked down at it. Pilgrim's Progress, of course. The illustration, restored to normal. He opened it. The text, normal and Joey-free. He put it down and hurried around the shop, checking mystery, horror, fantasy hardcovers and paperbacks; all restored to their former state. He returned to his chair behind the counter and flopped into it, sighing with relief.

Then he noticed a voice outside. He looked out the window. Sweetin was giving some kind of sermon, standing tall and straight just like at his crusades, his voice ringing out. His people were dashing to and fro, waylaying passersby. A crowd was gathering; what was more, they seemed to be listening.

Could it be...?

Mr. Victor glanced at the book-lined shelves. Then outside. Then the shelves again. Then outside again. A hollow feeling grew in his stomach.

For his shop had always reflected life in this neighborhood. Most of his business came from this neighborhood. And if that was to continue...

...He may have to turn it into a religious bookstore indeed.

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