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I’ve been on a reading kick lately, and last Sunday, I made the rounds of the Athens bookstores in search of a few titles.

Why Sunday? Because Athens is blissfully quiet on Sunday, and downtown parking is free.

The day went well. I found one book that I wanted, struck out on two others, and made one impulse purchase. The books went on the pile next to my living room chair, to be dealt with in due time.

My last stop that day was Barnes & Noble, a bookstore with which I have a love-hate relationship.

I say that because on one hand, most B&N stores are well-stocked, attractive, pleasant, comfortable, interesting, and enjoyable to visit. The Athens store certainly is, and the staff is highly book-literate.

On the other hand, Barnes & Noble — or Barnes Ignoble, if you prefer — is (1) a soulless corporate behemoth, and (2) way, way too pricey. I rarely purchase anything there that isn’t on sale. If I have to overpay, I prefer to do it at an independent bookstore.

But this is the holiday season, and there I was, wandering the aisles of the Athens Barnes & Noble, looking for bargains. Christmas carols were playing merrily over the sound system.

At first, the atmosphere in the store was normal. Busy and festive, but normal. I wandered back to the Travel department, flagged down a clerk, and asked him to locate a book for me.

While we were talking, loud voices erupted from the children’s section at the far end of the store.

It was a burst of happy, exuberant children’s voices, a mixture of giggles and screams, and it quickly subsided. A few seconds later, the uproar repeated itself.

Barnes & Noble is always full of kids, but they’re usually subdued and mannerly. This was a bit surprising.

“What the heck is going on back there?” I asked the clerk.

“No idea,” he said. “Must be a Storytime event. They do a lot of holiday things in the children’s department.”

As I continued browsing, the kids’ voices ebbed and flowed sporadically. I was curious, but not enough to investigate. Several minutes later, however, I had worked my way across the store to the main aisle not far from the children’s section. Suddenly, the hubbub escalated.

In a flash, a line of a dozen kids — about half boys and half girls, ages six to eight — snaked past me. Chattering excitedly, they reached the end of the aisle, turned left, and disappeared from view.

Moments later, a tall, imposing Imperial Stormtrooper in distinctive white battle armor appeared.

“Citizen,” he demanded, “Did a party of droids pass this way?”

This Stormtrooper had a bit of a Southern accent. Which made sense, this being Georgia and all.

“They went that way,” I said, pointing in the wrong direction. I knew I was grinning like an idiot, but I couldn’t help it.

“The Empire will not tolerate misleading information,” he replied officiously. “I assure you, I will not harm these droids. I just want to return them to the children’s department.”

Before I could reply, and before he was compelled to make an example of me in some fashion, the line of kids reappeared in the aisle about 20 feet away. When they spotted the Stormtrooper, they screeched to a halt and quickly dispersed amid howls of glee.

The Stormtrooper looked in my direction. I could see my reflection in the black plastic covering the eyeholes of his helmet. He shook his head.

“They’ve split up,” he said with resignation. “Apprehending them now will be difficult.”

“Yes, and I see you’re not armed,” I said.

“Well, we usually don’t need our weapons at a Bookfair event.”

At that moment, we were joined by an 80-ish man dressed in his Sunday best. He looked the Stormtrooper up and down inquisitively.

“You’re one of those… you’re a…” he ventured.

“A Stormtrooper,” said the Stormtrooper.

“You’re from that space movie, where the planet blows up,” the man said. “The soldiers wore white armor –”

“Yes, that was Star Wars. I’m an Imperial Stormtrooper from the movie Star Wars,” said the Stormtrooper.

“– and the villain, the mean one, had black armor — ‘Stormtrooper,’ you say?”

“Yes, sir. I’m here for the Children’s Bookfair. I represent the 501st Legion of Imperial Stormtroopers.”

(The 501st is a real-life organization of Star Wars fans. They make appearances wearing amazingly authentic Star Wars costumes.)

I decided it was time to make my exit. “Good luck rounding up those Droids,” I said with a wave, backing away from the conversation.

The Stormtrooper replied with a peace sign. The old guy continued to hold him captive, speaking in a slow, halting monotone.

A few minutes later, standing in the checkout line, I heard another chorus of excited children’s voices. I looked back toward the main aisle.

There stood the Stormtrooper in a circle of kids. They were looking up at him with huge grins, bouncing energetically in place, listening intently. As he talked, the children periodically broke out in giggles.

The Stormtrooper pointed at one of the older boys. The boy said something in reply, then cracked up at his own remark, whatever it was. The Stormtrooper reacted with exaggerated body language.

From a distance, I noticed for the first time that most of the adults in the vicinity — in the entire store — had stopped browsing and were watching the Stormtrooper and the children. Everyone was smiling. It was a good moment.

Okay, so even soulless corporate behemoths can have some redeeming qualities.