Stations of the Tide - Michael Swanwick [53]
“Simone.” The bureaucrat took her hand, squeezed.
She drew away. “It’s just not there to be done.” Then, in a brighter tone, she said, “Tell you what. I remember how interested you were in my work. As long as you’re here, let me show you something special.”
The bureaucrat had never cared for Simone’s work, and she knew it. “All right,” he said. She opened a cabinet and ducked within. He followed.
They stepped into a ghost world. Perfect trees stood in uniform stands against a paper-white sky. They stood on a simplified road, looking into a small town of outlined buildings. “It’s Lightfoot,” the bureaucrat said, amazed.
“One-to-one scale,” Simone said proudly. “What do you think?”
“The river’s shifted a little to the north since this was made.”
The cartographer pulled down her goggles and stared at him through them. “Yes, I see,” she said at last. “I’ll add your update.”
The river jumped, and Simone led the bureaucrat into town. He followed her down a street that was nothing more than two lines and into a schematic house, all air and outline. They went up the stairs and into a room with quickly sketched-in furniture. Simone opened a dresser drawer and withdrew a hand-drawn map. She smoothed it out on the bed.
“This is exactly the kind of place where we used to meet,” the bureaucrat said reminiscently. “Do you remember? All that fumbling and groping because we were too young and fearful to make love physically.”
For a moment he thought Simone was going to snap at him. Then she laughed. “Oh yes. I remember. Still, it had its moments. You were so pretty then, naked.”
“I’ve put on a little weight since, I’m afraid.”
For an instant, there was a warm sense of unison and camaraderie between them. Then Simone coughed and tapped the paper with a fingernail. “My predecessor left me this. He knew how hard it is to work with inadequate data.” With a touch of bitterness she added, “Lots of information gets passed along this way. It’s as if the truth has gone underground.”
The bureaucrat bent over the map of the Tidewater and traced the river’s course with a finger. It hadn’t changed much since the map was drawn. Ararat was clearly marked. It stood south of the river several hundred miles, not far from the coast. Salt marsh edged it on three sides. No roads touched on it. “If this is classified, how come it still exists?”
“You don’t hide information by destroying it. You hide it by swamping it with bad information. Do you have the map memorized yet?”
“Yes.”
“Then put it back in the drawer, and we’ll go.”
She led him from the house, down the road, away from Lightfoot and out of the map and cabinet altogether back into the map room proper. “Thank you,” the bureaucrat said. “That was enormously enlightening.”
Simone looked at him wistfully. “Do you realize that we’ve never met?”
* * *
The bureaucrat returned the conch shell to Philippe’s desk. The further Philippe looked up from his work and said, “It doesn’t work out, there can’t be a traitor in the Division.”
“Why not?”
Both Philippes spoke at once.
“It just—”
“—wouldn’t—”
“—work out, you see. There are too many safeguards—”
“—checks and balances—”
“—oversight committees. No, I’m afraid—”
“—it’s just not possible.”
The two looked at each other and burst out laughing. It occurred to the bureaucrat that a man who liked his own company this much might wish there were more of himself in the physical universe as well as in the conventional realm. The further Philippe waved a hand amiably and said, “Oh, all right, I’ll keep my mouth shut.”
“Something I’ve been wanting to mention, though,” the first said. “Though I’m afraid if I tell you now, what with your talk of traitors and such, that you’ll misconstrue it badly.”
“What is it?”
“I’m concerned about Korda. The old man is simply not himself these days. I think he’s losing his touch.”
“Why would you think that?”
“Little things, mostly. An obsession with your current case—you know, the magician thing. But then I caught him in a rather serious breach of etiquette.”
“Yes?”
“He was trying to break into