He ordered another gin and tonic, nodded perfunctorily at his colleague, and tried to spin the ashtray. It was glued to the table. “It’s the same lack of foresight that gets us into wars,” the seismologist continued. “In a million years the continents will have cracked so much you won’t be able to tell America from Spain. We fight and sign treaties as if nothing’s going to change, but in a geologically active world, what does territoriality mean?”
“Here’s the information you wanted.”
“Good, good, come in,” says Carter. “What did you find?”
“The Deerbridge Road area is generally perceived as undesirable.”
“We’ve got an ad campaign that’ll change that.”
“Also, I drew an Ignorance Surface Map. People tend to confuse similar shapes when they’re side by side — Arizona and New Mexico are often mistaken for one another. And it occurred to me that Richmond County, which is nothing but scrub oaks, is shaped a little like the northern half of Elgin County. Perhaps people confuse the two, and think your lots are barren.”
“Wonderful. We can use that.”
“Of course, rainfall amounts being what they are — ”
“Right. And the isohyet?”
“Where you wanted it.”
“Very good. Do you know what we’re doing, Sam? We’re educating people’s desires.”
“You mean, telling them what they want?”
“That’s a little hard. Let’s say we’re paving the way for change. Sit tight, hmm? Phase Two in a couple of days.”
Adams tells Carter he will not alter any more maps. Falsifying documents is not what he had in mind when he came to work for On-Line. Besides, prestige does not accompany local projects; overseas fieldwork is the best means of gaining promotion and respect.
“I was hoping for another international assignment,” he says. “Now’s a particularly good time for me to travel.”
“Why’s that?”
“My wife and I separated.”
“Sorry to hear it.”
“Thank you. Anyway, with the kids gone, I have less responsibility at home. I’m a good man in the field, and it’s been over two years.”
“Your skills are needed here, Sam.” He taps the Ixodes on Adams’ lapel. “At least for the time being. We’ll consider an international assignment in a few months, okay?”
Late at night in his office, Adams fiddles with the console. A single fluorescent bulb buzzes over head. Below, the street is quiet.
He calls two light cones up on the screen — a pair of pale blue pyramids, points touching in the center of the graph.
The upper light cone he labels accessible future: that is, the realm of events that can possibly follow the present. The bottom cone’s the accessible past: the realm of events leading up to now. The white space outside the light cones is the inaccessible future and past. He has, in effect, drawn the basis of a map defining the regions of the universe knowable from a given point in space and time.
To make the map more accurate, he must concentrate the surface area of the light cones. When he does so, the shape of the cones fluctuates wildly, indicating that the line between future and past can easily blur, even at short distances.
Next, he calls to the screen a wormhole. On a flat plane, a wormhole is formed by drawing two openings opposite each other and stretching them into a single tube. If, as some astronomers believe, dead suns form wormholes in space, the topology around them is highly unstable.
Further, Adams discovers that if he quantizes all the data on the screen, emptiness acquires a complex topology. It looks like an arterial system, a tightly fused matrix of tubes. To fully understand the shape of space-time, he needs a four-dimensional image.
He switches off the system, gets up, stretches, and walks to the window. Tattered paper flutters in the street, against the curb. A couple strolls down the walk. Tiny caterpillars of motion inhabit the space between him and the street where, tomorrow morning at eight, he will enter the building.
In Ecuador, where Adams once headed an international group, the Quechua Indians, an educated and happy people, believe the future lies behind them. “A man does not have eyes in the back of his head,” said one. “Nor can he see the future. Does it not make sense, then, to place the future behind you?” Similarly, the past, an “open book,” lies ahead.
Adams feels like a Quechua.
At work his supply of ink is low. He hasn’t been to the storeroom. Grease pencils aren’t precise and lead pencils aren’t dark enough. He’ll try it anyway.
1:00 He can’t see the grids he has made. The lines are simply too light, and his eyes begin to ache. He should have used the computer.
2:00 Deerbridge Road.
2:15 Deerbridge Road disappears. County records are uncertain.
4:45 Deerbridge Road reappears.
At home, he tries to call the kids. No answer.
At dusk, Jordan returns. He is standing close to the house and appears to be fiddling with the faucet. For the first time, Adams feels panic more than curiosity or annoyance. Still in his suit he leaps out the door, past the barbecue pit and the tree. The man turns, opens the gate, flies up the walk. Adams, in pursuit, loosens his tie. The man jumps a fence. Adams follows. Shrubs. Thorns. The barking of a dog. Pale blue television light flickers through blinds. The laughter of the neighbors. Loose bricks in the yards. Dog shit, the smell of lilac. Adams can’t keep up — Jordan is much younger than he, and in better shape. “Goddamn you!” Adams calls. The man heaves a plastic garbage can at him. Adams brushes potato skins from his suit, runs up the empty street past the dance hall and Rosa’s house. His shoes hurt. The man has disappeared. Did he have a car waiting?
Adams sits on the curb. The night is humid, tar shines on the streets. He can turn left, make a right, or go straight. He can walk backwards up the street until he reaches a dead end.
An airplane passes overhead.
He’s not sure where he is.
He clambers over a wire mesh fence and finds himself in a garden. Peppers, tomatoes, beets. A pigeon coop.
As Adams speaks, Mayer remains impassive, remote.
“And you’ve positively identified him?”
“Well, I think so. It looked like he was doing something to the house. You’ve treated the man. You must know he’s nuts.”
Mayer shows him nothing.
“I want to know the best course of action. I’ve already called the police. I could try them again, or maybe it would be better if you did it. I need a rational plan; otherwise I’m going to fly off the handle. Enough is enough.”
“It wouldn’t hurt for you to call the police again, ask them to patrol the neighborhood if they will. In the meantime, I’ll speak to Mr. Jordan and we’ll determine what needs to be done.”
“He is nuts, right? He sure looked like it the day he came running out of your office.”
Mayer says only, “I’ll speak to him. There’s been no damage to your property, is that correct?”
“Not that I can tell.”
“All right, Mr. Adams. Thank you for bringing this to my attention. I know how upsetting something like this can be. If you’re having trouble sleeping — ”
Mayer follows him into the hall. Jordan is walking toward them from the far end. Adams starts, but Mayer holds his arm. “Please, Mr. Adams, let me speak to him before you say anything, all right?”
Adams straightens his coat. “You asshole,” he says to Jordan.
Inevitably, the call from Pamela’s family. He’s surprised it didn’t come sooner: perhaps they were hoping for a reconciliation by now. Her father, Jurgen, accuses Adams of neglecting Pamela’s needs. Without irony, Adams asks, “What are her needs?” It seems to him that her needs were ill-defined even at the time of their wedding. Would she be a journalist or an artist? Would she travel with Adams or remain at home? Perhaps she married him because, given her family background, marriage was prudent for her; yet Adams, with his passport and maps, was the most impractical of husbands.