"Ian Watson - Stalin's Teardrops" - читать интересную книгу автора (Watson Ian)

fleeting smile. "Nowadays all of our maps are originals. A mere two
percent change in each successive edition amounts to a substantial
shift over the course of a few decades. Certain constants remain, to
be sure. A lake is still a lake, but of what size and shape? A road still
stretches from the top of a map to its bottom; yet by what route, and
through what terrain? Security is important, Grusha. I suppose by the
law of averages we might have returned to our original starting point
in a few cases, though frankly I doubt it."
"Let us base our work on the first published Atlas, then! The least
altered one."
"Ah, but Atlases are withdrawn and pulped. As to archive copies,
have you never noticed that the published products are not dated?
Intentionally so!"
"I must sit down and think."
"Please do, please do! I'm anxious that we co-operate. Only tell me
how."
My studios hummed with cartographic activity.

Finding one's way to our gray stone edifice in Dzerzhinsky Square
only posed a serious problem to anyone who paid exact heed to the
city map; and which old city hand would be so naive? We all knew
on the gut level how to interpret such maps, how to transpose
districts around, and permutate street names, how to unkink what was
kinked and enlarge what was dwarfed. We had developed a genius
for interpretation possessed by no other nation, an instinct which
must apply anywhere throughout the land. Thus long-distance truck

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Stalin's Teardrops


drivers reached their destinations eventually. The army manoeuvred
without getting seriously lost. New factories found reasonable sites,
obtained their raw materials, and dispatched boots or shovels or
whatever with tolerable efficiency.
No foreigner could match our capacity; and we joked that diplomats
in our capital were restricted to line of sight or else were like Theseus
in the labyrinth, relying on a long thread whereby to retrace their
footsteps. No invader would ever broach our heartland. As to spies,
they were here, yes; but where was here in relation to anywhere else?
Heading home of an evening from Dzerzhinsky Square was another
matter however. For me, it was! I could take either of two entirely
separate routes. One led to the flat where tubby old Olga, my wife of
these last thirty years, awaited me. The other way led to my sleek
mistress, Koshka.
Troubled by the events of the day, I took that second route. I hadn't
gone far before I realized that my new assistant was following me.
She slipped along the street from doorway to doorway.
Should I hide and accost her, demanding to know what the devil she
thought she was doing? Ah no, not yet. Plainly she had her