fiddling about in there. All became clear when she removed a leather folder from beneath her skirts. She caught me staring, so I turned on the Captain Wedderburn charm.
“Hey, you can’t blame a man for admiring a nice figure.”
“I can if he’s being a sexist asshole.”
I stared at her coolly. Whore or not, nobody spoke to Jim Wedderburn like that.
“You’re a long way from home, Missy,” I said. “You might do well to remember that fact. Especially if you want my help.”
She held my gaze, equally cool.
“Understand this now, James, I’m the one helping you. You might do well to remember that fact.”
She opened the folder and removed a collection of paper. “Take a look at this,” she said, handing me a photograph from the pile. The glossy feel of the paper, that and her accent, sent more waves of homesickness crashing over me. I was remembering the old days.
It was amazing how quickly you adapted to change. Dream London did something to the people here. It brutalised the men, made them both harder and more sentimental. It was softening the women, making them more submissive. Outwardly so, at least.
I looked at the first photograph. All I saw was a collage of scenes. Countryside and city and water, all jumbled together in a pattern of green and grey and blue. Parts of the picture hadn’t reproduced at all; they faded away to a pink and orange blur.
“What is it?” I said, turning it around in my hands. “It looks like the printer malfunctioned.”
Bill was studying my face intently, judging my reaction to the photograph.
“The printer’s fine. The missing sections are from where the satellite couldn’t get a focus on the scene. That’s London from 22,000 miles up, taken four days ago. At least, it’s the parts that intrude into our world.”
Now she said it, it began to make a certain sense. Last night Alan had shown me a picture taken from an airship five months ago. There, the parts of London had been drifting out of true. Here the movement had accelerated, had become a curdling spiral of chaotic interference.
“That’s the City,” I said, pointing to an area half way between the centre of the picture and the right hand side. “The Square Mile. The towers have grown taller.”
“Some of them are almost a mile high now. We’re certain that they’re the source of the changes.”
“That’s what Margaret said,” I murmured, tracing the path of the Thames with my finger. The blue line twisted its way in a loose double spiral from the top left corner to the bottom right.
“Here’s the River Roding,” I said. “It used to join the Thames near Barking...”
“I know,” said Bill. “Now the confluence has drifted west, and the river has grown wider and deeper. It’s the major route for the ships from the other places that have found their way into Dream London. Look at this.”
She flicked through the pile and found another photograph, passed it across. I looked down from the satellite at the rectangular blue shapes of London’s Docklands. The modern apartment buildings and city blocks had been consumed by the warehouses of old; their glass and steel designs didn’t stand a chance against the heavy brick of a century ago. The wharfs had cast loose the lines of the pleasure yachts and the waters had yawned deep and swallowed them up. Now the docks were once more stained with soot, strewn with litter, engrained with dirt, and most of all, busy. The wharfs were lined with working ships. Sailing ships, steam ships, rowing boats. Clippers, barques, cogs, dhows, ketches, snows, fluyts, all the myriad boats of yesteryear. I could just make out the busy throng of people at work loading and unloading the ships, the steam trains crowding into the sidings.
“Look back at the first picture,” said Bill. “See how the city and docks are intertwined.”
“Logistics,” I said, and my eyes widened as I understood the full import of what I had just said. Logistics was half of any
“Hey, you can’t blame a man for admiring a nice figure.”
“I can if he’s being a sexist asshole.”
I stared at her coolly. Whore or not, nobody spoke to Jim Wedderburn like that.
“You’re a long way from home, Missy,” I said. “You might do well to remember that fact. Especially if you want my help.”
She held my gaze, equally cool.
“Understand this now, James, I’m the one helping you. You might do well to remember that fact.”
She opened the folder and removed a collection of paper. “Take a look at this,” she said, handing me a photograph from the pile. The glossy feel of the paper, that and her accent, sent more waves of homesickness crashing over me. I was remembering the old days.
It was amazing how quickly you adapted to change. Dream London did something to the people here. It brutalised the men, made them both harder and more sentimental. It was softening the women, making them more submissive. Outwardly so, at least.
I looked at the first photograph. All I saw was a collage of scenes. Countryside and city and water, all jumbled together in a pattern of green and grey and blue. Parts of the picture hadn’t reproduced at all; they faded away to a pink and orange blur.
“What is it?” I said, turning it around in my hands. “It looks like the printer malfunctioned.”
Bill was studying my face intently, judging my reaction to the photograph.
“The printer’s fine. The missing sections are from where the satellite couldn’t get a focus on the scene. That’s London from 22,000 miles up, taken four days ago. At least, it’s the parts that intrude into our world.”
Now she said it, it began to make a certain sense. Last night Alan had shown me a picture taken from an airship five months ago. There, the parts of London had been drifting out of true. Here the movement had accelerated, had become a curdling spiral of chaotic interference.
“That’s the City,” I said, pointing to an area half way between the centre of the picture and the right hand side. “The Square Mile. The towers have grown taller.”
“Some of them are almost a mile high now. We’re certain that they’re the source of the changes.”
“That’s what Margaret said,” I murmured, tracing the path of the Thames with my finger. The blue line twisted its way in a loose double spiral from the top left corner to the bottom right.
“Here’s the River Roding,” I said. “It used to join the Thames near Barking...”
“I know,” said Bill. “Now the confluence has drifted west, and the river has grown wider and deeper. It’s the major route for the ships from the other places that have found their way into Dream London. Look at this.”
She flicked through the pile and found another photograph, passed it across. I looked down from the satellite at the rectangular blue shapes of London’s Docklands. The modern apartment buildings and city blocks had been consumed by the warehouses of old; their glass and steel designs didn’t stand a chance against the heavy brick of a century ago. The wharfs had cast loose the lines of the pleasure yachts and the waters had yawned deep and swallowed them up. Now the docks were once more stained with soot, strewn with litter, engrained with dirt, and most of all, busy. The wharfs were lined with working ships. Sailing ships, steam ships, rowing boats. Clippers, barques, cogs, dhows, ketches, snows, fluyts, all the myriad boats of yesteryear. I could just make out the busy throng of people at work loading and unloading the ships, the steam trains crowding into the sidings.
“Look back at the first picture,” said Bill. “See how the city and docks are intertwined.”
“Logistics,” I said, and my eyes widened as I understood the full import of what I had just said. Logistics was half of any
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