He traced the blue snake of the Mississippi River from the province of Mille Lacs to the city of New Orleans. To the west was a grid of prairie and mountain provinces: Athabasca, Beausejour, Sioux, Colorado; Nahanni, Kootenay, Platte, Sierra Blanca, from the Beaufort Sea to the border of New Spain. New Spain was approximately Mexico, with a panhandle up the western coast as far as what would have been southern Oregon. There was no Canada. The Republic ruled everything north of the fortieth parallel.

“The Spanish lands are disputed, of course. The war.”

“The whole map is less crowded.” Cities were sparse even as far east as the Great Lakes. “What’s the population of the world?”

She frowned. “I remember reading the estimate. Two billion?”

“Where I come from, it was nearer six.”

“Oh? I wonder why?”

“I don’t know. The two histories must be fairly similar. We speak the same language, more or less, and I recognize some of these names. If our histories are like a tree—one branched left, one branched right—it might be useful to know where they divided.”

Linneth seemed to concentrate on the idea. It was new to her, Dex supposed. She hadn’t been raised on Star Trek, the “parallel world” as a place where Mr. Spock wears a beard.

“If the histories ‘branched,’ as you say, it must have happened a long time ago. The religions are different.”

“But there are still parallels. We both have a prominent Christianity, even though they’re different in detail.”

“Considerably. Before Calvary, then?”

“Or not long after. First century, second century, say. Before the Romans adopted Christianity. Before Constantine.”

Linneth blinked. “But they didn’t. The Romans, I mean. There were no Christian emperors.”

Charlie Tucker brought two plates of bread and cheese, for which Dex exchanged a handful of food coupons. Charlie gave Linneth a long look. He had heard her accent. He looked worried.

She nibbled a wedge of cheese and waited for Charlie to wander back behind the cash desk. “Some of the Apologia are addressed to the Antonine emperors. Ecumenicists are always pointing to Clement, who gives a good impression of an erudite pagan. But no Roman emperor explicitly embraced the Cross. It’s an odd idea. So perhaps that’s the point of division—your Christian emperors.”

“Maybe.” Dex thought about it. And then he reminded himself why she was here. “Is this for your dossier?”

“History isn’t my subject. In any case, the Proctors emptied your libraries. They can ferret this out for themselves.” She added, “I would hardly dare counsel them on religious matters. This would all be very blasphemous if it weren’t a matter of record.”

“I’m sorry,” he said. “I’m still not sure when I’m talking to you and when I’m talking to the Bureau.”

“Perhaps I should wear two hats. One when I’m myself, and one when I’m an agent of the state.”

“Which one are you wearing now?”

“Oh, my own. My own particular hat.”

“In either hat, you have me at a disadvantage. You know my history—”

“Very little, to be truthful. Only what I’ve learned from you or the public material. The books were all locked away months ago.”

“Still, you know more about my history than I know about yours.”

She opened her calfskin case. “I brought this for you. I borrowed it from one of the militiamen. He said it was for his daughter, but he was reading it himself. A children’s book, I’m afraid, but it was the only history I was able to locate on brief notice.”

The book was a tattered duodecimo in hard covers, the title etched in gold leaf:

THE EVENTS OF HISTORY, FROM CREATION TO THE PRESENT DAY, WITH ILLUSTRATIONS.

It gave off a pungent reek of wet canvas. Dex took it from her.

“You can form an approximate notion,” Linneth said, “though I do not vouch for the details.”

He looked at her again. He wondered what the book represented—was it a promise kept, a strategic offering, simple kindness? Her face was unclouded, in some ways as perfect a face as Dex had ever seen, round and generous and serene. But reserved. For every ounce given, an ounce was withheld. And maybe that was not surprising, under the circumstances, but still…

She said, “I would like a book in return.”

“Which book?”

“One of yours. I peeked into your room, when the Proctors brought me to your door the first time. You own books. You’re a reader. But not history. Something literary. Something you like. I think that would be instructive.”

“For which hat?”

Briefly, she looked offended. “My hat.”

He had been carrying the dog-eared paperback of Huckleberry Finn in his jacket pocket for a month, and he was reluctant to part with it. He took it out and handed it to her. “The text is more than a century old. But I think you’ll get the drift.”

“The drift?”

“The essence. The meaning.”

“I see. And the book is a favorite of yours?”

“You could say that.”

She accepted it reverently. “Thank you, Mr. Graham.”

“Call me Dex.”

“Yes. Thank you.”

“Tell me what you think of it.”

“I will.”

He rolled up the map and volunteered to walk her back to the civilian housing at the Blue View Motel. Outside, she frowned at the weather—sunny today, but cold enough that an early snow hadn’t melted from the road. In her white jacket she might have been anyone, Dex thought. Any good-looking woman on a windy sidewalk. The wind reddened her cheeks and earlobes and carried away her breath in foggy wisps.

He wondered when he would see her again. But he couldn’t think of a plausible reason to ask.

She stopped and faced him at the corner of Beacon and Oak. “Thank you for escorting me.”

“You’re welcome.”

She hesitated. “Probably I shouldn’t say this. But I’ve heard rumors. Rumors about curfew violations. The Proctors are looking into it. Dex—”

He shook his head. “I’ve already had this warning. Demarch threatened me personally.”

Her voice was nearly a whisper. “I’m sure he did. That is, he would. It’s in his nature. But I don’t mean to threaten you. All I mean to say is, be careful.”

She turned and hurried away, and he stood on the windy sidewalk looking after her.

The Two Rivers Crier, a weekly newspaper, had not seen an issue since the crisis in June. That autumn, it published a new edition.

The Crier had been edited from an office on Grange Street, but the presses were in Kirkland, sixty miles away; since June, much farther than that. Where the town of Kirkland had been, today there was pine forest and an icy creek.

The new Crier, a single folded sheet of rag pulp, was a collaboration between a past editor and a committee of Bureau surveillants. The text consisted of announcements from the military and the Proctors. Power failures in the east end were sporadic and would be repaired before the end of the month; a new food depot had been opened at the corner of Pritchard and Knight. There was also a ringing editorial in which the reappearance of the paper was said to augur better times for Two Rivers, “carried as if by stormy gusts into a strange ocean and sailing under the calm winds of cooperation toward safe harbor.”

Prominent on the back page was a column announcing a program under which single men between the ages of seventeen and thirty-five were permitted to request relocation and job training elsewhere in the Republic, a living wage to be paid until such time as the men were established in their new lives. It was open to “White Men, Jews, Apostates, Negros, Mulattos, and Others—All Welcome.” It attracted considerable attention in town.

There were only a few volunteers. Many were transients who had been passing through when the accident happened and saw no reason to stay. Some were young men chafing at the friction of martial law. All were accepted for relocation.