Read Online The Lost Island by Douglas Preston - Free Book Online
Authors: Douglas Preston
Ads: Link
project had grown in size, but as it did its nature grew more obscure. Today half a dozen engineers were swarming about a detailed, three-dimensional model of the ocean floor. It looked like an advanced deepwater drilling project.
Glinn greeted one of the engineers as they passed, a young Asian woman who was studying a dusty manuscript written in what appeared to be Greek. When they reached a door in the far wall, he touched its adjoining keypad and the door opened to reveal a private laboratory. Within, a small, restless man with a tonsure of unruly white hair seemed to be holding forth loudly to a figure on a computer screen—apparently, via Skype—speaking in a language Gideon did not recognize. The tonsured man took no notice of their arrival and continued his argument until at last he closed the window on the display in exasperation.
“Oh, these Latvians !” he said to no one in particular.
He was one of the very few employees Gideon had seen at EES who was not wearing a lab coat. Instead, he was dressed in a plaid jacket of questionable taste, complete with a mismatched bow tie and an egg-streaked shirtfront.
“Allow me to introduce Dr. Chester Brock,” Glinn said, “former professor of medieval studies at Oxford and one of the world’s experts in medieval manuscripts and maps. Dr. Brock, may I introduce Dr. Gideon Crew, who obtained the map for us.”
“I say, Glinn,” Brock said querulously, after giving Gideon a graceless handshake, “I can’t work in a shed. I need more space.”
“But you declined the common room,” Glinn replied in a fatherly, indulgent tone. “I’ll see if I can’t find you something more comfortable. For now, though, I’d like you to give Dr. Crew a briefing on the map.”
Brock continued to scrutinize Gideon with goggle eyes. “You’re not a medievalist, I hope.” For such a small man, his voice was surprisingly deep.
Gideon wondered why he hoped that, but before he could answer, Glinn said: “Dr. Crew is a physicist. You’re our only medievalist. Why would we need another?”
“Why, indeed?” said Brock, mollified. “Very well, come with me.” He led them through the cramped lab to a table. The Chi Rho page, now perfectly dry, lay on a tray on the table beneath a digital overhead projector. Brock tapped some commands into a laptop and an image of the map appeared, greatly enlarged, on a flat panel mounted on the wall. With some deft digital manipulation, Brock was able to sharpen the map into crisp detail.
It wasn’t anything like a real map. The mapmaker had made no attempt to locate geographic landmarks or create a two-dimensional representation of the landscape. Instead, it was a sort of continuous ribbon, with a series of parallel strips sprinkled with little pictures of islands or other images, many accompanied by short descriptions in Latin.
“That map will never get the AAA seal of approval,” said Gideon.
“This map ,” Brock said with a sniff, “is based on a type of Roman atlas called an itinerarium . During the empire, travelers needed to find their way along the road system the Romans built. They used maps like these: stacks of line segments of the journey, with towns, villages, forks in the road, and landmarks all indicated. There was no attempt to reproduce the landscape—they were simply guides from landmark to landmark. It appears that this Phorkys Map is the early-medieval equivalent, only transferred from land to water—a sort of primitive sailing chart.” He pointed to the ribbon of lines. “I’ve only just begun to analyze the map, of course, but this line, broken up into segments, would appear to indicate the sailing route. And these little figures indicate various landmarks the traveler should take note of along the way. Take this one, for example. We’ve numbered all the landmark symbols on the map, and this one is number four.”
The plump, sausage-like finger pointed at a tiny picture of an island rising from the sea,
Glinn greeted one of the engineers as they passed, a young Asian woman who was studying a dusty manuscript written in what appeared to be Greek. When they reached a door in the far wall, he touched its adjoining keypad and the door opened to reveal a private laboratory. Within, a small, restless man with a tonsure of unruly white hair seemed to be holding forth loudly to a figure on a computer screen—apparently, via Skype—speaking in a language Gideon did not recognize. The tonsured man took no notice of their arrival and continued his argument until at last he closed the window on the display in exasperation.
“Oh, these Latvians !” he said to no one in particular.
He was one of the very few employees Gideon had seen at EES who was not wearing a lab coat. Instead, he was dressed in a plaid jacket of questionable taste, complete with a mismatched bow tie and an egg-streaked shirtfront.
“Allow me to introduce Dr. Chester Brock,” Glinn said, “former professor of medieval studies at Oxford and one of the world’s experts in medieval manuscripts and maps. Dr. Brock, may I introduce Dr. Gideon Crew, who obtained the map for us.”
“I say, Glinn,” Brock said querulously, after giving Gideon a graceless handshake, “I can’t work in a shed. I need more space.”
“But you declined the common room,” Glinn replied in a fatherly, indulgent tone. “I’ll see if I can’t find you something more comfortable. For now, though, I’d like you to give Dr. Crew a briefing on the map.”
Brock continued to scrutinize Gideon with goggle eyes. “You’re not a medievalist, I hope.” For such a small man, his voice was surprisingly deep.
Gideon wondered why he hoped that, but before he could answer, Glinn said: “Dr. Crew is a physicist. You’re our only medievalist. Why would we need another?”
“Why, indeed?” said Brock, mollified. “Very well, come with me.” He led them through the cramped lab to a table. The Chi Rho page, now perfectly dry, lay on a tray on the table beneath a digital overhead projector. Brock tapped some commands into a laptop and an image of the map appeared, greatly enlarged, on a flat panel mounted on the wall. With some deft digital manipulation, Brock was able to sharpen the map into crisp detail.
It wasn’t anything like a real map. The mapmaker had made no attempt to locate geographic landmarks or create a two-dimensional representation of the landscape. Instead, it was a sort of continuous ribbon, with a series of parallel strips sprinkled with little pictures of islands or other images, many accompanied by short descriptions in Latin.
“That map will never get the AAA seal of approval,” said Gideon.
“This map ,” Brock said with a sniff, “is based on a type of Roman atlas called an itinerarium . During the empire, travelers needed to find their way along the road system the Romans built. They used maps like these: stacks of line segments of the journey, with towns, villages, forks in the road, and landmarks all indicated. There was no attempt to reproduce the landscape—they were simply guides from landmark to landmark. It appears that this Phorkys Map is the early-medieval equivalent, only transferred from land to water—a sort of primitive sailing chart.” He pointed to the ribbon of lines. “I’ve only just begun to analyze the map, of course, but this line, broken up into segments, would appear to indicate the sailing route. And these little figures indicate various landmarks the traveler should take note of along the way. Take this one, for example. We’ve numbered all the landmark symbols on the map, and this one is number four.”
The plump, sausage-like finger pointed at a tiny picture of an island rising from the sea,
Similar Books
