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tree growing thinner and thinner. Eventually, he was destined to find references to works that were more whispers than actual volumes, to books that contained within them the myths of books.”
    I waited. She was enjoying herself now. Experts love a captive audience.
    â€œThe title by which he knew it, and one by which I had heard it described in the past, was the Atlas Regnorum Incognitorum , usually translated as the Atlas of Unknown Realms , although it has also been called the Atlas of Geographical Impossibilities , and the Fractured Atlas . It has no known author and no confirmed genesis. It is mentioned in other texts, but without any specific references to its contents. It is a book of which only a handful have any knowledge, but which none have actually seen.”
    â€œAnd what does it contain?”
    â€œMaps of worlds, it seems. Worlds other than this one.”
    â€œYou mean planets? Mars and suchlike?”
    â€œNo, I mean realms of existence, universes beyond our own.”
    â€œThe multiverse,” I said, recalling something of what the young man at Stanford’s had mentioned.
    Again, I saw her reappraising me, although I felt that I was operating under false pretenses, as I couldn’t recall the name of the chap who had come up with the word to begin with, and I wasn’t sure that I could explain the concept in any depth if a gun was put to my head.
    â€œYes,” she said, “I suppose you could call it that.”
    â€œAnd how much would this book be worth, should a copy of it come on the market?”
    â€œAh, but that’s the thing,” she said. “There are no copies. There is only the original, and that, if it ever existed, has long been lost.”
    â€œNo copies? Why not?”
    I could almost see the twists of her thoughts reflected in the tense movements of her body. We were reaching the limits of what she was prepared to share, for now. She settled for her first lie, but I smelled it on her. Even her body odor changed, growing more bitter.
    â€œOne can’t duplicate what one cannot see,” she said. “To create a copy would require the presence of the original. Despite some lengthy searches, we were unable to meet Mr. Maulding’s needs.”
    I inhaled the scent of the untruth and touched my tongue to my lips to test its flavor. It stank of nettles and tasted of copper.
    â€œAnd if someone found out where this atlas was, and there was a buyer to hand, would ten thousand pounds cover the cost of it?”
    â€œTen thousand pounds would cover the cost of many things, Mr. Soter,” she said, and she followed it with a strange remark, if one could ascribe degrees of strangeness to a conversation that had been peculiar as soon as it had begun.
    â€œTen thousand pounds,” she said, “may even buy a soul.”
    She excused herself, informing me that her father would see me to the door. She stamped her way slowly up the stairs. A door opened and closed again above our heads, and then the house was quiet.
    But I could hear her listening.
    â€œHope that was helpful to you,” said Mr. Dunwidge.
    â€œSomewhat,” I replied. “Tell me, are there other booksellers in London who deal in similar material?”
    â€œNone like us,” he said, “but I can give you some names. I don’t see why we should be the only ones to have the pleasure of your company.”
    He scribbled the relevant information on a sheet of notepaper, but he insisted on escorting me to the door before he handed over the list.
    â€œBye, now,” said Mr. Dunwidge as he released me back into the night. “Mind how you go.”
    â€œI’ll be seeing you again, I think,” I said.
    â€œI’ll let my daughter know,” said Mr. Dunwidge. “She will be pleased.”
    And he closed the door in my face.

VII
    I SPENT much of the following day working through the names on Dunwidge’s list, but I gained little from