Free Stations of the Tide by Michael Swanwick Page A

full of names and addresses.” Actually the book was largely taken up with occult diagrams and instructions for ceremonies—full of serpents, cups, and daggers—that the bureaucrat found both obscure and tedious. Other than the insights it gave into the young Gregorian’s character and youthful megalomania, its only solid lead had been the references to Madame Campaspe. But the bureaucrat wanted to give Philippe something to think about.
    “Good, good,” the agent said vaguely. He stared down at his hand, swirling the liquid only he could see in its imaginary glass. “Why is it that line-fed fruit juice never tastes as good as what you get in person?”
    “That’s because when you’re just being line-fed the flavor, you don’t get the body rush from the sugars and so on.” Philippe looked blank. “It’s like getting a line-fed beer—all flavor and no alcohol. Only the physical component of apple juice isn’t so pronounced, so while your body feels the difference, you’re not consciously aware of what the lack is.”
    “You know a little bit of everything,” Philippe said amiably.
    *   *   *
     
    When the bureaucrat opened his eyes, Chu was waiting for him.
    “I’ve found it,” she said. That small, feral smile again, conspiratorial flash of teeth and gone. “Come on out back.”
    On the blind side of the hotel was a long storage shed with a single narrow door. Chu had smashed the lock. “I need a light,” the bureaucrat said. He took one from his briefcase and entered.
    Amid a litter of tools, lumber, and scrapwood, were a dozen new-made crates. “They were all set to close up shop,” Chu said. Setting a sawhorse aside, she reached into a crate she’d already ripped open, and handed the bureaucrat a shell knife just like the one he’d seen earlier.
    “So they’re smuggling artifacts, just as we thought, eh?”
    Chu took a second shell knife from the crate, a third, a fourth.
    They were all identical.
    “There’s other stuff too. Pottery, digging sticks, fishnet weights. All in multiplicate.” She reached into the shadows. “Look what else I found.”
    It was a briefcase, the perfect twin of the one the bureaucrat held. He could tell by its markings that it had been issued by his own department.
    “You see the scam, don’t you? They got hold of some genuine haunt artifacts, fed them to the briefcase, and had it make them copies. Then they returned the originals to the source. Or maybe copies, I don’t imagine it would make any difference.”
    “Only to an archeologist. Maybe not even then.”
    “Did you find out where the knife came from?”
    “The original was from Cobbs Creek,” the bureaucrat said. “It’s on display in Dryhaven.”
    “Cobbs Creek is just down the river. Not far from Clay Bank.”
    “I’m less interested in where the artifacts came from than in how the counterfeiters got hold of one of our briefcases. Have you questioned it yet?”
    “Don’t waste your breath.” Chu held it open to the light so that he could see the interior, blackened and blistered. “It’s dead.”
    “Idiots.” The bureaucrat took patch lines from his own briefcase and wired the two together. “They must’ve overloaded it. It’s a delicate piece of equipment; if you order it to keep making copies of something and don’t take care to keep it supplied with the elements it needs, it’ll dismantle itself trying to follow instructions. I need a full readout of this thing’s memory.”
    His briefcase was silent for a second, then said, “There’s nothing left but the identification number. It managed to disassemble all its insulation before it died, and the protected memory rotted out.”
    “Shit.”
    “Give me a hand with this crate,” Chu said.
    Grunting and puffing, they wrestled the crate outside, and let it fall to the ground with a crash. The bureaucrat went back in for his briefcase, took out a handkerchief and mopped his brow. “Won’t all this noise alert the