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Or until it will no longer be possible to cross-compile it. Create New Account. My computer is slowly dying. It has a total of 10, different four-digit numbers. WineGStreamer library converted to PE. The sand could have mummified the remains. The army blanket? Shall we undress him? David nods, and Claire reaches for a pair of scissors. With some difficulty she begins cutting the cloth away from the body, the skin tearing away with it in ragged strips. Within minutes the body lies naked, the clothes laid out neatly for further examination on long silver trays.

Beneath the dried skin patches of broken bone mark out four bullet wounds. One high, just beneath the throat and to the left, a second just to the right of the left nipple, the third in line with the first, but lower, beneath the sternum. A crescent moon of death. The right wrist shattered by the fourth, the tiny bones broken almost to powder, the bones of the hand only attached to the arm by skin and shrivelled tendon.

As David watches, Claire probes the wounds with a metal instrument. Almost definitely gunshot was the cause of death, she says, turning the instrument in the middle hole. This one would have penetrated the heart. Death would have been almost instantaneous. Standing back to take in the totality of the form in front of her, she surveys the body.

No distinguishing marks or features, no visible scars or tattoos, she says for the benefit of the tape recorder. Then she looks up at David. Shall we examine the clothes? David nods. The trousers reveal nothing. In the left pocket of the jacket, however, there is a piece of yellowed paper, folded, which Claire removes carefully, laying it down on a metal tray.

David stands beside her, his heart beating fast. She looks at him and he nods, and slowly they unfold it, the paper threatening to crack and part as they do so. It is a letter, smudged ink crawling across its face, blood staining it, watery ghosts of words reflected onto opposing surfaces.

For a long moment the two of them stare at it, straining to make sense out of the jumble of ink and blood. The letter is unreadable, the shapes formed by the ink having faded or smeared beyond recognition. No address, no signature at the bottom. The paper dry and brittle like ancient skin. Yet once these smears and blurs were symbols, charged with the task of passing meaning from their author to another; another who found this meaning plain, or ambiguous, its content wonderful or tragic or banal.

But now that meaning is lost, together with the identity of the author and its recipient, what they meant to each other, how they met, their loves and dreams. Perhaps this man whose body lies dried and twisted on a metal slab beneath the city, exhumed from his sandy grave, wrote these words for another, but their progress was deflected by the violence of his death.

Perhaps they are the words of another, written to him; perhaps they are the reason for his death. Yet all that remains is a piece of paper, words blurred beyond meaning, a body.

Afterwards they walk through the long corridors, Claire just in front of David, leading him. Their speech is quiet, low, and as they walk, David watches her movements, trying to remember how it was when they were together.

Claire and David met the year after Tania died, brought together by friends. A summer dinner party, the not-sosubtle manoeuvrings of their hosts. In the dark outside her flat she had taken his hand, and David had felt her lips on his cheek, and his body had trembled so violently he thought she must feel it, must know.

So much tangle and bruise inside of him. But she had said nothing, just smiled and squeezed his hand, his skin remembering the cool pressure of her lips, fingers, as he navigated the orange-lit streets to his home.

After that night, their orbits brought them together, their bodies and hearts falling into each other, each seeming to fill a need in the other. Her presence, her cool and undemanding intimacy, the fact of her body, all of them allowed him space to explore his grief, to move outside himself. Slowly he began to find his way home to himself, to understand the gulf that gaped at the centre of his being, as if he were a traveller returning to his birthplace, only to find the remembered home empty and abandoned.

Sometimes in the night she would hold his face to her thin body while he wept, and slowly, gently, he began to heal. Then, slowly, without warning, she had moved on, leaving him without explanation or recrimination, the formula which plotted her course moving her on, away, and David had watched her go, also without recrimination, and slowly each had become separate again, the nights and days they had spent together fading, slipping out of reach, until it was if they had never been more than friends.

But Claire herself was a cipher to David, then and still, now. For all that she gave him, he had never understood what it was that he had given her, for she had always kept something closed from him, a space within herself that he could never penetrate or chart, her presence mysterious, an undiscovered country, but still it had drawn and held him with a silent motion, tidal, as if within her there was a gravity, a depth, a moon that pulled at the deep water of his cells then passed away, out of sight, as silently as she had come.

Months after at a party, her cheeks flushed with drink, she had told him she was in love, and as he looked at the way she held herself, the carelessness of her movements, he had known she was telling the truth.

But as she pressed her lips to his cheek he had also seen that something had changed within her, that she had surrendered that space he had sensed within her, and he had drawn her close, held her one last time, suddenly afraid for her. David gazes out the window over the park outside, the motion of people along the paths, the clusters in the pools of shade. The glare of the sun penetrating even through the tinted glass.

Are you heading back down tonight? David turns, jolted out of his reverie. Oh yes, probably. He shrugs. Funds for digs are hard enough to come by as it is, funds to search for mythical shipwrecks are even harder. Any luck this time? Could the anomaly have been the body? But not big enough? David shakes his head. No, probably not. For a while they are both silent. Finally Claire speaks. Were you angry with me? Maybe at the time. But not now? He shakes his head. Not for a long time. Instead of answering his question she looks away, her eyes hidden, distant.

I liked him. So did I, she says, her few words bearing a heavy burden. After this there is a silence, broken eventually by David, who clears his throat, the rough sound shattering the tension of their closeness.

I should go. Claire turns back to him. It was good to see you. You too, she says, then leans forward, her guard dropping for just long enough for David to see she does not want him to leave, not yet. I was thinking about that man we just examined.

She pauses for a moment then continues. Except that he was shot. She finishes, her words faltering, and David realises this is as close to a confession as he has ever heard from her.

But if you knew, do you think it would make a difference, would you understand even then? Claire smiles. David can see that this line of reasoning is already becoming part of her armour. He waits several seconds before replying, looking for the words. Who knows. Knowledge and understanding are very different things. Different countries, different tongues. While this land mass, which bears the name Java la Grande, cannot be found on any of the maps with which we are conversant, there is something about the shapes described by the arc of its northern coasts that is immediately, irresistibly familiar.

Looking closer, this familiarity only grows, as other features, a scattering of islands here, the curve of a headland there, suggest themselves from out of its detail, none of them perfect, but all familiar, their coincidences echoing first of all across the northern coasts and then eastwards and southwards down the line of the coast.

What is surprising about the Dauphin Map is its antiquity. These tentative discoveries revealing little more than the existence of a vast and barren wilderness, the true outlines of which remained unknown until Cook charted the eastern coastline at the end of the eighteenth century. Only white men, European men, discover. Or worse. But the Dauphin Map predates Cook and Banks by a quarter of a millennium, having been begun some time before as a commission for King Francis I of France, as a gift for his son Henry, the Dauphin.

The dates are uncertain, the evidence of heraldic features confusing; on the one hand it bears the Arms of France as they were before , on the other it bears the Royal Arms of Henry as King Henry II, not as the Dauphin. From the letter of commission and the Arms of France we know it was begun before , but when it was finished and whether alterations were made later is less clear.

Likewise its authorship cannot be determined with certainty. Historians have traditionally attributed it to Pierre Desceliers, one of the greatest of the school of cosmographers and cartographers who gathered in the French port of Dieppe in the sixteenth century, but this too is largely a matter of convention, for the map is unsigned. But the fact that the commission for the map came from the King himself, as well as the style of the map and its somewhat flamboyant disregard for accuracy, all point to Desceliers.

But there is no solid ground for this belief, only guesswork. All we know for sure is that it was begun some time before for the Dauphin.

Two hundred years later it came into the possession of Edward Harley, Earl of Oxford, by whose name it was known for a time before being stolen upon his death in Banks in his turn showed it to Cook, who the Royal Society had secretly commanded to search for Terra Australis Incognita, and it is certain the map accompanied Cook on his extraordinary voyage. What credence Cook gave to the map is not known, but perhaps the concern Banks gave to its preservation might tell us something, for he charged the British Library with its keeping in Of course by that time Cook was more than ten years dead, slain in the shallows of a Hawaiian beach, but the map survived him, just as it had its makers, as it had King Henry II and Edward Harley, and as it would Joseph Banks.

The map itself still rests in the Map Room of the British Library. A wall map, it is surprisingly large, the paint and ink faded by the centuries, yet the detail and beauty of its execution barely diminished. At some point it has been folded into uneven thirds, and then again in half, and great fissures now crease its surface, disturbing the shapes its maker cast forth across its surface, breaking apart the beauty of its lines and hues.

In many details, even of the known world, it is imprecise, accuracy sacrificed for decorative purposes. Not that this should come as any surprise; mapmaking in the sixteenth century was not the precise business it is today. Then, as now, there was a tension between the demand for detail and the intended use of the map.

Just as they do today, maps existed for various purposes: the map you would use to find a house or a street is not the same map you would use to understand the location of Antarctica in relation to the land beneath your feet. And, just as they are today, maps were instruments of power. Places do not bear the names given them by their original inhabitants, but the names assigned by those who came later, the indigenous languages giving way to the language of the coloniser; the centre exercising power over the margins, privileging official names over local ones.

Political disputes over borders are resolved to the satisfaction of the cartographers or their rulers, areas rendered barren by ecological devastation or over-farming are hidden away, dry lakes shown full, dead rivers left snaking across valleys rendered deserts by dams and irrigation.

In the sixteenth century, when the Dauphin Map was made, maps were used as ornamental repositories of power. They granted their owners claims over territories, even if the claims were not enforceable; the map extended the grasp of its owner, lord of all he surveyed. As an instrument of the state the map was decorated accordingly; its aesthetic value as important as the symbolic reach of power it bestowed upon its owner.

And the maps of Desceliers were no exception. Historians have noted his tendency to embellish, to exaggerate, indeed to invent whole lands, magicking them out of the air. In this manner he conjured an Antarctic continent which merged with the mysterious land mass to the south-east of Java, counterbalancing the top-heaviness of the known lands of Asia, Europe, America, and inhabited both by strange peoples and imaginary creatures.

And the Dauphin Map is not alone in this. Perhaps all of them were deceived, perhaps the land they drew was a fiction. But what is a fiction that turns out to be true? Or maybe there is more here than we imagined, a hidden past, a secret history. For behind the whispering voices of our history books there are echoes of earlier journeys, of secret maps and a race to control the world between two countries, Spain and Portugal.

And the invisible trails of tiny ships of wood and iron lost on an ocean of unimaginable vastness. Lost in the shifting patterns of time. David noses the four-wheel drive outwards from the city, slipping free of the tangle of vehicles and fumes and heat, falling outwards into evening. As he drives the sky outside turns blood red, streaks of high cloud arc gold across the sprawling landscape like ribs, the sun falls silently into the horizon. The music on the stereo so familiar, his favourite tape, the words of the songs, their tunes encoded deep in his brain, tiny ribbons of molecules spiralling through the darkness.

Outside the road slips by, familiar now, cars jostling for position, darkness filling the landscape. The dusk is long, silent, like an ending, a space where there is no more time. Like death. The mouth choked with sand. The skin, drawn tight on the bones like paper, thin and brittle. In the darkness David listens to the hum of the road, the sound of his own breathing, his mind turning on the mystery contained in the twisted form of the body, all trace of identity wiped away, swept clean by the brutal anonymity of death.

Unconsciously he tightens his grip on the steering wheel, tenses his shoulders. As a student David had spent a summer working on an archaeological dig in Jordan, the long days spent breathing the dusty air of a forgotten world, working until his back ached and his hands were raw and his eyes filled with dust. For a student the rewards were sparse; a shard of pottery, a scratch of charcoal, a bundle of papyrus that crumbled with the slightest movement of air.

There were other students on the dig, and amateurs who had paid for the privilege, and at night they would all gather in the long tents and talk and drink and smoke the cheap Jordanian hashish before retiring to sleep in readiness for the pre-dawn start. As the weeks went by the others grew bored, and restive, and even David sometimes found himself listening to the complaints of the worst of them, a German student, with sympathy.

Then, quite by chance, he was the one to unearth a jar, the full curve of its unbroken form emerging slowly beneath his brush, deep cobalt blue against the pale sand. The supervisor had stood back and watched, attentive lest the jar be damaged, but David was not prepared to relinquish his find, working closely, carefully until the jar lay fully exposed. Then the supervisor had stepped forward and moved it gently, and as he did, David saw on its underside, near the base, a flaw in the glaze, a fingerprint baked into the blue curve of its surface.

This remnant of an unknown life long ended. As she bent to the camera, he took her arm, halting her. Without speaking he had turned the jar until the fingerprint was in view, then motioned her to continue.

For many years afterwards that photograph, the fingerprint visible in its lower right-hand corner, has occupied a place over his desk, a clue to a puzzle with no answer, a constant reminder of the shroud that obscures the past from our gaze.

And now there is the body, its parched lips clasped tight on its secrets. And Claire. The ambiguity of her parting kiss, her lips on his, so briefly he hardly felt them.

The immediacy of his isolation clear in that moment. His need. In the darkness outside the landscape changes, unseen, the broken coastline with its thick greenery and the wide bays with their parabolic arcs of sand subsiding, giving way to scrub and finally sand arching silently into the distance, shapes rendered whole by memory.

David pulls in towards it, opening the door into the cool night air. The breeze off the sea moves through the grass, the creak of the gate loud as he opens it. Something unseen rustles in the grass to one side of the track, its motion startling David. Through the gate he drives on, winding into the dunes. Without thinking he finds himself examining them as he passes them, searching for the elusive clue that may reveal the ship he is searching for.

As always he tries to pierce the secrets of the sands, trying to imagine how it was, the past hovering unseen in the air, encoded in it like a ghostly X-ray of broken bones. A shattered wrist. He had stood, and as he had it had moved away, vanished, its movements slow and laboured, as if burdened by great age or injury.

Surprising himself, David had pursued the figure, angry, the realisation that he might be being watched out here making him feel somehow soiled, but when he had reached the place where the figure had been standing the sand was unmarked, as if no-one had been there. Then, as quickly as it had come upon him, his anger had ebbed away, and he had turned, stood staring out over the hills to the line of ocean in the distance, feeling himself beginning to fade into the emptiness of this place, his presence leaching into the silence of the shifting hills, the murmuring waves.

Conscious of the fact the others are sleeping, he stops some distance from the collection of tents, closing the door behind him carefully. Outside the sealed cabin of the four-wheel drive the air is cool, salt water misting hazily landwards, diffusing the moonlight over the white sand, and as he walks towards the tents he feels himself waking up, his need for sleep dissipating in response to the night air, the sense of space.

As he approaches a figure steps out of the larger tent in the middle, navigating its way through the others towards him. Its outline bleeds into the hazy dark but David knows who it will be. Nearly at the tents now the figure stops, waits for him.

What happened? David sighs. Not much. Whoever he was he was murdered, but it was a long time ago. Anything here? She shakes her head. Not a thing. David feels a sudden rush of anger. Shit, he says, under his breath. Anna nods, and for a second or two neither of them speaks. Finally Anna asks, How did he die? He was shot. Do they know who he was? David knows she is waiting for him to tell her more, that she knows he is holding back.

Finally he succumbs. Claire was there. Your Claire? David laughs. Paul; I forgot as well. Oh, she says, signalling her desire to know no more, but David cannot help himself and continues. They broke up. A silence … And? And what? Claire; how was she? Something makes David hold back. Fine, he says. Then the two of them stand in the darkness, each not looking at the other. Both knowing a boundary is nearby, reluctant to approach it. We should get some sleep. I suppose. David steps around her towards the tents.

Then, on impulse, he turns, touches her shoulder, and she looks down at it, her expression unreadable. See you in the morning? Undressing in the curved chamber of the tent David listens to the sounds of the sleepers around him. Slowly the offers had declined in number, his presence filling any space he was in with a pain that was almost tangible. Her death so stupid, so unnecessary. When David wakes it is already hot, the air in his tent oppressive, sweat pooling on his chest.

He wakes slowly, his head and eyes aching from lack of sleep. When he emerges from the tent the others are already awake, gathered under the tarpaulin, some working, most just sitting, talking, reading magazines and cheap paperbacks. When they see him they look up, and Anna stands, watching him cross towards them, pulling a singlet on as he does. She flashes him a cheeky grin. Seeing her smile David knows she has decided to ignore their momentary collision of the night before.

No problem. Why are you all still here? One of the others calls out from above a magazine. David looks around, his tiredness rapidly transforming into annoyance. Did they say how long they were going to be? One of the others laughs sardonically. At least they seem to be doing something today. Except stop us doing anything, another retorts, and there is a rumble of assent. David shakes his head, knowing that this is his responsibility now. As he turns to go Anna steps forward.

Want a hand? David shrugs. They walk together over the dunes towards the dig. David walks with his eyes ahead, not speaking, trying to gulp back his ill temper. As they crest the hill he sees several police cars parked on the slope beneath, surrounding the site of the discovery. Yellow plastic tape flutters in the breeze. He looks at Anna, who meets his eye, her steady gaze an assent to his mood. David walks towards him, Anna hanging back.

The detective smiles in a friendly way, and David wonders whether his manner is designed to deflect the anger David is sure he is exuding.

Mm-hmm, David nods. The detective turns and looks at the site behind him. Yeah, I know. Sorry about that but things are taking a bit longer than we expected. David folds his arms. I appreciate that, Dr Norfolk, but these things take time. So, how much time? The detective sighs. The breeze shifts around them, the light of the sun on the sand suffusing the air.

Then the detective clears his throat, shuffling his feet in the sand. Finally he decides he may have misjudged the man, and that his question is genuine. Portuguese, yes. Any luck? Not really. David glances from the detective to Anna and back. The detective looks at him dispassionately, and David has the sense he is adding this information to a vast file in his head. As the detective speaks David realises he is telling the truth. Almost as an afterthought the detective clears his throat and asks, Have you spoken to the old bloke down in the shack?

David and Anna exchange glances. No … Shack? He was saying the bloke had been there for about a thousand years, but he also said something about the old bloke having been looking for a ship himself. Said you guys had made him think of it. Thanks, says David, a bit uncertainly. No problem, I hope he can help you. As he speaks the detective turns to walk away. But then he hesitates, looking back. David remembers the shack. Near the opening of a creek, at the southern end of the sandhills, where the drifting sand and marram grass give way to limestone cliffs, low scrub.

But he has never seen its owner, never spoken to him. Know anything about this shack? David asks. Anna pauses before answering, considering. He is aware of her eyes on him as she speaks. Want me to come with you? Half an hour later David stands at a gate a hundred metres from the shack. The sun overhead is high, the day white hot. Grasshoppers hum metallically, the heat singing in the air in a high-pitched whine of space. And emptiness. The metal of the chain binding the gate closed burns his fingers, and he works fast, untangling it and crossing inwards, swinging the gate shut behind him, then, step by step, along the shimmering surface of the track.

Rust bleeds down it from innumerable wounds, the shifting sand held back by sheets of corrugated iron staked in place. The windows so filthy they let nothing escape. The green door peels in the shade of the verandah.

An ancient station wagon is tethered nearby. A screen door hanging on loose hinges shifts in the breeze. At the door to the shack David pauses, not moving. Finally he reaches forwards, opening the screen door, and knocks on the green door behind it, the peeling paint sharp beneath his knuckles. At first there is no reply. David is about to knock again when he feels it. Not a sound, more a sense of movement from within, a knowledge that there is someone inside. He lowers the hand that he had been about to knock with, hesitating, then lifts it again, pushes the green door gently and peers into the dim interior.

From somewhere inside there is a voice, thin, wheezing. Who is it? A television blares. David steps inwards, following the voice. From the dig in the sandhills … His voice halting, waiting in each pause for some kind of confirmation from within, but none comes. Inside now, David blinks, his eyes adjusting slowly to the dim interior. When there is no reply he steps forward, moving towards the sound of the television. The air in here is close and unpleasant, surly with the smell of urine, unwashed body, a hundred years of cigarettes.

Coughing comes from the door on his left, and David steps into it, trying to appear as unthreatening as possible. A figure sits in a chair, the light falling on its legs. A black and white television flickers through the pall of cigarette smoke. A massive snarl of pink and white burn tissue covers his scalp, forehead and cheek; a puckered, shiny furrow of scarring extending downwards through it, across the distorted line of the nose and left eyebrow, beneath one milky white eye stares blindly from behind its drooping lid, before continuing onwards, around the shattered stump of the left ear and into the neck of his filthy shirt, almost as if half his head has been lifted away by some titanic blast and later grafted back in place by a cack-handed Frankenstein.

His bald head is spotted with deep stains, liver spotted and bruised with age, while his neck and the back of his head are criss-crossed with white traceries of damaged skin. His breathing is loud, rasping, in the small room. The police have already been, he says.

I wondered whether you might know something that would be useful. I know what an archaeologist is, he snaps, his voice collapsing into wheezes. The old man hawks, the noise derisive, lifting the cigarette he is holding to his mouth and drawing back deeply, an act that only provokes another spasm of wheezing coughs.

As he does David sees several fingers are missing on his right hand. The old man snorts bitterly. The words a statement, not a question. David looks up, startled, to find the old man looking up at him, his one good eye staring, his expression almost cruel. David, realising this is a question with no right answer, ignores the remark, asking a question instead.

Do you mind if I ask you a few questions? What about? I thought you might know something that could help us.

Unconsciously he allows his weight to shift to one foot, gradually assuming a position of impatience. Finally he sighs, annoyed, but before he can say he is leaving the old man looks back at him. Tell me about the ship. You said you were looking for a ship. Tell me about it. Unsure of the spirit in which the question is asked, David hesitates. The old man watches him speak, and David, warming to his subject, continues, more certainly now.

We think it was covered up when the sand began to drift around the middle of the last century. David nods, and the old man clears his throat phlegmily. As he speaks David is struck by the sense that the words are not addressed to him but to someone else. Do you believe them? Would it make a difference if I did? David shakes his head, conceding the point. Probably not. A sudden spasm of coughing rocks the old man. David steps forward, He sees the discoloured rag the old man uses to cover his mouth is stained with fresh blood, black phlegm.

Reluctant to reach out and touch the older man David kneels, placing a hand on the arm of the chair. Finally the spasm passes, leaving him looking shaken and weak in its wake. Do you want me to get a doctor? David asks, and the old man shakes his head. Then he laughs cruelly. It just takes some of us longer to realise it than others.

David remains kneeling in front of him. Are you sure? The old man brushes the question away with his ruined hand, changing the subject. You want to find the ship? Kleinfeld, Applied Physics Letters This guide will show youWhat is one thing that I can learn from you today?

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