by Jason Smith

Not since 1874 has an atlas made so much history.

elcome to Richard Talbert’s island. It’s not big or exotic—just two long, empty tables in the middle of his office.

But Talbert’s island is threatened from all sides. Racks of cubbyholes loom up on the left. Mailing tubes are ricked around the room like firewood. Cabinets bulge with rows of drawers. And everything, down to the last tube in the last cubbyhole, holds a map.

Flat maps spill from the drawers. Curled maps nestle in rows on the floor. Sets of maps flow down the walls. Old maps. Greek maps. Russian. Talbert, professor of history, sifts through drawers as he talks, bringing out another map, or three, to clarify his points.

Soon we’re awash in table-sized maps. The island’s gone under. I rescue my clipboard and recorder a few times, then give up and let them go. “I tidied up before you got here,” Talbert confesses.

Next: "Failure on all fronts was almost a certainty."
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