The Middle Kingdom

She stared at the book-filled wall above the desk, then turned back, seeing how he was looking past her at the same spot. He smiled and moved his eyes to her face.

"Of course. There was a door at the end of the bottom corridor."

She nodded. "Let's go down."

The door was unlocked. Beyond it lay the tiny garden, the lawn neatly trimmed, delphinia and gladioli, irises and hemero-callis, in bloom in the dark earth borders. And there, beneath the back wall, the headstone, the white marble carved into the shape of an oak, its trunk exaggeratedly thick, its crown a great cumulus.

"Yes," Ben said softly. "I knew he would be here."

He bent down beside the stone and reached out to touch and trace the indented lettering.

AUGUSTUS RAEDWALD SHEPHERD Born December 7 2106 Deceased August 15 2122

Oder jener stirbt und ists.

Meg frowned. "That date is wrong, surely, Ben?"

"No." He shook his head, not looking at her. "He was fifteen when he killed himself."

"Then . . ." But she still didn't understand. He was their greatgrandfather, wasn't he? Only fifteen? Then, belatedly, she realized what he had said: the whole of what he had said. "Killed himself?"

There was a door set into the wall behind the stone. A simple wooden door, painted red, with a latch high up. Ben had stood up, facing it, andxwas staring at it in his usual intent manner.

Doors, she thought; always another door. And behind each door something new and unexpected. Augustus, for instance. She had never dreamed he would be so much like Ben. Like a twin.

"Shall we?" Ben asked, looking at her. "Before we set off back? There's time."

She looked down at the headstone, a strange feeling of unease nagging at her. She was tempted to say no, to tell him to leave it, but why not? Ben was right. There was time. Plenty of time before they'd be missed-

"Okay," she said quietly. "But then we go straight back. All right?"

He smiled at her and nodded, then went to the door, stretch-ing to reach the latch.

It was a workroom. There were shelves along one wall on which were a number of things: old-fashioned screwdrivers and hammers, saws and pliers; a box of nails and an assortment of glues; locks and handles, brackets and a tray of different keys. A spade and a pitchfork stood against the wall beneath, beside a pair of boots, the mud on them dried, flaky to the touch.

Meg looked around her. At the far end, against the wall, was a strange upright shape, covered by an old bedspread. Above it, hanging from an old iron chain, hung a beveled mirror. As she watched, Ben went across and threw the cloth back. It was a piano. An old upright piano. He lifted the lid and stared at the keys awhile.

"I wonder if it's—"

Some sense—not precognition, or even the feeling of danger—made her speak out. "No, Ben. Please. Don't touch it."

He played a note. A chord. Or what should have been a chord. Each note was flat, a harsh, cacophonic noise. The music of the house. Discordant.

She heard the chain break with a purer note than any sounded by her brother; heard the mirror slither then crash against the top of the piano; then stepped forward, her hand raised to her mouth in horror, as the glass shattered all about him.

"Ben.'.'!"

Her scream echoed out onto the water beyond the house.

Inside the room there was a moment of utter stillness. Then she was at his side, sobbing breathlessly, muttering to him again and again. "What have you done, Ben? What have you done?"

Shards of glass littered his hair arid shoulders. His cheek was cut and a faint dribble of blood ran toward the comer of his mouth. But Ben was staring down at where his left hand had been only a moment before, sounding the chord. It still lay there on the keys, the fingers extended to form the shape. But the arm now ended in a bloodied stump. Cut clean, the blood still pumping.

For a moment she did nothing, horrified, her lips drawn back from her teeth, watching how he turned the stump, observing it, his eyes filled with wonder at the thing he had accidentally done. He was gritting his teeth against the pain, keeping it at bay while he studied the stump, the severed hand.

Then, coming to herself again, she pressed the stud at her neck and sounded the alarm.

MUCH LATER Meg stood at the bottom of the slope, looking out across the water.

Night had already fallen, but in one place its darkness was breached. Across the bay flames leapt high from the burning house and she could hear the crackling of burning vegetation, the sudden sharp retorts as wood popped and split.

Smoke lay heavy on the far side of the water, laced eerily with threads of light from the blaze. She could see dark shapes moving against the brilliance; saw one of the security craft rise up sharply, its twin beams cutting the air in front of it.

"Meg? Meg! Come inside!"

She turned and looked back up the slope toward the cottage. Lights burned at several of the windows, throwing faint spills of light across the white-painted stonework. Her father stood there, a dark, familiar figure, framed in the light of the doorway.

"I'm coming, Daddy. Just a moment longer. Please."

He nodded, somewhat reluctantly, then turned away. The door closed behind him.

Meg faced the blaze again, looking out across the dark glass of the bay. She thought she could see small shapes in the uprush of flame, like insects burning, crackling furiously as their shells ignited in a sudden flare of brilliance. Books, she thought; all those books. ...

Ben was upstairs, in his bed. They had frozen the stump but they had not saved the hand. He would need a new one now.

She could still hear the chord he had sounded; still see his fingers spreading to form the shape. She looked away from the blaze. Afterimages flickered in the darkness. The eye moved on, but the image remained. For a time.

She went indoors. Went up and saw him where he lay, propped up with a mound of pillows behind his back. He was awake, fully conscious. She sat at his bedside and was silent for a time, letting him watch her.

"What's it like?" he asked after a moment.

"Beautiful," she said. "The way the light's reflected in the dark water. It's—"

"I know," he said, as if he had seen it too. "I can imagine it."

She looked away a moment, noticing how the fire's light flickered in the windowpane; how it cast a mottled, ever-changing pattern against the narrow opening.

"I'm glad you did what you did," he said, more softly than before. "I would have stood there and watched myself bleed to death. I owe you my life."

It was not entirely true. He owed his life to their mother. If Beth had not come back early, then what Meg had done would not have mattered.

"I only wrapped it with the sheet," she said. But she saw how he was looking at her, his eyes piercing her. She could see he was embarrassed. Yet there was something else there too— something that she had never seen in him before—and it touched her deeply. She felt her lips pucker and her eyes grow moist.

"Hey, little sis, don't cry."

He had never called her that before; nor had he ever touched her as he touched her now, his good right hand caressing both of hers where they lay atop the bedclothes. She shuddered and looked down.

"I'm fine," he said, as if in answer to something she had said, his hand squeezing both of hers. "Father says they can graft a new hand onto the nerve ends. It'll work as good as new. Maybe better."

She found she could not look up at him. If she did she would burst into tears, and she didn't want him to see her weakness. He had been so strong, so brave. The pain—it must have been awful.

"You know, the worst thing was that I missed it."

"Missed what?" she said, staring at his hand.

"I didn't see it," he said, and there was genuine surprise in his voice. "I wasn't quick enough. I heard the chain break and I looked up, but I missed the accident. It was done before I looked down again. My hand was no longer part of me. When I looked it was already separate, there on the keyboard.

He laughed. A queer little sound.

Meg looked at him. He was staring at the stub of his left arm. It was neatly capped, like the end of an old cane. Silvered and neutral. Reduced to a thing.

"I didn't see it," he insisted. "The glass. The cut. And I felt . . . only a sudden absence. Not pain, but. . ."

She could see that he was searching for the right words, the very thing that would describe what he had felt, what experienced at that moment. But it evaded him. He shrugged and gave up.

"I love you, Ben."

"I know," he said, and seemed to look at her as if to gauge how love looked in a person's eyes. As if to place it in his memory.

AFTER MEG had gone he lay there, thinking things through.

He had said nothing to her of what was in the journal. For once he felt no urge to share his knowledge with her. It would harm her, he knew, as it had harmed him: not on the surface, as the mirror had, but deeper, where his true self lived. In the darkness inside himself.

He felt angered that he had not been told; that Hal had not trusted him enough to tell him. More than that, he felt insulted that they had hidden it from him. Oh, he could see why it was important for Meg not to know; she responded to things in a different way from him. But to hide it from him? He clenched his fists, feeling the ghostly movement in the hand he had lost. Didn't they know? Didn't they understand him, even now? How could he make sense of it all unless he could first solve the riddle of himself?

It was all there, in the journal. Some of it explicit, the rest hidden teasingly away—ciphers within ciphers—as if for his eyes alone.

He had heard Augustus's voice, speaking clearly in his head, as if direct across the years. "I am a failed experiment," he had said. "Old Amos botched me when he made me from his seed. He got more than he bargained for."

It was true. They were all an experiment. All the Shepherd males. Not sons and fathers and grandfathers, but brothers every one—all the fruit of old Amos's seed.

Ben laughed bitterly. It explained so much. For Augustus was his twin. Ben knew it for a certainty. He had proof.

There, in the back of the journal, were the breeding charts— a dozen complex genetic patterns, each drawn in the tiniest of hands, one to a double page; each named and dated, Ben's own among them. A whole line of Shepherds, each one the perfect advisor for his T'ang.

Augustus had known somehow. Had worked it out. He had realized what he was meant for. What task he had been bred for.

But Augustus had been a rebel. He had defied his father; refusing to be trained as the servant of a T'ang. Worse, he had sired a child by his own sister, in breach of the careful plans Amos had laid. His mirror had become his mate. Furious, his "father," Robert, had made him a prisoner in the house, forbidding him the run of the Domain until he changed his ways, but Augustus had remained defiant. He had preferred death to compromise.

Or so it seemed. There was no entry for that day. No explanation for his death.

Ben heard footsteps on the stairs. He tensed, then made himself relax. He had been expecting this visit; had been rehearsing what he would say.

Hal Shepherd stood in the doorway, looking in. "Ben? Can I come in?"

Ben stared back at him, unable to keep the anger from his face. "Hello, elder brother."

Hal seemed surprised. Then he understood. He had confiscated the journal, but he could not confiscate what was in Ben's head. It did not matter that Ben could not physically see the pages of the journal: in his mind he could turn them anyway and read the tall columns of ciphers.

"It isn't like that," he began, but Ben interrupted him, a sharp edge to his voice.

"Don't lie to me. I've had enough of lies. Tell me who I am."

"YouVe my son."

Ben sat forward, but this time Hal got in first. "No, Ben. You're wrong. It ended with Augustus. He was the last. You're my son, Ben. Mine and your mother's."

Ben made to speak, then fell silent, watching the man. Then he looked down. Hal was not lying. Not intentionally. He spoke as he believed. But he was wrong. Ben had seen the charts, the names, the dates of birth. Amos's jjreat experiment was still going on.

He let out a long, shuddering breath. "Okay. . . . But tell me. How did Augustus die? Why did he kill himself?"

"He didn't."

"Then how did he die?"

"He had leukemia."

That, too, was a lie, for there was no mention of ill health in the journal. But again Hal believed it for the truth. His eyes held nothing back from Ben.

"And the child? What happened to the child?"

Hal laughed. "What child? What are you talking about, Ben?"

Ben looked down. Then it was all a lie. Hal knew nothing. Nor would he learn anything from the journal unless Meg gave him the key to it; for the cipher was a special one, transforming itself constantly page by page as the journal progressed.

"Nothing," he said finally, in answer to the query. "I was mistaken."

He lifted his eyes and saw how concerned Hal was.

"I'm sorry," he said. "I didn't mean to trouble anyone."

"No____"

Then, strangely, Hal looked down and laughed. "You know, Ben, when I saw Peng Yu-wei stuck there in the mud, all my anger drained from me." He looked up and met Ben's eyes, his voice changing, becoming more serious. "I understand why you did it, Ben. Believe me. And I meant what I said the other night. You can be your own man. Live your own life. It's up to you whether you serve or not. Neither I nor the great T'ang himself will force you to be other than yourself."

Ben studied his brother—the man he had always thought of as his father—and saw suddenly that it did not matter what he was in reality, for Hal Shepherd had become what he believed he was. Ben's father. A free man, acting freely, choosing freely. For him the illusion was complete. It had become the truth.

It was a powerful lesson. One Ben could use. He nodded. "Then I choose to be your son, if that's all right?"

Hal smiled and reached out to take his hand. "That's fine. That's all I ever wanted."

PART 4 SUMMER 2201

Ice and Fire

War is the highest form of struggle for resolving contradictions, when they have developed to a certain stage, between classes, nations, states, or political groups, and it has existed ever since the emergence of private property and of classes.

—MAO tse-tung, Problems of Strategy in China's Revolutionary War, December 1936

It is our historical duty to eradicate all opposition to change. To cauterize the cancers that create division. The future cannot come into being until the past is dead. Chung Kuo cannot live until the world of petty nation states, of factions and religions, is dead and buried beneath the ice. Let us have no pity then. Our choice is made. Ice and fire. The fire to cauterize, the ice to cover over. Only by such means will the world be freed from enmity.

—tsao CH'UN, Address to his Ministers, May 2068

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

The Saddle

THE OLD T'ang backed away, his hands raised before I him, his face rigid with fear.

"Put down the knife, erh tzu! For pity's sake!" A moment before there had been laughter; now the tension in the room seemed unendurable. Only the hiss and wheeze of Tsu Tiao's labored breathing broke the awful silence.

In the narrow space between the pillars Tsu Ma circled his father slowly, knife in hand, his face set, determined. On all sides T'ang and courtier alike—all Han, all Family—were crowded close, looking on, their faces tense, unreadable. Only one, a boy of eight, false whiskered and rouged up, his clothes identical to those of the old T'ang, showed any fear. He stood there, wide eyed, one hand gripping the arm of the taller boy beside him.

"Erh tzu!" the old man pleaded, falling to his knees. My son! He bowed his head, humbling himself. "I beg you, Tsu Ma! Have mercy on an old man!"

All eyes were on Tsu Ma now. All saw the shudder that rippled through the big man like a wave; the way his chin jutted forward and his face contorted in agony as he' steeled himself to strike. Then it was done and the old man slumped forward, the knife buried deep in his chest.

There was a sigh like the soughing of the wind, then Tsu Ma was surrounded. Hands clapped his back or held his hand or touched his shoulder briefly. "Well done, Tsu Ma," each said before moving on, expecting no answer; seeing how he stood there, his arms limp at his sides, his broad chest heaving, his eyes locked on the fallen figure on the floor beneath him.

Slowly the great room emptied until only the six T'ang and the two young boys remained.

Li Shai Tung stood before him, staring into his face, a faint smile of sadness mixed with satisfaction on his lips. He spoke softly, "Well done, Tsu Ma. It's hard, I know. The hardest thing a man can do. ..."

Slowly Tsu Ma's eyes focused on him. He swallowed deeply and another great shudder racked his body. Pain flickered like lightning across the broad, strong features of his face, and then he spoke, his voice curiously small, like a child's. "Yes . . . but it was so hard to do, Shai Tung. It—it was just like him."

Li Shai Tung shivered but kept himself perfectly still, his face empty of what he was feeling. He ached to reach out and hold Tsu Ma close, to comfort him, but knew it would be wrong. It was hard, as Tsu Ma now realized, but it was also necessary.

Since the time of Tsao Ch'un it had been so. To become T'ang the son must kill the father. Must become his own man. Only then would he be free to offer his father the respect he owed him.

"Will you come through, Tsu Ma?"

Tsu Ma's eyes had never left Li Shai Tung's face, yet they had not been seeing him. Now they focused again. He gave the barest nod, then, with one last, appalled look at the body on the floor, moved toward the dragon doorway.

In the room beyond, the real Tsu Tiao was laid out atop a great, tiered pedestal on a huge bedspread with silken sheets of gold. Slowly and with great dignity Tsu Ma climbed the steps until he stood there at his dead father's side. The old man's fine gray hair had been brushed and plaited, his cheeks delicately rouged, his beard brushed out straight, his nails painted a brilliant pearl. He was dressed from head to foot in white. A soft white muslin that, when Tsu Ma knelt and gently brushed it with his fingertips, reminded him strangely of springtime and the smell of young girls.

You're dead, Tsu Ma thought, gazing tenderly into his father's face. You're really dead, aren't you? He bent forward and gently brushed the cold lips with his own, then sat back on his heels, shivering, toying with the ring that rested, heavy and unfamiliar, like a saddle on the first finger of his right hand. And now it's me.

He turned his head, looking back at the six T'ang standing among the pillars, watching him. You know how I feel, he thought, looking from face to face. Each one of you. You've been here before me, haven't you?

For the first time he understood why the Seven were so strong. They had this in common: each knew what it was to kill their father: knew the reality of it in their bones. Tsu Ma looked back at the body—the real body, not the lifelike GenSyn copy he had "killed"—and understood. He had been blind to it before, but now he saw it clearly. It was not life that connected them so firmly, but death. Death that gave them such a profound and lasting understanding of each other.

He stood again and turned, facing them, then went down among them. At the foot of the steps they greeted him; each in his turn bowing before Tsu Ma; each bending to kiss the ring of power he now wore; each embracing him warmly before repeating the same eight words.

"Welcome, Tsu Ma. Welcome, T'ang of West Asia."

When the brief ceremony was over, Tsu Ma turned and went across to the two boys. Li Yuan was much taller than when he had last seen him. He was entering that awkward stage of early adolescence and had become a somewhat ungainly-looking boy. Even so, it was hard to believe that his birthday in two days time would be only his twelfth. There was something almost unnatural in his manner that made Tsu Ma think of childhood tales of changelings and magic spells and other such nonsense. He seemed so old, so knowing. So unlike the child whose body he wore. Tao Chu, in contrast, seemed younger than his eight years and wore his heart embroidered like a peacock on his sleeve. He stood there in his actor's costume, bearded, his brow heavily lined with black makeup pencil, yet still his youth shone through, in his eyes and in the quickness of his movements.

Tsu Ma reached out and ruffled his hair, smiling for the first time since the killing. "Did it frighten you, Tao Chii?"

The boy looked down, abashed. "I thought..."

Tsu Ma knelt down and held his shoulders, nodding, remembering how he had felt the first time he had seen the ritual, not then knowing what was happening, or why.

Tao Chu looked up and met his eyes. "It seemed so real, Uncle Ma. For a moment I thought it was Grandpa Tiao."

Tsu Ma smiled. "You were not alone in that, Nephew Chu."

Tao Chu was his dead brother's third and youngest son and Tsu Ma's favorite; a lively, ever-smiling boy with the sweetest, most joyful laugh. At the ritual earlier Tao Chu had impersonated Tsu Tiao, playing out scenes from the old Tang's life before the watching court. The practice was as old as the Middle Kingdom itself and formed one link in the great chain of tradition, but it was more than mere ritual, it was a living ceremony; an act of deep respect and celebration, almost a poem to the honored dead. For the young actor, however, it was a confusing, not to say unnerving experience, to find the dead man unexpectedly there, in the seat of honor, watching the performance.

"Do you understand why I had to kill the copy, Tao Chu?"

Tao Chu glanced quickly at Li Yuan, then looked back steadily at his uncle. "Not at first, Uncle Ma, but Li Yuan explained it to me. He said you had to kill the guilt you felt at Grandpa Tiao's death. That you could not be your own man until you had."

"Then you understand how deeply I revere my father? How hard it was to harm even a copy of him?"

Tao Chu nodded, his eyes bright with understanding.

"Good." He squeezed the boy's shoulders briefly, then stood. "But I must thank you, Tao Chun. You did well today. You gave me back my father."

Tao Chu smiled, greatly pleased by his uncle's praise; then, at a touch from Li Yuan, he joined the older boy in a deep bow and backed away, leaving the T'ang to their Council.

from THE camera's vantage point, twenty li out from the spaceship, it was hard to tell its scale. The huge sphere of its forward compartments was visible only as a nothingness in the star-filled field of space—a circle of darkness more intense than that which surrounded it. Its tail, so fine and thin that it was like a thread of silver, stretched out for ten times its circum-

ference, terminating in a smaller, silvered sphere little thicker than the thread.

It was beautiful. Li Shai Tung drew closer, operating the remote from a distance of almost three hundred thousand li, • adjusting the camera image with the most delicate of touches, the slight delay in response making him cautious. Five li out he slowed the remote and increased the definition.

The darkness took on form. The sphere was finely stippled, pocked here and there with hatches or spiked with communication towers. Fine, almost invisible lines covered the whole surface, as if the sphere were netted by the frailest of spiders' webs.

Li Shai Tung let the remote drift slowly toward the starship and sat back, one hand smoothing through his long beard while he looked about him at the faces of his fellow T'ang.

"Well?"

He glanced across at the waiting technicians and dismissed them with a gesture. They had done their work well in getting an undetected remote so close to The New Hope. Too well, perhaps. He had not expected it to be so beautiful.

"How big is it?" asked Wu Shih, turning to him. "I can't help thinking it must be huge to punch so big a hole in the star field."

Li Shai Tung looked back at him, the understanding of thirty years passing between them. "It's huge. Approximately two li in diameter."

"Approximately?" It was Wei Feng, T'ang of East Asia, who picked up on the word.

"Yes. The actual measurement is one kilometer. I understand that they have used the old Hung Mao measurements throughout the craft."

Wei Feng grunted his dissatisfaction, but Wang Hsien, T'ang of Africa, was not so restrained. "But that's an outrage!" he roared. "An insult! How dare they flout the Edict so openly?"

"I would remind you, Wang Hsien," Li Shai Tung answered quietly, seeing the unease on every face. "We agreed that the terms of the Edict would not apply to the starship."

He looked back at the ship. The fine web of lines was now distinct. In its center, etched finer than the lines surrounding it, were two lines of beadlike figures spiraling about each other,

forming the double helix of heredity, symbol of the Dispersion-ists.

Three years ago—the day after Under Secretary Lehmann had been killed in the House by Tolonen—he had summoned the leaders of the House before him, and there, in the Purple Forbidden City where they had murdered his son, had granted them concessions, among them permission to build a generation starship. It had prevented war. But now the ship was almost ready and though the uneasy peace remained intact, soon it would be broken. The cusp lay just ahead. Thus far on the road of concession he had carried the Seven. Thus far but no farther.

He stared at the starship a moment longer. It was beautiful, but both House and Seven knew what The New Hope really was. No one was fooled by the mask of rhetoric. The Dispersionists talked of it being an answer—"the only guarantee of a future for our children"—but in practical terms it did nothing to solve the problem of overpopulation that was supposedly its raison d'etre. Fully laden, it could carry no more than five thousand settlers. In any case, the ship, fast as it was, would take a thousand years to reach the nearest star. No, The New Hope was not an answer, it was a symbol, a political counter—the thin end of the great wedge of Change. It heralded not a new age of dispersal, but a return to the bad old days of technological free-for-all—a return to that madness that had once before almost destroyed Chung Kuo.

He cleared the image and for a while sat there, conscious that they were waiting for him to say what was on his mind. He looked from face to face, aware that the past three years had brought great changes in his thinking. What had once seemed certain was no longer so for him. His belief in peace at all costs—in a policy of concession and containment—had eroded in the years since Han Ch'in's death. He had aged, and nbt only in his face. Some days there was an air of lethargy about him, of having done with things. Yes, he thought, looking down at his own long hands; the tiger's teeth are soft now, his eyes grown dull. And they know this. Our enemies know it and seek advantage from it. But what might we do that we have not already done? How can we stem the tidal flow of change?

Tsu Ma broke into his thoughts. "Forgive me, Li Shai Tung. But what of Tolonen?"

Li Shai Tung looked up, surprised, meeting the new T'ang's eyes.

"Tolonen? I don't understand you, Tsu Ma. You think I should accede to the House's demands? Is that what you're saying?" He looked away, a bitter anger in his eyes. "You would have me give them that satisfaction too?"

Tsu Ma answered him softly, sympathetically. "No. Not at all, Shai Tung. You mistake my meaning. Things have changed. Many who were angry three years ago have cooled. They see things differently now, even in the House."

Li Shai Tung looked about him, expecting strong disagreement with Tsu Ma's remarks, but there was nothing. They looked at him expectantly.

"I still don't follow you. You mean they'd have him back? After what he did?"

Tsu Ma shook his head. "Not as general, no. But in some other role."

Li Shai Tung looked down sharply. It was more than he could have hoped for. But dare he say yes? Dare he call the old rogue back?

"We are not alone in thinking things have gone too far," said Wu Shih, picking up on what Tsu Ma had said. "There are many at First Level—even among the Hung Moo—who feel we gave too much; were too timid in our dealings with the Dispersionists. They would see the changes to the Edict reversed, The New Hope melted down."

"We daren't go so far. There would be war, surely?"

Tsu Ma leaned forward. "Not if we challenge them in their own sphere."

"You mean the House?"

There were nods all around. So, they had discussed this between them. Why? Had he beeh so preoccupied? So unreachable?

Wei Feng now spoke for them all. "We know the last three years have been hard for you, Shai Tung. You have tasted bitterness and we have had to watch in silence. But we shall watch no longer, nor hold our tongues for fear of hurting you. We have seen the plan your advisor Shepherd drew up and—"

Li Shai Tung sat forward jerkily. "Impossible! No one has seen those papers!"

Wei Feng waited a moment, then continued. "Not impossible, old friend. Not at all. Shepherd merely took advantage of his right as equal to appeal to us. He knew you would not act as your heart dictated, so he sent us copies."

Li Shai Tung stared back at him, astonished. Then they knew. ...

"And we agree." Wei Feng was smiling now. "Don't you see, Li Shai Tung. We agree with S/ith Shepherd's proposals. Our enemies have gone too far. To kill your son and take advantage from it—it was too much for any man to bear. And a T'ang is not just any man. A T'ang is one of Seven."

"And the Seven?"

Wei Feng looked about him, then back at Li Shai Tung. "In this the Seven shall do as Li Shai Tung decides."

AS THE DOOR at the far end of the room hissed open, steam billowed out into the corridor beyond. Berdichev shivered but stood straighter, his skin still tingling from the shower.

An armed guard stood there in the doorway, head bowed, a clean silk pau folded over one arm. Behind him stood two Han servants who, after a moment's hesitation, entered the room and began to dry Berdichev with soft towels. When they had done, he went over to the guard and took the full-length gown from him, pulling it on and tying it at the waist.

"You have my charm?"

The guard's head moved fractionally, but remained bowed. "I'm sorry, Excellency. I was given only the pau."

Berdichev huffed impatiently and looked up at the overhead camera. Moments later an official appeared at the far end of the corridor and hurried to him. The man bowed deeply, his face flushed with embarrassment, and held out one hand, offering the necklace.

"My humble apologies, Excellency. I did not understand."

Berdichev took the silver chain and fastened it about his neck, closing his hand over the smooth surface of the charm a moment. The impertinence of these little men, he thought, making a mental note of the official's number—so prominently displayed on his chest—before he waved him away. Then he waited as one of the two Han brought him antistatic slippers while the other combed and plaited his hair. Only then, when they were finished, did Director Clarac make his appearance.

Clarac embraced him lightly and then stepped back, smiling pleasantly, his appearance and manner the very model of elegance and charm. Berdichev smiled tightly and gave the barest of nods in response to Clarac's respectful bow. As ever, he was of two minds about Clarac's value to the project. He was a good front man, but the real work was done by his team of four assistants. Clarac had only to step out of line once and he would be out, family connections or no.

Clarac's voice oozed warmth and friendliness. "Soren! It's a real delight to have you here as our guest."

Yes, thought Berdichev; but I'm the last person you expected to see up here today. I bet you were shitting your elegant white pants when you heard I was here. Even so, Berdichev was impressed by what he had seen. The defenses about The New Hope left nothing to be desired. Nor had he had any reason to complain about the security measures surrounding visitors to the base. He had been forced to undergo the full body-search and decontamination procedure. And when he had tried to bully the guards into making an exception in his case, their officer had politely but firmly stated that there could be no exceptions— hadn't S/uh Berdichev insisted as much?

"Shih Clarac," he answered, distancing the man at once and subtly reminding him of their relative status. "I'm delighted to be here. But tell me, what are you doing about the spy camera?"

Clarac's momentary hesitation was telling. He was a man who prided himself on having everything at his fingertips, but he had not counted on Berdichev's directness. Clarac was used to social nicety. It was how he functioned. He approached such matters slowly, obliquely, over wine and sweetmeats. But Berdichev had no time for such "niceties."

"We know about the remote," Clarac answered, recovering quickly. "In fact, if you'll permit me, Shih Berdichev, I'll take you to our tracking room."

Berdichev nodded tersely and walked on, not waiting for Clarac, who had to hurry to catch up with him.

"And that gap in your defenses—the blind spot on darkside— how do you account for that?"

Clarac did not hesitate this time. "Our defense experts have assured me that nothing of any real size could get through undetected. The blind spot, as you call it, is a mere thirty degrees of arc. Our central sensors would detect any ship coming in from five thousand li out. In any case, no one would come from that direction. There's nothing out there. You would have to orbit the moon in a one-man craft to get into position. And who would do that?"

Berdichev stopped and stared at him a moment. "Even so—" "Besides which," Clarac added quickly, facing Berdichev, "there's the question of cost. To extend our defense satellite system to cover the darkside channel would cost a further one hundred and twenty million. The budget is already two hundred and eighty-five percent over original costings. Our investors are justifiably concerned."

"And if one man did just what you say is impossible and slipped in on the darkside?"

Clarac laughed. "If he did it would make no difference. Every air lock is linked to Central Security. There are seals at every level. And more than a thousand security men guarding the outer shell alone. The inner shell is a self-sufficient unit which can be cut off at once from the outer shell. As the engines and life-support systems are there, there's no possibility of them being under threat. No, the only way the Seven could get at The New Hope would be to try to blow it out of the sky from below. And we've designed our defense system to prevent just that possibility."

Berdichev sniffed, then, satisfied, nodded and began to walk on. Beside him Clarac began to talk about the progress they had made, the difficulties they had overcome, but Berdichev was hardly listening. He had seen the reports already. What he wanted were answers to some of the things they might not have thought of. He wanted to make certain for himself that nothing had been overlooked.

In the tracking room he took a seat at the desk and listened while Clarac explained the system. But all the time he was looking about him, noting things.

Interrupting Clarac he pointed to the screen which showed the remote spy camera. "You're certain it's not a weapon?"

Clarac laughed. A laugh which, to Berdichev's ear, was just a touch too self-confident.

"WeVe scanned it thoroughly, of course. There's an engine unit at the back of it and a whole system of foils and antijamming devices, and though the central core of it is lead screened, our experts have calculated that there's barely enough room for the camera unit, let alone any kind of weaponry." "Unless theyVe developed something new, eh?" Clarac looked at him and gave a slight bow, understanding that he would be allowed nothing today. He would need answers for everything.

"I've assumed that that might be the case. Which is why I personally ordered that the thing should be tracked twenty-four hours a day. IVe two lasers trained on the aperture constantly. At the smallest sign of unusual activity they'll blow the thing apart." "Before it can damage The New Hope?" "The lasers are set for automatic response. The remote would be blasted out of the sky in less than a fiftieth of a second."

Berdichev turned his head and looked at Clarac, for the first time letting a brief smile signal his satisfaction.

"Good. I want nothing to stop The New Hope from making its maiden flight three months from now."

He saw the surprise on Clarac's face, followed an instant later by a broad smile of unfeigned delight. "But that's excellent, Shih Berdichev! That's marvelous news! When did the Seven agree to this?"

"They haven't. But they will. Very soon now. By the week's end there will be a proposal in the House. We're going to push them on this one, Clarac. We're going to make them fulfill the promises they made three years ago. And then we'll push some more. Until there's a whole fleet of these ships. You understand me? But this is the first, the most important of them. The New Hope will break their stranglehold. They know that and they'll try to prevent it—but we must preempt their every move. That's why it's so important things are right up here. That's why I came to see things for myself."

Clarac bowed. "I understand, Shih Berdichev. You think, then, that we should extend the satellite system?"

Berdichev shook his head. "No. I'm satisfied with your reasoning. As you say, it would be impossible for a single man to do any real damage to the craft. Let us worry about more direct approaches, eh? And for a start let's destroy that remote. I'm sure one of our ferry craft could have a little accident, eh? A technical malfunction, perhaps, that would place it oh a collision course?"

Clarac smiled. "Of course, Shih Berdichev. It shall be done at

F EI YEN stood in the shade of the willow, waiting for the two princes to come along the path that led to the bridge. She had seen their craft land only minutes earlier and had placed herself deliberately here where they would have to pass her. Her maids stood off at a slight distance, among the trees, talking quietly among themselves and pretending not to watch her, but she knew they were as inquisitive as she. For the past three years they had shared her tedious exile on her father's estate, where she had seen no one but her brothers and aunts. Today, however, for the first time since the period of mourning had ended, she had been granted permission to call upon the young prince—to stay a week and celebrate his birthday.

Seeing movement among the trees at the far end of the stone-flagged path, she turned and signaled to the maids to be quiet. "Here they come!" she mimed exaggeratedly.

The maids giggled, then, obedient, fell silent.

Fei Yen turned back to watch the two young men approach. But as they came closer she drew her sandalwood fan and waved it impatiently, certain there must be a mistake. Where was Tao Chu? Where was Tsu Ma's strapping young nephew?

She saw the taller of the boys hesitate, then touch the arm of the other and lean close to whisper something. The smaller of them seemed to stare at her a moment, then turn to the other and nod. Only then did the older boy come on.

Three paces from her he stopped. At first she didn't recognize him, he was so much taller, so much gawkier, than she had seen him last.

"Li Yuan?"

Li Yuan swallowed and then bowed; an awkward, stilted movement that betrayed his unease. When he straightened up and looked at her again she saw his face was scarlet with embarrassment. His lips moved as if he was about to say something, but he had not formed the words when she interrupted him.

"Where is Tao Chu? I was told Tao Chu would be with you."

There were giggles from the trees behind her, and she turned sharply, furious with her maids, then turned back in time to see Li Yuan summon the small boy forward.

"Fei Yen?" said the boy, bowing elegantly like a tiny courtier. Then, in a lilting yet hesitant voice that betrayed his unfamil-iarity with English, he added, "I am most honored to meet you, Lady Fei. My uncle told me you were beautiful, but he did not tell me how beautiful."

She laughed, astonished. "And who have I the pleasure of addressing?"

The boy bowed again, enjoying her astonishment in the same way he had enjoyed the applause of the T'ang earlier that day when he had played Tsu Tiao. "I am Tsu Tao Chu, son of Tsu Wen, and third nephew of the Tang, Tsu Ma."

The fan that she had been waving stopped in midmotion and clicked shut. "Tao Chu?" She laughed—a different, shorter laugh, expressing a very different kind of surprise—then shook her head. "Oh, no. I mean, you can't be. I was told . . ."

Then she understood. She heard the giggling from the trees topple over into laughter. Flushing deeply, she lowered her head slightly. "Tsu Tao Chu. I—I'm delighted to meet you. Forgive me if I seemed confused. I..." Then, forgetting her disappointment, she too burst into laughter.

"What is it?" asked the eight-year-old, delighted that he had somehow managed to amuse this mature woman of nineteen.

"Nothing," she said quickly, fanning herself and turning slightly, so that the shadow of the willow hid her embarrass' ment. "Nothing at all." She turned quickly to Li Yuan, rinding it easier, suddenly, to talk to him. "Li Yuan, forgive me. My father, Yin Tsu, sends his deep regards and best wishes on your forthcoming birthday. I have come on his behalf to celebrate the day."

Li Yuen's smile was unexpectedly warm. Again he bowed, once more coloring from neck to brow. His awkwardness made her remember the last time they had met—that time he had come to her and cried upon her shoulder, four days after Han Ch'in's death. Then, too, his reaction had been unexpected. Then, too, he had seemed to shed a skin.

"I— I—" He stuttered, then looked down, seeming almost to laugh at himself. "Forgive me, Fei Yen. I was not told you were coming."

She gave the slightest bow. "Nor I until this morning."

He looked up at her, a strange expectation in his eyes. "Will you be staying long?"

"A week." She turned and signaled to her maids, who at once came out from beneath the trees and hurried along the path to her. Then, turning back to the two boys, she added, "We had best be getting back, don't you think? They'll be expecting us in the house." And then, before they could answer, she had turned away and was heading back toward the bridge.

Li Yuan stood there a while, watching her go. Only when he turned to speak to Tao Chu did he realize how avidly the boy was studying him.

"What are you staring at, Squib?" he said, almost angrily, conscious that his cheeks were warm for the third time that afternoon.

"At you, Great Yuan," answered Tao Chu with a mock earnestness that made Li Yuan relent. Then, in a softer voice, the small boy added, "You love her, don't you?"

Li Yuan laughed awkwardly then turned and looked back up the path. "What does it matter? She was my brother's wife."

THE OVERSEER'S House dominated the vast plain of the East European plantation. Three tiers high, its roof steeply pitched, it rested on stilts over the meeting point of the two broad irrigation canals that ran north-south and east-west, feeding the great latticework of smaller channels. To the south lay the workers' quarters; long, low huts that seemed embedded in the earth. To the north and east were storehouses; huge, covered reservoirs of grain and rice. West, like a great wave frozen at its point of turning under, lay the City, its walls soaring two U into the heavens.

Now it was late afternoon and the shadow of the Overseer's House lay like a dark, serrated knife on the fields to the east. There, in the shadow, on a bare earth pathway that followed the edge of one of the smaller north-south channels, walked three men. One walked ahead, alone and silent, his head down, his drab brown clothes with their wide, short trousers indicative of his status as field-worker. The two behind him joked and laughed as they went along. Their weapons—lethal deng rifles, "lantern guns"—slung casually over their shoulders. They were more elegantly dressed, the kingfisher blue of their jackets matching the color of the big sky overhead. These were the Overseer's men, Chang Yan and Teng Fu; big, brutal men who were not slow to chastise their workers and beat them if they fell behind with quotas.

"What does he want?" Teng asked, lifting his chin slightly to indicate the man plodding along in front of them, but meaning the Overseer when he said "he." No one requested to see the Overseer. He alone chose who came to see him.

"The man's a thief," said Chang. He spat out into the channel, below and to his left, and watched the off-white round of spittle drift away slowly on the water. Then he looked back at Teng. "One of the patrol cameras caught him in the Frames making harvest."

The Frames were where they grew the special items; strawberries and lychees, pineapples and oranges, grapes and peaches, cherries and almonds, pears and melons.

"Stupid," Teng said, looking down and laughing. "These peasant types—they're all stupid."

Chang shrugged. "I don't know. I thought this one was different. He was supervisor. A trusted man. We'd had no trouble with him before."

"They're all trouble," said Teng, scratching his left buttock vigorously. "Stupid and trouble. It's genetic. That's what it is."

Chang laughed. "Maybe so."

They had come to a bridge. The first man had stopped, his head still bowed, waiting for the others. He was forbidden to cross the bridge without a permit.

"Get on!" said Teng, drawing the long club from his belt and jabbing the man viciously in the small of the back. "The Over-seer wants to see you. Don't keep him waiting, now!"

The man stumbled forward onto the bridge, then got up and trudged on again, wiping his dirtied hands against his thighs as he went and glancing up briefly, fearfully, as the big House loomed over him.

More guards lounged at the foot of the steps. One of them, a tall Hung Mao, sat apart from the rest, looked up as the three men approached, then, with the vaguest movement of his head to indicate that they should go on up, looked back down at the rifle in his lap, continuing his meticulous inspection of the weapon.

"Good day, ShzH Peskova," said Teng, acknowledging the Overseer's lieutenant with a bow. But Peskova paid him no attention. Teng was Han and Han were shit. It didn't matter whether they were guard or peasant. Either way they were shit. Hadn't he heard as much from The Man himself often enough?

When they had gone, Peskova turned and looked up at the House again. He would have to watch that Teng. He was getting above himself. Thinking himself better than the other men. He would have to bring him down a level. Teach him better manners.

With a smile he put the rifle down and reached for the next in the stack at his side. Yes, it would be fun to see the big Han on his knees and begging. A lot of fun.

OVER SHER BERGSON looked across as the three men entered.

"What is it, Teng Fu?"

The big Han knelt in the doorway and bowed his head. "We have brought the man you asked for, Overseer."

Bergson turned from the bank of screens that took up one whole wall of the long room and got up from his chair. "You can go, Teng Fu. You, too, Chang Yan. I'll see to him myself."

When they were gone and he was alone with the field supervisor, Bergson came across and stood there, no more than an arm's length from the man.

"Why did you do it, Field Supervisor Sung?"

The man swallowed, but did not lift his head. "Do what, Shih Bergson?"

Bergson reached out almost tenderly and took the man's cheek between the fingers of his left hand and twisted until Sung fell to his feet, whimpering in pain.

"Why did you do it, Sung? Of do you want me to beat the truth out of you?"

Sung prostrated himself, holding on to Bergson's feet. "I could not bear it any longer, Overseer. There is barely enough to keep a child alive, let alone men and women who have to toil in the fields all day. And when I heard the guards were going to cut our rations yet again . . ."

Bergson stepped back, shaking Sung's hands off. "Barely enough? What nonsense is this, Sung? Isn't it true that the men steal from the rice fields? That they eat much of the crop they are supposed to be harvesting?"

Sung started to shake his head, but Bergson brought his foot down firmly on top of his left hand and began to press down. "Tell me the truth, Sung. They steal, don't they?"

Sung cried out, then nodded his head vigorously. "It is so, Shih Bergson. There are many who do as you say."

Bergson slowly brought his foot up, then stepped away from Sung, turning his back momentarily, considering.

"And you stole because you had too little to eat?"

Sung looked up, then quickly looked back down, keeping his forehead pressed to the floor. "No ... I..."

"Tell me the truth, Sung!" Bergson barked, turning sharply. "You stole because you were hungry, is that it?"

Sung miserably shook his head. "No, Shih Bergson. I have enough."

"Then why? Tell me why."

Sung shuddered. A sigh went through him like a wave. Then,

resigned to his fate, he began to explain. "It was my wife, Overseer. She is a kindly woman, you understand. A good woman. It was her suggestion. She saw how it was for the others: that they were suffering while we, fortunate as we were, had enough. I told her we could share what we had, but she would not have it. I pleaded with her not to make me do as she asked. . . ."

"Which was?"

"I stole, Overseer. I took fruit from the Frames and gave it to the others."

Bergson laughed coldly. "Am I meant to believe this, Sung? An honest thief? A charitable thief? A thief who sought no profit from his actions?"

Sung nodded his head once but said nothing.

Bergson moved closer. "I could have you flogged senseless for what you did, Sung. Worse, I could have you thrown into the Clay. How would you like that, Field Supervisor Sung? To be sent into.the Clay?"

Sung stared up at Bergson, his terror at the thought naked in his eyes. "You'd not do that, Shih Bergson. Please. I beg you. Anything but that."

Bergson was silent a moment. He turned and went across to the desk. When he returned he was holding a thin card in one hand. He knelt down and held it in front of Sung's face a moment.

"Do you know what this is, Sung?"

Sung shook his head. He had never seen the like of it. It looked like a piece of Above technology—something they never saw out in the fields—but he would not have liked to have guessed just what.

"This here, Sung, is the evidence of your crime. It's a record of the hour you spent harvesting in the Frames. A hidden camera took a film of you."

Again Sung shuddered. "What do you want, Shih Bergson?"

Bergson smiled and slipped the thin sliver of ice into his jacket pocket, then stood up again. "First I want you to sit down over here and write down the names of all those who shared the stolen fruit with you."

Sung hesitated, then nodded. "And then?"

"Then you'll go back to your barracks and send your wife to me."

Sung stiffened but did not look up. "My wife, Overseer?"

"The good woman. You know, the one who got you into all this trouble."

Sung swallowed. "And what will happen to my wife, Shih Bergson?"

Bergson laughed. "If she's good—if she's very good to me— then nothing. You understand? In fact—and you can tell her this—if she's exceptionally good I might even give her the tape. Who knows, eh, Sung?"

Sung looked up, meeting Bergson's cold gray eyes for the first time in their interview, then looked down again, understanding perfectly.

"Good. Then come. There's paper here and ink. You have a list of names to write."

SHE CAME when it was dark. Peskova took her up to the top room—the big room beneath the eaves—and locked her in as he had been told to. Then he went, leaving the House empty but for the woman and the Overseer.

For a time DeVore simply watched her, following her every movement with the hidden cameras, switching from screen to screen, zooming in to focus on her face or watching her from the far side of the room. Then, when he was done with that, he nodded to himself and blanked the screens.

She was much better than he had expected. Stronger, prettier, more attractive than he'd anticipated. He had thought beforehand that he would have to send her back and deal with Sung some other way, but now he had seen her he felt the need in him, like a strong, dark tar in his blood, and knew he would have to purge himself of that. He had not had a woman for weeks—not since that last trip 'to the Wilds—and that had been a singsong girl, all artifice and expertise. No, this would be different; something to savor.

Quickly he went to the wall safe at the far end of the room and touched the combination. The door irised open and he reached inside, drawing out the tiny vial before the door closed up again.

He hesitated a moment, then gulped the drug down, feeling its warmth sear his throat and descend quickly to his stomach. It would be in his blood in minutes.

He climbed the stairs quickly, almost eagerly now, but near the top he slowed, calming himself, waiting until he had complete control. Only then did he reach out and thumb the lock.

She turned, surprised. A big woman, bigger than her husband, nothing cowed or mean about the way she stood. You married below yourself, DeVore thought at once, knowing that Sung would never have made Field Supervisor without such a woman to push him from behind.

Her bow was hesitant. "Overseer?"

He closed the door behind him then turned back to her, trying to gauge her response to him. Would she do as he wanted? Would she try to save her husband? She was here. That, at least, augured well. But would she be compliant? Would she be exceptionally good to him?

"You know why you're here?" he asked, taking a step closer to her.

Her eyes never left him. "I'm here because my husband told me to be here, Shth Bergson."

DeVore laughed. "From what I'm told old Sung is a docile man. He does what he's told. Am I wrong in thinking that? Does Sung roar like a lion within his own walls?"

She met his gaze fiercely, almost defiantly, making the blood run thicker, heavier, in his veins. "He is my husband and I a dutiful wife. He wished me here, so here I am."

DeVore looked down, keeping the smile from his face. He had not been wrong. She had spirit. He had seen that when he had been watching her; had seen how she looked at everything with that curious, almost arrogant stare of hers. She had strength. The strength of twenty Sungs.

He took another step then shook his head. "You're wrong, you know. You're here because I said you should be here."

She did not answer him this time, but stared back at him almost insolently, only a slight moistening of her lips betraying her nervousness.

"What's your name, Sung's wife?"

She looked away, then looked back at him, as if to say, Don't toy with me. Do what you are going to do and kt me be.

"Your name?" he insisted, his voice harder now.

"My name is Si Wu Ya," she answered proudly.

This time he smiled. Si Wu Ya. Silk Raven. He looked at her and understood why her parents had given her the name. Her hair was beautifully dark and lustrous. "Better an honest raven than a deceitful magpie, eh?" he said, quoting the old Han adage.

"What do you want me to do?"

He shook his head. "Don't be impatient, Si Wu Ya. We'll come to that. But tell me this—is Sung a good man? Is he good in bed? Does he make you sing out with pleasure?"

He saw how she bridled at the question, but saw also how the truth forbade her to say yes. So, Sung was a disappointment. Well, he, DeVore, would make her sing tonight. Of that he had no doubt. He took a step toward her, then another, until he stood before her, face to face.

"Is he hard like bamboo, or soft like a rice frond? Tell me, Si Wu Ya. I'd like to know."

For a moment her eyes flared with anger, but then she seemed to laugh deep inside herself and her eyes changed, their anger replaced by a hard amusement. "Don't mock me, Shih Bergson. I'm here, aren't I? Do what you want. I'll be good to you. I'll be very good. But don't mock me."

He looked back at her a moment, then reached down and took her left hand in his own, lifting it up to study it. It was a big, strong hand, roughly callused from field-work, but she had made an effort. It was clean and the nails were polished a deep brown.

He met her eyes again. "My friends tell me you Han women wear no underclothes. Is it true?"

In answer she took his hand and placed it between her legs. His fingers met the soft, masking texture of cloth, but beneath them he could feel her warmth', the firm softness of her sex.

"Well?" she asked, almost smiling now, determined not to be cowed by him.

"Strip off," he said, standing back a pace. "I want to see what you look like."

She shrugged, slipped the one-piece off, and kicked off her briefs, then stood there, her hands at her sides, making no effort to cover her nakedness.

DeVore walked around her, studying her. She was a fine woman, unspoiled by childbirth, her body hardened by field-work. Her breasts were large and firm, her buttocks broad but not fat. Her legs were strongly muscled yet still quite shapely, her stomach flat, her shoulders smooth. He nodded, satisfied. She would have made a good wife for a Tang, let alone a man like Sung.

"Good. Now over there."

She hesitated, her eyes showing a momentary unease, then she did as she was told, walking over to the corner where he had indicated. He saw how she looked about her; how her eyes kept going to the saddle. As if she knew.

"What do you want me to do?"

DeVore smiled coldly. He had watched her earlier. Had seen, through the camera's hidden eye, how fascinated she had been with the saddle. Had witnessed her puzzlement and then her shocked surprise as she realized what it was.

It was a huge thing, almost half a man's height and the same in length. At first glance it could be mistaken for an ornately carved stool, its black and white surfaces for a kind of sculpture. And in a way it was. Ming craftsmen had made the saddle more than seven hundred years before, shaping ivory and wood to satisfy the whim of a bored nobleman.

"Have you seen my saddle?" he asked her.

She watched him, eyes half lidded now, and nodded.

"It was a custom of your people, you know. They would place a saddle in the gateway to the parental home before the bride and bridegroom entered it."

She wet her lips. "What of it?"

He shrugged. "An it was. A saddle. An. Almost the same sound as for peace."

He saw her shiver, yet the room was warm.

"Have you studied my saddle?"

She nodded briefly.

"And did it amuse you?"

"You're mocking me again, Shih Bergson. Is that what you want me to do? To play that game with you?"

He smiled. So she had worked it out. He went across and stood there beside the saddle, smoothing his hand over its finely polished surfaces. What at first seemed a mere tangle of black and white soon resolved itself. Became a man and woman locked in an embrace that was, some said, unnatural; the man's head buried between the woman's legs, the woman's head between the man's.

He looked across at her, amused. "Have you ever done that with Sung?"

She blinked. Then, unexpectedly, she shook her head.

"Would you like to do that, now, with me?"

He waited, watching her like a hawk watching its prey. Again she hesitated, then she nodded.

"You think you'd like it, don't you?"

This time she looked away, for the first time the faintest color appearing at her neck.

Ah, he thought. Now I have you. Now I know your weakness. You are dissatisfied with Sung. Perhaps you're even thinking what this might lead to. You've ambitions, Si Wu Ya. For all your social conscience you're a realist. And, worse for you, you enjoy sex. You want to be made love to. You want the excitement that I'm offering here.

"Come here."

He saw how her breathing changed. Her nipples were stiff now and the color had not left her neck. Slowly, almost fearful now, she came to him.

He took her hand again, guiding it down within the folds of his pau, then heard her gasp as her hand closed on him; saw her eyes go down and look.

DeVore laughed, knowing the drug would last for hours yet— would keep him at this peak until he had done with her. He leaned closer to her, drawing her nearer with one hand, his voice lowering to a whisper.

"Was he ever this hard, Si Wu Ya? Was he ever this hot?"

Her eyes went to his briefly, the pupils enlarged, then returned to the splendor she held. Unbid, she knelt and began to stroke him and kiss him. He put his hands on her shoulders now, forcing her to take him in her mouth, her whole body shudderr ing beneath his touch, a soft moaning in her throat. Then he pushed her off, roughly, almost brutally, and moved away from her.

She knelt there, her breasts rising and falling violently, her eyes wide, watching him. Almost. She was almost ready. One more step. One more step and she would be there.

He threw off the pau and stood there over her, naked, seeing how eagerly she watched him now. How ready she was for him to fuck her. With one foot he pushed her back, then knelt and spread her legs, watching her all the while, one hand moving between her legs, seeing how her eyes closed, how her breath caught with the pleasure of it.

"Gods," she moaned, reaching up for him. "Goddess of mercy, put it there! Please, Shih Bergson! Please put it there!"

His fingers traced a line from her groin up to her chin, forcing her to look back at him.

"Not like this," he said, putting her hands on him again. "I know a better way. A much, much better way than this."

Quickly he led her to the saddle, pushing her face down onto its hard, smooth surface, his hands caressing her intimately all the while, keeping her mind dark, her senses inflamed. Then, before she realized what was happening, he fastened her in the double stirrups, binding her hands and feet.

He stood back, looking at his handiwork, then crossed to the wall and switched off all the lights but one—the spot that picked out her naked rump.

She was shaking now. He could see the small movement of the muscles at the top of her legs. "What's happening?" she asked in a tiny, sobered voice. "What are you doing?"

He went over to her and placed his hand on the small of her back, running his fingers down the smooth channel that ended in the tight hole of her anus, feeling her shudder at his touch.

Pleasure or fear? he wondered. Did she still believe it would all turn out all right?

The thought almost made him laugh. She had mistaken him. She had thought he wanted ordinary satisfactions.

He reached beneath the saddle and dipped his fingers in the shelf of scented unguents, then began to smear them delicately about the tiny hole, pushing inward, the unguents working their magic spell, making the muscles relax.

He felt her breathing change again, anticipating pleasure; knew, without looking, that she would have been newly aroused by his ministrations; that her nipples would be stiff, her eyes wide with expectation.

He reached under the saddle a second time and drew out the steel-tipped phallus that was attached by a chain to the pommel. The chain was just long enough. Longer and there would not be that invigorating downward pull—that feeling of restraint— shorter and penetration would not be deep enough to satisfy. He smiled, holding the hollowed column lovingly between his hands and smoothing his fingers over the spiraling pattern of the wu-tu, the "five noxious creatures"—toad, scorpion, snake, centipede, and gecko—then drew it on, easing himself into its oiled soft-leather innards and fastening its leather straps about his waist.

For a moment he hesitated, savoring the moment, then centered the metal spike and pushed. His first thrust took her by surprise. He felt her whole body stiffen in shock, but though she gasped, she did not cry out.

Brave girl, he thought, but that's not what you're here for. You're not here to be brave. You're here to sing for me.

The second thrust tore her. He felt the skin between her anus and vagina give like tissue and heard her cry out in agony.

"Good," he said, laughing brutally. "That's good. Sing out, Si Wu Ya! It's good to hear you sing out."

He thrust again.

When he was done he unstrapped himself, then took one of the white sheets from the side and threw it over her, watching as the blood spread out from the center of the white; a doubled circle of redness that slowly formed into an ellipse.

Hearing her moan, he went around and knelt beside her, lifting her face gently, almost tenderly, and kissing her brow, her nose, her lips.

"Was that good, Si Wu Ya? Was it hard enough for you?" He laughed softly, almost lovingly. "Ah, but you were good, Si Wu Ya. The best yet. And for that you'll have your tape. But later,

eh? In the morning. WeVe a whole night ahead of us. Plenty of time to olav our game again."

SUNG WAS kneeling on the top of the dike, staring across at the House as the dawn broke. He was cold to the bone and his clothes were wet through, but still he knelt there, waiting.

He had heard her cries in the night. Had heard and felt his heart break inside his chest. Had dropped his head, knowing, at last, how small he was, how powerless.

Now, as the light leached back into the world, he saw the door open at the head of the steps and a figure appear.

"Si Wu Ya...." he mouthed, his lips dry, his heart, which had seemed dead in him, pounding in his chest. He went to get up but his legs were numb from kneeling and he had to put his hand out to stop himself from tumbling into the water far below. But his eyes never left her distant, shadowed figure, seeing at once how slowly she moved, how awkwardly, hobbling down the steps one by one, stopping time and again to rest, her whole body crooked, one hand clutching the side rail tightly, as if she'd fall without it.

He dragged himself back, anxious now, and began to pound the life back into his legs. Once more he tried to stand and fell back, cursing, almost whimpering now in his fear for her. "Si Wu Ya," he moaned, "Si Wu Ya."

Once more he tried to stand, gritting his teeth, willing his muscles to obey him. For one moment he almost fell again, then he thrust one leg forward, finding his balance.

"Si Wu Ya____" he hissed. "Si Wu Ya____"

Forcing his useless legs to work he made his way to the bridge, awkwardly at first, hobbling, as if in some grotesque mimicry of his wife, then with more confidence as the blood began to flow, his muscles come alive again.

Then, suddenly, he was running, his arms flailing wildly, his bare feet thudding against the dark earth. Until he was standing there, before her, great waves of pain and fear, hurt and anger, washing through him like a huge black tide.

He moaned, his voice an animal cry of pain. "What did he do, Si Wu Ya? Gods save us, what did he do?"

She stared back at him almost sightlessly.

"Your face ..." he began, then realized that her face was unmarked. The darkness was behind her eyes. The sight of it made him whimper like a child and fall to his knees again.

Slowly, each movement a vast, unexplored continent of pain, she pushed out from the steps and hobbled past him. He scrambled up and made to help her but she brushed him off, saying nothing, letting the cold emptiness of her face speak for her.

On the narrow bridge he stood in front of her again, blocking her way, looking back past her at the House.

Til kill him."

For the first time she seemed to look at him. Then she laughed; her laughter so cold, so unlike the laughter he had known from her, that it made his flesh tingle with fear.

"He'd break you, little Sung. He'd eat you up and spit you out."

She leaned to one side and spat. Blood. He could see it, even in this half-light. She had spat blood.

He went to touch her, to put his hands on her shoulders, but the look in her eyes warned him off. He let his arms fall uselessly.

"What did he do, Si Wu Ya? Tell me what he did."

She looked down, then began to move on, forcing him to move aside and let her pass. He had no will to stop her.

At the first of the smaller channels she turned and began to ease herself down the shallow bank, grunting, her face set against the pain she was causing herself. Sung, following her, held out his hand and for the first time she let him help her, gripping his hand with a force that took his breath, her fingers tightening convulsively with every little jolt she received.

Then she let go and straightened up, standing there knee deep in the water at the bottom of the unlit channel, the first light lying like a white cloth over the latticework of the surrounding fields, picking out the channel's lips, the crouching shape of Sung. The same clear light that rested in the woman's long dark hair like a faintly jeweled mist.

She looked up at him. "Have you your torch, Sung?"

He nodded, not understanding why she should want it, but took it from his pocket and, edging down the bank, reached out and handed it to her, watching as she unscrewed the top, transforming it into a tiny cutting tool. Then she took something from the pocket of her one-piece. Something small enough to fold inside her palm.

The card. The tape that had the record of his theft. Sung swallowed and looked at her. So she had done it. Had saved them both. He shivered, wanting to go down to her, to stroke her and hold her and thank her, but what he wanted wasn't somehow right. He felt the coldness emanate from her, a sense of the vast distance she had traveled. It was as if she had been beyond the sky. Had been to the place where they said there was no air, only the frozen, winking nothingness of space. She had been there. He knew it. He had seen it in her eyes.

She put the card against the bank and played the cutting beam upon it. Once, twice, three times she did it, each time picking up the card and examining it. But each time it emerged unscathed, unmarked.

She looked up at him, that same cold distance in her eyes, then let the card fall from her fingers into the silt below the water. Yes, he thought, they'll not find it there. They could search a thousand years and they'd not find it.

But she had forgotten about the card already. She was bent down now, unbuttoning the lower half of her one-piece, her fingers moving gingerly, as if what she touched were flesh, not cloth.

"Come down," she said coldly, not looking at him. "You want to know what he did, don't you? Well, come and see. I'll show you what he did."

He went down and stood there, facing her, the water cold against his shins, the darkness all around them. He could see that the flap of cloth gaped open, but in the dark could make out no more than the vague shape of her legs, her stomach.

"Here." She handed him the two parts of the torch and waited for him to piece the thing together.

He made to shine the torch into her face, but she pushed his hand down. "No," she said. "Not there. Down here, where the darkness is."

He let her guide his hand, then tried to pull back as he saw what he had previously not noticed, but she held his hand there firmly, forcing him to look. Blood. The cloth was caked with her blood. Was stained almost black with it.

"Gods. . . ." he whispered, then caught his breath as the light moved across onto her flesh.

She had been torn open. From her navel to the base of her spine she had been ripped apart. And then sewn up. Crudely, it seemed, for the stitches were uneven. The black threads glistened in the torchlight, blood seeping from the wound where she had opened it again.

"There," she said, pushing the torch away. "Now you've seen."

He stood there blankly, not knowing what to say or do, remembering only the sound of her crying out in the darkness and how awful he had felt, alone, kneeling there on the dike, impotent to act.

"What now?" he asked.

But she did not answer him, only bent and lowered herself into the water, hissing as the coldness burned into the wound, a faint moan escaping through her gritted teeth as she began to wash.

AT DAWN on the morning of his twelfth birthday—in the official court annals his thirteenth, for they accorded with ancient Han tradition in calling the day of the child's birth its first "birth day"—Li Yuan was awakened by his father and, when he was dressed in the proper clothes, led down to the stables of the Tongjiang estate.

It was an informal ceremony. Even so, there was not one of the six hundred and forty-eight servants—man, woman, or girl— who was not present. Nor had any of the guests—themselves numbering one hundred and eighty—absented themselves on this occasion.

The grounds surrounding the stable buildings had been meticulously swept and tidied, the grooms lined up, heads bowed, before the great double doors. And there, framed in the open left-hand doorway of the stalls, was the T'ang's birthday gift to his son.

It was an Andalusian; a beauty of a horse, sixteen hands high and a perfect mulberry in color. It was a thick-necked, elegant beast, with the strong legs of a thoroughbred. It had been saddled up ready for him, and as Li Yuan stood there, it turned its head curiously, its large dark eyes meeting the Prince's as if it knew its new owner.

"You have ridden my horses for too long now," Li Shai Tung said to his son quietly. "I felt it was time you had your own."

Li Yuan went across to it and reached up gently, stroking its neck, its dappled flank. Then he turned and bowed to his father, a fleeting smile on his lips. The chief groom stood close by, the halter in his hand, ready to offer it to the Prince when he was ready. But when Li Yuan finally turned to him it was not to take the halter from him.

"Saddle up the Arab, Hung Feng-Chan."

The chief groom stared back at him a moment, open mouthed, then looked across at the T'ang as if to query the instruction. But Li Shai Tung stood there motionless, his expression unchanged. Seeing this, Hung Feng-Chan bowed deeply to his T'ang, then to the Prince, and quickly handed the halter to one of the nearby grooms.

When he had gone, Li Yuan turned back to his father, smiling, one hand still resting on the Andalusian's smooth, strong neck.

"He's beautiful, Father, and I'm delighted with your gift. But if I am to have a horse it must be Han Ch'in's. I must become my brother."

Throughout the watching crowd there was a low murmur of surprise, but from the T'ang himself there was no word, only the slightest narrowing of the eyes, a faint movement of the mouth. Otherwise he was perfectly still, watching his son.

The chief groom returned a minute later, leading the Arab. The black horse sniffed the air, and made a small bowing movement of its head, as if in greeting to the other horse. Then, just when it seemed to have settled, it made a sharp sideways movement, tugging against the halter. Hung Feng-Chan quieted the horse, patting its neck and whispering to it, then brought it across to where Li Yuan was standing.

This was the horse that General Tolonen had bought Han for his seventeenth birthday; the horse Han Ch'in had ridden daily until his death. A dark, spirited beast; dark skinned and dark natured, her eyes fiill of fire. She was smaller than the Andalu-sian by a hand, yet her grace, her power, were undeniable.

"Well, Father?"

All eyes were on the T'ang. Li Shai Tung stood there, bareheaded, a bright blue quilted jacket pulled loosely about his shoulders against the morning's freshness, one foot slightly be-fore the other, his arms crossed across his chest, his hands holding his shoulders. It was a familiar stance to those who knew him, as was the smile he now gave his son; a dark, ironic smile that seemed both amused and calculating.

"You must ride her first, Li Yuan."

Li Yuan held his father's eyes a moment, bowing, then he turned and, without further hesitation, swung up into the saddle. So far so good. The Arab barely had time to think before Li Yuan had leaned forward and, looping the reins quickly over his hands, squeezed the Arab's chest gently with both feet.

Li Yuan's look of surprise as the Arab reared brought gasps as well as laughter from all around. Only .the T'ang remained still and silent. Hung Feng-Chan danced around the front of the horse, trying to grab the halter, but Li Yuan shouted at him angrily and would have waved him away were he not clinging on dearly with both hands.

The Arab pulled and tugged and danced, moving this way and that, bucking, then skittering forward and ducking its head, trying to throw the rider from its back. But Li Yuan held on, his teeth gritted, his face determined. And slowly, very slowly, the Arab's movements calmed. With difficulty Li Yuan brought the Arab's head around and moved the stubborn beast two paces closer to the watching T'ang.

"Well, Father, is she mine?"

The T'ang's left hand went from his shoulder to his beard. Then he laughed; a warm, good-humored laugh that found its echo all around.

"Yes, Li Yuan. In name, at least. But watch her. Even your brother found her difficult."

THEY MET by accident, several hours later, in one of the bright, high-ceilinged corridors leading to the gardens.

"Li Yuan." Fei Yen bowed deeply, the two maids on either side of her copying her automatically.

The young Prince had showered and changed since she had last seen him. He wore red now, the color of the summer, his ma kua, the waist-length ceremonial jacket, a brilliant carmine, his loose silk trousers poppy, his suede boots a delicate shade of rose. About his waist he wore an elegant to. lien, or girdle pouch, the border a thick band of russet, the twin heart-shaped pockets made of a soft peach cloth, the details of trees, butterflies, and flowers picked out in emerald-green and blue and gold. On his head he wore a Ming-style summer hat, its inverted bowl lined with red fur and capped with a single ruby. Three long peacock feathers hung from its tip, reminder that Li Yuan was a royal prince.

"Fei Yen. . . ." It might only have been the light reflected from his costume, yet once again he seemed embarrassed by her presence. "I—I was coming to see you."

She stayed as she was, looking up at him from beneath her long black lashes, allowing herself the faintest smile of pleasure.

"I am honored, Li Yuan."

Fei Yen had dressed quite simply, in a peach ctii p'ao, over which she wore a long embroidered cloak of white silk, decorated with stylized bamboo leaves of blue and green and edged in a soft pink brocade that matched the tiny pink ribbons in her hair and set the whole thing off quite perfectly.

She knew how beautiful she looked. From childhood she had known her power over men. But this was strange, disturbing. It was almost as if this boy, this child . . .

Fei Yen rose slowly, meeting the Prince's eyes for the first time and seeing how quickly he redirected his gaze. Perhaps it was just embarrassment—the memory of how he had shamed himself that time when she had comforted him. Men were such strange, proud creatures. It was odd what mattered to them. Like Han Ch'in that time, when she had almost bettered him at archery. . . .

Li Yuan found his tongue again. But he could only glance at her briefly as he complimented her,

"May her name be preserved on bamboo and silk."

She laughed prettily at that, recognizing the old saying and pleased by his allusion to her cloak. "Why, thank you, Li Yuan. May the fifteen precious things be yours."

It was said before she fully realized what she had wished for him. She heard her maids giggle behind her and saw Li Yuan look down, the flush returning to his cheeks. It was a traditional good-luck wish, for long life and prosperity. But it was also a wish that the recipient have sons.

Her own laughter dispelled the awkwardness of the moment. She saw Li Yuan look up at her, his dark eyes strangely bright, and was reminded momentarily of Han Ch'in. As Han had been, so Li Yuan was now. One day he would be head of his family—a powerful man, almost a god. She was conscious of that as he stood there, watching her. Already, they said, he had the wisdom of an old man, a sage. Yet that brief reminder of her murdered husband saddened her. It brought back the long months of bitterness and loneliness she had suffered, shut away on her father's estate.

Li Yuan must have seen something of that in her face, for what he said next seemed to penetrate her mood, almost to read her thoughts.

"You were alone too long, Fei Yen."

It sounded so formal, so old-mannish, that she laughed. He frowned at her, not understanding.

"I mean it," he said, his face earnest. "It isn't healthy for a young woman to be locked away with old maids and virgins."

His candidness, and the apparent maturity it revealed, surprised and amused her. She had to remind herself again of his precocity. He was only twelve. Despite this she was tempted to flirt with him. It was her natural inclination, long held in check, and, after a moment's hesitation, she indulged it.

"I'm gratified to find you so concerned for my welfare, Li Yuan. You think I should have been living life to the full, then, and not mourning your brother?"

She saw immediately that she had said the wrong thing. She had misread his comment. His face closed to her and he turned away, suddenly cold, distant. It troubled her and she crossed the space between them, touching his shoulder. "I didn't mean . . ."

She stood there a moment, suddenly aware of how still he was. Her hand lay gently on his shoulder, barely pressing against him,

yet it seemed he was gathered there at the point of contact, his whole self focused in her touch. It bemused her. What was this?

She felt embarrassed, felt that she ought to remove her hand, but did not know how. It seemed that any movement of hers would be a snub.

Then, unexpectedly, he reached up and covered her hand with his own, pressing it firmly to his shoulder. "We both miss him," he said. "But life goes on. I, too, found the customs too— too strict."

She was surprised to hear that. It was more like something Han Ch'in might have said. She had always thought Li Yuan was in his father's mold. Traditional. Bound fast by custom.

He released her and turned to face her.

Li Yuan was smiling now. Once more she found herself wrong footed. What was happening? Why had his mood changed so quickly? She stared at him, finding the likeness to Han more prominent now that he was smiling. But then, Han had always been smiling. His eyes, his mouth, had been made for laughter.

She looked away, vaguely disturbed. Li Yuan was too intent for her taste. Like his father there was something daunting, almost terrible about him: an austerity suggestive of ferocity. Yet now, standing there, smiling at her, he seemed quite different— almost quite likable.

"It was hard, you know. This morning ... to mount Han's horse like that."

Again the words were unexpected. His smile faded, became a wistful, boyish expression of loss.

It touched her deeply. For the first time she saw through his mask of precocious intelligence and saw how vulnerable he was, how frail in spite of all. Not even that moment after Han's death had revealed that to her. Then she had thought it grief, not vulnerability. She was moved by her insight and, when he looked up at her again, saw how hurt he seemed, how full of pain his eyes were. Beautiful eyes. Dark, hazel eyes. She had not noticed them before.

Han's death had touched him deeply; she could see. He had lost far more than she. She was silent, afraid she would say the wrong thing, watching him, this man-boy, her curiosity aroused, her sympathies awakened.

He frowned and looked away.

"That's why I came to see you. To give you a gift."

"A gift?"

"Yes. The Andalusian."

She shook her head, confused. "But your father ..."

He looked directly at her now. "I've spoken to my father already. He said the horse is mine to do with as I wish." He bowed his head and swallowed. "So I'd like to give him to you. In place of the Arab."

She laughed shortly. "But the Arab was Han's, not mine."

"I know. Even so, I'd like you to have him. Han told me how much you enjoyed riding."

This time her laughter was richer, deeper, and when Li Yuan looked up again he saw the delight in her face.

"Why, Li Yuan, that's . . ." She stopped and simply looked at him, smiling broadly. Then, impulsively, she reached out and embraced him, kissing his cheek.

"Then you'll take him?" he whispered softly in her ear.

Her soft laughter rippled through him. "Of course, Li Yuan. And I thank you. From the bottom of my heart I thank you."

When she was gone he turned and looked after her, feeling the touch of her still, the warmth on his cheek where she had kissed him. He closed his eyes and caught the scent of her, mei hua— plum blossom—in the air and on his clothes where she had brushed against him. He shivered, his thoughts in turmoil, his pulse racing.

The plum. Ice-skinned and jade-boned. It symbolized winter and virginity. But its blossoming brought the spring.

"Mei hua. . . ." He said the words softly, like a breath, letting them mingle with her scent, then turned away, reddening at the thought that had come to mind. Mei hua. It was a term for sexual pleasure, for on the bridal bed were spread plum-blossom covers. So innocent a scent, and yet Shivering, he took a long, slow breath of her. Then he turned and hurried on, his fists clenched at his sides, his face the color of summer.

"There have been changes since you were last among us, Howard."

"So I see."

DeVore turned briefly to smile at Berdichev before returning his attention to the scene on the other side of the one-way mirror that took up the whole of one wall of the study.

"Who are they?"

Berdichev came up and stood beside him. "Sympathizers. Money men, mainly. Friends of our host, Douglas."

The room the two men looked into was massive; was more garden than room. It had been landscaped with low hills and narrow walks, with tiny underlit pools, small temples, carefully placed banks of shrub and stone, shady willows, cinnamon trees, and delicate uw-tong. People milled about casually, talking among themselves, eating and drinking. But there the similarities with past occasions ended. The servants who went among them were no longer Han. In fact, there was not a single Han in sight.

DeVore's eyes took it all in with great interest. He saw how, though they still wore silks, the style had changed; had been simplified. Their dress seemed more austere, both in its cut and in the absence of embellishment. What had been so popular only three years ago was now conspicuous by its absence. There were no birds or flowers, no dragonflies or clouds, no butterflies or pictograms. Now only a single motif could be seen, worn openly on chest or collar, on hems or in the form of jewelry, on pendants about the neck or emblazoned on a ring or brooch: the double helix of heredity. Just as noticeable was the absence of the color blue—the color of imperial service. DeVore smiled appreciatively; that last touch was the subtlest of insults.

"The Seven have done our work for us, Soren."

"Not altogether. We pride ourselves on having won the propaganda war. There are men out there who, three years ago, would not have dreamed of coming to a gathering like this. They would have been worried that word would get back—as, indeed, it does—and that the T'ang would act through his ministers to make life awkward for them. Now they have no such fears. We have educated them to the fact of their own power. They are many, the Seven few. What if the Seven close one door to them?—here, at such gatherings, a thousand new doors open."

"And The New Hope?"

Berdichev's smile stretched his narrow face against its natural grain. The New Hope was his brainchild. "In more than one sense it is our flagship. You should see the pride in their faces when they talk of it. We did this, they seem to be saying. Not the Han, but us, the Hung Mao, as they call us. The Europeans."

DeVore glanced at Berdichev. It was the second time he had heard the term. Their host, Douglas, had used it when he had first arrived. "We Europeans must stick together," he had said. And DeVore, hearing it, had felt he had used it like some secret password; some token of mutual understanding.

He looked about him at the decoration of the study. Again there were signs of change—of that same revolution in style that was sweeping the Above; The decor, like the dress of those outside, was simpler—the design of chairs and table less extravagant than it had been. On the walls, now, hung simple rural landscapes. Gone were the colorful historical scenes that had been so much in favor with the Hung Moo. Gone were the lavish screens a'nd bright floral displays of former days. But all of this, ironically, brought them only further into line with the real Han—the Families—who had always preferred the simple to the lavish, the harmonious to the gaudy.

These tokens of change, superficial as they yet were, were encouraging, but they were also worrying. These men—these Europeans—were not Han, nor had they ever been Han. Yet the Han had destroyed all that they had once been—had severed them from their cultural roots as simply and as thoroughly as a gardener might snip the stem of a chrysanthemum. The Seven had given them no real choice: they could be Han or they could be nothing. And to be nothing was intolerable. Now, however, to be Han was equally untenable.

DeVore shivered. At present their response was negative: a reaction against Han ways, Han dress, Han style. But they could not live like this for long. At length they would turn the mirror on themselves and find they had no real identity, no positive channel for their newborn sense of racial selfhood. The New Hope was a move to fill that vacuum, as was this term, European;

but neither was enough. A culture was a vast and complex thing and, like the roots of a giant tree, went deep into the dark, rich earth of time. It was more than a matter of dress and style. It was a way of thinking and behaving. A thing of blood and bone, not cloth and architecture.

Yes, they needed more than a word for themselves, more than a central symbol for their pride; they needed a focus— something to restore them to themselves. But what? What on earth could fill the vacuum they were facing? It was a problem they would need to address in the coming days. To ignore it would be fatal.

He went to the long table in the center of the room and looked down at the detailed map spread out across its surface.

"Has everyone been briefed?"

Berdichev came and stood beside him. "Not everyone. IVe kept the circle as small as possible. Douglas knows, of course. And Barrow. I thought your man, Duchek, ought to know, too, considering how helpful he's been. And then there's Moore and Weis."

"Anton Weis? The banker?"

Berdichev nodded. "I know what you're thinking, but he's changed in the last year or so. He fell out with old man Ebert. Was stripped by him of a number of important contracts. Now he hates the T'ang and his circle with an intensity that's hard to match."

"I understand. Even so, I'd not have thought him important enough."

"It's not him so much as the people he represents. He's our liaison with a number of interested parties. People who can't declare themselves openly. Important people."

DeVore considered a moment, then smiled. "Okay. So that makes seven of us who know."

"Eight, actually."

DeVore raised his eyebrows in query, but Berdichev said simply, "I'll explain later."

"When will they be here?"

"They're here now. Outside. They'll come in when you're ready for them."

DeVore laughed. "I'm ready now."

"Then I'll tell Douglas."

DeVore watched Berdichev move among the men gathered there in the garden room, more at ease now than he had ever been; saw, too, how they looked to him now as a leader, a shaper of events, and noted with irony how different that was from how they had formerly behaved. And what was different about the man? Power. It was power alone that made a man attractive. Even the potentiality of power.

He stood back, away from the door, as they filed in. Then, when the door was safely closed and locked, he came forward and exchanged bows with each of them. Seeing how closely Weis was watching him, he made an effort to be more warm, more friendly, in his greeting there, but all the while he was wondering just how far he could trust the man.

Then, without further ado, they went to the table.

The map was of the main landmass of City Europe, omitting Scandinavia, the Balkans, southern Italy, and the Iberian Peninsula. Its predominant color was white, though there was a faint, almost ivory tinge to it, caused by the fine yellow honeycombing that represented the City's regular shape—each tiny hexagon a hsien; an administrative district.

All Security garrisons were marked in a heavier shade of yellow, Bremen to the northwest, close to the coast, Kiev to the east, almost off the map, Bucharest far to the south; these three the most important of the twenty shown. Weimar, to the southeast of Bremen, was marked with a golden circle, forming a triangle with the Berlin garrison to the northeast.

Two large areas were marked in red, both in the bottom half of the map. One, to the left, straddled the old geographic areas of Switzerland and Austria; the other, smaller and to the right, traced the border of old Russia and cut down into Rumania. In these ancient, mountainous regions—the Alps and the Carpathians—the City stopped abruptly, edging the wilderness. They formed great, jagged holes'in its perfect whiteness.

Again in the top right-hand section of the map the dominant whiteness ceased abruptly in a line extending down from Danzig hsien to Poznan, and thence to Krakow and across to Lvov, ending on the shores of the Black Sea, at Odessa. This, shaded the soft green of springtime, was the great growing area, where the Hundred Plantations—in reality eighty-seven—were situated; an area which comprised some twenty-eight percent of the total landmass of City Europe. DeVore's own plantation was in the northwest of this area, adjoining the garrison at Lodz.

He let them study the map a while, accustoming themselves once again to its details, then drew their attention to the large red-shaded area to the bottom left of the map.

To him the outline of the Swiss Wilds always looked the same. That dark red shape was a giant carp turning in the water, its head facing east, its tail flicking out toward Marseilles hsien, its cruel mouth open, poised to eat Lake Balaton, which, like a tiny minnow, swam some three hundred It to the east. Seven of the great Security garrisons ringed the Wilds—Geneva, Zurich, Munich, and Vienna to the north, Marseilles, Milan, and Zagreb to the south. Strategically that made little sense, for the Wilds were almost empty, yet it was as if the City's architect had known that this vast, jagged hole—this primitive wilderness at the heart of its hivelike orderliness—would one day prove its weakest point. '

As, indeed, it would. And all the preparedness of architects would not prevent the City's fall. He leaned forward and jabbed his finger down into the red, at a point where the carp's backbone seemed to twist.

"Here!" he said, looking about him and seeing he had their attention. "This is where our base will be."

He reached into the drawer beneath the table and drew out the transparent template, then laid it down over the shaded area. At once that part of the map seemed to come alive; was overlaid with a fine web of brilliant gold, the nodes of which sparkled in the overhead light.

They leaned closer, attentive, as he outlined the details of his scheme. Three nerve centers, built deep into the mountainsides, joined to a total of eighteen other fortresses, each linked by discrete communication systems to at least two other bases, yet each capable of functioning independently. The whole thing hidden beneath layers of ice and rock, untraceable from the air: a flexible and formidable system of defenses from which they would launch their attack on the Seven. And the cost?

The cost they knew already. It was a staggering sum. Far more than any one of them could contemplate. But together . . .

DeVore looked from face to face, gauging their response, coming to Weis last of all.

"Well, Shih Weis? Do you think your backers would approve?"

He saw the flicker of uncertainty at the back of Weis's eyes, and smiled inwardly. The man was still conditioned to think like a loyal subject of the T'ang. Even so, if he could be pushed to persuade his backers . . .

DeVore smiled encouragingly. "You're happy with the way funds will be channeled through to the project, I assume?"

Weis nodded, then leaned forward, touching the template.

"This is hand drawn. Why's that?"

DeVore laughed. "Tell me, Shih Weis, do you trust all your dealings to the record?"

Weis smiled and others about the table laughed. It was a common business procedure to keep a single written copy of a deal until it was considered safe for the venture to be announced publicly. It was too easy to gain access to a company's computer records when everyone used the same communications web.

"You want the T'ang to know our scheme beforehand?"

Weis withdrew his hand, then looked at DeVore again and smiled. "I think my friends will be pleased enough, Major."

DeVore's face did not change immediately, but inwardly he tensed. It had been agreed beforehand that they would refer to him as Shih Scott. Weis, he was certain, had not forgotten that, nor had he mentioned his former Security rank without some underlying reason.

You're dead, thought DeVore, smiling pleasantly at the man as if amused by his remark. As soon as you're expendable, you're dead.

"I'm delighted, Shih Weis. Like yourself, they will be welcome anytime they wish to visit. I would not ask them to fund anything they cannot see with theif own eyes."

He saw the calculation at the back of Weis's eyes that greeted his comment—saw how he looked for a trap in every word of his—and smiled inwardly. At least the man was wise enough to know how dangerous he was. But his wisdom would not help him in this instance.

DeVore turned to Barrow. "And you, Under Secretary? Have you anything to add?"

Barrow had succeeded to Lehmann's old position, and while his contribution to this scheme was negligible, his role as leader of the Dispersionist faction in the House made his presence here essential. If he approved then First Level would approve, for he was their mouthpiece, their conscience in these times of change.

Barrow smiled sadly, then looked down. "I wish there were some other way, Shih Scott. I wish that pressure in the House would prove enough, but I am realist enough to know that change—real change—will only come now if we push from every side." He sighed. "Your scheme here has my sanction. My only hope is that we shall never have to use it against the Seven."

"And mine, Barrow Chen." DeVore assured him, allowing no trace of cynicism to escape into his voice or face. "Yet as you say, we must be realists. We must be prepared to use all means to further our cause. We Europeans have been denied too long."

Afterward, alone with Berdichev and Douglas, he talked of minor things, concealing his pleasure that his scheme had their sanction and—more important—their financial backing. Times have certainly changed, he thought, admiring a small rose quartz snuff bottle Douglas had handed him from a cabinet to one side of the study. Three years ago they would have hesitated before speaking against the Seven; now—however covertly—they sanction armed rebellion.

"It's beautiful," he said. And indeed it was. A crane, the emblem of long life, stood out from the surface of the quartz, flanked by magpies, signifying good luck; while encircling the top of the bottle was a spray of peonies, emblematic of spring and wealth. The whole thing was delightful, almost a perfect work of art, yet small enough to enclose in the palm of his hand.

"One last thing, Howard."

DeVore raised his head, aware of the slight hesitation in Berdichev's voice. "What is it? Is there a problem?"

"Yes and no. That is, there is only if you feel there's one."

DeVore set the rose quartz bottle down and turned to face his friend. "You're being unusually cryptic, Soren. Are we in danger?"

Berdichev gave a short laugh. "No. It's nothing like that. It's ... well, it's Lehmann's son."

DeVore was silent a moment. He looked at Douglas, then back at Berdichev. "Lehmann's son? I didn't know Pietr had a son."

"Few did. It was one of his best-kept secrets."

Yes, thought DeVore, it certainly was. I thought I knew everything about you all—every last tiny little, dirty little thing—but now you surprise me.

"Illegitimate, I suppose?"

Berdichev shook his head. "Not at all. The boy's his legal heir. On Lehmann's death he inherited the whole estate."

"Really?"

That, too, was news to him. He had thought Lehmann had died intestate—that his vast fortune had gone back to the Seven. It changed things dramatically. Lehmann must have been worth at least two billion yuan.

"It was all done quietly, of course, as Lehmann wished."

DeVore nodded, masking his surprise. There was a whole level of things here that he had been totally unaware of. "Explain. Lehmann wasn't even married. How could he have a son and heir?"

Berdichev came across and stood beside him. "It was a long time ago. Back when we were at college. Pietr met a girl there. A bright young thing, but unconnected. His father, who was still alive then, refused to even let Pietr see her. He threatened to cut him off without a yuan if he did."

"And yet he did, secretly. And married her."

Berdichev nodded. "I was one of the witnesses at the ceremony."

DeVore looked away thoughtfully; looked across at the window wall and at the gathering in the garden room beyond it. "What happened?"

For a moment Berdichev was quiet, looking back down the well of years to that earlier time. Then, strangely, he laughed; a sad, almost weary laugh. "You know how it is. We were young. Far too young. Pietr's father was right: the girl wasn't suitable. She ran off with another man. Pietr divorced her."

"And she took the child with her?"

The look of pain on Berdichev's face was unexpected. "No. It wasn't like that. You see, she was four months pregnant when they divorced. Pietr only found out by accident, when she applied to have the child aborted. Of course, the official asked for the father's details, saw there was a profit to be made from the information, and went straight to Lehmann."

DeVore smiled. It was unethical, but then so was the world. "And Pietr made her have the child?"

Berdichev shook his head. "She refused. Said she'd kill herself first. But Pietr hired an advocate. You see, by law the child was his. It was conceived within wedlock and while she was his wife any child of her body was legally his property."

"I see. But how did hiring an advocate help?"

"He had a restraining order served on her. Had her taken in to hospital and the fetus removed and placed in a MedFac nurture unit."

"Ah. Even so, I'm surprised. Why did we never see the child? Pietr's father died when he was twenty-three. There was no reason after that to keep things secret."

"No. I suppose not. But Pietr was strange about it. I tried to talk to him about it several times, but he would walk out on me. As for the boy, well, he never lived with his father, never saw him, and Pietr refused ever to see the child. He thought he would remind him too much of his mother."

DeVore's mouth opened slightly. "He loved her, then? Even after what she did?"

"Adored her. It's why he never married again, never courted female company. I think her leaving killed something in him."

"How strange. How very, very strange." DeVore looked down. "I would never have guessed." He shook his head. "And the son? How does he feel about his father?"

"I don't know. He's said nothing, and I feel it impertinent to ask."

DeVore turned and looked directly at Berdichev. "So what's the problem?"

"For the last three years the boy has been my ward. As Pietr's executor I've handled his affairs. But now he's of age."

"So?"

"So I'd like you to take charge of the boy for a while."

DeVore laughed, genuinely surprised by Berdichev's request. "Why? What are you up to, Soren?"

Berdichev shook his head. "I've nothing to do with this, Howard. It's what the boy wants."

"The boy. . . ." DeVore felt uncomfortable. He had been wrong footed too many times already in this conversation. He was used to being in control of events, not the victim of circumstance; even so, the situation intrigued him. What could the boy want? And, more to the point, how had he heard of him?

"Perhaps you should meet him," Berdichev added hastily, glancing across at Douglas as if for confirmation. "Then you might understand. He's not. . . well, he's not perhaps what you'd expect."

"Yes. Of course. When?"

"Would now do?"

DeVore shrugged. "Why not?" But his curiosity was intense now. Why should the boy be not what he'd expect? "Is there something I should know beforehand, Soren? Is there something strange about him?"

Berdichev gave a brief laugh. "You'll understand. You more than anyone will understand."

While Berdichev went to get the boy he waited, conscious of Douglas's unease. It was clear he had met the boy already. It was also clear that something about the young man made him intensely uncomfortable. He glanced at DeVore, then, making up his mind, gave a brief bow and went across to the door.

"I must be getting back, Howard. You'll forgive me, but my guests . . ."

"Of course." DeVore returned the bow, then turned, intrigued, wondering what it was about the boy that could so thoroughly spook the seemingly imperturbable Douglas.

He did not have long to wait for his answer.

"Howard, meet Stefan Lehmann."

DeVore shivered. Despite himself, "he felt an overwhelming sense of aversion toward the young man who stood before him. It wasn't just the shocking, skull-like pallor of his face and hair, nor the unhealthy pinkness of his eyes, both signs of albinism, but something to do with the unnatural coldness of the youth.

When he looked at you it was as if an icy wind blew from the far north. DeVore met those eyes and saw through them to the emptiness beyond. But he was thinking, Who are you? Are you really Lehmanris son? Were you really taken from your mother's womb and bred inside a nurture-unit until the world was ready for you?

Red in white, those eyes. Each eye a wild, dark emptiness amid the cold, clear whiteness of the flesh.

He stepped forward, offering his hand to the albino but looking at Berdichev as he did so. "Our eighth man, I presume."

"I'm sorry?" Then Berdichev understood. "Ah, yes, I said I'd explain, didn't I? But you're right, of course. Stefan was the first to be briefed. He insisted on it. After all, he's responsible for sixty percent of the funding."

DeVore looked down at the hand that held his own. The fingers were long, unnaturally thin, the skin on them so clear, it seemed he could see right through them to the bone itself. But the young man's grip was firm, his skin surprisingly warm.

He looked up, meeting those eyes again, suddenly curious; wanting to hear the boy speak.

"So. You want to stay with me a while?"

Stefan Lehmann looked at him—looked through him—then turned and looked across at Berdichev.'

"You were right, Uncle Soren. He's like me, isn't he?"

DeVore laughed, uncomfortable, then let go the hand, certain now. The boy's voice was familiar—unnaturally familiar. It was Pietr Lehmann's voice.

THE ALBINO was standing behind where he was sitting, studying the bank of screens, when Peskova came into the room. DeVore saw how his lieutenant hesitated-^-saw the flicker of pure aversion, quickly masked, that crossed his face—before he came forward.

"What is it, Peskova?"

DeVore sat back, his eyes narrowed.

Peskova bowed, then glanced again at the albino. "There's been unrest, Shih Bergson. Some trouble down on Camp Two."

DeVore looked down at the desk. "So?"

Peskova cleared his throat, self-conscious in the presence of the stranger. "It's the Han woman, Overseer. Sung's wife. She's been talking."

DeVore met his lieutenant's eyes, his expression totally unreadable. "Talking?"

Peskova swallowed. "I had to act, Shih Bergson. I had to isolate her from the rest."

DeVore smiled tightly. "That's fine. But you'll let her go now, eh? You'll explain that it was all a mistake."

Peskova's mouth opened marginally, then closed without a sound. Bowing deeply, and with one last, brief look at the albino, he turned and left, to do at once what the Overseer had ordered.

"Why did you tell him that?"

DeVore turned and looked at Lehmann's son. He was eighteen, but he seemed ageless, timeless. Like death itself.

"To make him do as I say, not as he thinks he should do."

"And the woman?"

DeVore smiled into that empty, masklike face. He had no need to answer. The boy knew already what would happen to the woman.

THE MOON was huge and monstrous in the darkness: a full, bright circle, like a blind eye staring down from nothingness. Si Wu Ya looked up at it and shivered, anxious now. Then, as the rope tightened again, tugging at her, she stumbled on, the tops of her arms chafing where the rope bit into them.

Ahead of her Sung was whimpering again. "Be quiet!" she yelled, angry with him for his weakness, but was rewarded with the back of Teng's hand. Then Teng was standing over her, his breathing heavy and irregular, a strange excitement in his face. Groaning, the pain in her lower body almost more than she could bear, she got to her feet, then spat blood, unable to put her hand up to her mouth to feel the damage he had done to her.

Ahead lay the water-chestnut fields, glimmering in the reflected light from Chung Kuo's barren sister.

We are cursed, she thought, staggering on, each step sending a jolt of pain through her frpm ass to abdomen. Even Teng and Chang. Even Peskova and that bastard Bergson. All cursed. Every last one of us. All of us fated to go this way; stumbling on in darkness, beneath the gaze of that cold, blind eye.

She tried to laugh but the sound died in her before it reached her lips. Then, before she realized it, they had stopped and she was pushed down to the ground next to Sung, her back to him.

She lay there, looking about her, the hushed voices of the four men standing nearby washing over her like the senseless murmur of the sea.

Smiling, she whispered to her husband. "The sea, Sung. I've never seen the sea. Never really seen it. Only on vidcasts. . . ."

She rolled over and saw at once that he wasn't listening. His eyes were dark with fear, his hands, bound at his sides like her own, twitched convulsively, the fingers shaking uncontrollably.

"Sung. . . ." she said, moved by the sight of him. "My sweet little Sung. . . ."

She wanted to reach out and hold him to her, to draw him close and comfort him, but it was too late now. All her love for him, all her anguish, welled up suddenly, overwhelming her.

"Kuan Yin!" she said softly, tearfully. "Oh, my poor Sung. I didn't mean to be angry with you. Oh, my poor, poor darling. I didn't mean—"

Teng kicked her hard in the ribs, silencing her.

"Which one first?"

The voice was that of the simpleton, Seidemann. Si Wu Ya breathed slowly, deeply, trying not to cry out again, letting the pain wash past her, over her; trying to keep her mind clear of it. In case. Just in case. . . .

She almost shook her head; almost laughed. In case of what? It was done with now. There was only pain ahead of them now. Pain and the end of pain.

Peskova answered. "The woman. We'll do the woman first."

She felt them lift her and take her over to the low stone wall beside the glimmering field of water chestnuts. The woman, she thought, vaguely recognizing herself in the words. Not Si Wu Ya now, no longer Silk Raven, simply "the woman."

She waited, the cold stone of the wall pushed up hard against her breasts, her knees pushing downward into the soft, moist loam, while they unfastened the rope about her arms. There was a moment's relief, a second or two free of pain, even of thought, then it began again.

Teng took one arm, Chang the other, and pulled. Her head went down sharply, cracking against the top of the wall, stunning her.

There was a cry followed by an awful groan, but it was not her voice. Sung had struggled to his feet and now stood there, only paces from where the Overseer's man Peskova was standing, a big rock balanced in both hands.

Sung made a futile struggle to free his arms, then desisted. "Not her," he pleaded. "Please gods, not her. It's me you want. I'm the thief, not her. She's done nothing. Nothing. Kill me, Peskova. Do what you want to me, but leave her be. Please gods, leave her be. . . ." His voice ran on a moment longer, then fell silent.

Teng began to laugh, but a look from Peskova silenced him. Then, with a final look at Sung, Peskova turned and brought the rock down on the woman's upper arm.

The cracking of the bone sounded clearly in the silence. There was a moment's quiet afterward, then Sung fell to his knees, vomiting.

Peskova stepped over the woman and brought the heavy stone down on the other arm. She was unconscious now. It was a pity, that; he would have liked to have heard her groan again, perhaps even to cry out as she had that night when The Man had played his games with her.

He smiled. Oh, yes, they'd all heard that. Had heard and found the echo in themselves. He looked across at Sung. Poor little Sung. Weak little Sung. All his talk meant nothing now. He was powerless to change things. Powerless to save his wife. Powerless even to save himself. It would be no fun killing him. No more fun than crushing a bug.

He brought the stone down once again; heard the brittle sound of bone as it snapped beneath the rock. So easy it was. So very, very easy.

Teng and Chang had stepped back now. They were no longer necessary. The woman would be going nowhere now. They watched silently as he stepped over her body and brought the stone down once again, breaking her other leg.

"That's her, then." Peskova turned and glanced at Sung, then looked past him at Seidemann. "Bring him here. Let's get it over with."

Afterward he stood there beside the wall, staring at Sung's body where it lay, facedown on the edge of the field of water chestnuts. Strange, he thought. It was just like a machine. Like switching off a machine.

For a moment he looked out across the water meadow, enjoying the night's stillness, the beauty of the full moon overhead. Then he heaved the stone out into the water and turned away, hearing the dull splash sound behind him.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

Casting a Spell out of Ice

KIM LAY on his back in the water, staring up at the ceiling of the pool. Stars hung like strung beads of red and black against the dull gold background, the five sections framed by Han pictograms. It was a copy of part of the ancient Tun Huang star map of A. D. 940. According to the Han it was the earliest accurate representation of the heavens; a cylindrical projection which divided the sky into twenty-eight slices—like the segments of a giant orange.

There was a game he sometimes played, floating there alone. He would close his eyes and clear his mind of everything but darkness. Then, one by one, he would summon up the individual stars from within a single section of the Tun Huang map; would set each in its true place in the heavens of his mind, giving them a dimension in time and space that the inflexibility—the sheer flatness—of the map denied them. Slowly he would build his own small galaxy of stars. Then, when the last of them was set delicately in place, like a jewel in a sphere of black glass, he would try to give the whole thing motion.

In his earliest attempts this had been the moment when the fragile sphere had shattered, as if exploded from within; but experiment and practice had brought him beyond that point. Now he could make the sphere expand or contract along the dimension of time; could trace each separate star's unique and unrepeated course through the nothingness he had created within his skull. It gave him a strong feel for space—for the relationships and perspectives of stars. Then, when he opened his eyes again, he would see—as if for real—the fine tracery of lines that linked the beadlike stars on the Tun Huang map, and could see, somewhere beyond the dull gold surface, where their real positions lay—out there in the cold, black eternity beyond the solar system.

Kim had cleared his mind, ready for the game, when he heard the doors at the far end of the pool swing open and the wet slap of bare feet on the tiles, followed moments later by a double splash. He knew without looking who it was, and when they surfaced, moments later, close to him, acknowledged them with a smile, his eyes still closed, his body stretched out in the water.

"Daydreaming?" It was Anton's voice.

"That's right," he said, assuming a relaxed, almost lazy tone of voice. He had told no one of his game, knowing how the other boys responded to the least sign of eccentricity. Both Anton and Josef were some three years older than he and shared a tutorial class with him, so they knew how brilliant he was; but brilliance inside the classroom was one thing, how one behaved outside it was another. Outside they took care to disguise all sign of what had brought them here.

At times Kim found this attitude perverse. They should be proud of what they were—proud of the gifts that had saved them from the Clay. But it was not so simple. At the back of it they were ashamed of what they were. Ashamed and guilty. They had survived, yes, but they knew that they were here on sufferance. At any moment they could be cast down again, into darkness. Or gassed, or simply put to sleep. That knowledge humbled them; bound them in psychological chains far stronger than any physical restraint. Outside the classroom they were rarely boastful.

"Are you going to see the film tonight?" Josef sculled backward with his hands, his head tilted back, his knees bent, experimenting with his balance in the water.

Kim lifted his head and looked back at his friend, letting his feet drift slowly down. He was nine now but, like all of them here, much smaller, lither, than normal boys his age. He combed his hair back with his fingers, then gave his head a tiny shake. "What film is it?"

Anton laughed. "What do you think?"

"Ah. . . ." Kim understood at once. They had been joking about it only yesterday. "Pan Chao. ..."

Pan Chao! It sometimes seemed as if half the films ever made had been about Pan Chao! He was the great hero of Chung Kuo—the soldier turned diplomat turned conqueror. In A.D. 73 he had been sent, with thirty-six followers, as ambassador to the king of Shen Shen in Turkestan. Ruthlessly defeating his rival for influence, the ambassador from the Hsiung Nu, he had succeeded in bringing Shen Shen under Han control. But this, his first triumph, was eclipsed by what followed. Over the next twenty-four years, by bluff and cunning and sheer force of personality, Pan Chao had brought the whole of Asia under Han domination. In A.D. 97 he had stood on the shore of the Caspian Sea, an army of seventy thousand vassals gathered behind him, facing the great Ta Ts'in, the Roman Empire. The rest was history, known to every schoolboy.

For a moment the three boys' laughter echoed from the walls.

In the silence that followed, Kim asked. "Do you think he really existed?"

"What do you mean?" It was Anton who answered him, but he spoke for both the boys. How could Pan Chao not have existed? Would Chung Kuo be Chung Kuo were it not for Pan Chao? It would be Ta Ts'in instead. A world ruled by the Hung Moo. And such a world was an impossibility. The two boys laughed, taking Kim's comment for dry humor.

Kim, watching them, saw at once how meaningless such questions were to them. None of them shared his skepticism. They had been bewitched by the sheer scale of the world into which they had entered—a world so big and broad and rich—a world so deeply and thoroughly embedded in time—that it could not, surely, have been invented? So grateful were they to have escaped the darkness of the Clay, they were loath to question the acts and statements of their benefactors.

No, it was more than that: they had been conditioned not to question it.

"Forget it," he said, and realized that even in that he differed from them. They could forget. In fact, they found it easy to forget. But he could not. Everything—even his mistakes—were engraved indelibly in his memory, almost as if his memory had greater substance—were more real—than their own.

"Well?" Anton persisted. "Are you going to come? It's one we haven't seen before. About the fall of Rome and the death of Kan Ying."

Kim smiled, amused, then nodded. "Okay, I'll—" He stopped.

The three boys turned in the water and looked.

The doors at the far end had swung open. Momentarily they stayed open, held there by a tall, spindly youth with long arms, a mop of unruly yellow hair, and bright blue, staring eyes. It was Matyas.

"Shit!" said Josef under his breath, and ducked beneath the water.

Matyas smiled maliciously, then came through, followed by two other boys, smaller, much younger than himself. "Greaser" and "Sucker," Anton called them, though not in Matyas's hearing: names which captured not only the subservient nature of their relationship to Matyas but also something of their physical appearance. Greaser—his real name was Tom—had a slick, ratlike look to him, especially in the water, while Sucker, a quiet boy named Carl, had a small, puckered face dominated by thick,

fleshy lips.

It was whispered that the two of them "serviced" Matyas in a most original manner; but how much of that was truth and how much it was influenced by Anton's persuasively apt names was hard to gauge. All that was certain was that the two younger boys accompanied Matyas everywhere; were shadow and mirror to his twisted image.

Kim watched Matyas lope arrogantly along the edge of the pool, his head lowered, an unhealthy smile on his thin lips, until he stood across from him. There Matyas turned and, his smile broadening momentarily, threw himself forward into the water in an ungainly dive.

Kim glanced briefly at the two boys at his side. Like him, they had tensed in the water, expecting trouble. But it was always difficult to know with Matyas. He was no ordinary bully. Nor would he have got here and stayed here had he been. No, his deviousness was part of the fabric of his clever mind. He was a tormentor, a torturer, a master of the implicit threat. He used physical force only as a last resort, knowing he could generally accomplish more by subtler means.

However, Matyas had one weakness. He was vain. Not of his looks, which, even he would admit, tended toward ugliness, but about his intelligence. In that respect he had been cock of the roost until only a year ago, when Kim had first come to the Center. But Kim's arrival had eclipsed him. Not at once, for Kim had been careful to fit in, deferring to the older boy whenever they came into contact, but as the months passed and word spread that the new boy was something special, Kim saw how Matyas changed toward him.

Matyas surfaced directly in front of Kim, less than a forearm's length away, and shook his head exaggeratedly, sending the spray into Kim's face. Then he laughed and began to move around him in a leisurely but awkward breaststroke. Kim turned, keeping the older boy in front of him at all times.

"And how's golden boy, then?" Matyas asked quietly, looking up and sideways, one intensely blue eye fixing the nine-year-old.

Matyas himself was fifteen, almost sixteen. On his birthday, in a month's time, he would leave the Center and begin his service in the Above, but until then he was in a kind of limbo. He had outgrown the Center, yet the thought of losing his "position" as senior boy both frightened and angered him. Ning wei chi k'ou mo wei niu hou, the Han said—"Rather be the mouth of a chicken than the hindquarters of a cow"—and so it was with Matyas. He did not relish becoming a small fish once again—a "cow's ass." As a result he had been restless these last few weeks—dangerous and unpredictable, his sarcasm tending toward open cruelty. Several times Kim had caught Matyas staring at him malevolently and knew the older boy would never forgive him for robbing him—unjustly, Matyas believed—of his intellectual crown.

It was why Matyas was so dangerous just now. It was more than jealousy or uncertainty or restlessness. He had lost face to Kim, and that loss burned in him like a brand.

Kim looked past him, noting how his followers, Tom and Carl, had positioned themselves at the pool's edge, crouched forward, watching things closely, ready to launch themselves into the water at any moment. Then he looked back at Matyas and smiled.

"Ts'ai neng t'ung shen," he said provocatively, and heard Anton, behind him, splutter with surprise.

"Shit!" Josef exhaled softly, off to his right. "That's done it!"

Kim kept the smile on his face, trying to act as naturally as he could, but the hair on his^neck had risen and he could feel a tension in his stomach that had not been there a moment earlier. A golden key opens every door, he had said, playing on Matyas's use of golden. It seemed simple enough, innocuous enough, but the jibe was clear to them all. It was Kim to whom doors would open, not Matyas.

It seemed a reckless thing to say—a deliberate rubbing of salt into the open wound of Matyas's offended pride—but Kim hoped he knew what he was doing. There was no avoiding this confrontation. He had half expected it for days now. That admitted, it was still possible to turn things to his advantage. A calm Matyas was a dangerous Matyas. Infuriated, he might prove easier to beat. And beat him Kim must, for the sake of face.

Matyas had turned in the water, facing Kim, the leering smile gone, his cheeks red, his eyes suddenly wide with anger. Kim had been right—the words acted on him like a goad. Without warning he lashed out viciously with one arm, but the weight and resistance of the water slowed his movement and made the blow fall short of Kim, who had pushed out backward, anticipating it.

There was a loud splash as Tom and Carl hit the water behind Kim. Without a moment's hesitation Anton and Josef launched themselves into Kim's defense, striking out to intercept the two boys. As he backed away, Kim saw Anton plow into Carl and, even as the boy surfaced, thrust his head savagely down into the water again before he could take a proper breath. But that was all he saw, for suddenly Matyas was on him, struggling to push him down beneath the surface, his face blind with fury.

Kim kicked out sharply, catching Matyas painfully on the hip, then wriggled out under him, twisting away and down. He kicked hard, thrusting himself down through the water, then turned and pushed up from the floor of the pool, away from the figure high above him.

For the moment Kim had the advantage. He spent far more time in the pool than Matyas and was the better swimmer. But the pool was only so big, and he could not avoid Matyas indefinitely. Matyas had only to get a firm grip on him and he was done for.

He broke surface two body lengths from the older boy and kicked out for the steps. He had to get out of the water or Matyas would hurt him badly.

Kim grabbed the metal rungs and hauled himself up, but he had not been quick enough. Desperation and anger had made Matyas throw himself through the water to get at Kim, and as Kim's back foot lifted up out of the water, Matyas lunged at it and caught the ankle. He was ill balanced in the water and could not hold it, but it was enough. Tripped, Kim sprawled forward, slamming his forearm painfully against the wet floor and skidding across to the wall.

Kim lay there a moment, stunned, then rolled over and sat up. Matyas was standing over him, his teeth bared, his eyes blazing, water running from him. In the water the others had stopped fighting and were watching. Carl coughed, then fell silent.

"You little cockroach," Matyas said, in a low, barely controlled voice. He jerked forward and pulled Kim to his feet, one hand gripping Kim's neck tightly, as if to snap it. "I should kill you for what you've done. But I'll not give you that satisfaction. You deserve less than that."

A huge shudder passed through Matyas. He pushed Kim down, onto his knees. Then, his eyes never leaving Kim's face, his other hand undid the cord to his trunks and drew out his penis. As they watched, it unfolded slowly, growing huge, engorged.

"Kiss it," he said, his face cruel, his voice low but uncompromising.

Kim winced. Matyas's fingers bit into his neck, forcing Kim's face down into his groin. For a brief moment he considered not resisting. Did it matter? Was it worth fighting over such a thing as face? Why not kiss Matyas's prick and satisfy his sense of face? But the thought was fleeting. Face mattered here. He could not bow to such as Matyas and retain the respect of those he lived with. It would be the rod the other boys would use to beat him. And beat him they would—mercilessly—if he capitulated now. He had not made these callous, stupid rules of behavior, but he must live by them or be cast out.

"I'd as soon bite it," he said hoarsely, forcing the words out past Matyas's fingers.

There was laughter from the water. Matyas glared around, furious, then turned back to Kim, yanking him up onto his feet. Anger made his hand shake as he lifted Kim off the floor and turned, holding him out over the water.

Kim saw in his eyes what Matyas intended. He would let him fall, then jump on him, forcing him down, keeping him down, until he drowned.

It would be an accident. Even Anton and Josef would swear to the fact. That, too, was how things were.

Kim tried to swallow, suddenly, unexpectedly afraid, but Matyas's fingers pressed relentlessly against his windpipe, making him choke.

"Don't, Matyas. Please don't. . . ." It was Josef's voice. But none of the boys made to intercede. Things were out of their hands now. It was a matter of face.

Kim began to struggle, but Matyas tightened his grip at once, almost suffocating him. For a moment Kim thought he had died—a great tide of blackness swept through his head—then he was falling.

He hit the water gasping for breath and went under. His chest was suddenly on fire. His eyes seemed to pop. Pain lanced through his head like lightning. Then he surfaced, coughing, choking, flailing about in the water, and felt someone grab hold of him tightly. He began to struggle, then convulsed, spears of heated iron ripping his chest apart. For a moment the air seemed burnished a dull gold, flecked with tiny beads of red and black. Lights danced momentarily on the surface of his eyes, fizzling and popping like firecrackers, then the blackness surged back—

a great sphere of blackness, closing in on him with the sound of great wings pulsing, beating in his head. . . . And then there was nothing.

"Have you heard about the boy?"

T'ai Cho looked up from his meal, then stood, giving the Director a small bow. "I'm sorry, Shift Andersen. The boy?"

Andersen huffed impatiently, then glared at the other tutors so that they looked back down at their meals. "The boy! Kim! Have you heard what happened to him?"

T'ai Cho felt himself go cold. He shook his head. He had been away all day on a training course and had only just arrived back. There had been no time for anyone to tell him anything.

Andersen hesitated, conscious of the other tutors listening. "In my office, T'ai Cho. Now!" Then he turned and left.

Tai Cho looked about the table at his fellow tutors, but there were only shrugs. No one had heard anything.

Andersen came to the point at once. "Kim was attacked. This morning, in the pool."

Tai Cho shivered, the whole of him gone cold. "Is he hurt?"

Andersen shook his head. He was clearly very angry. "Not badly. But it might have been worse. He could very easily have died. And where would we be then? It was only Shang Li-Yen's prompt action that saved the boy."

Shang Li-Yen was one of the tutors. Like all the tutors, part of his duties entailed a surveillance stint. Apparently he had noted a camera malfunction in the pool area and, rather than wait for the repair crew, had gone to investigate it personally.

"What did Tutor Shang find?"

Andersen laughed bitterly. "Six boys skylarking! What do you think? You know how they are—theyd sooner die than inform on each other! But Shang thinks it was serious. The boy Matyas was involved. It seems he was very'agitated when Shang burst in on them. He was standing at the poolside, breathing strangely, his face flushed. Kim was in the water nearby. Only the quick actions of one of the other boys got him out of the water before he went under again." Anger flared in the Director's eyes again. "Fuck it, T'ai Cho, Shang had to give him the kiss of life!"

"Where is he now?" T'ai Cho asked quietly, trying to keep his emotions in check, yet wondering how accurate Andersen's assessment of "not badly hurt" really was.

"In his room, I believe. But let me finish. We had Kim examined at once and there were marks on his throat and arms and on his right leg consistent with a fight. Matyas also had some minor bruises. But both boys claim they simply fell while playing in the pool. The other boys back them up, but all six stories differ widely. It's clear none of them is telling the truth."

"And you want me to try to find out what really happened?"

Andersen nodded. "If anyone can get to the bottom of it, you can, T'ai Cho. Kim trusts you. You're like a father to him."

T'ai Cho lowered his eyes, then shook his head. "Maybe so, but he'll tell me nothing. As you said, it's how they are."

Andersen was quiet a moment, then he leaned forward across his desk, his voice suddenly much harder, colder, than it had been. "Try anyway, T'ai Cho. Try hard. It's important. If Matyas was to blame I want to know. Because if he was I want him out. Kim's too important to us. WeVe got too much invested in him."

T'ai Cho rose from his seat and bowed, understanding perfectly. It wasn't Kim—the boy—Andersen was so concerned about, it was Kim-as-investment. Well, so be it. He would use that in Kim's favor.

KIM's ROOM was empty. T'ai Cho felt his stomach tighten, his pulse quicken. Then he remembered. Of course. The film. Kim would have gone to see the film. He glanced at his timer. It was just after ten. The film was almost finished. Kim would be back here in fifteen minutes. He would wait.

He looked about the room, noting as ever what was new, what old. The third-century portrait of the mathematician Liu Hui remained in its place of honor on the wall above Kim's terminal, and on the top, beside the keyboard, lay Hui's Chiu Chang Stum Shu, his Nine Chapters on the Mathematical Art. T'ai Cho smiled and opened its pages. Kim's notations filled the margins. Like the book itself, they were in Mandarin, the tiny, perfectly formed pictograms in red, black, and green inks.

T'ai Cho flicked through inattentively and was about to close the book when one of the notations caught his attention. It was right at the end of the book, among the notes to the ninth chapter. The notation itself was unremarkable—something to do with ellipses—but beside it, in green, Kim had printed a name and two dates. Tycho Brake. 154611-1601.

He frowned, wondering if the first name was a play on his own. But then, what did the other mean? Bra He. ... It made no sense. And the dates? Or were they dates? Perhaps they were a code.

For a moment he hesitated, loath to pry, then set the book down and switched on the terminal.

A search of the system's central encyclopedia confirmed what he had believed. There was no entry, either on Tycho or Brahe. Nothing. Not even on close variants of the two names.

T'ai Cho sat there a moment, his fingers resting lightly on the keys, a vague suspicion forming in his head. But what if . . . ?

He shook his head. It wasn't possible. Surely it wasn't? The terminal in T'ai Cho's room was secretly "twinned" with Kim's. Everything Kim did on his terminal was available to T'ai Cho. Everything. Work files, diary, jottings, even his messages to the other boys. It seemed sneaky, but it was necessary. There was no other way of keeping up with Kim. His interests were too wide ranging, too quicksilver, to keep track of any other way. It was their only means of controlling him—of anticipating his needs and planning ahead.

But what if?

T'ai Cho typed his query quickly, then sat back.

The answer appeared on the screen at once.

"SUBCODE?"

T'ai Cho leaned forward and typed in the dates, careful to include the spacing and the dash.

There was the briefest hesitation, then the file came up. "BRAHE, Tycho." T'ai Cho scanned it quickly. It was a summary of the man's life and achievements in the manner of a genuine encyclopedia entry.

T'ai Cho sat back again, astonished, then laughed, remembering the time long before when Kim had removed the lock from his cell without their knowing. And so again, he thought. But this was much subtler, much more clever, than the simple removal of a lock. This was on a whole different level of evasiveness.

He read the passage through, pausing thoughtfully at the final line, then cleared the file and switched the terminal off. For a moment he sat there, staring sightlessly at the screen, then he stood up and moved away from the terminal.

"T'ai Cho?"

He turned with a start. Kim was standing in the doorway, clearly surprised to see him. He seemed much quieter than normal, on his guard. There was an er-silk scarf around his neck and his wrist was bandaged. He made no move to come into the room.

T'ai Cho smiled and sat down on the bed. "How was the film?"

Kim smiled briefly, unenthusiastically. "No surprises," he said after a moment. "Pan Chao was triumphant. As usual."

T'ai Cho saw the boy look across at the terminal, then back at him, but there was no sign that Kim had seen what he had been doing.

"Come here," he said gently. "Come and sit with me, Kim. We need to talk."

Kim hesitated, understanding at once why T'ai Cho had come. Then he shook his head. "Nothing happened this morning."

"Nothing?" T'ai Cho looked deliberately at the scarf, the bandage.

Kim smiled but said nothing.

"Okay. But it doesn't matter, Kim. You see, we already know what happened. There's a hidden camera in the ceiling of the pool. One Matyas overlooked when he sabotaged the others. We saw him attack you. Saw him grab you by the throat, then try to drown you."

Still Kim said nothing, gave nothing away.

T'ai Cho shrugged, then looked down, wondering how closely the scenario fitted. Was Kim quiet because it was true? Or was he quiet because it had happened otherwise? Whichever, he was certain of one thing. Matyas had attacked Kim. He had seen for himself the jealous envy in the older boy's eyes. But he had never dreamed it would come to this.

He stood up, inwardly disturbed by this side of Kim. This primitive, savage side that all the Clayborn seemed to have. He had never understood this aspect of their behavior: this perverse tribal solidarity of theirs. Where they came from it was a strength, no doubt—a survival factor—but up here, in the Above, it was a failing, a fatal flaw.

"You're important, Kim. Very important. You know that, don't you? And Matyas should have known better. He's out for what he did."

Kim looked down. "Matyas did nothing. It was an accident."

T'ai Cho took a deep breath, then stood and went across to him. "As you say, Kim. But we know otherwise."

Kim looked up at him, meeting his eyes coldly. "Is that all?"

That, too, was unlike Kim. That hardness. Perhaps the experience had shaken him. Changed him in some small way. For a moment T'ai Cho studied him, wondering whether he should bring up the matter of the secret files, then decided not to. He would investigate them first. Find out what Kim was up to. Then, and only then, would he confront him.

He smiled and looked away. "That's all."

BACK IN His ROOM T'ai Cho locked his door, then began to summon up the files, beginning with the master file, referred to in the last line of the BRAHE.

The Aristotle file.

The name intrigued him, because, unlike Brahe, there had been an Aristotle: a minor Greek philosopher of the fourth century B.C. He checked the entry briefly on the general encyclopedia. There were less than a hundred and fifty words on the man. Like T'ai Cho, he had been a tutor, in his case to the Greek king Alexander. As to the originality of his thinking, he appeared to be on a par with Hui Shih, a contemporary Han logician who had stressed the relativity of time and space and had sought to prove the existence of the "Great One of All Things" through rational knowledge. Now, however, both men existed only as tiny footnotes in the history of science. Greece had been conquered by Rome and Rome by the Han. And the Han had abandoned the path of pure logic with Hui Shih.

T'ai Cho typed in the three words, then leaned back. The answer appeared on the screen at once.

"SUBCODE?"

He took a guess. ALEXANDER, he typed, then sat back with a laugh as the computer accepted the code word.

There was a brief pause, then the title page came up on the screen.

THE ARISTOTLE FILE Being the True History of Western Science T'ai Cho frowned. What was this? Then he understood. It was a game. An outlet for Kim's inventiveness. Something Kim had made up. Yes, he understood at once. He had read somewhere how certain young geniuses invented worlds and peopled them, as an exercise for their intellects. And this was Kim's. He smiled broadly and pressed to move the file on.

Four hours later, at three bells, he got up from his seat and went to relieve himself. He had set the machine to print and had sat there, reading the copy as it emerged from the machine. There were more than two hundred pages of copy in the tray by now and the file was not yet exhausted.

T'ai Cho went through to the kitchen, the faint buzz of the printer momentarily silenced, and put on a kettle of ch'a, then went back out and stood there by the terminal, watching the paper spill out slowly.

It was astonishing. Kim had invented a whole history; a fabulously rich, incredibly inventive history. So rich that at times it seemed almost real. All that about the Catholic church suppressing knowledge and the great Renaissance—was that the word?—that split Europe into two camps. Oh, it was wild fantasy, of course, but there was a ring of truth—of universality— behind it that gave it great authority.

T'ai Cho laughed. "So that's what you've been up to in your spare time, Kim Ward," he said softly, then laughed again. Yes, it made sense now. Kim had been busy reshaping the world in his own image—had made the past the mirror of his own logical, intensely curious self.

But it had not been like that. Pan Chao had conquered Ta Ts'in. Rome had fallen. And not as Kim had portrayed it, to Alaric and the Goths in the fifth century, but to the Han in the first. There had been no break in order, no decline into darkness. No Dark Ages and no Christianity—oh, and what a lovely idea that was: organized religion! The thought of it...

He bent down and took the last few sheets from the stack. Kim's tale had reached the twentieth century now. A century of war and large-scale atrocity. A century in which scientific "progress" had become a headlong flight. He glanced down the highlighted names on the page—Rontgen, Planck, Curie, Einstein, Bohr, Heisenberg, Baird, Schrodinger—recognizing none of them. Each had its own subfile, like the BRAHE. And each, he knew, would prove consistent with the larger picture.

"Remarkable!" he said softly, reading a passage about the development of radio and television. In Kim's version they had appeared only in the twentieth century—a good five centuries after the Han had really invented them. It was through such touches—by arresting some developments and accelerating others—that Kim made his story live. In his version of events, Han science had stagnated by the fourth century A.D. and Chung Kuo had grown insular, until, in the nineteenth century, the Europeans—and what a strange ring that phrase had; not Hung Moo, but "Europeans"—had kicked the rotten door of China in.

Ah, and that too. Not Chung Kuo. Kim called it China. As if it had been named after the First Emperor's people, the Ch'in. Ridiculous! And yet, somehow, strangely convincing too.

T'ai Cho sat back, rubbing his eyes, the sweet scent of the brewing ch'a slowly filling the room. Yes, much of it was ridiculous. A total fantasy—like the strange idea of Latin, the language of the Ta Ts'in, persisting fifteen hundred years after the fall of their empire. For a moment he thought of that old, dead language persisting through the centuries by means of that great paradox, the Church—at one and the same time the great defender and destroyer of knowledge—and knew such a world as the one Kim had dreamed up was a pure impossibility. A twisted dream of things.

While the printer hummed and buzzed, T'ai Cho examined his feelings. There was much to admire in Kim's fable. It spoke of a strong, inventive mind, able to grasp and use broad concepts. But beyond that there was something problematic about what Kim had done—something which troubled T'ai Cho greatly.

What disturbed him most was Kim's reinterpretation of the Ch'ing or, as Kim called it, the Manchu period. There, in his notion of a vigorous, progressive West and a decadent, static East was the seed of all else. That was his starting point: the focus from which all else radiated out, like some insidious disease, transforming whatever it touched. Kim had not simply changed history, he had inverted it. Turned black into white, white into black. It was clever, yes, but it was also somehow diabolical.

T'ai Cho shook his head and stood up, pained by his thoughts. On the surface the whole thing seemed the product of Kim's brighter side; a great edifice of shining intellect; a work of considerable erudition and remarkable imaginative powers. Yet in truth it was the expression of Kim's darker self; a curiously distorted image; envious, almost malicious.

Is this how he sees us? T'ai Cho wondered. Is this how the Han appear to him?

It pained him deeply, for he was Han; the product of the world Kim so obviously despised. The world he would replace with his own dark fantasy.

T'ai Cho shuddered and stood up, then went out and switched off the ch'a. No more, he thought, hearing the printer pause, then beep three times—signal that it had finished print' ing. No, he would show this to Director Andersen. See what the Hung Moo in charge made of it. And then what?

Then I'll ask him, T'ai Cho thought, switching off the light. Yes. I'll ask Kim why.

THE NEXT MORNING he stood before the Director in his office, the file in a folder under his arm.

"Well, T'ai Cho? What did you find out from him?"

T'ai Cho hesitated. He knew Andersen meant the matter of the fight between Kim and Matyas, yet for a moment he was tempted to ignore that and simply hand him the folder.

"It was as I said. Kim denies there was a fight. He says Matyas was not to blame."

Andersen made a noise of disbelief, then, placing both hands firmly on the desk, leaned forward, an unexpected smile lighting his features.

"Never mind. I've solved the problem anyway. I've got RadTek to take Matyas a month early. We've had to provide insurance cover for the first month—while he's underage—but it's worth ,it if it keeps him from killing Kim, eh?"

T'ai Cho looked down. He should have guessed Andersen would be ahead of him. But for once he could take him by surprise.

"Good. But there's something else, Director."

Andersen eased himself back slowly. "Something else?"

T'ai Cho bowed and held out the folder. "Something I stumbled upon."

Andersen took the folder and opened it, taking out the stack of paper. "Cumbersome," he said, his face crinkling in an expression of distaste. He was the kind of administrator who hated paperwork. Head-Slot spoken summaries were more his thing. But in this instance there was no alternative: a summary of the Aristotle file could not possibly have conveyed its richness, let alone its scope.

Andersen read the title page, then looked up at T'ai Cho. "What is this? Some kind of joke?"

"No. It's not a joke, Shih Andersen. It's something Kim put together."

Andersen studied him a moment, then looked back down at the document, leafing through a few pages before stopping, his attention caught by something he had glimpsed. "You knew about this, then?"

"Not until last night."

Andersen looked up sharply. Then he gave a tiny little nod, seeing what it implied. "How did he keep the files hidden?"

T'ai Cho shook his head. "I don't know. I thought it was something you might want to investigate."

Andersen considered a moment. "Yes. Yes. It has wider implications. If Kim can keep files secret from a copycat system . . ."

He looked back down at the stack of paper. "What exactly is this, T'ai Cho? I assume youVe read it?"

"Yes. I've read it. But as to what it is . . ." He shrugged. "I suppose you might call it an alternative history of Chung Kuo. Chung Kuo as it might have been had the Ta Ts'in legions won the Battle of Kazatin."

Andersen laughed. "An interesting idea. Wasn't that in the film they showed last night?"

T'ai Cho nodded, suddenly remembering Kim's words "Pan Chao was triumphant. As usual." In Kim's version of things Pan Chao had never crossed the Caspian. There had been no Battle of Kazatin. Instead, Pan Chao had met the Ta Ts'in legate and signed a pact of friendship. An act which, eighteen centuries later, had led to the collapse of the Han Empire at the hands of a few "Europeans" with superior technology.

"There's more, much more, but the drift of it is that the West—the Hung Mao—got to rule the world, not the Han."

The Director turned a few more pages, then frowned. "Why should he want to invent such stuff? What's the point of it?"

"As an exercise, maybe. A game to stretch his intellect."

Andersen looked up at him again. "Hmm. I quite like that. It's good to see him exercising his mind. But as to the idea itself . . ." He closed the file and pushed it aside. "Let's monitor it, eh, T'ai Cho? See it doesn't get out of hand and take up too much time. I'd say it was harmless enough, wouldn't you?"

T'ai Cho was about to disagree, but saw the look in Andersen's eyes. He was not interested in pursuing the matter. Set against the business of safeguarding his investment it was of trivial importance. T'ai Cho nodded and made to retrieve the file.

"No. Leave it with me, T'ai Cho. Shi/i Berdichev is calling on me tomorrow. The file might amuse him."

T'ai Cho backed away and made as if to leave, but Andersen called him back.

"One last thing, T'ai Cho."

"Yes, Director?"

"I've decided to bring forward Kim's socialization. He's to start in the Casting Shop tomorrow."

"Tomorrow? Don't you think . . .?" He was about to say he thought Kim too young, but saw that Andersen was looking at him again, that same expression in his eyes. I have decided, it said. There is to be no argument. T'ai Cho swallowed, then bowed. "Very well, Shih Andersen. Should I make arrangements?"

Andersen smiled. "No. It's all been taken care of. My secretary will give you the details before you leave."

T'ai Cho bowed again, humbled, then backed away,

"And, T'ai Cho . . ."

"Yes, Director?"

"You'll say nothing of this file to anyone, understand?"

T'ai Cho bowed low. "Of course."

FOR A MOMENT Kim studied the rust-colored scholar's garment T'ai Cho had given him, then he looked back at his tutor. "What's this, T'ai Cho?"

T'ai Cho busied himself, clearing out his desk. "It's your work pau."

"Work? What kind of work?"

Still T'ai Cho refused to look at him. "You begin this morning. In the Casting Shop."

Kim was silent a moment; then, slowly, he nodded. "I see." He shrugged out of his one-piece and pulled the loose-fitting pau over his head. It was a simple, long-sleeved pau with a chest patch giving the Project's name in pale green pictograms and, beneath that, in smaller symbols, Kim's ownership details—the contract number and the SimFic symbol.

T'ai Cho looked fleetingly across at him. "Good. You'll be going there every day from now on. From eight until twelve. Your normal classes will be shifted to the afternoon."

He had expected Kim to complain—the new arrangements would cost him two hours of his free time every day—but Kim gave no sign. He simply nodded. '

"Why are you clearing your desk?"

T'ai Cho paused. The anger he had felt on finishing the Aristotle file had diminished somewhat, but still he felt resentful toward the boy. He had thought he knew him. But he had been wrong. The file had proved him wrong. Kim had betrayed him.

His friendliness was like the tampered lock, the hidden files—a deception. The boy was Clayborn and the Claybom were cunning by nature. He should have known that. Even so, it hurt to be proved wrong. Hurt like nothing he had felt in years.

"I'm asking to be reposted."

Kim was watching him intently. "Why?"

"Does it matter?" He could not keep the bitterness from his voice. Yet when he turned and looked at Kim he was surprised to see how shocked, how hurt, the boy was.

Kim's voice was small, strangely vulnerable. "Is it because of the fight?"

T'ai Cho looked down, pursing his lips. "There was no fight, Kim. You told me there was no fight."

"No." The word was barely audible.

T'ai Cho looked up. The boy was looking away from him now, his head slightly turned to the right. For a moment he was struck by how cruel he was being, not explaining why he was going. Surely the child deserved that much? Then, as he watched, a tear formed in Kim's left eye and slowly trickled down his cheek.

He had never seen Kim cry. Nor, he realized, had he ever really thought of him as a child. Not as a true child, anyway. Now, as he stood there, T'ai Cho saw him properly for the first time. Saw how fragile Kim was. A nine-year-old boy, that was all he was. An orphan. And all the family Kim had in the world was himself, T'ai Cho.

He shivered and closed the desk, then went across to Kim and knelt at his side. "You want to know why?"

Kim could not look at him. He nodded and another tear rolled slowly down his cheek. His voice was small and hurt. "I don't understand, T'ai Cho. What have I done?"

For a moment T'ai Cho was silent. He had expected Kim to be cold, indifferent, to his news. But this? He felt his indignation melt and dissipate like breath, then reached out and held the boy to him fiercely.

"Nothing," he said. "YouVe done nothing, Kim."

The boy gave a little shudder, then turned his head slowly, until he was looking into T'ai Cho's face. "Then why? Why are you going away?"

T'ai Cho looked back at him, searching the child's dark eyes for evidence of betrayal—for some sign that this was yet another act—but he saw only hurt there and incomprehension.

"I've seen your secret files," he said quietly. "Brahe and Aristotle."

There was a small movement in the dark pupils, then Kim dropped his eyes. "I see." Then he looked up again, and the expression of concern took T'ai Cho by surprise. "Did it hurt you, reading them?"

T'ai Cho shivered, then answered the boy honestly. "Yes. I wondered why you would create a world like that."

Kim's eyes moved away, then back again. "I never meant to hurt you. You must believe me, T'ai Cho. I'd never deliberately hurt you."

"And the file?"

Kim swallowed. "I thought Matyas would kill me. He tried, you see. That's why I left the note in the book. I knew that if I was killed you'd find it. But I didn't think . . ."

T'ai Cho finished it for him. "You didn't think I'd find it before you were dead, is that it?"

Kim nodded. "And now I've hurt you. . . ." He reached out and gently touched T'ai Cho's face, stroking his cheek. "Believe me, T'ai Cho. I wouldn't hurt you. Not for anything." Tears welled in his big dark eyes. "I thought you knew. Didn't you see it? Don't you understand it, even now?" He hesitated, a small shudder passing through his frail, thin body, then spoke the words almost in a whisper. "I love you, T'ai Cho."

T'ai Cho shivered, then drew Kim against him once more. "Then I'd best stay, hadn't I?"

THE CASTING SHOP was a long, wide room with a high ceiling. Along its center stood six tall, spiderish machines with squat bases and long segmented arms; each machine three times the height of a grown man. To the sides were a series of smaller machines, no two of them the same, but all resembling to some degree or other their six identical elders. Between the big machines in the center and the two rows of smaller ones at the sides ran two gangways, each with an overhead track. Young men moved between the machines, readying them, or stood in groups, talking casually in these last few minutes before the work bell rang.

Kim stood in the doorway, looking in, and felt at once a strange affinity with the machines. He smiled and looked up at T'ai Cho. "I think I'll like it here."

The Supervisor was a Han; a small man named Nung, who bowed and smiled a lot as he led them through to his office at the far end of the Casting Shop. As he made his way between the machines, Kim saw heads turn and felt the eyes of the young men on his back, but his attention was drawn to the huge mechanical spiders that stretched up to the ceiling.

"What are they?" he asked the Supervisor once the partition door had slid shut behind them.

Supervisor Nung smiled tightly and looked to T'ai Cho. "Forgive my unpreparedness, Shih T'ai. I was only told of this yesterday evening."

It was clear from the manner in which he ignored Kim's question that he felt much put out by the circumstances of Kim's arrival.

"What are they?" T'ai Cho asked, pointedly repeating Kim's question. "The boy would like to know."

He saw the movement in Nung's face as he tried to evaluate the situation. Nung glanced at Kim, then gave the slightest bow to T'ai Cho. "Those are the casting grids, Shih T'ai. One of the boys will give a demonstration in a while. Kim"—he smiled insincerely at the boy—"Kim will be starting on one of the smaller machines."

"Good." T'ai Cho took the papers from the inner pocket of his er-satin jacket and handed them to the Supervisor. "You must understand from the outset that while Kim is not to be treated differently from any other boy, he is also not to be treated badly. The boy's safety is of paramount importance. As you will see, Director Andersen has written a note under his own hand to this effect."

He saw how mention of the Director made Nung dip his head, and thought once more how fortunate he was to work in the Center, where there were no such men. Yet it was the way of the Above, and Kim would have to learn it quickly. Here status counted more than mere intelligence.

The qualms he had had in Andersen's office returned momentarily. Kim was too young to begin this. Too vulnerable. Then he shrugged inwardly, knowing it was out of his hands. Mei fa tsit, he thought. It's fate. At least there was no Matyas here. Kim would be safe, if nothing else.

When T'ai Cho had gone, the Supervisor led Kim halfway down the room to one of the smallest and squattest of the machines and left him in the care of a pleasant-looking young Han named Chan Shui.

Kim watched the partition door slam shut, then turned to Chan Shui, his eyebrows forming a question.

Chan Shui laughed softly. "That's Nung's way, Kim. You'll learn it quickly enough. He does as little as he can. As long as we meet our production schedules he's happy. He spends most of his day in his room, watching the screens. Not that I blame him, really. It must be dreadful to know you've reached your level."

"His level?"

Chan Shui's eyes widened with surprise. Then he laughed again. "I'm sorry, Kim. I forgot. You're from the Clay, aren't you?"

Kim nodded, suddenly wary.

Chan Shui saw this and quickly reassured him. "Don't get me wrong, Kim. What you were—where you came from—that doesn't worry me like it does some of them around here." He looked about him pointedly, and Kim realized that their conversation was being listened to by the boys at the nearby machines. "No. It's what you are that really counts. And what you could be. At least, that's what my father always says. And he should know. He's climbed the levels."

Kim shivered. Fathers. . . . Then he gave a little smile and reached out to touch one of the long, thin arms of the machine.

"Careful!" Chan Shui warned. "Always make sure the machine's switched off before you touch it. They've cutouts built into their circuits, but they're not absolutely safe. You can get a nasty bum from them."

•"How does it work?"

Chan Shui studied Kim a moment. "How old are you, Kim?"

Kim looked back at him. "Nine. So they say."

Chan Shui looked down. He himself was eighteen, the youn-

gest of the other boys was sixteen. Kim looked five, maybe six at most. But that was how they were. He had seen one or two of them before, passing through. But this was the first time he had been allocated one to "nursemaid."

The dull, hollow tones of the work bell filled the Shop. At once the boys stopped talking and made their way to their machines. There was a low hum as a nearby machine was switched on, then a growing murmur as others added to the background noise.

"It's rather pleasant," said Kim, turning back to Chan Shui. "I thought it would be noisier than this."

The young Han shook his head, then leaned forward and switched their own machine on. "They say they can make these things perfectly silent, but they found that it increased the number of accidents people had with them. If it hums a little you can't forget it's on, can you?"

Kim smiled, pleased by the practical logic of that. "There's a lesson in that, don't you think? Not to make things too perfect."

Chan Shui shrugged, then began his explanation.

The controls were simple and Kim mastered them at once. Then Chan Shui took a slender vial from the rack beside the control panel.

"What's that?"

Chan Shui hesitated* then handed it to him.

"Be careful with it. It's ice. Or at least, the constituents of ice. It slots in there." He pointed to a tiny hole low down on the control panel. "That's what these things do. They spin webs of ice."

Kim laughed, delighted by the image. Then he looked down at the transparent vial, studying it, turning it in his fingers. Inside was a clear liquid with a faint blue coloring. He handed it back, then watched closely as Chan Shui took what he called a "template"—a thin card stamped with a recognition code in English and Mandarin—and slotted it into the panel. The template was the basic computer program that gave the machine its instructions.

"What do we do, then?" Kim asked, his expression as much as to say, Is that aR there is to it? It was clear he had expected to control the grid manually.

Chan Shui smiled. "We watch. And we make sure nothing goes wrong."

"And does it?"

"Not often."

Kim frowned, not understanding. There were something like a hundred boys tending the machines in the Casting Shop, when a dozen, maybe less, would have sufficed. It made no sense.

"Is all of the Above so wasteful?"

Chan Shui glanced at him. "Wasteful? What do you mean?"

Kim stared at him a moment longer, then saw he didn't understand. This, too, was how things were. Then he looked around and saw that many of the boys working on the smaller machines wore headwraps, while those on the central grids chatted, only a casual eye on their machines.

"Don't you get bored?"

Chan Shui shrugged. "It's a job. I don't plan to be here forever."

Kim watched as the machine began to move, the arms to extend, forming a cradle in the air. Then, with a sudden hiss of air, it began.

It was beautiful. One moment there was nothing in the space between the arms, the next something shimmered into existence. He shivered, then clapped his hands together in delight.

"Clever, eh?" said Chan Shui, smiling at him, then lifting the wide-bodied chair from the grid with one hand. Its perfectly transparent shape glimmered wetly in the overhead light. "Here," he said, handing it to Kim.

Like most of the furniture in the Above, it weighed nothing. Or almost nothing. Yet it felt solid, unbreakable.

Kim handed the chair back, then looked at the spiderish machine with new respect. Jets of air from the segmented arms had directed the fine, liquid threads of ice as they shot out from the base of the machine, but the air had only defined the shape.

He looked at Chan Shui, surprised that he didn't understand—that he had so readily accepted their explanation for why the machines hummed. They did not hum to stop their operators forgetting they were switched on; the vibration of the machine had a function. It set up standing waves—like the tone of a bell or a plucked string, but perfect, unadulterated. The uncongealed ice rode those waves, forming a skin, like the surface of a soap bubble, but a million times stronger because it was formed of thousands of tiny corrugations—the meniscae formed by those standing waves.

Kim saw the beauty of it at once. Saw how East and West had come together here. The Han had known about standing waves since the fifth century B.C.: had understood and utilized the laws of resonance. He had seen an example of one of their "spouting bowls" which, when its handles were rubbed, had formed a perfect standing wave—a shimmering, perfect hollow cone of water that rose a full half ch'i above the bowl's bronze rim. The machine, however—its cybernetics, its programing, even its basic engineering—were products of Western science. The Han had abandoned those paths millennia before the West had found and followed them.

Kim looked around; watching as forms shimmered into life in the air on every side. Tables, cupboards, benches, and chairs. It was like magic. Boys moved between the machines, gathering up the objects and stacking them on the slow-moving collection trays which moved along the gangways, hung on cables from the overhead tracks. At the far end, beyond the door where Kim had entered, was the paint shop. There the furniture was finished— the permapaint bonded to the ice—before it was packed for dispatch.

At ten they took a break. The refectory was off to their right, with a cloakroom leading off from it. There were toilets there and showers. Chan Shui showed Kim around, then took him back to one of the tables and brought him ch'a and a soypork roll.

"I see theyVe sent us a dwarf this time!"

There was a loud guffaw of laughter. Kim turned, surprised, and found himself looking up into the face of a beefy, thickset youth with cropped brown hair and a flat nose. A Hung Moo, his pale, unhealthy skin heavily pitted. He stared down at Kim belligerently, the mean stupidity of his expression balanced by the malevolence in his eyes.

Chan Shui, beside Kim, leaned forward nonchalantly, unimpressed by the newcomer's demeanor.

"Get lost, Janko. Go and play your addle-brained games on someone else and leave us alone."

Janko sniffed disdainfully. He turned to the group of boys who had gathered behind him and smiled, then turned back, looking at Kim again, ignoring Chan Shui.

"What's your name, rat's ass?"

Chan Shui touched Kim's arm. "Ignore him, Kim. He'll only trouble you if you let him." He looked up at the other boy. "Se h nei jen, eh, Janko?" Stern in appearance, weak inside. It was a traditional Han rebuttal to a bully.

Kim looked down, trying not to smile. But Janko leaned forward threateningly. "None of your chink shit, Chan. You think you're fucking clever, don't you? Well, you'll get yours one day, I promise."

Chan Shui laughed and pointed to the camera over the counter. "Best be careful, Janko. Uncle Nung might be watching. And you'd be in deep shit then, wouldn't you?"

Janko glared at him, infuriated, then looked down at Kim. "Fucking little rat's ass!"

There was a ripple of laughter from behind him, then Janko was gone.

Kim watched the youth slope away, then turned back to Chan Shui. "Is he always like that?"

"Most of the time." Chan Shui sipped his ch'a, thoughtful a moment, then he looked across at Kim again and smiled. "But don't let it get to you. I'll see he doesn't worry you."

BERDICHEV SAT back in Director Andersen's chair and surveyed the room. "Things are well, I hope?"

"Very well, Excellency," Andersen answered with a bow, knowing that Berdichev was referring to the boy, and that he had no interest whatsoever in his own well-being.

"Good. Can I see the boy?"

Andersen kept his head lowered. "I am afraid not, Shih Berdichev. Not at the moment, anyway. He began socialization this morning. However, he will be back by one bell, if you'd care to wait."

Berdichev was silent a moment, clearly put out by this devel-

opment. "Don't you feel that might be slightly premature, Director?" He looked across and met Andersen's eyes chal-

lengingly.

Andersen swallowed. He had decided to say nothing of the incident with the boy Matyas. It would only worry Berdichev unduly. "Kim is a special case, as you know. He requires different handling. Normally we wouldn't dream of sending a boy out so young, but we felt there would be too much of an imbalance were we to let his intellectual development outstrip his social development too greatly."

He waited tensely. After a while Berdichev nodded. "I see. And youVe taken special precautions to see he'll be properly looked after?"

Andersen bowed. "I have seen to matters personally, Shih Berdichev. Kim is in the hands of one of my most trusted men,

Supervisor Nung. He has my personal instructions to take good care of the boy."

"Good. Now tell me, is there anything I should know?" Andersen stared back at Berdichev, wondering for a moment if it was possible he might know something. Then he relaxed.

"There is one thing, Excellency. Something you might find very interesting."

Berdichev lifted his chin slightly. "Something to do with the boy, I hope."

Andersen nodded hastily. "Yes. Of course. It's something he produced in his free time. A file. Or rather, a whole series of files."

Berdichev's slight movement forward revealed his interest.

"What kind of file?"

Andersen smiled and turned. On cue his secretary appeared and handed him the folder. He had added the subfiles since T'ai Cho had brought the matter to his attention, and the stack of paper was now almost twice the size it had been. He turned back to Berdichev, then crossed the room and deposited the folder on the desk in front of him before withdrawing with a bow.

"The Aristotle file," Berdichev read aloud, lifting the first few sheets from the stack. "Being the true history of western science." He laughed. "Says who?"

Andersen echoed his laughter. "It is amusing, I agree. But fascinating too. His ability to fuse ideas and extrapolate. The sheer breadth of his vision—"

Berdichev silenced him with a curt gesture of his hand, then turned the page, reading. After a moment he looked up. "Would you bring me some ch'a, Director?"

Andersen was about to turn and instruct his secretary, when Berdichev interrupted him. "I'd prefer it if you did it yourself, Director. It would give me a few moments to digest this mate-rial."

Andersen bowed deeply. "Whatever you say, Excellency."

Berdichev waited until the man had gone, then sat back, removing his glasses and wiping them on the old-fashioned cotton handkerchief he kept for that purpose in the pocket of his satin jacket. Then he picked up the sheet he had been reading and looked at it again. There was no doubt about it. This was it. The real thing. What he had been unearthing fragments of for the last fifteen or twenty years. Here it was—complete!

He felt like laughing, or whooping for joy, but knew hidden cameras were watching his every movement, so he feigned disinterested boredom. He flicked through, as if only casually interested, but behind the mask of his face he could feel the excitement course through him, like fire in his blood.

Where in the gods' names had Kim got all this? Had he invented it? No. Berdichev dismissed the thought instantly. Kim couldn't have invented it. Just a glance at certain details told him it was genuine. This part about Charlemagne and the Holy Roman Empire, for instance. And here, this bit about the subtle economic influence of the Medici family. And here, about the long-term effects of the great sea battle of Lepanto—the deforestation of the Mediterranean and the subsequent shift of the shipbuilding industry to the Baltic where wood was plentiful. Yes. He had seen shards of this before—bits and pieces of the puzzle—but here the picture was complete.

He shuddered. Andersen was a fool. And thank the gods for it. If he had known what he had in his possession. If he'd had but the slightest inkling . . . Berdichev looked down, stifling the laugh that came unbid-

den to his lips. Gods, he felt elated! He flicked back to the title page again. THE ARISTOTLE FILE. Yes! That was where it all started. Back there in the Yes/No logic of the Greek.

He tapped the stack of papers square, then slid them back into the folder. What to do? What to do? The simple possession of such information was treasonous. Was punishable by death.

There was a knock on the door.

"Come in!"

Andersen bowed, then brought the tray over to the desk and set it down on one side, well away from the folder. Then he poured the ch'a into a bowl and held it out, his head slightly lowered.

Berdichev took the bowl and sipped, then set it down.

"How many people know about this, Director?"

Andersen allowed himself a tiny smile. "Four, including yourself and Kim, Excellency."

"The boy's tutor . . . Tai Cho, isn't it? I assume he's the Other?"

"That's correct, Excellency. But I've already instructed him to mention it to no one else."

"Good. Very good indeed. Because I want you to destroy the files at once. Understand?"

Andersen's smile drained away, replaced by a look of utter astonishment. He had thought Berdichev would be pleased.

"I'm sorry?"

"I want all evidence of this foolishness destroyed at once, understand me, Director? I want the files closed and I want you to warn Kim not to indulge in such idle fancies any longer." He banged the file violently with the flat of his hand, making Andersen jump. "You don't realize how much this worries me, Director. I already have several quite serious misgivings about the whole venture, particularly regarding the matter of the boy's safety. I understand, for instance, that there was a fight, and that youVe had to send one of the older boys away. Is that right?"

Andersen blanched then bowed, wondering who Berdichev's spy was. "That is so, Excellency."

"Yes . . . and now this." Berdichev was silent a moment, the threat implicit in his silence. The purpose of his visit today had been to make the latest stage payment on Kim's contract. There had been no mention of the matter so far, but now he came to it. "My feeling is that the terms of our contract have not been fully met. You are in default, Director Andersen. You have failed to adequately protect my investment. In the circumstances, I feel I must insist on some . . . compensation. A reduction of the stage payment, perhaps?"

Andersen lowered his head even further. His voice was apologetic. "I am afraid I have no discretion, Shih Berdichev. All contractual matters have to be referred to the board."

He glanced at Berdichev, expecting anger, but the Head of SimFic was smiling. "I know. I spoke to them before I came here. They have agreed to a reduction of one hundred thousand yuan." He held out the document for Andersen to take. "I understand it requires only your signature to make it valid."

Andersen shivered, suppressing the anger he felt, then bowed and, taking the brush from the stand, signed the paper.

"We'll verify this later," Berdichev said, his smile fading. "But with regard to the files, you'll do as I say. Yes?"

"Of course, Excellency."

He reached for the folder, but Berdichev held on to it. "I'll keep this copy. I'd like my company psychiatrists to evaluate it. They'll destroy it once theyVe done with it."

Andersen looked at him, open mouthed, then hastily backed offa pace. "I'm sure. . ." he began, then fell quiet and bowed his head.

"Good," said Berdichev, reaching across for the ch'a kettle. "Then bring another bowl, Director. I believe you have some money to collect from me."

"And how's little rat's ass this morning?"

Kim kept his eyes on his plate, ignoring the figure of Janko, who stood beside him. Chan Shui had gone off to the toilets saying he would only be a moment, but Janko must have seen him go and had decided this was his chance.

He felt Janko's hand on his shoulder, squeezing, not hard as yet, but enough to make him feel uncomfortable. He shrugged it off, then reached out to take the biscuit. But Janko beat him to it. Laughing, he crammed it in his mouth, then picked up Kim's bowl to wash it down.

Kim went very still. He heard Janko's cronies laugh, then heard the unmistakable sound of the boy hawking into his bowl.

Janko set it down in front of him with a bang, then poked him hard. "Drink up, rat's ass! Got to keep our strength up, haven't we?"

The inane laughter rang out once again from beyond Janko. Kim looked at the bowl. A nasty greenish gob of spit floated on the surface of the ch'a.

Kim stared at it a moment, then half turned in his seat and looked up at Janko. The youth was more than half again his size. He would have made Matyas look a weakling by comparison. But unlike Matyas, he wasn't dangerous. He was merely flabby and stupid and a touch ridiculous.

"Go fuck yourself, windbag," Kim said, loud enough for Janko alone to hear.

Janko bellowed and grabbed at Kim, half lifting him from his seat, then thrust the bowl at his face. "Drink, you little piece of shit! Drink, if you know what's good for you!"

"Put him down!"

Janko turned. Chan Shui had come back and was standing there on the far side of the room. Several of the boys glanced up at the cameras nervously, as if expecting Nung to come in and break things up. But most of them knew Nung well enough to guess he'd be jerking off to some PomoStim, not checking up on what was happening in the refectory.

Janko released Kim, then, with an exaggerated delicacy, let the bowl fall from his fingers. It shattered on the hard tile floor.

"Best clear it up, rat's ass. Before you get into trouble."

Kim looked across at Chan Shui, a faint smile on his lips, then turned and went to the counter to get a brush and pan.

Chan Shui was standing there when he came back. "You don't have to do that, Kim."

Kim nodded, but got down anyway and started collecting the shattered pieces. He looked up at Chan Shui. "Why don't they make these out of ice?"

Chan Shui laughed, then knelt down and began to help him. "Have you ever tasted ch'a from an ice bowl?"

Kim shook his head.

"It's revolting. Worse than Janko's phlegm!" Chan Shui leaned closer, whispering. "What did you say to him, Kim? I've never seen Janko so mad."

Kim told him what he had said.

Chan Shui roared with laughter, then grew quiet. "That's good. But you'd better watch yourself from now on, Kim. He's a fool and a windbag, too, but he doesn't want to lose face. When I go for a pee, you come too. And fuck what these bastards think about that."

WHEN T'AI CHO met him, just after twelve, he had two guards with him.

"What's happening?" Kim asked when they were outside.

T'ai Cho smiled reassuringly. "It's okay, Kim. Just a measure the Director is insisting on from now on. He's concerned for your safety outside the Center, that's all."

"So we've got them every day?"

T'ai Cho shook his head. "No. It's not necessary just for the Casting Shop. But we're going somewhere special this afternoon, Kim. There's something I want to show you. To set the record straight, if you like."

"I don't understand you."

"I know. But you will. At least, much better after this."

They went up another twelve decks—a full one hundred and twenty levels—until they were in the heart of the Mids, at Level 181. Stepping out of the elevator Kim noticed at once how different things were from the level where the Casting Shop was. It was cleaner here, tidier, less crowded; even the pace at which people moved seemed more sedate, more orderly.

They waited at a Security barrier while a guard checked their permits, then went inside. An official greeted them and took them along a corridor, then up a narrow flight of stairs into a viewing gallery, its front sealed off from the hall below by a pane of transparent glass.

In the hall below five desks were set out in a loose semicircle.

In front of them were a number of chairs, grouped in a seemingly random fashion. Five gray-haired Han sat behind the desks, a small comset—or portable computer—in front of each.

"What is this?" Kim asked quietly.

T'ai Cho smiled and indicated two seats at the front of the gallery. When they were sitting, he turned to Kim and explained. "This is a deck tribunal, Kim. They have them once a week throughout the levels. It is the Han way of justice."

"Ah. . . ." Kim knew the theory that lay behind Han justice, but he had never seen it in action.

T'ai Cho leaned forward. "Note how informal it all is, Kim. How relaxed."

"A family affair," Kim said, rather too patly.

"Yes," T'ai Cho said at once. "It is exactly that."

They watched as the hall filled up, until not a chair was free and latecomers had to squat or sit on the floor. Then, without anyone calling anything to order, it began. One of the elders leaned forward across his desk and began to speak, his voice rising above the background murmur. The other voices dropped away until the Elder's voice sounded alone.

He was reading out the circumstances of the first case. Two cousins had been fighting. The noise had awakened neighbors who had complained to Deck Security. The Elder looked up, his eyes seeking out the two Han youths. They stood at once.

"Well? What have you to say for yourselves?"

Beside them an old man, gray-haired like the elders, his long beard plaited, stood and addressed the Elder.

"Forgive me, Hsien Judge Hong, but might I speak? I am Yung Pi-Chu, head of the Yung family."

"The tribunal waits to hear from you, Shih Yung."

The old man bowed his thanks, then brought his two great-nephews out into the space in front of the desks and had them strip off their tops. Their backs were striped from recent punishment. He made the two youths turn, showing the elders first and then the gathered audience. Then, bidding them return to their seats, he faced the elders.

"As you see, respected elders, my great-nephews have been punished for their thoughtlessness. But the matter of my neighbors' inconvenience remains. In that regard I propose to offer compensation of six hundred yuan, to be shared equally among the complainants."

Hsien Judge Hong bowed, pleased, then looked out past the old man. "Would the complainants stand."

Three men got to their feet and identified themselves.

"Are you willing to accept Shih Yung's generous compensation?"

All three nodded. Two hundred yuan was a generous figure.

"Good. Then the matter is settled. You will pay the clerk, SWhYung."

Without preamble, and before the old man had returned to his seat, another of the elders began reading out the circumstances of the second case. Again it involved two young men, but this time they had been charged with unsocial behavior. They had vandalized a row of magnolia trees while drunk.

At the Elder's request the two men stood. They were Hung Mao, their dress neat, respectable, their hair cut in the Han style.

"Well?" the Elder asked. "What have you to say for yourselves?"

The two men hung their heads. One looked momentarily at the other, who swallowed, then looked up, acting as spokesman for the two.

"Respected elders, we make no excuses for our behavior and are deeply ashamed of what we did. We accept full responsibility for our actions and would fully understand if the respected elders should punish us to the full severity for what we did. However, we ask you to consider our past exemplary record and would humbly submit the testimony of our employers as to our conduct. We propose to pay for the damage in full and, in respect of the damage to the harmony of the community, we ask that we should be given a month's community service."

The Elder looked briefly at his fellows, who all nodded, then faced the two youths again.

"We have read the submissions of your employers and take into account your past exemplary conduct. Your shame is clear and your repentance obvious. In the circumstances, therefore, we accept your proposals, your term of public service to commence in two weeks' time. However, should you come before this tribunal a second time on a similar charge, it will result in immediate demotion. You understand?"

Both men bowed deeply and looked at each other briefly.

Two more cases followed. The first was an accusation of theft. Two men claimed that another had robbed them, but a Security film showed they had falsely accused the man. The two men, protesting violently, found themselves held by Security guards and sentenced. They were to be demoted five decks. Amid wailing from the two men and their families and rejoicing from the falsely accused man and his, the permits of the two were taken from them and they were led away.

The fourth case involved a charge of violent assault by a middle-aged man on his wife's father. Both families were in court, and for the first time there was real tension in the air. The matter was in dispute and it seemed there was no way to resolve it. Both men were deeply respected members of the community. Both swore their version of events was the truth. There was no Security film to solve the matter this time and no impartial witnesses.

The elders conferred a moment, then Hsien Judge Hong called the two men forward. He addressed the older of them first.

"What began this dispute?"

The old man bristled and pointed contemptuously at the younger. "He insulted my family."

Judge Hong was patient. It was, after all, a matter efface. For the next half hour he slowly, cleverly, drew the threads of circumstance out into the daylight. At the core of it all lay a trivial remark—an offhand comment that the younger man's wife was like her mother, idle. It had been said heatedly, carelessly, in the course of a disagreement about something entirely different, but the old woman had taken great offense and had called upon her husband to defend her honor.

"Do you not both think that things have got out of hand? You, S/iih T'eng," he looked at the younger man, "do you really believe your mother-in-law an idler? Do you really have so little respect for your wife's mother?"

Shih T'eng lowered his head, then shook it. "No, Elder Hong. She is a good, virtuous woman. What I said, I said heatedly. It was not meant. I"— he hesitated, then looked at his father-in-law—"I unreservedly apologize for the hurt I caused his family. I assure him, it was not intended."

Judge Hong looked at the old man and saw at once, from his bearing, that he was satisfied. Their dispute was at a close. But the Elder had not finished with the two men. He leaned forward angrily.

"I am appalled that two such good, upright men should have come before me with such a—a petty squabble. Both of you should feel deeply shamed that you let things come to this."

Both men lowered their heads, chastened. The hall was deathly silent as Judge Hong continued.

"Good. In the circumstances I fine you each five hundred yuan for wasting the time of this tribunal." He looked at the two men sternly, "if I hear any more of this matter I shall have you before us again. And that, I guarantee you, chun tzu, will be to neither of your likings."

The two "gentlemen" bowed deeply and thanked the court, then went meekly to the clerk to pay their fines.

T'ai Cho turned to his pupil. "Well, Kim? Do you still think the Han way so bad?"

Kim looked down, embarrassed. T'ai Cho's discovery had made things difficult between them. It would have been easier had he been able to say, No. I did not invent the world you read about, but sometimes the truth was stranger than a lie and far harder to accept.

"I have never thought the Han way a bad way, T'ai Cho. Whatever you believe, I find you a highly civilized people."

T'ai Cho stared at him a moment, then shrugged and looked back down into the body of the hall. The crowd had dispersed now and only the five elders remained, talking among themselves and tying up any remaining items of business. T'ai Cho considered a moment, then smiled and looked back at Kim.

"There are no prisons in Chung Kuo. Did you realize that, Kim? If a man wishes to behave badly he may do so, but not among those who wish to behave well. Such a man must find his own level. He is demoted."

He paused, then nodded to himself. "It is a humane system,

Kim. The most severe penalties are reserved for crimes against the person. We might be traders, but our values are not wholly venal."

Kim sighed. It was a direct reference to something in the file— to the greedy and corrupt Hoi Po, or Hoppos, as the Europeans knew them, who had run the Canton trade in the nineteenth century. He had not meant his comment to stand for all the Han, but saw how T'ai Cho could easily mistake it for such.

Damn Matyas! he thought. And damn the man who left the files for me to find and piece together!

T'ai Cho continued. "There are exceptions, naturally. Treason against the T'ang, for instance, is punishable by death. The traitor and all his family, to the third generation. But ours is a fair system, Kim. It works for those who wish it to work. For others there are other levels of existence. In Chung Kuo a man must find his own level. Is that not fair?"