The Stone Within

Soucek bent down and looked. It was true. Four of the dead men had had their larynxes surgically removed. "Why?" he asked, looking up.

"It's an old trick. I saw it at once."

From the nearest room the sounds of pleasure grew louder briefly, then died away. Then, from the end door, stepped two more figures. Soucek tensed, reaching for his knife, but it was only Haller and Becker.

"Just in time, I see," said Haller, grinning.

"Keep your voice down," said Lehmann in a fierce whisper. "YouVe brought the bags?"

Haller half turned. "Becker has them."

"Good. Then let's get these bodies through to the end room and tidy up."

They worked quickly, taking the corpses down and piling them onto the bed beside the whore and the house guard. Then, while Haller cleaned up in the corridor, Becker got to work.

Soucek looked away from the grisly work and stared at Lehmann. "I don't understand. What's going on?"

Lehmann watched Becker a moment, then turned to face Soucek. "Who did this, do you think? Who would set K'ang up this way?"

Soucek thought a moment. "Lo Han?"

"Exactly. It had to be Lo Han. K'ang A-yin threatens no one else. And Lo Han would have heard that both I and Peck had joined up with him. He'd be worried by that. He'd think there was a reason for it."

"Maybe. But why this? Why the silence? The secrecy?"

Lehmann looked down at Becker again. "You could say that I didn't want to inconvenience S/iih K'ang, or interrupt his pleasure, but the truth is I want to meet Lo Han. To find out a bit more about him."

Soucek made to speak, then stopped. Lehmann turned, looking at what he'd seen. It was the Madam. She stood in the doorway, her mouth open in horror, watching Becker. . "How did he pay you?" Lehmann asked, looking at her coldly.

For a moment she seemed not to have heard him, then her eyes jerked away from what Becker was doing and looked back at Lehmann. "What?"

"What did Lo Han give you to set this up?"

"I ... I..." she stammered, then, turning aside, she began to heave.

Lehmann looked away, disgusted. "Never mind. You can tell Shih Soucek here." He looked back at Soucek. "We'll be gone in a while. Tell K'ang that I got tired of waiting. Tell him I've gone looking for other sport."

"And if he asks what?"

"Tell him it's drugs. Tell him IVe gone to get some drugs."

THE RESTAURANT had been cleared, guards posted at every entrance. Beneath the broad slatted steps, elite marksmen lay behind low, makeshift barriers, their high-powered rifles covering the approach corridors, while in the busy kitchens Wu Shih's own personal taster sampled each dish as it was presented to him, sending them through only when he was completely satisfied.

At the center of the dark, tiled surface Marshal Tolonen sat facing Kim across a table crowded with silver trays of delicacies. Briefly the old man turned away, talking quietly to his ensign, then he turned back, facing Kim again.

"I'm sorry about all this, Kim, but Wu Shih is determined that nothing happens to me while I'm in his City. It might seem a little much, but such measures are necessary these days. We live in difficult times."

"Difficult but interesting, neh?"

Tolonen laughed. "So some might say. For myself I'd prefer things a little duller and a little safer."

"And is that why you're here, Marshal Tblonen? To make things a little safer?"

"Call me Knut, boy," he said, leaning forward and beginning to fill his plate with various bits and pieces. "But yes, you might say I'm here to make things safer. Between you and me, I'm not quite sure what it is I'm looking for, but I know the smell of rottenness when I catch a whiff of it, and there's something rotten buried in these levels, you can be sure."

"Is there any way I can help?" Kim asked, reaching for a plate.

Tolonen looked back at him. "It's nice of you to ask, but until I know what exactlyis been going on here, it's hard to say what I'll need. I'll bear it in mind, though, boy. And very kind of you too. Oh, and by the way . . ." The old man felt in his jacket pocket with the fingers of his golden hand, then passed a sealed note across the table to him. "Li Yuan asked me to hand this to you personally."

Kim took the note and, setting down his plate, turned it between his fingers, studying the great seal a moment. He glanced across, noting how the Marshal was busy filling his plate, then looked down again, slitting the envelope open with a fingernail.

Inside was a single sheet, handwritten in Mandarin; the message brief and familiar.

Dear Kim,

You have been much in my thoughts of late. Working on the proposed amendments to the Edict, I have often stopped and thought how helpful it might have been to have had you at my shoulder, advising me. But before you mistake me, this is no appeal for help, but a heartfelt thank you for all you have done in the past. I merely wished you to know that should you ever need help, in any way, you have only to ask. I hope all goes well for you.

With respect,

Li Yuan He looked up. Tolonen was watching him, smiling faintly. "So . . . how's it all going?"

"Things are fine, though there's not much to report, really. IVe been holding fire on the business front, while IVe been working on some new patents."

"Patents, eh?" Tolonen narrowed his eyes, as if he thought the whole thing slightly dubious.

Kim laughed. "Nothing illegal, I assure you. In fact, to be honest with you, I was surprised to learn what could actually be done within the existing guidelines. IVe spent a long time recently, checking out what was already on file . . ."

Tolonen interrupted him. "I'm sorry, boy, I don't understand . . ."

"At the Central Patents Office," Kim explained quickly. "It was hard work sifting through all that stuff, but worth it in the end. Originally, all I wanted was to check whether existing patents had been registered in any of the areas I was working in."

"And were there?"

"One or two, but nothing even vaguely like what I proposed. However, in looking through the register, I noticed that there were whole areas—areas permitted under the Edict—which had essentially gone undeveloped these last one hundred and twenty years."

Tolonen eyed him curiously. "Whole areas? You mean, like whole fields of research?"

Kim shook his head. "In the context of what's there—and we're talking about several billion patents on file—you'd probably consider these 'gaps' quite small, but in terms of the research possibilities, they're vast. I could have spent months there, simply locating more such 'gaps.'"

"I see." Tolonen took a mouthful of tender pork and chewed for a moment, considering. "Have you ever thought of speeding the process up?"

"How do you mean?"

Tolonen turned his head slightly, indicating the access slot just beneath his right ear. "One of these. I'd have thought it would make your job a whole lot easier."

"A wire?" Kim looked away, suddenly uncomfortable. "I don't know. . ."

The old man leaned toward Kim. "Looking at things from the outside, it strikes me that more than half your work involves what you might crudely call 'processing' information. Now, if you were to find a way of speeding that up, you'd get a lot more done, surely?"

"Maybe."

Tolonen laughed gruffly. "The only thing that surprises me is that you hadn't thought of it yourself. You're usually way ahead of me. Way ahead!"

Kim looked down, busying himself for a moment filling his plate. When he looked up again, Tolonen was still watching him.

"So what is it, lad? Are you afraid? Is that it?"

"I. . ." Kim hesitated, not wanting to say what it was. How often had he thought this one through. How often, sitting there in the Patents Office, had he yearned for a faster way of doing things, and come to the same conclusion. Yet against the logic of the thing was a deep ingrained fear of being wired—of somehow being controlled.

"The operation's simple," Tolonen said. "And I'm certain, if you wanted it done, Li Yuan's own surgeon would perform the task. Surgeon Hung is the best there is. And so he should be. He learned his skills from his father, who did this. Fifty years I've had this. Fifty years! And it's been a godsend, especially these past six months, what with all this GenSyn business."

"I don't know," Kim said, meeting his eyes again. "It would make things easier. There's no doubting that. I just wonder ..."

"What? That it might impair some other part of you?" Tolonen laughed, and reached across, holding Kim's shoulder briefly with his human hand. "I've never had your kind of talent, so maybe I'm not the one to comment on such things, but I've found my own wire nothing but a help all these years. All I know is that I couldn's have coped without it. Seriously."

Kim gave a tiny nod. "Maybe." But he still seemed unconvinced.

"Well," Tolonen said, leaning back again, the pearl-white chopsticks gleaming in his golden hand, "you think about it, boy. And if you want it done, I'll arrange everything for you. It's the least I can do."

later, alone in his office, Kim sat there at his desk, toying with the graphics display on his comset and thinking about what Tolonen had said. Maybe he should get wired. Maybe he was just being silly about the whole thing. After all, it wouldn't hurt to be able to process things a little faster. No, nor was there any evidence that the procedure impaired creative thought. Quite the opposite, if reports were true. In fact, there wasn't a single reason not to be wired, nothing but his own irrational fear. Even so, he held back, unable, finally, to commit himself.

So what was it? What was he really afraid of?

Control, he thought, unwilling even to utter the word, however softly. I'm afraid of losing control again.

And maybe that was paranoia, but he wasn't quite convinced. After all, hadn't he been the one called in by Li Yuan to look at the feasibility of wiring up the whole population? Hadn't he seen for himself how easy it would be to take that first simple step?

And if he took that first step by himself?

It isn't the same, he told himself for the hundredth time. The two things are completely different. And so they were. The kind of .wiring Tolonen had in mind was nothing like the process Li Yuan was looking into, yet his mind refused the distinction, preferring to connect them. Wires in the head. They were a means of control. And if he took the first step, who was to say that someone else might not take the next, making him their beast?

Nonsense, a part of him replied: you're talking fearful nonsense notv, Kim Ward.

But was he? Or was his instinct sound in this?

He huffed, exasperated with himself, then turned, startled, hearing the faintest rustle of silk behind him.

A young Han stood there, head bowed, a small tray held out before him. "Forgive me, Master. I have brought ch'a."

Kim relaxed. It was only his bookkeeper, Nong Yan.

"I'm sorry, Yan. I thought I was the only one here,"

Nong placed the tray down beside him, then turned, smiling. "And so you were, Master. I came in half an hour ago and saw that you were working, so I thought it best not to disturb you."

"Ah . . ." Kim nodded, yet he was surprised. Had he been that deep in his thoughts, then, that he hadn't heard the door? He set the comset down and reached across, lifting the chung and pouring two bowls of the steaming ch'a. Looking up, he offered one to the young bookkeeper.

"So how are our finances, Yan? Are we in desperate straits yet?"

Nong took the bowl with a terse nod, then squatted on the edge of the desk, beside the comset. "You know how things are, Master Kim. All bills are paid, all commitments met. Even so, the underlying problem remains as before. We are undercapitalized. If we are to expand. . ."

". . . we must get new funding," Kim finished for him, studying the details of the diagram he had sketched out on the comset's screen. "I hear what you say, Yan, but until I hear from young Shih Lever, we must struggle on as we are." He took a sip from his bowl, then looked up at the young man again. "You're happy, I take it, Yan?"

"Happy, Master?" Nong Yan laughed, his softly rounded face lighting up briefly. "I have a fine wife and a good Master. Why should I not be happy?"

Kim smiled. "Good. Then have patience with me, Yan, and we shall all be rich men." He tapped the surface of the comset's screen with a fingernail, indicating the faintly webbed smoke-ring shape there. "Once the patent has been registered things will begin in earnest. Until then, we hang fire. You know how it is in this business, Yan. The least said in public the better."

"So it is, Master."

"Good." Kim reached across, clearing the screen, then looked back at Nong Yan. In the few moments he had been distracted by the young bookkeeper, he had come to a decision. Taking Toloneji's card from his wallet, he studied it, memorizing the contact number, then tucked it back into the top pocket of his jacket.

Setting the ch'a bowl down, he leaned forward, tapping out the number on the comset's pad, then turned, looking up at Nong Yan. "Thank you, Yan. If you would leave me now . . ."

As the ensign's face appeared on the screen, Kim turned back, and, with a confidence he did not wholly feel, asked to be put through to the Marshal.

The doubts remained. Even so, he would have it done. Besides, it would be good to visit Tolonen; to sit and talk to him at length. Yes, and to see his daughter, Jelka, once again.

There was a moment's delay and then Tolonen's face appeared. "Kim! It was good to see you earlier! Very good indeed!'"

Kim gave the slightest bow. "I felt I ought to thank you for the meal, Marshal. It was quite excellent."

The old man laughed heartily. "It was, wasn't it!"

"As for the other matter ..."

"YouVe thought it through, I take it?"

Kim nodded.

"And?" Tolonen asked eagerly.

"And I'd like to accept your kind invitation, if I might."

Tolonen leaned back, delighted. "So you're going to have it done, eh? Good! Excellent! I'll arrange everything. Just let Hauser here know when you want to come over and we'll organize it all. You won't regret it, Kim, believe me, you really won't!"

"No," he said, smiling, reassured somewhat by the old man's genuine delight. Yet when the screen went dead once more, he felt the tightness return and wondered briefly if he had acted for the good.

Too late, he thought. And even if that wasn't entirely true, he knew that he had taken a vital step toward it.

Ten days. He would have it done ten days from now. And as he framed the thought, an image came to mind: the image of a young woman, tall and straight and elegant, with hair the color of the sun and eyes the deep blue of a summer's sky.

Kim frowned, wondering if she would remember him. Whether, in the long months that had passed since they'd met, she had ever once thought of him. He leaned forward, tapping out his personal code, summoning up the diagram again, but his mind was no longer on the patent.

Does she remember me¹, he thought, a sudden longing to see her face overwhelming him. Does she⁷.

And if she did? What then?

He looked down at his hands where they rested in his lap—tiny, childlike hands, scarred and stunted by his experience in the Clay— and wondered what she had made of him that time, remembering how her eyes had met his own. Had he been wrong, or had something passed between them in that instant?

For a moment he sat there, undecided, then, angry at himself, at the doubts that constantly assailed him, he stood and, clearing the screen once more, hurried out, calling farewell to Nong Yan as he went.

THE white SILK envelope lay open, empty on the desktop. The chair behind the great desk was unoccupied, the portrait of Li Kou-lung, great-grandfather to Li Yuan, looking down imperiously on a room where nothing stirred. An ornate dragon lamp cast a pool of yellowed light about the desk, throwing heavy shadows on the tiled, mosaic floor. On the desk beside the lamp, a faint wisp of steam still drifting up from its untouched surface, rested a shallow bowl of soup, the long, straight silver handle of the spoon jutting out horizontally, the dark line of its shadow dissecting the jaundiced whiteness of the silk.

Li Yuan stood in darkness beside the carp pool, Wei Feng's letter held loosely in his left hand as he stared outward, into the shadows.

He had dismissed the servants and ordered that no one should disturb him, no matter how urgent the need. And now he stood there, unmoving, deep in thought, trying to see, in that utter, impenetrable darkness, his way through to clarity: to formulate a decision—a degree of certainty—from the sudden chaos of his thoughts.

Once before he had stood where he stood now, both figuratively and literally, facing this same matter. Back then anger and frustration—and a feeling of betrayal—had formed the thought in him, "Why Seven?" and then, as now, he had passed through the anger to a feeling of peace and to the realization that he had survived the worst his enemies could throw at him. Yet there was a difference, for now he understood that such peace, such respite, was temporary. Whatever he did, however he acted, his enemies would multiply. Cut off one head and two more would grow in its place, like that in the legend. But now, with Wei Feng's letter, something new had entered the calculations of power. Now that thought—"Why Seven?"—was given more than a tentative expression.

Li Yuan sighed. The old man had seen how things stood; had seen the divisions that lay ahead if things remained as they were, and had said to him directly, unequivocally, "Take power, Li Yuan. Grasp it now, before all Seven go down into the darkness." Those, his words, had been mirrored in his son's, Chan Yin's, face. He understood now; knew what that look of deference and humility had meant. And Chan's words, "I am my father's son," they too took on a new significance.

At first he had-not believed what he had read. Slowly, one finger tracing the words, he had mouthed them to himself, then had sat back, oblivious of the servant who had brought his evening soup, trying to take in the profound significance of Wei Feng's final message to him. How would he, in Chan Yin's position, have behaved? Would he, like Chan, have submitted to his father's wishes?

He frowned, realizing he did not know himself as well as that. To give away his birthright. To bow before another when there was no need. He shook his head. No, even filial duty broke before such demands. Chan Yin would have been within his rights to ignore his father's dying wishes; to have dismissed them as the addled ravings of a sick and disappointed man. But he had not.

Beyond this question of duty and birthright lay a second, more complex one: the matter of acting upon Wei Feng's wishes, and the likely political repercussions. Ignoring the morality of it a moment, he could not, even in practical terms, accept what Wei Feng had offered him. He could not be the new T'ang of Eastern Asia in Chan Yin's place. While the letter stated this as Wei Feng's wish, and though Chan Yin and his brothers might agree to and accept the terms of this document—two factors which might make his inheritance incontestable in law—there was not the slightest possibility that the other five T'ang would allow it. Even Tsu Ma would act to prevent it if he knew. No, if he even so much as mentioned the possibility, it would have the effect of isolating him in Council and achieve in an instant what Wang Sau-leyan had long striven to do.

Chan Yin would inherit. The chain would remain unbroken. But in the dark something else had come to the young T'ang of Europe. Some deeper scheme that might build upon what Wei Feng had freed him to contemplate. A scheme whereby the Seven might become both simpler and more effective. Might become—he dared to whisper it aloud—"Just three of us. Tsu Ma. Wu Shih. And I..."

And, once uttered, the idea took root in the depths of him, became a growing seed that he might now begin to nurture with the water of thought and the sunlight of action.

Returning to his study he stood there in the doorway, looking across at the portrait of his great-grandfather, a man he had never known, wondering how he would have viewed such things and whether he, in similar circumstances, would have thought or acted differently. He could ask, of course, consult the old man's hologram, yet he sensed it would do little good. Li Kou-lung's responses had been programmed in a different age; an age of solid certainties when even to think of such matters would have been considered a sign of frailty. Sighing deeply, he crossed the room and pulled at the bell rope, summoning Chang Shih-sen, his secretary.

He stood there, waiting, staring down at the shallow bowl, then reached out and, with one finger, gently breached the cold, congealed surface, thinking to himself, Three. Just Three, before raising the finger to his mouth.

Li Yuan turned from the desk, drawing himself up straight, as Chang Shih-sen entered.

"Call Wei Chan Yin for me," he said, all signs of tiredness gone from him, replaced by a strange excitement. "Ask him if he will come here. At once. He will be expecting my message."

Chang Shih-sen bowed and turned to go, but Li Yuan reached out and held his arm a moment. "And Shih-sen ... ask him to bring Tseng-li, the youngest. I have a use for him. Then rest. I will not need you for a while."

CHAPTER FIVE

The Chain of Being

IN THE FORMAL GARDENS surrounding the great House at Weimar, songbirds were singing in the cypress trees, greeting the dawn. The great House itself was empty, as it had been these past eight years, since Wang Hsien, father of the present T'ang of Africa, read the Seven's Edict of Dis-bandment, but in the pavilion to the east of the vast, zigguratlike mass of the assembly building, a conference was taking place. There, in the shadow of the nearby City, fourteen men—the seven Chancellors of the Seven and seven graybeards, ex-Representatives of the House— sat around a huge circular table, discussing the future of Chung Kuo. On the ceiling directly overhead was a huge chart of Chung Kuo, with the boundaries of the new Hsien, the administrative districts, marked in red against the background white, like capillaries on the surface of a clouded eye. For eleven hours now they had talked, with only two short breaks for refreshments, but now it was almost done.

Nan Ho, seated at the table, looked up frpm the silk-bound folder in front of him and smiled, meeting the eyes of the pigtailed old Han facing him.

"You are a stubborn man, Ping Hsiang, but not unreasonable. What you ask for is far from what my Masters would have wished. But, as I have said many times this night, we are not here to impose. No. We must come to some new compact between Seven and Above. For the sake of all."

There was a murmur of agreement about the table and from Ping Hsiang a taut smile and a single nod of the head.

"Good. Then let us agree on this final point. Let us delay the implementation of the package of measures agreed earlier until ten months after the House has passed the proposal. That way no one can say we have not been fair and open."

"And the draft of these proposals?" Ping Hsiang asked, looking to either side of him as he spoke.

"A document is being prepared, even as we speak, and will be ready for the signature of all before we leave. You will all be given copies to take with you, naturally."

Nan Ho saw the grins of pleasure at that news and smiled inwardly. He had brought them a long way this night, from open hostility and mistrust of the Seven and their motives, to a new respect, and maybe even a grudging admiration for the men who ruled them. On the way he had gained all that his masters had entrusted him, as spokesman of their negotiating committee, to gain, and had given no more—less, in fact—than they had empowered him to give. All in all, then, it had been a successful round of negotiations, and the irony was that, now that it was done, the men who sat facing him positively glowed with satisfaction, as if they had put one over on him.

But then, that was the art of negotiation, surely? From the simplest marketplace haggling to the subtle art of statecraft, the principle behind it was the same: one had to forget the value of the thing one wanted, and begin negotiations from a point beyond. To over or undervalue, that was the basis of it, the one and only secret. But to do that one had also to know, with pinpoint accuracy, just what the thing desired was truly worth. So it had been today. He had spent long months establishing clearly in his mind just what it was the two sides wanted from this meeting.

And now it was done.

Nan Ho stood, looking about him, then clapped his hands together sharply, summoning the pavilion's servants. At once, two dozen shaven-headed young men entered, heads bowed respectfully, bearing trays of food and wine. He watched them move about the table, offering refreshments, then turned away, going across to the long window that curved away to either side.

Out there a new day was beginning, sunlight glittering off the upper windows of the House, stretching down the smooth, pearled flanks of the great building toward the deep shadow at its foot. Yesterday, before the meeting, Nan Ho had had the great doors unlocked and had gone into the House, pacing its empty corridors and lobbies until he came out into the echoing vastness of the central debating chamber. There, surrounded by tier upon tier of empty seats, he had imagined it, a year from now, filled with the elected representatives of the Above—ten thousand voices clamoring to be heard above the din—and for a moment had found himself beset by doubts. Yet he knew that there was no stepping back from this course, no real alternative to this compact between Seven and Above. It was as Li Yuan argued: it was this or nothing. And so he had shrugged off his doubts and gone to the negotiating table with a clear, hard mind, softening his stance only when it was clear to those who sat opposite him that he was bargaining from a position of strength, not weakness. Only then had he relaxed, bowing like the reed before the wind, making unexpected concessions. The Seven's demand for a maximum of two children per married couple was softened to three. A provocative "retrospective action" clause, never intended to be part of the final package, was fought for and then abandoned. A proposal to extend the voting franchise from the top fifty to the top one hundred levels—a measure as abhorrent to the Seven as it was to the seven graybeards facing Nan Ho—was pressed and then dropped. And so it went on, false bargains being made, while real concessions were gained.

There were footsteps just behind him. Nan Ho half turned, then formed his features into a tight, polite smile. It was Hung Mien-lo, the Chancellor of City Africa, Wang Sau-leyan's man.

"Well, Chancellor Nan," Hung said softly, his voice not carrying beyond their circle, "we have what we came for, neh?"

Nan Ho looked beyond Hung Mien-lo at the graybeards gathered on the far side of the table. "So it seems," he said, mistrustful of the man. "But it is not the power we give them that worries me—for that is little enough—as that which they might yet take for themselves. There is no stepping back from this course. To close the House a second time . . . Well, it is inconceivable, neh?"

Hung Mien-lo smiled. "Maybe. And yet stranger things have happened."

Nan Ho shook his head, disturbed by the thought. "No. To close the House again is unthinkable. Our task henceforth is a simple one. We must find ways of harnessing that power."

"Like 'Pockets' you mean?"

Nan Ho narrowed his eyes, trying to gauge what the odier meant by his comment. "Pockets"—tai—were Representatives who had been bought by the Seven, and who had, in the past, exerted considerable influence over the House. But in the period leading up to the War-that-wasn't-a-War the Seven had tried to swamp the House with "Pockets" and the institution had fallen into disrepute. The impeachment and arrest of the tai in the Spring of 2201 had, in effect, been a declaration of independence by the House from the Seven, and had led directly to the War.

Nan Ho shrugged. "In this, as in all else, the past shows us the way to the future."

"The past. . ." Hung Mien-lo laughed softly and leaned closer. "And when the future finally comes? What then, Master Nan? How do we block the future? How harness it? For it is coming. You and I know that, even if our masters don't."

Nan Ho stared back at Hung Mien-lo a moment, his face impassive, then, seeing that the scribes were finished, the document prepared, moved past his fellow Chancellor, leaving the questions unanswered.

THE TWO bodyguards looked about them nervously as the sedan was set down, unused to being so far down the levels, but Michael Lever, stepping down from the carriage, seemed not to notice their unease. He looked about him, noting the stark neatness of his surroundings, then crossed the narrow hallway.

There was no entrance hall, no suite of offices isolating the inner workings of the Company from the outside world, merely a big double door, decorated, like many Company premises, with the Company logo. Lever smiled, amused by the simplicity of it all. He reached out to touch the delicate, shimmering web, then drew his fingers back sharply, surprised to find the strands warm, the background deathly cold.

He took a step back, studying the design. At the center of the web was a tiny, smiling spider, while above it was the Company name, Ch't Chu—Spider—written in English and Mandarin.

This was the first time he had visited Kim at his facility and, despite all Kim had said, he was surprised to find it all so low-key. Why, there wasn't even a camera over the doorway . . .

The doors shuddered, then, unexpectedly, melted away, leaving only the logo, hovering in the empty darkness. One of the guards made to come past him, but Michael raised a hand. Then, a faint smile of amusement on his lips, he stepped through.

There was the faintest crackle of static, the feeling of having.passed through the flimsiest of barriers, and then he was inside. A tall, slightly balding Han stood before him, his head lowered, his hands folded before him respectfully.

"Welcome, Shih Lever. We were expecting you."

Michael laughed. "I see you were." He turned, watching the door shimmer back into existence.

"Two holograms," the Han explained, straightening up. "One for the door, one for the logo. And behind them a security force field. It was Kim's idea."

Michael nodded. "It's clever. But I prefer more solid things."

"Perhaps so. But solidity is a relative thing, Shih Lever. If the field had been turned on, you would have found it hard enough to walk through, hologram or no. But forgive me, let me introduce myself. My name is T'ai Cho."

Michael lowered his head. "T'ai Cho ... I am delighted to meet you. Kim has spoken often of you. He is fortunate to have such a good friend and guardian."

The Han bowed, but his face remained expressionless. "The good fortune has been mine alone, Shih Lever. The honor of serving so fine and talented a young man falls to few in this life. I would have counted my life as having had little meaning had I not met Shih Ward."

Michael nodded, impressed by the Han's words. Yet if what Kim had told him were true, he owed T'ai Cho not merely his chance in life, but life itself. When Kim had come out of the Clay, it was T'ai Cho who—as his tutor in the Reclamation Project—had not merely recognized and fostered Kim's talent, but had interceded at a crucial moment to prevent his death.

"But let us not stand here talking, Shih Lever. Let me take you through. Kim is working just now—finishing something he began last night—but he will not be long. Maybe you would like to watch. If you would follow me..."

"Thank you, T'ai Cho. It will be a real pleasure." *

He followed T'ai Cho through. There were two small offices off to the left of the corridor, but the main work space was a big L-shaped room at the end. There he found Kim, sitting with his back to the door, crouched forward, facing an experimental environment—the vacuum-sealed transparent box five ch'i to a side. The top half of Kim's head was hidden within a bulky headwrap, a dozen or more wires trailing off into a console to one side, while his arms were inside the box, enclosed in skintight armatures as he operated the nano-fine waldoes. Two lab-coated technicians sat on the edge of the desk nearby, so engrossed in what Kim was doing that they didn't even look up as Michael came into the room.

Michael went across and stood behind them. As far as he could see nothing was happening. Or—and the thought struck him as strangely amusing—as if Kim were only pretending to do something. The delicate appendages seemed to cut and mold the air, drawing out fine lines of nothingness, the tips of the waldoes sparking and flickering, but it was all to no apparent purpose. He felt a vague twinge of disappointment. There seemed no point to what Kim was doing; no discernible result. Michael squinted, trying to make out something he had missed, but it was no good. There really did seem to be nothing there.

He turned, looking about him. There were benches, cabinets, various items of machinery, most of them inexpensive, older models, all of it so unexpectedly shabby that he found himself making unwarranted comparisons: setting all of this against the state-of-the-art efficiency of his father's labs. It all seemed wrong somehow; too small, too cobbled-together. How could anything worthwhile be produced in conditions like this?

For the briefest moment he wondered whether he might not be mistaken in his plans to work with Ward, but then he remembered his father's interest and what he had heard from his European contacts. And then there was what he himself knew about the boy's abilities.

The boy . . . He turned, studying Ward in profile, then looked away, conscious of how his thoughts had betrayed him. Appearances. With Ward it wasn't possible to judge things on appearances, for he was not what he seemed. Nineteen now, Ward seemed little more than a child, a boy of twelve, thirteen at most, his diminutive stature the result of his childhood in the Clay. That experience, down there in the darkness beneath the City's foundations, had shaped him, inwardly and out, making him—at a glance—different from those he went among. Michael smiled. Compared to the tall, well-fed citizens of First Level, Kim seemed but the unfleshed suggestion of humanity—a throwback to an earlier evolutionary stage. Physically, Kim had so little substance. But appearances were deceptive, for there was a fire in his eyes, a strength even in his smallest movement that belied that first impression. And one further thing. For Ward was reputedly the finest theoretical scientist in the whole of Chung Kuo.

He looked back. Kim was watching him, his dark eyes curious. "Michael. . ." he said softly, greeting him. "One moment and I'm done."

He watched. Where there had been nothing, a fine point of pure white light blossomed, a fine web of threads spreading out like buds from the radiant hub, then turning back on themselves until they formed a tiny, spherical net, the whole thing taking on detail and complexity until it seemed to glow with an intense energy. It began to turn, slowly at first, then faster, the glow fading and returning until it formed a regular pulse.

Michael shook his head, astonished. It was beautiful. He glanced at Kim and saw how he was leaning forward now, his lips parted, his breathing shallow. Michael shivered, then looked back, his eyes drawn to the spinning helix of light.

It spun, faster and faster, and as it spun brief, brilliant pulses of light flashed from its glowing heart, each pulse striking one of the tiny studlike targets that dotted the inside walls of the chamber. Slowly the light intensified until he had to half-lid his eyes, then turn aside, his eyes squeezed shut, one hand shielding his face. But even then he could still see it through the flesh of his eyelids, spinning at the center of the void, like a tiny, burning star, flashing magnificently.

For a moment longer it maintained its perfect equilibrium at the center of the vacuum, then, with a noisy crackle of static, the light abruptly died.

Michael turned, blinking, staring into the darkness of the chamber, then looked across. For a moment Kim sat there, perfectly still, then, with a tiny shudder, he sat back, pulling his arms from the waldoes.

"Kuan Yin!" Michael said softly, shaking his head.

Kim turned his head and looked at him, a faint, almost apologetic smile on his lips, then, tugging off the headwrap, he came across, taking Lever's hands. "Michael. . . It's good to see you. How are things?"

Michael smiled. "I'm fine. But what was that?"

Kim half glanced back at the empty chamber, then shrugged. "It's something long-term, that's all. A problem I've set myself. I thought I had a solution, but, well, let's just say that it's not stable."

Michael laughed. "Yes . . . but what was it? It looked beautiful."

Kim moved past him, then turned back, a rough sketch in one hand. "Basically, it's a switching device. It's meant to transmit energy at a molecular level. The trouble is, it has to be able to maintain its form and turn at phenomenal speeds—at the speed of molecular reactions themselves, to be accurate. At present, however, it's very fragile. The least molecular interference from outside and it breaks up. As you saw. Add to that the fact that it's far too big for practical use, and you can see just how far I am from solving things."

Michael glanced at the paper Kim had given him, but the equations meant nothing to him. They might just as well have been written in Shang dynasty Mandarin. "Maybe, but it's certainly impressive."

Kim laughed. "You think so? Well, maybe, but sometimes it feels like I'm grasping at nothingness itself. That I reach out and close my hand and . . . there's nothing there. And I ask myself, what if I'm wrong? Good as I am, what if I'm wrong? What if all the talent I have isn't enough? What if the universe is different from how I conceive it? What if it won't conform to the pattern in my head?"

"Then you change the pattern, surely?"

Kim studied Michael a moment, then looked away. "But what if I am the pattern?" For a moment Kim stood there, perfectly still, staring into the empty chamber, then, as if remembering suddenly where he was, he looked back, smiling. "Well, how did it go? Is it still on?"

It was Michael's turn to look away. "I'm sorry, Kim. The Old Man wouldn't budge. And without those funds . . ."

Kim reached out and touched his arm. "I understand. And it's all right. We can make do as we are for a while longer. But you . . . you needed that money, didn't you?"

Michael met his eyes and nodded.

"So? What will you do?"

Michael smiled stoically. "I've a scheme or two. The Old Man won't put bit and brace on me that easily."

Kim nodded, but he could see how disappointed—and, beneath that, how angry—Michael was at his father for freezing his accounts.

"It was such a small amount," Michael said quietly. "Less than he spends on some of the old memorabilia he buys. But that's how it is. We have to live with it, neh?" He reached inside his jacket and took out a letter. "Here. I thought this might help."

Kim took the envelope without looking at it. "What is it?"

"A letter of introduction, to the Hang Su Credit Agency."

"Credit?" Kim laughed, recalling the difficulties he had faced in going to the Credit Agencies when he had first set up Ch'i Chu. The message had been the same everywhere he'd turned. Find a major sponsor or forget it. That was how things worked here. Big fish and little fish. But he had been determined to keep his independence. He had struggled on, slowly using up the funds Li Yuan had given him, cutting corners and making do, trusting that his talent would be enough to pull him through. But now it was make-or-break time. He had to sell some of his ideas—to generate enough money to allow Ch'i Chu to live another year or two.

He shrugged. "I'm not averse to the idea, but who in their right mind would give me credit?"

Michael smiled. "Don't worry. IVe made discreet inquiries and it seems that the Brothers Hang are willing to do business with you. IVe arranged an interview for tomorrow at two."

Kim laughed, genuinely surprised. "Okay. But what do I put up for security? IVe sunk everything I have into this place. And now that your father has tightened the reins . . ."

Michael was still smiling. "What about the patents? They're worth something, aren't they?"

"Maybe. Once theyVe been developed."

"Then use them. You plan to register them tomorrow, right? Good. Then go and see the Brothers straight afterward. Put the patents up as security. You'll have your funding by six tomorrow evening, I guarantee."

Kim studied the envelope a moment, then, smiling, looked back up at Michael. "Okay. I'll do as you say. And thank you, Michael. Thank you for everything."

"Oh, and one last thing. How busy are you?"

Kim laughed. "I'm always busy. But what do you mean?"

"Tonight, I mean. Could you free some time?"

"I guess so. Everything's prepared for tomorrow. What is it?"

Michael smiled, a broad, warm smile of enjoyment, undiminished by his troubles with his father. "It's a ball, Kim. A coming-of-age ball for a good friend of mine." He reached into his pocket and took out a card, handing it across. "Here. Your invitation. It's fancy dress."

"Fancy dress?"

Lever laughed, beginning to leave. "Ask T'ai Cho. And if you've any trouble rustling up a costume, contact my secretary, Mary. She'll sort something out for you."

Kim studied the gilt lettering of the invitation and nodded, recalling the last time he had been to a ball—the evening the younger sons had been arrested—and felt a tiny, unexpected thrill of anticipation ripple down his spine.

"Sweetheart?"

Jelka stood there before the giant image of her father's face, smiling broadly. "Daddy! How are you? When are you coming home?"

The great wall of the Marshal's face restructured itself, the muscles of the mouth and cheeks rearranging themselves, the broad smile becoming a look of dour resignation.

"Something's come up, I'm afraid. A development in the GenSyn case. It's important—something I have to follow up personally—so I might be here another three or four days. Is that all right?"

She smiled determinedly. "Of course, Papa. You do what you have to do. I'll be okay."

"Good." He stared at her proudly a moment, his eyes great orbs of steel amjd the craggy cliff-face of his features.

"So how was lunch?"

"Lunch?" He frowned, then, realizing what she meant, gave a broad grin. "Lunch was fine. Young Ward sends his regards. It seems he'll be coming over to Europe quite soon, to be wired."

"Wired?" She looked up into her father's face uncertainly.

"You know . . ." He touched the access slot beneath his right ear uneasily, knowing how she felt about it. "The standard thing. A direct-processing link. He says it'll help with his work. Make things easier. Anyway . . ." he cleared his throat and put on a determinedly cheerful expression, "you can talk to him directly about it when he's over. IVe invited him to dinner."

She nodded, pretending a polite interest, but beneath it she felt her chest tighten, her pulse begin to quicken. "That's good. It'll be nice to see him again."

For a moment the old man's face beamed down at his daughter, drinking in the sight of her, then, with a deep sniff, he sat back slightly, his expression suddenly more businesslike.

"Well, my girl. I must get on. There's much to do here, and I'd like to get it done with as soon as possible."

"Of course. And take care, all right?"

He nodded, the movement exaggerated by the screen. "And you, my love." Then he was gone, the screen blank.

She went across and sat at her father's desk, swiveling the big chair back and forth, staring out across the room thoughtfully. So the boy was coming here...

She frowned, then gave a small, strange laugh. The boy was not a child these days. In fact, if she remembered rightly, Kim was almost a year older than her. It was just that she still thought of him like that. After all, he was so small. So tiny and graceful. So delicately formed. . .

She shivered, then stood, disturbed suddenly by the thought of him coming there. ,But why should that be? He was just a boy, after all. A friend and colleague of her father's. It wasn't as if...

She shook her head, then turned, facing the screen once more, staring at the perfect whiteness. It was just that his eyes had burned so brightly that time. As if they saw things differently.

For the briefest instant she saw once more the tiny fox, there in the cave on the island, staring back at her with its dark and feral eyes, the memory so vivid it was as if she stood there, watching it once more. And then it was gone, leaving only the plain white screen, and the memory of some wild, dark thing that did not belong in the world of levels.

NAN HO was flying east, over the heart of Asia, the sun behind him now, the Altai Mountains beneath. Ahead lay the great desert, beyond it, ancient China and, in the shadow of the Ta Pa Shan in Sichuan Province, the estate at Tongjiang. He had sent ahead that he was coming, but, in the wake of Wei Feng's death—announced on the media an hour into his flight—he was not certain what state things would be in.

Wei Feng had been the oldest, the last of that generation. Even Wu Shih, the eldest of them now, was but a .young man by comparison.

The thought troubled Nan Ho as he sat in his padded chair, sorting through his papers. The new T'ang, Wei Chan Yin, was a good man and a sound administrator, who had proved himself already as Regent in his father's stead, but Wei Feng's death had robbed the Council of its last real vestige of experience. Without the old man, they seemed less dignified, robbed somehow of authority. It would not be said, not openly, but it was certain to be thought—to be whispered ear to ear. And, though no outward change would be evident, the Seven would be weaker. For power was something manifested not merely in its exercise, but also in how the people perceived those who ruled them.

For the third time in as many years, the Seven were diminished: first by the murder of Wang Hsien, then by Li Shai Tung's sudden demise, and now this. It was fortunate, perhaps, that they had made their "deal" with the Above before the news had broken. Or maybe not. Maybe this news—to be announced this very evening—would be seen as further weakness. As a further erosion of power.

And when power failed altogether?

Nan Ho shuddered, then pushed the papers aside, angry with himself, conscious that Hung Mien-lo's words had got to him. Yet even as he settled back in his chair, a new determination formed in him. Whatever happened from now on, he would be prepared for it. For he was warned now. It would be no one's fault but his if they faltered in the years ahead. And he, Nan Ho, son of Nan Ho-tse, would do his utmost to ensure that that did not happen. He would make it his sole concern—his life's work.

Even if death were the only payment for his pains.

LI YUAN was waiting for Nan Ho in his study when he arrived, the young T'ang dressed in the traditional clothes of mourning, as if it were his father who had just died. The great desk in front of him was unusually clear, only a small white envelope set to one side. Nan Ho glanced at it as he bowed, then looked again, surprised to find Wei Feng's distinctive seal set firmly in the bloodred wax.

"You have done well, Master Nan," Li Yuan said without preliminaries. "I have spoken to Wu Shih and Tsu Ma and they are pleased with the terms you have drawn up. I thought we might have had to give much more."

Nan Ho lowered his head again, but the mystery of the envelope distracted him. What message had the dead T'ang left? And was it to Li Yuan alone, or did all seven have similar envelopes?

"Now that the matter is settled, there is something else I would like you to take on, Master Nan."

Nan Ho met the young T'ang's eyes, for that brief moment bridging the great gulf in rank that lay between them. "Chieh Hsia?"

"I have had news from Tolonen in America. It seems he is on to something out there."

"Did he say what, Chieh Hsia?"

Li Yuan shook his head. "Don't you find it odd, Master Nan? I mean, it is most unlike the Marshal to keep things to himself. If he has a fault it is usually that he keeps us far too well informed."

Nan Ho laughed. "That is so, Chieh Hsia. But this is his old friend Klaus Ebert's business. Tolonen saw the man as a brother, and he goes about this business as a brother would."

"True enough," Li Yuan said thoughtfully. "I have noticed that already. He sees this as a debt of honor, neh?" _t-

"That is so, Chieh Hsia. He did say one thing to me, however. At Nantes, before he left."

"Yes? And what was that?"

"He mentioned some anomalies in the GenSyn records for their North American operation. When I questioned him about it, he spoke of accounting irregularities, forged shipment details, missing documents, and the like. It was a bland, evasive answer. A safe answer. Yet when he met my eyes I knew he meant something else. Something is missing, Chieh Hsia, and Tolonen has gone to find it."

Li Yuan sighed. "I do not like it, Master Nan, but for once I shall have to put up with it. The Marshal is a stubborn old man, but an honest one. We shall find out when he is ready to tell us, I suppose. But in the meantime, I want you to find out what you can. I do not want us caught wholly unprepared."

Nan Ho bowed low. As ever he was already onto the matter. "As you wish, Chieh Hsia."

After the Chancellor had gone, Li Yuan leaned across, drawing the envelope toward him. In five hours Wei Chan Yin would be here.

He raised the letter to his nose and sniffed, then, setting it down again, shook his head. What had he expected? The smell of death? Of fear and darkness? Whatever, there was nothing. Nothing but the neutral scents of wax and ink and paper. Even so, he had felt a kind of fear—an almost primal dread—of what lay within that slender pocket of whiteness. It was fate, written in the dark, spidery hand of a dead man. Li Yuan shivered, thinking of it, and pushed it from him.

In five hours...

OLD MAN lever stood on the podium at the center of the crowd, a full whiskey tumbler held in one big, square-knuckled hand, a red, white, and blue silk folder in the other. Behind him, a huge stars and stripes banner was draped over the far end of the vestibule, concealing the entrance to the deck. Lever smiled and looked about him, lifting his glass in greeting. They were all gathered here today— all of the original investors—fifty of the most important men in the North American Above, multibillionaires every one of them. But it had been his idea and his drive which had brought this into being. And now, at the inauguration ceremony, it would be he, Charles Lever, who would take the lion's share of the praise.

"Gentlemen. . . Friends. . . Welcome." Lever combed a lock of steel-gray hair back from his eyes and beamed, showing strong, slightly yellowing teeth. "You all know why we're here and what we're here for, so let's skip the formalities and go right on in. I'm sure you're all as anxious as I am to see how the money has been spent. . ."

There was a roar of approval, and as Lever stepped down from the podium and made his way across, the small crowd followed, talking among themselves.

It was not often that they met, and to all it seemed particularly auspicious that it was on such a day, when news of Wei Feng's death and of the triumph at Weimar coincided. The normally placid old men fairly buzzed with the news. It was all linked in, they said; part of the new tide, turning in their favor. From the low ebb of their humiliation on the steps of the Lincoln Memorial they had rebuilt. And now their time was coming. The negotiations at Weimar had been the first step; the elections were the next. And each step would bring them closer to their aim—of a strong and independent America, free of the rule of the Seven, taking its rightful place in the world once more. Not an empire, maybe, but a nation. And who knew what might come of that? Maybe they would take up where they had left off and reach out for the stars, the eagle stretching its wings . . .

Beneath the huge stars and stripes banner Lever turned, facing them again. "I realize that you gentlemen have been champing at the bit, wanting to know what's been going on here, but when you see what has been achieved in the past ten months, I'm sure you'll agree that it was money well spent."

He lifted a hand. At the signal, the banner drew slowly to one side,

revealing a huge entrance tunnel, the walls and ceiling of which had been made to seem like marble. Over the entrance was a massive memorial stone, an inscription cut into the stone in a bold, classical face:

THE RICHARD CUTLER FOUNDATION FOR GENETIC RESEARCH

Opened this Seventh day of March, a.d. Two Thousand Two Hundred and Nine, by Charles Alexander Lever, Head of the ImmVeip Corporation of North America.

Through the archway could be glimpsed a bright space, landscaped like a great park, and in its midst something huge, like the plinth of a giant statue.

They went through, coming out into a wooded glade from which could be seen the full extent of the Foundation and its grounds.

Lever had had the top three decks "knocked into one" as he called it, so that the ceiling—a huge screen, programmed to seem like a summer sky—was a good two hundred ch'i overhead. But that was not what first caught the eye. In the center of the landscaped gardens was an immense building; a structure which was as familiar to the old men standing there as the stars and stripes of the Sixty-Nine States. The Empire State Building.

For a moment there was stunned silence and then an uproar as the old men clapped and yelped their approval.

"It's wonderful, Charles," his friend, the financier, James Fisher, said, slapping Levers shoulder enthusiastically. "The architect is to be congratulated. He's caught the spirit of the old building to perfection."

Lever beamed, conscious of congratulations from all sides. "Yes, he has, hasn't he. I gave him the basic idea and he came up with the rest. He had to modify, of course, but the general effect is just what I wanted. The labs and most of the research facilities are beneath this floor, of course—the whole thing stretches down another five decks— but this is the showpiece. The reception area, the main wards, and the lecture halls are all within the main building." He smiled and looked about him once more, "As you'll see."

In front of the huge studded entrance doors Lever turned and raised his hands. "Gentlemen! One last thing before we go in. I am proud to say that only yesterday I received delivery of the latest masterpiece by the greatest painter of our age, Ernst Heydemeier."

There was a low murmur of surprise. Lever looked about him, savoring the moment, then added, "Furthermore, let me add that I have donated this specially commissioned painting to the Institute in commemoration of this inauguration ceremony. If you would follow me. . ."

As Lever turned, the doors began slowly to ease back, revealing the facing wall-screen and Heydemeier's painting. There was a gasp of surprise and then, as more and more of the giant canvas came into view, a mounting tide of applause.

At the center of the painting the giant figure of a youth, his muscular chest naked, stood atop a mountain's rugged crest, looking toward the west, the shaft of a huge banner clasped firmly in one hand. His tautly sculpted and beautiful features glowed with a visionary fervor. Behind the youth and the wind-furled flag, a company of youths—young gods, they seemed—climbed toward the summit, their faces gleaming, looking toward the sun that bathed the whole picture in its glorious golden light.

"Gods . . ." one of the old men murmured, staring up at the huge canvas, his mouth agape. Nor was he alone. All about Lever the old men had fallen silent as the full scope of the massive painting came into view. There was a moment's hesitation, then, slowly, with a growing sense of awe, they began to approach the screen.

Old Man Lever stood there, looking about him, knowing what they were feeling at that moment. It was what he himself had felt only yesterday when he had first seen the painting. It was astonishing. Once more Heydemeier had taken his idea and transformed it. And now that he had seen it for himself, he knew. This was the Dream. This was what had driven him these past few years. This vision of perfection, glimpsed in the golden light of a new dawn.

He shivered. If it could be done, it would be done here. And this, this masterpiece of visionary painting, was the perfect statement of intent. To be a god and live forever—what was wrong with wanting that?

"It's astonishing," someone said close by, real awe in his voice.

"Youre right, Charles," another added softly. "It's a masterpiece. IVe never seen its like!"

He looked about him, smiling, accepting the words of praise that came from all sides. Then, raising his voice once more, he beckoned them on. "Come, gentlemen. Let's not stand here gawping. Let's go through. There are wonders enough within."

TWO HOURS later they were standing in the central lecture hall, beneath a massive reproduction of Martin Waldeseemuller's spectacular "Universalis Cosmographia," the ancient world map, dated 1507, which filled one whole end of the theater. The original woodcut, the first map to give the New World the name of America, hung in Old Man Lever's study in Philadelphia.

They had seen it all now, and had been impressed. There was no doubt that if a solution to the aging process could be found, it would be found here, for they had bought the finest state-of-the-art equipment and hired the very best men in every field. Expert after expert had met them as they'd toured the facility, giving a brief speech of explanation before they moved on, each one impressive in their own right, each building upon the general impression of competence. It looked good. Very good indeed. All that was needed was time and money . . . and a little luck. Or so Lever had claimed. Already the research had begun; each of the eight departments looking into their own highly specialized area. Everything had been thought out carefully beforehand, every base covered. Or so it seemed.

The tour completed, Lever went among the old men, talking with them, gauging their response, modestly accepting their praise. But all the while something nagged at him. It looked good. Indeed, it was good—the best money could buy. But it wasn't "the best." Nor would it be until he had Ward working for him.

He had looked about him as they toured the establishment, trying to see it all as they saw it, with fresh eyes, but all the time he was conscious that it was just a shell—a delightful piece of technological trickery, manned not by geniuses but by lesser men, schooled in old and rigid ways of thought. And he knew—because he had made it his business to know—that it all meant nothing—nothing at all— without that final tiny piece; that spark that would bring this great, magnificent engine of research to life.

It all came back to Ward. He had to have Ward. And if the man could not be bought, maybe he could be hassled into the job. Bullied and threatened and ultimately forced into taking on the task. Because, if his advisors were correct, there was no one else who could take on the task. No one brilliant enough to see through the obvious and come up with a wholly new solution to the problem.

Lever took another glass of whiskey and drained it at a shot. No, if Ward would not come willingly, he would come out of need: because there was nowhere else to go, no one else to turn to. And that would happen. He would make sure it would happen. Because the alternative . . .

Lever stood there, staring up at the ancient map, conscious suddenly of the billions of men and women who had lived and died since this chart had been drawn. Of all those countless souls gone to dust and nothingness. Then, drawing a long shuddering breath, he turned, smiling, and went among the crowd of old men once again, letting nothing of his unease show on the surface of his well-lined face.

michael was silent for some time after Kustow had gone, studying the papers Mary had set before him, then he turned in his chair, looking across at her.

When he had hired her, three weeks back, he had not been sure how things would work out. Her record, working in middle management for MemSys, the biggest of his Companies, had been good— first rate, in fact—but she had had little experience of working as a personal assistant. Nor would he have hired her had any of the four men he had wanted been available. But they were not. Whether his father had frightened them off or simply bought them out was irrelevant. He had been left with no choice. It was Mary Jennings or no one. And maybe he had only got her because his father had thought it beneath him to buy off a mere woman. But Mary had been better— far better—than either he or his father had anticipated. She was sharp, efficient, and resourceful. Moreover, she worked well under pressure—an invaluable trait at present, when the pressure was unrelenting. In many ways she was the best assistant he had ever worked with.

He sat back, lacing his fingers together. "Em . . . ?"

She looked up, startled. "I. . ." Then she saw the look of surprise on his face and looked away.

"Why did you call me that?"

"Call you what. . . ? Oh. Em, you mean?" He held up a copy of one of her reports. "It's how you sign yourself. The letter M. I guess IVe seen it so often now IVe come to think of you simply as Em."

She looked down, her mind still reeling. Of course. M for Mary. Mary Jennings. How strongly she had come to associate herself with that name these past twenty-one months; yet at the slightest reminder it had been dislodged, her real name brought back to her. Em for Emily. Emily Ascher . . .

She shivered, articulating it clearly in her head. Emily Ascher, late of City Europe and member of the Council of Five of the now defunct Ping Tiao—the infamous "Levelers"—who had brought chaos to the levels and then, foolishly, she thought, had fire-bombed Bremen stack, killing over eleven thousand innocent people. It was twenty-one months now since DeVore had given her false papers and bundled her off onto an inter-City rocket to a new life. Months in which she had maintained a low profile, keeping herself to herself, building up the solid foundations of her life, all the while waiting, biding her time.

For the time would come. And when it did ...

"You know, I think you're right."

She looked across; saw how he was watching her. "Pardon?"

He tapped the report. "About Dunn. I don't think we can trust him. He may have been my father's enemy for a long time now, but that doesn't necessarily make him my friend." He smiled. "I know how my father thinks. How he operates. He's a rich man, not averse to buying whatever he needs. And money can make a man—even a Dunn—take stranger bedfellows than his lifelong enemy, neh, Em?"

She had it on her tongue to correct him, to ask him not to call her that again, but something in the way he said it touched her. It was like that moment when he had asked her to take over as his assistant. She could have said no. Indeed, the sensible thing would have been to say no. But there had been something in the way he'd asked her—some hint, perhaps, of that vulnerability she had witnessed in him—that had made her agree. And so now.

She smiled. "It's been my experience that one should trust least those who claim alliance purely on the basis of a shared hatred. There's always a falling out."

So it was. She had seen the Ping TiOo destroyed for that very reason, when Gesell had allied himself with the odious DeVore. But never again. When it came to making alliances, she would set her own terms in future.

Michael was looking at her strangely. "By the way, what are you doing tonight?"

She laughed, the question catching her totally off guard. "I'm sorry..."

He looked away, as if flustered—as if he had overstepped some mark, then sat back, laughing. "Look, if youVe something on, forget it, but I thought, if you hadn't. . . well, perhaps you'd like to accompany me to a ball."

"A ball? You mean, like on the trivees?"

He shook his head. "No. This is real. An old friend of mine. She's celebrating her twenty-fifth, her Coming-of-Age. Her parents died some years back and her estate's been in trust all this time, but now it's all hers and she's throwing a huge party at the family home. I just thought. . ."

She sat back, staring at him. "Why me?" she asked, after a moment. "I'm sure there must be a dozen beautiful women out there who'd be . . ."

"I thought it might be fun," he said, interrupting her. "YouVe worked hard for me and, well, I thought you might enjoy it. I was . . ." He laughed. "Well, I wasn't sure how you'd react. I thought you might mistake my motives. You know, a boss and his assistant. . ."

"Especially when the assistant's a woman..."

He narrowed his eyes, staring at her, then nodded, a faint smile of amusement on his lips. "Well? Would you like to see how the Supernal let their hair down?"

Did she? Did she really want to mix at this level? For a moment longer she hesitated, and then she smiled; a beautiful, radiant smile. "I'd like that, SMi Lever. I'd like that very much."

"Good. But it's Michael. . ." he said, returning her smile. "Tonight you must call me Michael."

"Is that it?"

Wei Chan Yin looked up from where he sat in Li Yuan's chair and met the young T'ang's eyes. There was nothing in his face to show what he was feeling, nor had he hesitated once in drafting the document. He had sat there, handwriting it to Li Yuan's dictation, not glancing up, nor aside to where his brother, Tseng-li, stood. More like a servant than an equal. Yet Li Yuan knew, better than anyone, the strengths, the qualities of this man. He had often talked with him when they had both been Princes and when, in the final period of his father's illness, Chan Yin had acted as his father's Regent on the Council.

"Sign it at the bottom," Li Yuan said. "Then have Tseng-li put his name to it as witness. I will sign last."

Chan Yin smiled and nodded. His hand moved across the thick parchment, signing his name with a flourish of the brush. That done, Tseng-li moved up beside him and, leaning over the desk, inked his brush and signed beside his brother's name.

Chan Yin looked up and, turning the paper about, offered it to Li Yuan. Tseng-li held out the brush. Li Yuan took the brush and signed, taking a deep breath as he straightened up.

"You understand why this must be?" he said, smiling sadly at Chan Yin.

Chan Yin paused, then shook his head. "Not yet, Yuan. Not ever, perhaps. But it was my father's dying wish." His mouth formed a faint smile. "You understand?"

Li Yuan laughed. "Maybe. Maybe not. But I am grateful, cousin."

Chan Yin gave a slight bow. Beside him, Tseng-li was looking down at his elder brother, that same restraint—product of the goodness that was in them all—shaping his features. Seeing the two men thus, Li Yuan felt deeply moved. To have such sons as these. A man might die satisfied, knowing he had bred so straight and true. He sighed, the determination forming in him that he would use this document only if he must.

"Tseng-li," he said softly. "There is something else I want from you."

The youngest looked up, his dark eyes looking out from his beautiful face with a directness and openness that Li Yuan had rarely met. "What is it, Chieh Hsia?"

Li Yuan smiled at the honorific. "I would like your service, Tseng-li." He paused, then, "I want you to replace Chang Shih-sen and be my secretary."

Chan Yin looked up at him, for the first time a look of surprise on his face. But Tseng-li merely nodded. "As you wish, Chieh Hsia."

"Good." Li Yuan smiled, more at ease now that it was all concluded. "Then we might set the day for your coronation, Wei Chan Yin. It is time you too were T'ang."

CHAPTER SIX

Into Emptiness

KIM stepped down from the hired sedan and looked about him, astonished. A red-painted wall ten ch'i in height enclosed the First Level mansion, a gateway, topped by an ancient bell tower, providing the only way into the grounds. The huge double doors were of burnished bronze, studded with iron, the whole thing flanked by massive dragon pillars, painted a vivid emerald green. It was brutal. Like something from the fifteenth century. A Ming frontier fort, complete with watchtowers. The last thing one expected to find here at the top of the City.

All around him sedans were setting down, their occupants climbing out and making their way across what seemed some kind of horse track to the gateway. The variety and richness of their costumes were fascinating. They had come dressed as gods and goddesses, emperors and concubines, notorious villains and revered sages. All of history had been pillaged for this one night. By comparison his own spider costume was somewhat dour and unimaginative. He had not realized how much time and effort these people would put into something so ... insignificant.

He went across, then stopped, staring up at the great stone lintel that supported the bell tower. At its center, a single Han pictogram had been carved into the stone: the character Chung, meaning "The Arbitrator"—the name of the family who owned this great Mansion.

He frowned, conscious that his expectations had once again been turned upsidedown. He had thought it would be like that evening at the Lever Mansion, when the Young Sons had been arrested. To be honest, he had not expected any Han to be present. He turned, looking about him, watching the people filing past him. They formed a queue beneath the bell tower, waiting to enter, their invitation cards held out for inspection by two huge, bare-chested Han, who stood before the open doors, barring the way.

Kim joined the queue, catching the air of excitement that was on every side. Reaching the front, he expected the guard to take his card and pass him through, as he had all those before, but the man blocked his way, putting a hand on his chest, restraining him.

"Wait there," the guard ordered gruffly, then turned his head. "Chang!" he called, summoning the second guard. "Get the Captain over. That missing invitation—I think we might have found it!"

Kim looked down, containing his anger. He had met this before. Not often, but enough to recognize it for what it was. To them he was not another human being, he was Clay, the lowest of the low. His large eyes and diminutive stature gave that away at a glance. And some—like the guard—hated the Clay and all those who came from there with a bitter and totally irrational hatred.

He waited, his eyes lowered, listening as the guard and the Captain talked between themselves in Mandarin. Their assumption that a mere Clayborn couldn't understand the tongue was typical of their kind.

"You! Raise your head!"

The Captain's barked command surprised Kim. He jerked his head up, meeting the man's eyes. The Captain studied him a moment, then made a coarse remark in Mandarin. Behind him the guards laughed.

"Well?" he said, thrusting the invitation at him. "Where did you get this? You're not on the guest list, and one of the invitations was reported missing. It can only be assumed . . ."

"What can only be assumed?"

The voice came from behind the guards. They stepped back, revealing the tall figure of Michael Lever, dressed in the bright blue and white costume of an American general of the late eighteenth century.

"Shih Lever . . ." the Captain said, bowing low, as if acknowledging both the real and illusory gulf in rank between them. "Forgive me, but this man was trying to gain admission to the grounds. There was a report this afternoon that one of the invitations had gone missing and..."

"Be quiet, you imbecile! Shih Ward is my honored guest. He is a great man. A ch'un tzu. You will bow low before him and apologize . . ."

Embarrassed, Kim spoke up. "Michael, please, there's really no need. The Captain was mistaken, that's all. Besides, he^was right to be cautious. These are troubled times and this is a great house. Its doors should be protected."

Michael stared at Kim a moment, then shrugged. "If that's what you want. But I think you're mistaken. I think this shit knew exactly what he was doing."

Almost certainly, Kim thought, butl'tt not be a party to such pettiness. Not while I've a choice in it.

They went through, into a huge open space—a garden landscaped in the Han fashion. At the far side, beyond a pair of gently arching white stone bridges, a large two-story Mansion in the southern style rested amid tree and rock. Already, it seemed, the great house was full to overflowing. Guests crowded the veranda, talking and drinking, while from within came the muted sound of pipes and strings.

Kim turned, looking up at his friend. "I thought it would be different. I thought. . ."

"You thought it would be like last time, neh? And you're confused, because this is Han. Well, let me explain things, before we meet our hostess."

He drew Kim aside, moving toward a quiet arbor. There they sat, facing each other across a low table of sculpted stone, Michael's tricorn hat laid to one side.

"Back when the House was still open, Gloria's father was a Senior Representative—an important man, spokesman for his tong, the On Leong."

Kim frowned. The five major tong of City America shared an ancestry with the Triads of Europe and Asia, but their recent history was very different. When things had collapsed over here, after President Griffin's assassination, it was the five tong who had helped hold. things together on the East Coast and in enclaves in California and the Midwest. And when the City was built across the continent, they had taken a major role in the social reconstruction program. Their reward was a legitimization of their organizations. They had become political parties.

"I see," Kim said, "but I still don't understand. I'd have thought that the long would be your natural political adversaries."

Michael sat back, smiling. "They are. But Gloria is very different from her father. She wants what we want—an independent and outward-looking America. And she's not alone. There are many Han who think like her. Most of them—the influential ones, that is—are here tonight."

Kim looked down. "And there I was, thinking . . ."

"That I hated the Han?" Michael shook his head. "No. Only our masters. Only those who try to keep us from our natural destiny. The rest. . . well, there are good and bad, neh? What has race to do with that?"

"Bryn? Can I have a word?"

Bryn Kustow excused himself from the group with which he was standing, then came away, following Michael Lever down the broad corridor and into one of the empty side rooms.

With the door firmly closed behind them, Michael turned, confronting him.

"Well, Michael? What is it?"

Michael reached out and held his arm. "I've just had news. The bankers have called in the loan."

"Ahh. . ." Kustow considered that a moment, then shrugged. "Then that's it, I guess. The game's over for the boys."

"Is that what you want?"

Kustow looked up. "No. But what's left to us? WeVe allocated most of my capital, and yours is frozen."

Michael hesitated, then. "What if I could get the money somewhere else?"

Kustow laughed. "Where? Your father has the money market tied up tighter than a fly's ass."

"That's what he thinks. But IVe been checking out a few tips."

"And?"

"And weVe a meeting, tomorrow afternoon at two, with the Clear Heart Credit Agency of Cleveland."

"And they'll lend us what we need?"

Michael hesitated. "I don't know. What with this latest development we'll need to reassess things carefully. Work out what we need to pay off the loan and fund new development. The rates are^high, but it's that or go under."

"I see." Kustow looked away a moment, then turned back, a faint smile on his lips. "There is one other option. I mean, if we do have to seek alternative employment, there is one sphere we could go into."

Michael laughed. "I don't follow you, Bryn. What are you going on about?"

"IVe been busy, too, Michael. Making calls. And IVe set up a meeting. Just you and me and an old school friend of ours. Two days from now, out at his place."

"An old school friend?"

Kustow put a hand on Michael's shoulder. "Trust me. Meanwhile, let's enjoy ourselves, neh? And smile, damnit. The night's young and youVe a pretty woman waiting for you out there!"

a fan fluttered in the pearled light. There was the scent of rich perfumes, the swish of ancient ballgowns, the rustle of silks and satins, the low murmur of conversation, interspersed with bursts of drunken laughter. Emily Ascher stood at the head of the steps, looking down into the Hall of Ultimate Benevolence, amazed by the sight that met her eyes. The great hall was a riot of red, white, and blue, decorated with all manner of Americana. Faded flags and ancient banners hung from the surrounding balconies and across the great ceiling, interspersed with huge, carved wooden eagles. At the far end a huge cracked bell rested on a raised platform—the Liberty Bell. Behind it hung a wall-size map of the American Empire at its height, most of South America shaded blue, each of the Sixty-Nine States marked with a blazing golden star. In the space between, two or three thousand garishly dressed young men and women milled about, talking and drinking.

Emily turned, wide-eyed, to her companion. Michael was watching her, a smile on his lips.

"Impressed?"

She nodded. "1 didn't expect. . ." But what had she expected? She laughed softly. "Are these occasions always like this?"

"Not always. But then, most hostesses don't have Gloria's style. She's done us proud, don't you think?"

"Us?"

"The Sons . . ."

"But I thought this was a coming-of-age party."

"And so it is." He smiled enigmatically, then offered her his arm. "Here, let's go down. There are some friends I'd like you to meet."

Two hours later she found herself among a group of young men gathered at the far end of the hall, about the Liberty Bell. There were nine of them in all: Michael Lever, three of his close friends, and five other "Sons" who had shared the long months of incarceration at Wu Shih's hands. Like Lever, all were dressed in the style of the early republic—authentic blue and white uniforms that had been purchased at great expense. With their short-cropped blond hair and knee-length boots they brought a strangely somber note to the occasion, making a striking contrast against the other partygoers.

At first their talk had ranged widely, embracing all manner of things: from the planned reopening of the House and new research into space technologies to developments in the GenSyn inheritance case and the latest round of inter-City trade agreements. But as the evening drew on, their mood had grown darker, their talk focusing in upon the tyranny of the Seven and the corresponding failings of their fathers.

Lever's close friend Carl Stevens was talking, gesturing animatedly as he spoke. "Our fathers talk of changing things, of a return to Empire. That's something we'd all like to see, but when it comes down to it there's really not much between them and the Seven. Whichever ruled, the Seven or our fathers, we would remain as we are. Dispossessed. As powerless then as we are now."

Beside him, Bryn Kustow nodded. "Carl's right. If anything, our position would be much worse than it is now. If the Seven fell and our fathers came to power what would happen? Would they embrace us as their natural partners in the venture? No. Not for a second. We know how they think. We've all had a taste of their treatment these past years. They see us as a threat. As potential usurpers. It's sad to say, but in effect we have become our fathers' enemies."

There was a murmur of reluctant agreement, heavy with unease.

"But what can be done?" one of the others, Mitchell, asked. "They have all the power—the real power. All we get is the scraps from their tables. And what can we do with scraps?"

The bitterness in Mitchell's voice was mirrored in every face. Kustow looked across at Michael, then looked down, shrugging. "Nothing. . ." he answered quietly. But there was something about his manner that suggested otherwise.

Standing there at Michael's side, Emily let her eyes move from face to face, conscious of the sudden tension in the circle. Despite what was being said, something about this whole elaborate charade of "Empire" made her stiffen inwardly against them. They talked of changing the balance of power—of "liberation"—when all they really meant was grabbing it for themselves. In that they were no better than their fathers. No. Even after their experience of incarceration, they didn't understand. To them it was still essentially a game. Something to fill the hours and stave off the specter of boredom.

Even so, it was good to see this—to understand how they thought, how they acted—for in some strange way it made her stronger, more determined.

For a moment she abstracted herself from their talk, looking inward, focusing on the ideal she had worked for all these years. The ideal of Change—real change—free of the old power structures. Something pure and clean and utterly new. That was what she had struggled to achieve all those years in the Ping Tiao. A new world, free of hierarchies, where men and women could breathe new air and live new dreams. Yes, and that was what Mach and Gesell had really betrayed when they had chosen to work with DeVore.

She shivered, then looked aside. Michael was watching her, concerned. "What is it, Em?"

She stared back at him a moment, not recognizing him for that instant, surprised to find herself there in the midst of that gathering, among those she would, without a moment's thought, have destroyed. And then, as realization struck her, she laughed. And he, watching her, smiled, his smile broadening, not understanding, yet liking what he saw in that austere and sculpted face. And as he looked, a strange new determination formed in him, as if from nowhere, making his nerve ends tingle.

"Well, Michael? Have you enjoyed your evening?"

Michael Lever turned, embracing his hostess, holding her a moment and kissing her cheek before he stepped back. Gloria Chung was a tall, strikingly elegant young woman with the classic features of the Han aristocracy. It was said her ancestors had been related to the great Ming dynasty, and, looking at her, it was not difficult to believe. She had dressed tonight as the famous Empress Wu in sweeping robes of midnight blue embroidered with a thousand tiny golden suns.

They were alone on the broad upper balcony. Below them the last of the guests were making their unsteady way back through the winding pathways to their sedans. She moved past him, standing there at the rail, looking out over the dim, lamp-lit garden.

"I've had a good time," he said quietly, taking his place beside her at the rail. "It's been nice to think of something other than the troubles with my father."

"And the girl?"

"The girl?" He looked blank for a moment, then he laughed. "Oh, you mean Mary?"

She turned her head, studying him, as if she could see right through him, then she smiled. "I was watching you, Michael. Watching how you were together. It was . . . interesting."

He turned his head. "What do you mean?"

"I do believe you're half in love with her."

"Nonsense," he said, shocked by the suggestion; yet even as he said it, he saw the truth in it. He stood there a moment, looking at her, then pushed away from the rail, masking his slip with a laugh. "And what if I were?"

She reached out, holding his upper arm, then leaned close, kissing him. "Don't get me wrong. I'm not disapproving. If it makes you happy. . ." She moved back slightly, her eyes searching his. "She'd be good for you, Michael. I can see that. She's strong."

"Yes, but. . ." He sighed. No, it was impossible. His father would never approve.

"YouVe taken the first step. Why not the next?"

"What do you mean?" »

"I mean, get out of your father's shadow for good. Show him you're your own man. Marry her."

He laughed, astonished. "Marry her?" He looked down, troubled, then turned away. "No. I couldn't. He'd cut me off. . ."

"He'd not dare. But even if he did, how could things be any worse than they are? What else could he do?"

"No. . ."

"No? Think about it, Michael. The Old Man's backed you into a corner. He's cut off your finances and tried every which way to prevent you from making a go of it on your own. As things are, you're going to have to make a choice, and soon—either to go back to him and beg forgiveness; to go down on your knees before the Old Man and agree to his terms; or to assert yourself. So why not do it now? Right now, when he least expects it."

He faced her again. "No. Not while there are still other options."

She shivered. "You mean, like the Clear Heart Credit Agency?"

He stared at her. "How did you know that?"

"Because I make it my business to know. And if I know, you can be sure your father knows. In fact, I'm certain of it."

"How?"

"Because he's the owner of the Clear Heart Credit Agency. As of this morning."

He closed his eyes.

"So what are you going to do?"

"Do? What can I do?"

"You could do what I said. Marry her. Be your own man. As for the money, I'll give you that. It's two million, neh? Good. I'll have a draft ready for you in the morning. My wedding gift."

He stared at her, astonished, then shook his head. "But why? I don't understand you, Gloria Chung. Why should you want to do this for me?"

She smiled and leaned close, kissing him again. "Because I believe in you, Michael Lever. And because I want to see you strong. Strong and independent. For all our sakes."

twelve tiny HOMUNCULi —hologram figures no more than six t'sun in height—were gathered in a half-circle on the desk's surface, blinking and flickering in the faint light from a nearby float-globe. In a tall-backed chair, facing them, Old Man Lever looked down at his Departmental Heads and growled.

"So what's the problem? Why can't we use someone else? Someone cheaper than ProFax? Someone more reliable?"

Several of the figures shimmered, as if about to speak, but it was one of the central holograms—the tiny form of Lever's Head of Internal Distribution Services, Weller, who answered Lever, his image hardening, glowing stronger than before, standing out from the images to either side.

The figure bowed its head. "Forgive me, Master, but we have had a good record of trading with ProFax. Our association with them goes back over twenty years. In our experience, there is no one more reliable."

Lever huffed irritably. "If that were true, we wouldn't be having this discussion, would we?" He sat forward, looming over them. "So let me ask you once again, what is the problem? I could understand it if ProFax owned the patent to this process, but they don't. And they certainly don't have a monopoly of the market. So why can't we buy the stuff elsewhere? And why can't we cut the rates we pay for it into the bargain? It strikes me that this is the perfect opportunity."

He sat back, steepling his hands. "Okay. This is how we do it. We get our legal boys to send ProFax a writ, letting them know that they're in breach of contract, then we withhold all payments for products already shipped, and send out a request for tenders to all of ProFax's major competitors. And we do all this right now, understand me, gentlemen? Right now!"

As he uttered the final words, Lever slammed his right hand down on the "cancel" button and hauled himself up out of his chair, even as the images faded from the air.

At that very moment, right across the City, his major Departmental Heads would be being woken up and told of the decision. Yes, and cursing me silently, no doubt, Lever thought, smiling savagely. But that's how it was in this world: one didn't look back, one got on with things. If something made sense, there was no good reason for delay. Nor was there room for sentiment. Both were weaknesses. Fatal weaknesses, if one let them be.

He went across to the drinks cabinet on the far side of the study and pulled down a bottle of his favorite malt whiskey, pouring himself a large glass, then turned, looking about him.

It was a big, ranch-style study with heavy wooden uprights and low rails dividing the room up into "stalls." To his left, beyond one of the rails, stood a mechanical horse, beneath a portrait of himself as a twenty-year-old, bare-chested in buckskins and shiny leather boots.

It was some while—months, if not years—since he had tried himself against the horse, nor had he even thought of it, but now, for some reason, he went across and, ducking beneath the rail, stood next to it, letting his left hand rest on the smooth, cool leather of the saddle while he sniffed in the heavy animal musk of the thing.

Across from him, behind the desk, set back against the far wall, was a big, glass-fronted cabinet, filled with sporting trophies: mementos of an athletic youth. Beside it, lit softly from above, was a head and shoulder portrait of his wife, her fine golden hair set like a halo about her soft, angelic face.

Earlier, he had sat in his private viewing chamber, enclosed in the darkness there, watching a hologram of his son Michael, wrestling with him beside the pool while his young wife, Margaret, looked on. It was an old film, taken shortly before Margaret had died. Michael had been eight then, he fifty-four.

He shivered, thinking of the years between. Twenty years this autumn. Long years in which he'd tried hard to forget; to steel himself against all the hurt and injustice he had felt at her death. At the suddenness of it all. He had buried himself in his work, throwing everything into the task of making his Company, ImmVac, the number one economic force in North America. But it had cost him. He had never grieved for her properly and inside he was hurting still. Even now, after all these years, he could not look at her without feeling his stomach fall away, a dryness come to his mouth. It had been hard, bringing up the boy without her, but he had done it. And for a time it had worked. For a time . . .

Lever turned his head aside, a sudden bitterness making him grimace. After all he had been through—after all he had done for the boy—how could Michael have turned on him like that? And in public too! The arrogance of the boy! The ingratitude . . .

He shuddered, then slapped the horse's rump, angry with himself. Angry, not because of what he felt, but for the weakness, the sentiment he had allowed to sway him.

Ducking beneath the rail he went across and took the envelope from the table by the door, tearing it open angrily. Inside was the letter he had written earlier: the brief note of reconciliation, forgiving Michael and asking him to come back. For a moment Lever stood there, the letter held in one trembling hand. Then, with a spasm of anger, he ripped the thing in half, then in half again, his face distorted with anger and pain.

"No," he said softly, looking about him, bewildered, frightened suddenly by the strength, the violence of his feelings. "Not now, and maybe not ever. No. Not until you come crawling back, begging my forgiveness."

And would that be enough? Would that repair what had been broken between them? No. And yet without it there was nothing. Less than nothing, in fact, for this bitterness, this anger ate at him, day by day, hour by hour, giving him no rest. Like death, he thought, and shivered again, wondering how it was all connected. Like death.

in THREE DAYS Lehmann had brought the local tongboss, Lo Han, to the conference table. Fourteen of his men were dead and six more had joined K'ang A-yin, under Lehmann's lieutenantship. Now Lo Han sat there, three of his henchmen behind him, facing K'ang across the table, making a deal.

"It's too high. Far too high," Lo Han said, spitting out the end of the cigar he had been chewing on.

"Fifteen percent or the deal is off," answered K'ang, turning in his seat to smile at Lehmann, as if to say, "You can fight, but when it comes to making deals, just watch an expert."

Lehmann said nothing, knowing that what K'ang was asking for was ridiculously low. The figures Lo Han was showing in his books were rigged. Even at a conservative estimate he must be raking in four or five times as much. And a sixth of twenty percent wasn't much, seeing as he had been soundly beaten on four occasions now. But it didn't matter. Whatever K'ang agreed to, he, Lehmann, would tear up when the time came, for he wanted a pure one hundred percent of Lo Han's drug trade.

In his six weeks down here Lehmann had learned much about the Lowers. He had watched carefully and listened to Soucek attentively. He knew now how they thought and what they wanted. He knew what motivated them and how far they would go to get what they wanted. He knew their strengths and their weaknesses—particularly the latter—and had come to see just how he could use both to attain his ends.

And what were those ends?

When he had returned to the City from off the mountainside, he had wanted nothing less than total vengeance against the Seven. He had seen himself as a lone figure, slipping between the levels like a shadow, bringing death to the Families and all who supported them. But that was just a dream. As a single man he could not hope to change things, yet by his very nature he was singular: he could not parcel out his thoughts, his hatreds, and share them. Even so, there was a middle way.

Singular he might be, but not necessarily alone. Already he was forming a solid corps of men about him, Soucek chief among them. Men loyal to him alone, however it appeared on the surface. Consulting no one, letting no one into his thoughts, he went about his business, winning allies by the strength of his actions, the single-

mindedness inherent in his nature. He did not have to ask; men followed him, recognizing in him something they had longed for, maybe dreamed of. Men confided in him, seeking nothing in return. Trusting him. Willing to be used by him. Wanting to be used.

Respect and fear. Loyalty and a deep-rooted uncertainty. It was this mixed response to him—there in all who came to know him—that eventually defined for him the means by which he would come to attain that impossible, dreamlike end which was the very source, the fountainhead, of his singularity.

He would use their respect and fear, channel their loyalty and uncertainty, knowing that both aspects were necessary and, in their combination, powerful. But at the heart of things would be his own singular desire, deadly and uncompromising, shaping things, molding those who were both attracted to and appalled by him into a body—a weapon—through which his will would be done.

He held the thought in mind a moment longer, then frowned. At the table the small men were still haggling and bargaining over nothings—Lo Han's crude arrogance matched by K'ang's petty greed. He looked past them and saw how the eyes of Lo Han's henchmen had strayed to him, troubled by his changed expression. Turning away, he went to the door and tugged it open, ignoring the looks of query from K'ang and Lo Han. Outside he nodded to Soucek and walked on, conscious of his questioning glance.

Soucek caught up with him at the corridor's end. "What is it, Stefan?" he whispered, concerned.

Lehmann turned, facing the tall, cadaverous man, taking his upper arms in his hands, but for a moment he said nothing.

He knew that they had their rules, their limitations, even here where there seemed to be no rules at all, only brute force. All human life set limits to its actions. There was always a point beyond which they would not go. But he, who valued nothing, had no such rules, no limits. He was beyond good and evil. For him nothing mattered but the accomplishment of his will—the fulfillment of his singular desire.

And if that were so, why then should he wait? Why did he not act at once, not fearing the consequences? Knowing that the consequences were likely to favor him. It was this that he had been thinking as he stood there behind K'ang—this that had made him frown. He squeezed Soucek's arms and stared into his pale green eyes.

"Are you with me, Jiri?"

Soucek nodded, seeming to grasp at once what was happening. "Right now?" he asked.

"Why not? The two together. They might suspect treachery from each other, but not from us. They'll think we fear an,all-out war between the long. But with the two of them dead . . ."

He let go of Soucek's arms.

The tall man smiled. It was clear that the idea appealed to him strongly; that the thought of killing K'ang scratched a long unsatisfied itch. He drew his gun. "Okay. I'll take Lo Han's henchmen."

It was both clever and sensitive of him. In effect he was saying, You, Lehmann, are the leader. To you goes the honor of killing K'ang and Lo Han.

Lehmann nodded slowly and pulled the huge pearl-white gun from its webbing holster.

"Yes," he said, his voice cold, brittle like ice. "Let's do it now."

lehmann STOOD there in the Oven Man's doorway, a tall, unnaturally gaunt figure dressed in white. At his feet lay the corpses of three of the runners who had attacked them. Two more lay dead inside the room. The rest had fled, throwing down their hatchets, as if it were Yang Wen, the God of Hell himself, that faced them.

The killing of Lo Han and K'ang A-yin had shocked the local tong bosses. But shock had quickly led to the realization that there was a power vacuum. A vacuum that needed to be filled, and quickly. Within the hour, two of them met and decided to act. A messenger had been sent to Lehmann to set up a meeting to arrange a truce, but the meeting was merely a pretext. The bosses had decided to deal with Lehmann before he became a problem.

Lehmann had known that. In fact, he had counted on it. He had turned up with three men, unarmed, knowing how the tang bosses would try to play it. Fifteen runners, armed with silver hatchets. These would administer the "death of a thousand cuts"—a warning to all other potential usurpers.

But Lehmann had had no intention of dying. He had other lessons in mind.

An hour before the meeting he had set up small groups of men in the approach corridors, making sure they understood that they were not to intercede in any way, merely show themselves when the tong runners beat their retreat. Then, when the runners had shown up— hard-faced, arrogant little shits, dangerously overconfident— Lehmann had set his men behind him and faced them alone, taunting them, belittling them, until, one by one, they had come at him.

Soucek stared at him now, remembering.

Lehmann had straight-fisted the first runner before the man had even known the blow was on its way, the force of the punch sending the man staggering back. He was dead before he fell.

The second runner had been more cautious, but Lehmann had taken the hatchets from him as if he were a child, then had lifted him one-handed and snapped his neck. He had stepped over the corpse and made a beckoning gesture with his left hand.

Come on...

Three more had tried, the last with a kind of fateful resignation, as if mesmerized by the power of the man who stood before him. If man it was. And then, as one, they had broken, running from the figure in white, whose thin, emaciated limbs were paler than ice, and whose eyes were like tiny windows into hell.

He had heard the catcalls of the men in the approach corridors; the jeers and mocking laughter as they goaded the fleeing runners. And then had watched them return, to find Lehmann as he was now, framed in the doorway to the Oven Man's room.

Soucek looked about him, finding his own awe reflected in every face, there in the wide, admiring eyes of every man. He turned, facing Lehmann again, then knelt, abasing himself, laying down his neck before the man, not quite knowing why he did so, only that this was what he ought to do. And, all about him, the others did the same, letting Lehmann move between them, pressing his foot against each exposed neck. Marking them. Making them his men. His absolutely. Even unto death. Just as Li Yuan had done on the day of his coronation.

And when Soucek stood again, it was with a sense of Tightness, of utter certainty. There was no going back from this. From here on there would be no half measures. It was Lehmann or nothing. And with that sense of Tightness came another—a sense of destiny. Of things beginning. It was like being in a dream, or at the beginning of a myth. From this time on they walked a special path. And wherever it took them—to Heaven or down into the very depths of Hell—he would walk it behind the man. For that was how it was from this moment, for all of them gathered there. It had begun.

IT WAS AFTER FOUR when Emily got back. She kicked off her shoes and went through to the bathroom, humming softly to herself. Reaching up, she placed her hand against the side of the shower unit. Good. It was hot. That meant the servant had remembered to come in earlier. She pulled the dress up over her head and let it fall onto the chair at her side, then slipped out of her chemise.

It had been a memorable evening, and an unexpectedly enjoyable one. She stepped into the shower, casting her mind back over the evening's events as she soaped herself beneath the steady fall of water.

Michael Lever really wasn't so bad, now she had come to know him better. Not that she had always felt that way. When she had first joined MemSys she had viewed the Levers with a distant loathing, not distinguishing much between father and son, seeing only the rapa-ciousness of the parent Company, ImmVac, and the unheeding damage it did in its eternal quest for profit. But now . . . Well, the past six weeks had taught her much. Systems were systems and they ought to be opposed, but it was not so easy with people. You had to take each person as you found them. And in many respects Michael Lever was a good man—honest, reliable, capable of instilling a fierce protective-ness and loyalty in those about him. Was it his fault that he'd been bom heir to ImmVac?

Before now she hadn't been sure. She had wondered whether there really was any difference between father and son, but tonight, listening to him talk about what he wanted for the future, she had seen another side of him—one she had never guessed existed. That desire for change—that burning need in him to do something for the ordinary people of America . . . was that real or was it merely rhetoric? Despite the warmth of the water, she shivered, just thinking about it. His passion—that fierce, uncompromising fire she had glimpsed when he'd turned to her briefly—had seemed real enough. But how far would he go along that road? As far as she was willing to go, or would his courage fail him in the face of genuine change? Would he shy away from taking that ultimate step?

She cut the flow and stepped out, squeezing her hair, then wrapped it up in a towel. For a moment she stood there, staring sightlessly at the steamed mirror as she dried herself, then turned and went through into the bedroom.

The bedroom was dark. Only the light from the bathroom spilled into the opening. Even so, she saw him before she crossed the doorway.

He was sitting on her bed, a gun in his hand, covering her. A tall, unbearded Han with close-cropped dark hair and a face she had never seen in her life.

She made to step back, but he lifted the gun slightly, clicking off the safety. The signal was unmistakable. She froze, letting her hands rest at her sides, fingers apart, the gesture meant to reassure him. She was naked, the light behind her.

"What do you want?"

She said the words calmly, showing no sign of the fear she felt. He could kill her in a second. Two bullets through the heart. It was what she had been expecting every day since she had come from Europe. And now, finally, they had caught up with her.

He stood, then crossed the room, the gun covering her all the while, his eyes never leaving her. He lifted something from the dressing table and threw it across to her. It was her robe. With the barest nod of thanks, she pulled it on.

"Who sent you?" she asked, trying another tack.

The smile he gave was strange, almost familiar. And his build. She frowned, trying to place the memory. And then he spoke.

"How are things, Emily?"

She narrowed her eyes, uncertain, then laughed, astonished. "Jan . . . ? Is that you?"

The smile broadened. Slowly the gun came down. It was Mach— Jan Mach—she could see that now, despite the change of face. There was something about the way he stood there—about the way he used the muscles of his face—that could not be disguised.

"What happened?"

He took a breath. "They were onto me. We were attacked, eleven days back, at third bell. They killed more than twenty agents and took maybe thirty more, six of our cell leaders among them—comrades who knew me personally. Who could identify me."

"Karr?"

He nodded. "It must have been. I'd heard rumors he was creating a new force, but I didn't think they were ready yet." He shrugged, his features momentarily formed into a grimace as he recalled what had happened. "This . . ." he touched his face tenderly, "I had done eight days ago. It still hurts. I should have rested—should have left the bandages on a while longer—but things were too hot in Europe. I had to get out."

"Do you want to stay here?"

Mach looked at her a moment, then nodded. "It won't be long. Two days at most."

"And then?"

He looked down at the gun in his hand, then threw it down onto the bed. "IVe got to go back. There's some unfinished business. An old score to settle. IVe set it up, but I've got to be there to make sure it all runs smoothly." Mach looked back at her, smiling. "And you? What are you up to over here?"

She was about to answer him when there was a knock on the door. She turned, anxious, then looked back at him. "In the bathroom. Hide in the shower unit. Take the gun. I'll try and put them off, whoever it is."

He nodded, then did as she said. Only when he was inside, the door pulled over, did she go down the hallway.

"Who is it?"

"Delivery! For Nu shi Jennings." „

She put her tongue to her top teeth. Delivery? At four seventeen in the morning? She reached out, turning the lock, drawing the door back a fraction and staring out through the thumbnail gap. A small Han was standing there, head bowed, half-hidden behind the huge basket of flowers he was carrying.

She gave a small laugh, still suspicious. Then she saw the note and at once recognized Michael Lever's neatly rounded hand. She pulled the door back. "Gods..."

He handed her the basket, then stood back, bowing deeply. She turned, reading the note as she pulled the door closed behind her, then returned to the bedroom.

"Well. . . ?" Mach began, coming out from the bathroom, then stopped, seeing the flowers. "A friend?" he asked, curious.

"Yes," she said hesitantly, closing her hand over the note, for some reason not wanting him to see what was written there. "A very dear friend."

They were orchids. Perfect, exotic orchids, worth a thousand yuan apiece, and there had to be—what?—thirty or more of them here. She frowned, disturbed by the gift, then drew the basket to her face, sniffing at them, drawing in their delicate, wonderful scent.

"A lover?" Mach asked, blunt as ever.

"No," she answered. But even as she said it, she could see him again, smiling, turning to share a joke with her; and afterward, his dark eyes burning, talking of the great changes to come.

"No," she said again. "Just a friend. A very good friend."

CHAPTER SEVEN

Smoke Rings and Spiders' Webs

YOU'VE CHECKED EVERYTHING?"

Soucek nodded, a feral grin splitting his narrow face. "Not so much as a cockroach could get out of there unless we willed it."

"Good." Lehmann drew a long breath, then nodded. "All right. Let's go meet them."

They passed through the cordon, some of the men familiar, others strangers, all of them wary, nervous, but under strict orders to start nothing. If things went wrong today there would be war such as the Lowers hadn't seen in decades. A war that was certain to draw in the Triads.

The deck had been cleared for the meeting, and only the tong were present. The big men—all nine of his rival gangleaders in the Kuei Chuan's territory—were waiting for Lehmann in Main, standing out in the broad open space. They formed two groups, one of five men, one of four. Lehmann paused, taking in every detail, then walked on, Soucek at his side.

He could see in their faces that word had gone before him. His height, his deathly pallor, the whiteness of his clothes, his holstered gun. Some of them feigned indifference, but there was no mistaking what their eyes told him. They were afraid of him. They had only come here today because they were afraid. Like K'ang and Lo Han before them they had tried other means of dealing with him. Now they were forced to come to terms. Or risk a protracted guerrilla war that would waste their resources and distract them from the business of making money.

He raised his empty hands as if holding a large bowl, the fingers spread unnaturally wide, like long, fine needles of ice. The gesture seemed to stress his alienness; his long, thin arms held awkwardly, his whole body crouched slightly, like a fighter's. The pose was half challenge, half greeting. It distinguished him from the relaxed, almost slovenly postures of the men facing him.

"Gentlemen?"

He let the archaic word hang in the air between them, its irony unexplained, and saw them frown and look among themselves. And though it amused him, he let nothing show in his face, only an intense watchfulness—an almost machinelike attentiveness.

"What do you want?" one of them asked.

It was the first question, the primary question one man asked of another, openly or otherwise. Lehmann turned slightly to face the man, taking in at a glance the fact that they had chosen for their spokesman one who seemed stronger, more aggressive than the rest; a fierce-eyed, bearded man of bull-like stature. Unlike the rest he dressed simply, his fingers free of the heavy rings that seemed a mark of status down here. Lehmann raised his chin slightly, then answered.

"I want what you want. Peace. A truce. Concessions."

The bearded man smiled, showing strong white teeth. His name was Ni Yueh and Lehmann knew all there was to know about him. All that could be known without entering Ni Yueh's head. It was a surprise to him, however, that they had chosen Ni Yueh. He had expected to have to deal with Yan Yan or Man Hsi, one of the talkers. It made him reassess things and change his tactics. Ni Yueh was a bullyboy. An intimidator. It was obvious that this was the way they thought they could deal with him. Well, he would show them otherwise. Before Ni Yueh could say another word, Lehmann turned away from him and, changing his stance, relaxing the muscles of his face, took a step toward Yan Yan, offering his hand.

"There have been misunderstandings," he said. "Bad rumors. We need to clear the air."

Reluctantly, looking to Ni Yueh then back to Lehmann, Yan Yan took the offered hand.

Lehmann smiled. It was a charming, almost innocent smile. A disarming smile. Slowly, Yan Yan's lips formed a mirror to it, but his eyes still showed uncertainty. Lehmann closed a second hand about Yan Yan's, keeping the handshake warm and unthreatening.

"There's no need for enmity," he said reassuringly. "There's enough for all, neh? More than enough."

Yan Yan looked down at the long, pale hands that held his own, then up into Lehmann's face again, puzzled. But it was Ni Yueh who spoke.

"You say that, but why should we trust you? What's to stop you doing to us what you did to K'ang A-yin and Lo Han?"

Lehmann lowered his head slightly, his expression seeming to say, "Oh dear, that again . . ."He released Yan Yan's hand and half turned, looking across at Ni Yueh.

"I've heard the stories. Heard the tales men whisper to each other, and let me assure you, they are simply not true." There was an earnestness, a sincerity in his voice as he said it that half convinced them. A plea for belief. The very look of a wronged man. His eyes seemed pained by the misunderstanding. Regretful.

"I didn't want to kill K'ang A-yin. He was a friend. A benefactor. But he made a deal with Lo Han, and my death was part of that deal. Soucek here can vouch for that, can't you, Jiri?"

Soucek nodded and stepped forward, saying the words Lehmann had had him rehearse.

"It was halfway through the meeting. Lehmann and I had gone out to check that everything was secure in the corridors. When we came back, K'ang had moved back against the far wall and Lo Han was sitting there with his big snub-nosed gun in one hand, laughing. It seems that K'ang had given his permission to kill Lehmann. He told me to leave the room. Told me it was simply business. But I stayed."

"How loyal," said Ni Yueh in an undertone that suggested he didn't believe a word of it. But Soucek turned on him angrily.

"Maybe. But I saw it like this. A boss looks after his men. He sells one he sells them all, right? So I made a choice."

There were nods from the other big men. Soucek's outburst had impressed them. If it was as Soucek said, then Lo Han and K'ang had clearly broken the code. It was not done to betray one's own so casually, even for the sake of peace.

"So," Ni Yueh said, stepping between the two men and confronting Lehmann face to face, "there was Lo Han, sitting behind the desk with his gun out. How is it he didn't kill you?"

Lehmann held Ni Yueh's eyes. "Because I was better than him. Quicker. And now he's dead, and I'm alive. It's simple, really."

"Too fucking simple!" Ni Yueh turned to face the others. "I don't believe a word of this. I trust this bastard about as much as I'd trust shit to taste good."

There was laughter, but it was short-lived. Lehmann had split them. The three who had been standing with Ni Yueh were still glaring at him, but the others—Yan Yan and Man Hsi among them— were not happy with Ni Yueh's words. Man Hsi spoke up.

"I don't see what proof you have, Ni Yueh. We all know how things get distorted. I say we should forget the past and make things good for the future. That's why we're here, right? Not to bicker and fight. WeVe done too much of that already and it's got us nowhere. No. WeVe got to make deals. Patch things up. For all our sakes."

Ni Yueh was scowling. For a moment he seemed about to answer, then, abruptly, he shook his head and turned away, as if he'd washed his hands of it. Turning to Lehmann, Man Hsi spoke again, his voice growing softer, more conciliatory.

"So what deal have you got for us, Shih Lehmann? What can you offer us to make the peace?"

Lehmann looked past Man Hsi at the others, knowing how things stood. If they had wanted—if they had really wanted—they could have wiped him out. It would have cost them dearly, but it had been possible. They could have done it. But now? Inside—deep inside—he laughed. Now it was too late. Simply in agreeing to come here and meet him they had made their greatest concession. Had admitted to him their lack of will. Even Ni Yueh, for all his hostility.

Turning to Soucek, he nodded, then waited while his lieutenant brought the documents. As arranged, others brought a long, six-

legged table and a stack of chairs and set them down close to where the big men stood. Then, documents in hand, Lehmann put out a hand, inviting them to sit.

There were ten copies of the treaty; one for each of the signatories. He watched as they first frowned, then, with greater interest, began to read the fifteen terms that would bring peace to the Lowers of north-central Europe. A treaty that divided the Kuei Chuan's territory into ten equal parts. That provided the detailed conditions by which they dealt with one another. Lehmann had modeled it on the commercial treaties he had found among his dead father's effects, but the terms were specific to the tang.

Man Hsi looked up, met Yan Yan's eyes, and smiled. As Lehmann had expected, they were impressed. They had never seen the like of this before and it pleased them greatly. It gave their activities the seal of legality. It made them feel like businessmen. Like Company executives. Lehmann watched each of them straighten up as they finished reading and seemed to puff out, bigger than they'd been only moments before. Kings. If only of the Lowers.

"Well?" he said, looking to Man Hsi.

Man Hsi looked across at Ni Yueh, who nodded grudgingly, not looking at Lehmann. After that it was a formality. Soucek handed out brushes and they signed, Yan Yan with a flourish that strayed over the signatures of three of his fellow bosses. Slowly the documents were passed around the table until each of the copies bore ten signatures at its foot. That done, Lehmann stood, raising his hand for silence.

"By this document—a copy of which will be held by each of us— we have peace in our part of the great City." He smiled pleasantly, and nodded. "Yes, peace and prosperity. But. . ." his face changed, all friendliness draining from it, ". . . should anyone break this treaty, then all the other parties must and will unite to bring the transgressor to account." He paused dramatically and looked at each of them in turn. When he spoke again his voice was fierce, insistent. "It is only if each one of us knows this and fears it that the agreement will work. You understand?"

There was a moment's hesitation, then nods and a murmur of agreement.

"We understand," Ni Yueh said, his voice heavy with sarcasm. But his eyes showed something different now. The treaty had affected him; had made him question what he had earlier believed. And though the bantering tone remained, deep down he was far less certain. Lehmann had impressed him despite all.

"Good," said Lehmann, releasing Ni Yueh's eyes. "Then our business here is done."

the CORRIDOR was packed. People had been gathering for the last thirty minutes outside the offices of the Ch'i Chu corporation, curious to see who had ordered such a grand sedan. Old men and children, young wives and idle youths, Han and Hung Mao alike, all stood there, gawping and chattering. Some busied themselves examining the sedan, feeling the thickness and quality of the green er-silk coverings or peeking inside at the big, luxuriantly cushioned chair. There were jokes about how big a man the chair might carry, and then sudden laughter as one of the young boys acted out a mime, pretending to be a fat official, his pomposity matched only by his grossness as he waddled across to take his place in the chair. Others, meanwhile, had formed a crowd about the squatting pole-men, trying to strike up a conversation, but long experience had made the carriers taciturn. The four men waited patiently, saying nothing, their eyes downcast, conscious of the runners who stood nearby.

There was a murmur of surprise as Kim appeared, dressed simply, a slender folder tucked beneath his arm. Many looked beyond him, waiting to see who else was to come, but there was no one, only the employees of Ch'i Chu, who came out and stood there under the arch of the entrance.

Many in the crowd had seen the boy, either in the tea house, or walking the corridors late at night. Few, however, understood who he was, or what his role in the strangely named Ch'i Chu corporation was. They had thought him just a boy. A messenger, perhaps, or the nephew of a rich man. But now they looked at him anew, redefining him. Or trying to.

Kim stopped, glancing about him uncertainly, then turned back, a smile coming to his face. Bright red good-fortune banners had been draped over the doorway to the offices. Beneath them, all six of his staff had formed up, to say good-bye and wish him luck.

"Here," T'ai Cho said, coming forward and handing him a small, sealed box. "You'll need this."

"What is it?"

"Lunch," T'ai Cho explained, smiling broadly. "From what I'm told, it will be a good few hours before they process the patent, and I know you. You would forget to eat."

Thanks, Kim mouthed, touching his arm briefly, then looked back at the others. The two middle-aged Thais he had hired as researchers were grinning broadly now and waving, excited as children. Beside them, to their right, his assistant, a fresh-faced, young Han named Hong Chi, was looking about him, wide-eyed, clearly enjoying it all. Seeing Kim watching him, Hong smiled, then lowered his head, blushing.

Kim's guard, a stocky young Hung Mao named Richards, met his eyes proudly and shouted a gruff "Good luck!" while Nong Yan, his bookkeeper, called out, "Go now! Make us all rich!" which brought a huge shout of laughter from the rest.

"I shall," Kim said softly, feeling warmed by the smiling faces that surrounded him on every side. "Be sure I shall."

With a bow to them all, Kim turned, climbing up into the sedan. As the pole-men lifted the heavy chair, he leaned out, waving goodbye, his voice drowned by the cheering of the crowd and the shouts of the two runners as they cleared the path ahead.

Sitting back, Kim felt a shiver of anticipation ripple through him. So this was it. He looked down at the folder in his lap and gave a little laugh of surprise. Some days he would simply sit there, staring at his hands, astonished that he had survived the darkness of the Clay to come to this. And he would count himself blessed that it was so, in spite of all that had happened in between. Even so, today was special, for today it all came together at last.

"Smoke rings . . ." he said quietly, then laughed again, feeling the sedan sway and bob beneath him. "Smoke rings and spiders' webs."

EMILY TURNED quickly, the narrow beam of the overhead light picking out the false image in the mirror, then flipped backward,

ignoring the hologram that appeared suddenly to her right, facing the shadowed figure by the door, the knife held out before her. The blade flashed, sank deep into the upper rib cage, then jerked back. She took a step back, breathing deeply, then sheathed the knife, satisfied.

"Cut," she said quietly. At once the lights came up, the apartment's computer registering her command.

Shuddering, Emily wiped the back of her hand across her forehead. It had been a hard workout. For the first time in a long while she had forced herself to the very limit.

She looked about the room—at the bloodied figure of the mannequin; at the darted targets she had set up on the walls; at the ceiling-mounted projectors; at the mats and traps and trip wires—and realized she had missed the excitement of all this. It was time she did something. Time she started organizing once again.

Quickly she went about the room, tidying up, stashing the equipment in the storage box at the far end of the room and covering it all over with a pile of sheets and old clothes. Then she went through to the shower, standing there under the flow until the water ran out, considering the way ahead. Mach was out, meeting contacts and making deals: doing what he was good at. She had barely seen him for more than twenty minutes since he'd arrived that night. As for herself, it was two days now since she had been in to the office.

She had called in sick. A brief message on Michael Lever's personal comset. He had called back, less than a minute later, asking if she needed anything; saying that he'd call if she wanted him to. But she had sent back that it was all right. It was just a virus. Nothing serious. Just one of the new forty-eight-hour things that had been sweeping the levels recently. She would keep to her bed and come in when she felt better. His second message was brief, almost businesslike, except for the way he'd signed it. "Love Michael."

So where did that leave her? She walked about the apartment, toweling herself, recalling how Michael had looked at her the other evening at the ball, and how she'd felt, watching him as he talked, conscious of a growing admiration for him. In the hallway she stopped, standing before the flowers he had sent, and lifted one of the perfect pink and white orchids to her nose. The blooms were still fresh, their scents rich. With the faintest shiver she turned away,

returning to the bedroom. There, she stood before the wardrobe, wondering what to wear. She was going down level, so it would have to be something basic. The kind of thing her alias, Rachel De Valerian, might wear.

She looked across. The false ID was on the bed, where she'd left it earlier. A permit card. Employment details. False retinas. Everything she'd need if she were to be stopped and questioned by Security. DeVore had thought it all through. Had made sure to do a fine job for her. But why? Because he knew she would eventually begin again, agitating, causing trouble for the Seven? Was it simply that? Or was it something else? Had he some other purpose that was as yet hidden from her?

Whatever, it was time to take a few risks. Time to make good on the promises she had made herself.

She had changed and dried her hair when a knock came on the door. Three raps, a pause, a single rap, a pause, and then a further three. Mach. He was back.

She studied herself in the mirror a moment, composing herself, then went through, slipping the bolt from the door, then pressing the key-open. As the door began to slide back, Mach came through, barely looking at her, making straight for the bathroom.

"Hey!" she called after him. "What's the hurry?"

She followed him along, then stood there in the doorway watching as he undid his jacket and took out three high-powered Security automatics, each handgun wrapped in sheet ice, and placed them in the now empty water-cabinet above the shower.

That done, he turned, grinning at her, his new face still a shock to her each time she saw it.

"That's good," he said, noting at once how she was dressed, his careful eyes not missing that her eye color had changed, but registering it by the movement of a finger to one of his own eyes. "Who arranged that for you? DeVore?"

She stared at him, something of her old hostility returning. "Well it wasn't you, was it, Jan? You wanted me dead."

Mach laughed strangely. "Did he tell you that?" He shrugged. "He told me you'd slipped the net. That he'd tried for you, but that you'd been too good for him."

She shivered, thinking back. No, it hadn't been like that. DeVore had found her easily enough, and—if he'd wanted to—he could have killed her. But he hadn't. And here she was, two years on, ready to begin again.

"They killed him, you know," Mach said, moving past her, heading for her bedroom. "I tried, at Nantes Spaceport, but his man—that red-eyed albino bastard, Lehmann—buggered things up for me. Killed three of my best men. But then the T'ang's man—that big man from the Net, Karr—finally got him. Smashed his head open with a rifle butt, so IVe heard."

Again she followed him through, watching as he took his things from the bottom of the wardrobe and placed them quickly but carefully into a holdall.

"I didn't know," she said. Then, "What are you doing?" He turned, still half crouched, looking back at her. "I'm moving on, Em. Fresh fields. New ventures. You know . . ."

She shook her head. "You surprise me, Jan. You always did. You're so resourceful. So flexible."

He stood, then laughed softly. "Do I detect a note of disapproval in that last comment, Emily Ascher?"

She met his eyes clearly, trying to see him through the mask of new flesh, then nodded. "We want different things, you and 1. We always did, only it took me a long while to see that."

He studied her a moment, then looked away, pressing the lips of the holdall together and hoisting it up over his shoulder. "No, Em. It isn't what we want, it's what we're prepared to do to get it. That's what makes you and me different. But now we can go our own paths, neh? Now weVe the opportunity to see whose way is best." He met her eyes again. "I'll not lie to you, Em. If you'd stood in my way, I'd not have hesitated to have had you killed. But you didn't. And I don't think you ever would. If I did, I'd never have turned up at your door two nights back. So, whether you believe me or not, let me tell you that what DeVore said simply wasn't true. I didn't want you dead. Nor do I now. And if there's anything you need—if there's any way I can help, then just call me. I owe you one, right?"

She stared at him, then shook her head. "So where are you going? Back to Europe? Or do you plan to move down-level here?"

His smile stretched the new skin about his mouth tight in what seemed almost a parody of a smile. "Neither, Em, my dear. I'm going to be a house guest. That's where I'm off to right now. I'm staying with Old Man Lever down in Richmond."

OLD MAN LEVER was standing beside the pool, drying himself, as the two men were led in to see him. He turned, relaxed, watching them approach him around the pool's edge, then threw the towel down, stretching out a hand to greet them.

"Milne . . . Ross . . . It's good to see you again. You'll have a drink, I hope?"

The two men hesitated, looking to each other, then nodded.

"Good." Lever turned, snapping his fingers. At once the Steward went across and busied himself, preparing drinks. Lever took a light silk jacket from the back of a chair and threw it across his broad shoulders, then turned, facing them again.

"Well? What have you got for me?"

"Nothing much, I'm afraid," Ross said, one hand going up to draw a thin wisp of strawlike hair across his balding pate. "She's a regular Miss Goody-two-shoes from what we can make out. Good at school. A clean College record. And not a mention of her ever appearing, even as witness, before a deck judicial hearing. In short, the public record backs up the Company file. Nu Shjh Jennings is what she says she is. It's all there, except..."

He hesitated, looking down.

"Except what?"

"Except that it doesn't make sense," Milne finished in his quick, nervy fashion. "It's all too pat. Too neatly structured. Like someone made it all up. It's . . ." He squirmed, his shoulders moving as if he had something up the back of his jacket. "Well, it's lacking anything distinctive. You know, the kind of things that shape a life. That give it its flavor."

"Hmmm," Old Man Lever nodded to himself. "But it all fits?"

"On the surface," Ross answered, lifting a hand slightly, signaling the dark-haired Milne to keep quiet. "But we could dig a little deeper, if you want. We could go back to Atlanta Canton. Speak to a few people who knew her before she moved out. Find out what she was really like."

Lever was silent for a time. Then, taking a long swig from his glass, he shook his head. "What reason could there be for those records being wrong?"

Ross looked at his companion, then shrugged. "No reason. Just that it feels wrong. WeVe been doing this job near on twenty years, Mister Lever, and you get to know the smell of wrongness. And this. . . well, this just stinks of wrongness."

Beside him, Milne nodded emphatically.

"Okay," Lever said, setting his glass down. "Let's assume the records have been doctored. Let's say that someone's done a number on her official files. Fine. But let me ask you just two questions. Who did it? And why?"

"I don't know," Ross said, meeting the old man's piercing gaze. "I just know that someone has. As Milne says, it's just too neat."

But Lever was shaking his head. "No. It makes no sense. It takes a lot of clout to change those records. A lot of clout." He laughed, then, leaning closer, added softly, "And who should know better than me, neh?"

He moved between them. "No, gentlemen. Thanks, but let's leave it at that. I was hoping you might dig up something I could use against the woman—a string of ex-lovers or something—but it looks like I'm just going to have to plain invent something." He laughed. "Hell, maybe I should just have done that in the first place!"

"And our file?" Ross asked tensely.

"I'll keep that," Lever said, meeting his eyes again. "You'll be paid well, Shih Ross. Very well indeed. But this thing is closed now, understand me? Closed."

WHEN THEY WERE GONE, Lever turned, looking up at the balcony overlooking the pool. From behind the cover of a vine, a man emerged and leaned against the rail, looking down at him. Lever called up to him. "Well, Mach? What do you think?" Mach smiled. "It's as you said, Mister Lever. It makes no sense. If this Jennings woman were a sleeper, put in by some rival of yours, she'd have stayed on where she could have done most harm, not gone to Michael."

Lever nodded. Those were his thoughts exactly. Even so, Ross's conviction had shaken him. He'd used Ross and Milne often these past ten years, and their instinct was generally sound. So what if... ?

For a moment he entertained the thought, trying to think of a reason—any reason—why her records might have been doctored, then shook his head, dismissing it again. No. It made no sense. No sense at all.

"Well, that's it, then," Milne said, cradling his ch'a bowl and squinting at his partner across the table of the low-level tea house. "Another file closed."

"Maybe," Ross said, his eyes following the progress of one of the serving women. "And maybe not."

Milne watched his face, waiting, knowing that Ross was chewing something over.

"IVe been thinking," Ross began in a lazy drawl, turning his attention back to Milne. "Thinking that we could do with a holiday. And with what Mister Lever's paid us, I reckon we could have ourselves a hell of a fun time in Atlanta."

"Atlanta . . . ?" Milne stared back at him blankly a moment, then laughed, understanding dawning on him. "Atlanta! Hell, sure. Atlanta."

"Good," Ross said, sitting back and nodding, a smile of satisfaction splitting his face. "And maybe we can do a little digging while we're there. I mean . . . what harm can it do?"

LI y u AN was at the far end of the gallery, standing beneath one of the five huge portraits that filled the midnight-blue walls. As the great doors opened, the young T'ang turned, looking toward them, then smiled, beckoning Tolonen across.

"Knut," he said, offering the ring finger of his right hand for the old man to kiss. "You are well, I hope."

Tolonen came to attention, his head bowed, his close-cropped steel-gray hair presented to his T'ang. "I am fine, Chieh Hsia. I..."

He stopped, conscious of something odd in Li Yuan's manner. Of a strange thoughtfulness in that young, unbearded face, an unnatural stillness to his bearing, that reminded him suddenly of the boy's father, Li Shai Tung. So the old man had been at times, as if something had lodged in his thoughts, like a rock in the middle of a stream.

Tolonen turned, looking up at the portrait Li Yuan had been studying and gave a small smile of recognition. It was Ch'in Shih Huang Ti, the First Emperor. The unifier of ancient China. The tyrant, so-called. In the portrait he was standing on the shoreline of Shandong, staring out toward the east—to P'eng Lai, the Isle of the Immortals. Tall, bearded, and arrogant, the peach of immortality clutched in his left hand.

"I have been thinking," Li Yuan said, moving past Tolonen to stand beneath the portrait once again. "Trying to see some pattern in the flow of time."

"A pattern, Chieh Hsia?"

"Of what men are, and what they do, and why they never learn."

Tolonen looked down. "Do you really think that's so, my Lord?"

Li Yuan nodded. "I do, Knut. Take our friend here. In many ways he was a great man. A military genius and a visionary administrator, whose actions shaped our land for two thousand years. And yet, as a man, he was ultimately flawed, for he wanted more than life could give him. He wanted to live forever, and that destroyed him. All the good he had done was undone by that. His great empire lasted but a year or so beyond his death."

The young T'ang moved on, his booted footsteps echoing on the tiled floor, until he stood beneath the second of the portraits. Of the five, this was the most famous, for copies of it hung in every deck, at every level of the great earth-spanning City.

"Wen Ti. . ." Li Yuan turned, looking back at Tolonen, a strange, sad smile on his lips. "How many times have you heard old men and schoolboys praise him for his virtue? How many times has his name been used like a charm to castigate an errant child or a poor official? In the history books he is portrayed as a rock, a mountain of a man, as just as he was compassionate, as fair as he was stem, and yet, under his rule, the Middle Kingdom almost faltered. Incursions by the northern barbarians, the Hsiung Nu, twice forced him to make accommodations—to cede land and make huge tributary payments. Why, his capital, Ch'ang-An, almost fell to them! And like Ch'in Shih Huang Ti, only a year or so after his death the empire was in chaos, rebellions sweeping the provinces."

"He did his best, Chieh Hsia . . ."

"Maybe so, Knut, but it gives one pause for thought, neh? Ch'in Shih Huang Ti was a tyrant, yet beneath him the empire thrived. Wen Ti was a good man, yet beneath him the empire suffered. Which, then, should I model myself upon?"

"Is the choice that simple, Chieh Hsia?"

Li Yuan smiled, then moved on to the next painting, looking up at the image of an elegant-looking middle-aged man in golden silks. "No, Knut. It is never that simple. Take the case of Ming Huang here, sixth of the great T'ang emperors. He was a great man. A wise ruler and a powerful warrior. His reign was a golden age, it is said. The great poets and painters of our history—Li Po, Tu Fu, Wang Wei—such men thrived under his rule. It was a time of great culture, of prosperity and peace, and yet all that was destroyed, the empire torn apart by rebellions, and why? Because of his weakness. Because of his infatuation for a woman."

Tolonen looked down, uncomfortable with this sudden turn. "So it was, Chieh Hsia. So history tells us, anyway. But what is your point?"

The young T'ang turned. "My point? Why, that emperors are men, not figureheads or abstract forces, and that what they are shapes the destiny of those they rule. They stretch out a hand and the shadow falls across a continent. So it is. So it has always been. And I, Knut. In what way am I different?"

He turned back, staring up at the handsome features of Ming Huang a moment longer, then, with a small shake of his head, went across to the fourth of the portraits.

"Mao Tse Tung," he said quietly, his eyes taking in the familiar icon. "First of the great Ko Ming emperors. The Great Helmsman himself. Like Ch'in Shih Huang Ti—his idol—Mao could be ruthless and tyrannical. Beneath him, the Middle Kingdom was unified again, all invaders cast out. And yet, like Wen Ti—whose values he tried to overthrow—Mao tried hard in his early years to give the people peace and prosperity, to end corruption and reform the bureaucracy. To make the Middle Kingdom strong and healthy after decades of suffering and neglect. In many ways he seems the perfect balance between the two men. And yet he too was flawed. Flawed by a belief in his own infallibility. In his Great Leap Forward, tens of millions died, Knut. And for what? Simply to prove him wrong."

Tolonen looked down, frowning. "But you are not any of these men, Chieh Hsia. You are yourself. Surely you can learn from their mistakes and be what they were not?"

Li Yuan glanced at the old man questioningly, then turned, making his way across to the last of the five great canvases. For a moment he stood there, staring up at the powerful image of the man his own ancestors had overthrown. Tsao Ch'un. The Tyrant. Founder of the City. Of Chung Kuo itself.

"Coming here, seeing these men, their faces, it makes me wonder. Can I learn from their mistakes? Or am I doomed to take the same path? To go down in history as a weak and foolish man? Or as a tyrant?"

Tolonen went across and stood beside him. "Does it worry you,

Yuan?"

"Worry me?" Li Yuan laughed, then turned, facing his father's General once again. "Yes, Knut. It worries me. But not as others might think. It worries me that my weakness might prove the death of millions. Or that some excess of desire or pride, arrogance or cold-heartedness might turn my face to tyranny. I look at these faces, these giant figures from our past, and I ask myself. Am I strong enough? Wise enough? You said of Wen Ti just now, 'He did his best.' Well, will my best be good enough? Have I, within me, what it takes to mold and shape a world and all its people? Or will ignorance and desire destroy me, as they have destroyed so many in the past? I am determined, yes. But what if determination fails, Knut? What then?"

The old man sniffed deeply, then shrugged, clearly disturbed by the young T'ang's words.

"Never mind. . ." Li Yuan looked down, unclenching his fists and staring at them a moment, as if to comprehend them. Then, as if coming to once more, he looked back up at the old man, his dark, hazel eyes less intense than a moment earlier. "So tell me, Knut. What did you find in my cousin's City?"

"Something strange," Tolonen answered, his voice suddenly clear and resonant. "Something strange and horrible."

IN WHAT HAD ONCE BEEN K'ang A-yin's offices, Soucek stood at ease, waiting to be acknowledged. The place had been redecorated since K'ang's death, a simple elegance replacing K'ang's cheap ostentation. A minute passed, then, finally, Lehmann looked up from the screen on his desk, noted the two men his lieutenant had brought back with him, and nodded.

"Good. Did it go well?"

Soucek sniffed. "I don't think they like us much. But as for our money . . . well, that's a different matter, neh? Money is money, Above as Below."

Lehmann switched off the screen, then came around the table. Ignoring his lieutenant, he studied the two newcomers carefully, reaching out to check the tight, flickering bands about the neck of each. Satisfied, he stepped back.

"Welcome," he said simply. "My name is Stefan Lehmann, and you'll be working for me."

Soucek could see the fear and uncertainty in their faces, just as earlier he had noted their clear disgust at their new surroundings. Lehmann too must have noticed it, for he seemed quick to reassure the men.

"I understand how you're feeling just now. You weren't expecting to come down here, were you?"

They nodded.

"No. Well, I know that what youVe seen so far is pretty bad, but I've had special quarters prepared. Something more like what you're used to."

Soucek narrowed his eyes, fitting another piece into the puzzle. Lehmann hadn't told them yet what he was up to. The first Soucek had known about this was when Lehmann had handed him a special clearance pass and sent him up to Level 180 to meet with a Company Broker. All the documents and payment certifications had been in a sealed package. Soucek had only to ensure that the broker handed over the two men; Lehmann could do all the rest from his newly installed desk console. But Soucek had glimpsed the figure the broker had tapped into his comset and had whistled to himself. Why, they had paid more than two months' profits for a year's contract on each man!

"There's a lot to do here," Lehmann was saying, "but I want you to familiarize yourself with the details of our operation before you get down to things. And 1 want your input, understand? If you see that a thing can be done better, I want to know how, okay?"

The strangers, still more intimidated than reassured by the look of the tall albino, nodded hastily.

"And understand this . . . I've added an extra clause to your contracts." Lehmann paused, looking from one to the other. "It's very simple. You do well for me and I look after you. You help me increase my profits and you get a cut. A small one, but significant. And it's nondeductible against your lessee's contract."

Soucek saw how that changed things. The two men glanced at one another, then looked back at Lehmann, smiling.

"Good," Lehmann said, turning away, retreating behind his desk. "Now get some rest. We'll start tomorrow. My lieutenant here will show you your quarters. He'll get you anything you want."

Lehmann sat, leaning forward to touch the screen, bringing it alive. The audience was over. Soucek ushered the men out.

Walking back to the special area, one of them, a fair-haired man in his early twenties, turned to Soucek and asked him who Lehmann was.

Soucek shrugged. "He runs things down here."

"You mean he's a Deck Magistrate?"

"No. Judges he can buy by the dozen."

He saw how thoughtful they were. How their initial disgust had turned to puzzlement and to a new kind of respect.

Yes, thought Soucek. After all, he had the clout to bring you two down here. Why, 1 don't yet know. But I shall soon.

"And what are you, ch'un tzul"

It was their turn to laugh. "You mean you don't know?" the blond-haired one said, stopping. "I thought you understood. We're commodity slaves." He touched the flickering band at his neck. "That's what this means. Your boss has bought our services for a year."

Soucek drew in a breath. He didn't like to be thought ignorant. "I know that," he said, brazening it out. "I meant, what do you do?"

"Whatever he wants us to do. But our specialties are computers and drugs synthesis. I'm the computer man."

Ah, thought Soucek, so that's it. But why does he want specialists? What is he planning?

They walked on, coming to the special area. Guards let them into corridors that had been newly carpeted at great expense. The walls were freshly painted, the two suites furnished with pieces brought down from the Above. It was all in stark contrast to the corridors and rooms through which they had passed. Here it was cool and quiet. No crowds of people crushed against each other. No ragged urchins tugged at you, their dirty faces pleading for a coin, or for something to eat. Now that he had seen it for himself, Soucek saw how like the Above this was. Ordered. Elegant in its simplicity. And Lehmann had known that. Had known what K'ang had only guessed at. As if he had experienced it himself.

Later, alone in his room, stretched out on his bunk, he thought things over. He had known Lehmann only weeks now, but in that brief time he had had the opportunity to study him better than he'd studied anyone before. Even so, Lehmann remained something of an enigma, forever hidden behind those glassy, blood-pink eyes. At times he felt like asking him right out, "What are you thinking?" but knew how it would be. Lehmann would turn and look at him, then look away, saying nothing. As if to say, "What business is it of yours?" And yet, for all that, he respected Lehmann more than he respected any man. Maybe even loved him in some strange way. But what was Lehmann? Who was he?

He had not seen it at first. Only slowly, gradually, had he begun to notice all the things that were different about him. Not the immediate, obvious things—his height and gauntness, the color of his skin, his eyes—but other, less readily discernible things. Things seen in contrast only. His scorn for luxuries. His innate austerity. Things that contrasted sharply with the other tong Bosses. Unlike them he had never even considered moving up the levels. He had laughed contemptuously when Soucek had suggested it. "They'll pay for their softness," was all he'd said. But Soucek had thought long and hard about the meaning of those words and had heeded them. Copying Lehmann, he had given up alcohol, drugs, and meat, and had begun to spend more time in the practice rooms, honing his fighting skills.

After the meeting with the other nine Bosses, Lehmann had sent him up to see Ni Yueh alone, with gifts and letters of friendship. He recalled sitting in Ni Yueh's plush offices and seeing it all with Lehmann's eyes, noting the waste—the "fat" as Lehmann called it. And he had looked at Ni Yueh anew—perhaps even as Lehmann saw him—seeing not merely his strength and brutality, but also the softness, the small signs of weakness. "Desire is a chain," Lehmann had said. "Only will and discipline can break it." Well, he had looked at Ni Yueh now and seen a man in whom desire was stronger than will. And had said nothing. That too he had learned from Lehmann. The weak man babbled his thoughts to any that would listen. The strong man kept his silence.

Ni Yueh had liked the gifts, the letters, and he, Soucek, had returned with other gifts and written promises. But Lehmann had scorned the presents and pushed them aside, more concerned with Soucek's view of things. He had listened attentively, then turned away suddenly, nodding to himself. "We'll bait him," he had said. "Hook him and draw him in." And though Soucek had not understood the exact meaning, he got the drift of it. "How far can you trust him?" he had asked, and saw how Lehmann turned, studying him closely. "Trust?" he'd answered. "I trust no man, Jiri. Not even you. If it were a matter of life and death, a question of choice—of my life or yours— could I trust you? Could I redly trust you?"

He had wanted to say yes, but with Lehmann's eyes upon him he had not wished to answer glibly, insincerely. He had hesitated, then bowed his head. "I don't know... I..." But Lehmann had only shaken his head and taken his arm, as if to console him. "Have no illusions, Jiri. Strip what you feel bare. Look hard at yourself. All else means nothing."

It was the closest he had come to Lehmann, and the moment had seared itself into his memory, but it was the closeness of utter strangers. Even at that moment, he had sensed the utter cold of the vacuum that surrounded Lehmann and kept them separate. Where there were no illusions there could be no warmth. And love, even love, became a thing of ice.

WHISKERS lu's face filled the big overhead screen, his left eye staring down blankly from the pink, crab-mottled rawness of his melted face, his narrow, lipless mouth formed into a fierce grin.

"Wong Yi-sun! Welcome! Come inside! We are all here now."

Fat Wong hesitated, then, with a nod to his bodyguards, passed beneath the great lintel of the House of the Ninth Ecstasy, entering Lu Ming-shao's territory. Inside, he looked about him, surprised by the understated elegance of the place. When he had first heard that the meeting of the Council was to be held in a singsong house he had been outraged, wondering whether this were some subtle insult on Whiskers Lu's part, but his advisors had reassured him that this was where Lu Ming-shao did most of his business from these days, and so he had accepted the invitation. Now, seeing it for himself, he understood. Lu's First Level contacts would feel at home in a place like this. It was a good place to do business. Even so, it was of a piece with Lu Ming-shao that he should run the Black Dog Triad from a whorehouse.

There was the faint rustle of a curtain to his left. Fat Wong turned, facing it, one hand on the knife at his belt, then he relaxed. A scantily dressed young woman stood there, her head bowed.

"Might I take your cloak, Wong Yi-sun?"

Fat Wong studied the girl, noting how delicately she was formed, wondering briefly whether that delicacy were a product of chance or of human manufacture, then he nodded, letting her take the silk from his shoulders. As he turned back, Whiskers Lu appeared on the far side of the room, coming across to embrace him.

"Yi-sun . . ." he said, holding Fat Wong at arm's length, as if he had not seen him in a long while. Then, with a flourish of his arm, he turned, inviting Wong to go through.

Again Wong hesitated, the habit of suspicion shaping his response, then let himself be led through. In a room at the center of the House the other four Bosses were waiting, sitting about in huge, comfortable chairs, drinks and trays of sweetmeats on low tables at their sides. As he entered, they called out, greeting him, as if they were old friends and this a chance to drink and eat and talk of women and past times, whereas the truth was that what they were to discuss today was of the utmost importance, heralding a new phase in their relationship with the Above.

Fat Wong smiled, letting himself fall into the role, accepting the tumbler of wine Whiskers Lu held out to him, knowing that his stomach implant would neutralize its effects. He sat, looking about him, conscious yet again of the refinement of the decor. He had had his advisors dig back into the history of this place and had learned what had happened here with the old Madam, Mu Chua, and the Minor-Family Prince, Hsiang K'ai Fan. It was Mu Chua who had built this place and established its reputation, running the House for more than thirty years. Her death—her throat slit by Hsiang K'ai Fan even as he was fucking her—might easily have been a disaster for Whiskers Lu, but the intercession of Li Yuan's General, Hans Ebert, had saved Lu's skin. In a secret deal negotiated by Ebert, the Hsiang family had agreed to pay Lu Ming-shao twenty-five million yuan in compensation, provided he took no retributive action. With those funds Whiskers Lu had rebuilt the House of the Ninth Ecstasy and installed a new Madam. He had also imported one or two "oddities," things accepted from the Hsiang family in lieu of cash. Among those oddities were one of the GenSyn ox-men and five of GenSyn's famous "Imperial Courtesan" line—the model with the two additional orifices. Such "treasures" had won a new clientele to the House and things were almost as they were.

Whiskers Lu came close, leaning over Wong, his voice lowered to a whisper. "If there is anything you would like to try while you're here, Yi-sun, you are most welcome."

Fat Wong smiled, as if pleased by the offer, but it was yet another instance of Lu Ming-shao's poor breeding. Or his naivete. He studied Whiskers Lu a moment, noting the changes that this last year had brought. Gone was the ragged fur he had once sported about his shoulders; gone too the wild-barbarian look. Lately he had taken to wearing his hair slicked back, his mustache trimmed and waxed. Lu thought it made him look more refined, but the truth was otherwise; it only made his masklike face look more artificial, more foolish. Wong smiled inwardly, then looked past Lu. There, in the comer of the room, was a u«i chi board, set up as if midway through a game. He had heard that Lu Ming-shao had recently taken up the game and this seemed to confirm it. Rumor had it, however, that Whiskers Lu was very bad at the game and had killed two opponents in fits of temper. If so, it was but another thing against him. The time was coming fast when Lu Ming-shao would prove too great an embarrassment to the Hung Mun, and when that day came he, Wong Yi-sun, would be the first to act.

It was another hour before they came to business. Between times there was the usual sparring—the sounding-out of positions before the hard bargaining began. This once, however, there was little to debate and they came quickly to agreement. The matter was a simple one. In a year's time the House at Weimar would be reopened. Before then, candidates had to be selected, elections held. It was an ideal opportunity for the Hung Mun to buy their way in. Rumor had it that the new House would have real power, real influence. If so, it was to the advantage of them all to gain a foothold. The only question was how big a foothold and how much that would cost.

Li the Lidless was speaking, reading from a special report he had had his advisors draw up.

". . . it is also felt that any attempt to spread our net too wide might not only prove a strain upon current resources but might also result in a diminishment of effective influence. It is suggested, therefore, that each of the six brotherhoods concentrate on acquiring the friendship of five Representatives. The resultant pressure group within the House—funded centrally and with the capacity to 'extend' its influence on certain matters within the House; that is, to buy the votes of responsive members—ought to provide a solid foundation for our continued expansion up the levels."

Li Chin sat back, looking about the circle of his fellow 4895. "Long years we have waited in the darkness down below. Now our time has come. We must climb. Up, into the light."

Fat Wong leaned forward, conscious of the receptive mood Li's words had created. "Then we are agreed? Thirty Representatives, to be controlled directly by this Council. Policy and funding to be as outlined in Li Chin's report."

He looked about the circle, seeing how enthusiastically they nodded; how willingly they embraced this next step. For once the potential benefits for all outweighed the petty needs of individual Triads. But how long would that last? How long would it be before one or the other of them tried to win a greater share of influence than their fellows? Once already he had had to deal with such divisions, enlisting Li Yuan's aid to crush his rival, Iron Mu. But next time would be more difficult. Next time he might have to fight them all. Which was why it was important to pacify them just now, to seem to be working with them closely, hand-in-hand, so that he might build up his strength.

Because ultimately he did not want what Li Chin wanted. No. He wanted it all.

Fat Wong turned, looking across at Whiskers Lu once more, and, smiling, his manner deceptively casual, said what had been on his mind all along.

"I hear there has been trouble among your tong, Lu Ming-shao. They say there is a new man, cutting in. I wondered . . ."

He saw the agitated movement of Lu's good eye, the sense of turmoil beneath the glassy mask of his face, and knew he had touched a nerve. But when Whiskers Lu spoke, it was in the same almost-bantering tone he always used.

"It is so, Wong Yi-sun, but when is there not trouble among the lower orders? Besides, the matter is already settled, a new balance found. One must let the little men fight their battles, neh?"

They were good words, and Fat Wong bowed his head, acknowledging them, but all there were aware of the significance of the exchange, for while the rest of them had worked their way up the levels of their respective brotherhoods, Whiskers Lu alone had won his post by conquest. He had not entered the brotherhood as a child, nor was he steeped in the ancient rituals of the Hung Mun. No. Like the "new man" Wong had mentioned, Whiskers Lu was an outsider, a usurper,

and had bullied his way into a position of power. The reminder was thus unwelcome.

"Well, brothers," Whiskers Lu said, standing, his whole manner suggesting that he had already forgotten what had just been said, "now that we are agreed, let us retire to the next room. I have arranged an entertainment. Something rather special. Something ...different."

His lipless mouth grinned broadly, but as he turned away, Wong noted how Lu's left hand was clenched, the tendons showing at the wrist, as if all of his anger—anger that could not be expressed on the masklike nullity of his face—had been channeled down into that hard, bunched node of flesh and bone. And, seeing it, Fat Wong smiled.

Yes. Step by step he would undermine them, even as he seemed to be working with them. Step by step, until he was ready. And then there would be war. War such as the lowers had never seen.

WHISKERS LU let the door close, the last of his guests departed, then turned, his thin smile fading, and glared at the three men who remained in the room.

"How dare the fucker discuss my private business in my House!"

Lu Ming-shao kicked out, sending one of the low tables flying, tumblers and bowls of food scattered across the carpet.

"The toad! The fucking insect! What the fuck does he think he's playing at?"

The three men looked to each other but said nothing. When Whiskers Lu was like this, it was best to keep one's head low and wait for the storm to pass.

Lu Ming-shao shuddered, his one good eye burning in his glassy face. "If it had been any other man, I'd have slit his fucking throat! But I'll have him. See if I don't!"

He turned, anger making his movements jerky, angular. "Po Lao . . . Why was I not told what was going on? What the fuck are you up to, keeping me in the dark?"

Po Lao, Whisker's Lu's "Red Pole," his second-in-command, bowed his head, accepting the criticism, but inside he was fuming. Lu Ming-shao had been told about the new man, and not once but several times, but he had been too busy preparing for the Council meeting— closeted with designers and entertainers—to pay any attention.

"It's not fucking good enough," Lu went on, standing close to Po Lao, the pink, crab-mottled flesh of his melted face pressed right up against Po's. "I want you to go down there, personally, and see to the matter. To sort things out for good and all, because I don't want any more trouble, understand me? And I particularly don't want any word of what's happening in our territories getting out to that cunt Fat Wong."

Po Lao felt his face burning beneath its rigid exterior. For a moment he was giddy with suppressed anger. Then, with a curt bow, he turned away. But at the door Whiskers Lu called him back again.

"And Po Lao. No fuck-ups. I want it settled. Right?"

Po Lao turned back, meeting Lu Ming-shao's good eye, letting nothing of what he was feeling show. "1 understand, Master Lu."

"Good. Now go. I want to hear from you tonight."

"Shih Ward?"

Kim looked up, beginning to smile, then checked himself, realizing that it was not the young official he had been dealing with earlier, but the Supervisor of the section. Beyond the stoop-backed old graybeard stood two departmental guards, their side arms held across their chests.

"What is it?" he asked, standing, puzzled by the look of stern anger on the elderly Han's face.

In answer the man thrust a folder at Kim—the same folder he had submitted only four hours back at the counter on the far side of the waiting room.

"It's all done, then?" he asked, staring down at it, wondering momentarily where the completed patent certificate was.

"Are these your documents, Shih Ward?" the Supervisor asked, ignoring Kim's comment.

Kim glanced at the folder again. "Yes. Of course. Why? Is there a problem?"

The man's smile was cold, ironical. "You might say that. But first let me confirm two things." He reached across and opened the folder, drawing out the slender, microns-thick official form. "Is this your signature at the bottom of this patents application form?"

"Yes."

"And you understand that this form is to be used only for new patents originated by the signatory?"

Kim nodded, concerned now; not understanding why the man should need to ask, nor why he should feel the need to have guards present.

"Then I am afraid to say that this form is invalid, being in breach of Section 761 [D] of the Patents Protection Laws. Moreover, Shih Ward, it is my duty to arrest you for making a fraudulent application, infringing a patent already registered at this office."

Kim laughed, but it was the laughter of disbelief, not amusement. "It isn't possible. I checked. A week ago. Here at this very office. There was nothing. Nothing even vaguely like it!"

The official smiled, clearly enjoying his role, then produced a copy of a patent protection form. He let Kim study it a moment, watching as the young man's face drained, then took it back from him.

Kim stood there, his hands shaking, his mouth agape. "Someone stole it," he said quietly. "They must have."

The official turned, handing the folder to one of the guards, then turned back, puffing out his chest, as if to display the big, square badge of office there. "Your comments have been noted, Shih Ward, and, along with the recording of this interview, will be submitted to the Hearing in two days' time. Until then, I am afraid you will have to be detained."

"Detained . . . ?" Kim shook his head, disbelief tilting over into a kind of stupor. He felt sick and dizzy and hardly heard what the man said next, but then, suddenly, his hands were being pulled behind him. He felt the restraint-lock click into place about his wrists, then he was being pulled backward out of the room.

"You must send word!" Kim called out, trying to make the official listen. "You must tell T'ai Cho!" But the Supervisor had already turned away and was talking to the other guard. And then the door slammed shut in front of him and he felt a sharp, sudden blow on the back of his head. And then nothing.

CHAPTER EIGHT

Dynasties

THE GIRL WAS ASLEEP, her long, auburn hair fanned out across her naked back, the thin sheet draped across her buttocks like a shroud. For a moment Old Man Lever studied her, conscious of the contrast between them. Her flesh was so smooth, so new, like silk over the taut frame of bone and muscle, no sign of age marring its perfection. He sighed, then pulled himself up heavily, stretching the tiredness from his bones. Suddenly he felt old. Very old. He looked about him, at the simple luxury of the room, a luxury to which he had been born, and shook his head, as if he didn't understand whence all this had come, then looked down at himself again, at thinning legs and a stomach gone to paunch, a chest to flab—at the changes and distortions time had brought to the landscape of his flesh. All these years he had kept himself trim, had fought Time itself, fleeing from it, like a swimmer in dangerous waters, but Time, patient as a shark, had waited in the depths, staring up at him with cold, impersonal eyes, biding its time, knowing there was no escape.

He shuddered, then padded across to the armchair in the corner of the room and pulled on the dark blue silk dressing gown he had thrown there earlier. The girl had been good—very good indeed— and she had finally brought him off, but it had been a long, uphill struggle, and he had almost sent her away at one point, ashamed of his failure.

180

It had happened before, of course, and he had blamed it on tiredness or an excess of wine, but it was neither—he knew that now. He was simply getting old.

He drew the sash tight about his waist, then went across, standing there at the mirror, looking at himself clearly in the light from the overhead lamp. In four weeks' time he would be seventy-four. One year older than Tolonen. An old man. Powerful, as old men went, but old all the same.

He turned away, angry with himself. Only an hour ago he had been full of life, buoyant after the news from the Patents Office, standing there, whooping at the screen. Yes, just an hour ago he had felt as though he could run ten Zi and then take on a pair of serving girls, one after the other, as he'd done in his youth. But now he knew. It was only the adrenaline rush. Only the ragged tide of feeling through an old man's head.

Going across to the room's comset, he tapped out a code irritably. "Get me Curval on the line," he said, even before the picture had properly formed. "And get him now, whatever he's doing."

He looked across at the girl again. She had turned and was lying on her side, one breast exposed above the sheet. Lever shivered. No, it wasn't her fault. She had tried. Had tried her damnedest to be sweet to him. Besides, the girl was mute. So maybe he would keep her. Maybe he would have her assigned here, to his private rooms. He turned back as Curval's voice came through. "Curval... I want you to come here at once. I've a job for you. I want you to go up to Boston for me and see the boy again. I'll brief you when you get here." '

Curval made to answer, but Lever had already cut him off. Turning away, he crossed the room quickly and stood over the girl, shaking her until she came awake.

"Quick now," he said, pulling her up. "You must help me dress. IVe things to do."

And as she busied herself about him, he began to feel better; began to shrug off his earlier mood. No, it was no good skulking and sulking. One had to do something. First he'd draft a note—an answer to the T'ang of Africa—to be sent by way of Mach, agreeing to his offer. Then he would arrange a meeting of the major shareholders to the Institute and force them to agree to an increase in funding. Last, but not least, he would see Curval, and brief him. For Curval would be his key.

He smiled, letting the girl fuss about him, wondering why he had not thought of it before. At present Curval was Head of the Institute, his reputation as the leading experimental geneticist of his age unchallenged. But Curval, good as he was, wasn't good enough, not when it was a question of squaring-up to death. He had as much as admitted to Lever's face that he considered the problem unsolvable. Even so, he might be the means by which Ward could be wooed back to the fold. Yes, where money and threats had failed, maybe a play at Ward's natural scientific curiosity might succeed. If Curval could show him how wonderful a challenge it was. If he could fire him with a new enthusiasm.

Especially now, when the boy was down and vulnerable.

Lever looked down. The girl had stopped, staring at the fierce erection he now sported. He laughed, then drew her close, forcing her head down onto him.

Yes, he would be young again. He would, be young.

TWO hundred LI to the north, in the boardroom of a small company, four men sat about a long oak table, talking.

Michael Lever had been silent for some while, listening, but now he leaned forward, interrupting the stream of talk.

"Forgive me, Bryn, but the point isn't whether it can be done, but whether it ought to be done. I don't know about you, but I don't want to live forever. It's bad enough thinking of being fifty, let alone being fifty forever."

Bryn Kustow was hunched forward at the far end of the table, facing Michael, his elbows pressed against the polished surface, his long forearms stretched out along the wood, meeting in a handclasp. His ash'blond hair was cut aggressively short, but the style suited him. He looked like a soldier, sitting there.

"Fifty, no, but what if you could be twenty-five for the rest of time? Wouldn't that tempt you?"

Michael shook his head. "I know how I feel. Besides, I want sons of my own, and I want those sons to love and respect me. I don't want to be a barrier in their way."

Kustow nodded and leaned back in the big wheel-back chair. Between him and Michael, to either side of the table, sat their friends and longtime companions, Jack Parker and Carl Stevens. They were dressed simply and sported the same aggressive hairstyle as Kustow. It gave them a kind of uniformity. One look was enough to place them. Sons, they were. Part of the new movement.

"It sounds like you hate him," Stevens said, leaning toward him. "Has it really got that bad?"

"No. It's not as simple as that. For all he's done to me these past few weeks, I still don't hate him. But this obsession of his with immortality. Well, it's gone too far. All his energies seem to be channeled into the search for a new serum or for some new way of switching off the aging process." He looked across at Kustow, his face filled with hurt. "I've seen it grow in him these past few years, like a sickness. And I don't want to be that way. Not ever. I don't want to be old in the way he's getting old. Hanging on like a beggar. There's no dignity in that."

"My father's the same," said Parker, looking about him at the circle of his friends. "He's got no time for anything else, these days. The day-to-day stuff he delegates, then goes off to jaw with the old gang." He paused and shook his head. "And you know what they're talking about? They're talking about spending a further fifteen billion on the Institute. Fifteen billion! And who loses out?"

"Sure. So what do we do about it?"

They stared at Kustow, as if he'd said something that was difficult to grasp.

"Do?" Stevens asked, shaking his dark, cropped head and laughing. "What can we do? It's like Mitchell said the other night at Gloria's. TheyVe got all the money, all the real power. All we have is the vague promise of inheritance."

"Vaguer by the day," said Parker, nudging him and laughing.

But Kustow and Lever weren't laughing. They were watching each other. Kustow narrowed his eyes in a question, and Michael nodded.

"Okay . . . we'll come clean," said Kustow, standing up and walking around the table until he stood behind Michael. "The paperwork,

earlier . . . that was a front. Michael and I called you over today for a special reason. Not to make deals, or anything like that, but to work on this thing that's bugging us all. To see if we can do something."

"We're listening," Parker said, leaning back, assuming an air of businesslike attentiveness. Across from him, Stevens nodded.

It was Michael who spoke.

"Essentially, you're right, Carl. They have got all the real power. But let's not underestimate ourselves. What have we got? Let's look at it. Let's see what we"can rustle up between us."

He separated his hands and sat back, using his right hand to count the fingers of his left. "One, we've got our personal allowances. Not inconsiderable. There's many a small company who would welcome the same figure in turnover. Don't be offended, but Bryn and I have been checking up. Between the four of us we could count on a figure of some one and three quarter million yuan."

Parker laughed. "And where would that get us? Your accounts are frozen, Michael, or had you forgotten?"

"Hold on," said Kustow. "Michael's not finished yet."

Michael smiled, his handsome face showing patience and determination. "Two, there's what we could divert from those funds we control on behalf of our fathers' companies."

Parker frowned. "I don't like the sound of that. It sounds vaguely criminal."

"It is. But let's face that when we have to. From such funds we could probably command upward of twenty million yuan."

Stevens whistled. Personally he was in charge of three small production companies that serviced his father's near-space development corporation, but they were minnows—sops his father had given him to keep him quiet; more a hobby than a job. He was an engineering graduate and the eldest of them at twenty-eight, but in himself he felt like a boy still, playing when he should have been acting in the world.

"Three, there are Trusts we could borrow against. Even at the most pessimistic rate we could expect to raise something like fifteen million yuan."

Parker interrupted him. "They'd know." He laughed briefly, then shook his head. "Don't you see? If we set about realizing all of this they'd know at once that we were up to something."

Lever smiled. "Good. Then you're thinking about it seriously?"

The young man sat back, chewing on some imaginary straw, then nodded. But there was a hesitancy in what he said next. "I think I see what you're getting at. We have the money, so that's not it. That's not our key, right? Because we can't use money against them. TheyVe got it tightly bottled up as far as money's concerned."

Kustow came forward and leaned over the table, facing him. "That's right. But the very fact that we have the money gives us an edge. The fact that if we wanted to, we could call on some forty to fifty million between us, that gives us power."

Stevens took his hand from his mouth. "I don't see it, Bryn. How? If we can't use it, how does it help us?"

Kustow half turned and looked at Lever. Again, Lever nodded. Slowly, Kustow straightened up, then, without another word, he left the room.

"What's going on?" Parker asked, laughing uncertainly. "What is this, Michael? Some kind of revolutionary cell we're forming here?"

Lever looked at him calmly and nodded. "That's just what it is, Jack. But we're joining, not forming it."

Stevens had tilted back his head and was scratching beneath his neck. For a moment he said nothing, then, slowly, he began to laugh, his laughter getting stronger. "Well, I'll be. . . ."

Kustow was standing in the doorway again. "Gentlemen, I want you to meet an old school friend of mine. A man who, we hope, will someday make America great again." He stood back, letting a tall, dark-haired man step past him, into the room.

Stevens had stopped laughing. Parker, beside him, gasped and half rose from his seat.

"Hello," said Joseph Kennedy, smiling and putting out his hand. "It's good to meet you. Bryn's told me a lot about you two."

kennedy leaned BACK in his chair and stretched out his arms, yawning and laughing at the same time. The table in front of him was cluttered with half-filled glasses and empty wine bottles. Around the table the young men joined in his laughter, pausing to suck on their cigars or drain a glass, the air dense with cigar smoke.

They had all known Kennedy, of course. You could hardly grow up in the North American Above and not know the Kennedys. Even after the fall of the Empire, a Kennedy had overseen the period of transitional government and, through his influence and skill, had prevented the great tragedy from becoming a debilitating catastrophe. This was that man's great-great-grandson, a figure familiar from the elite MedFac channels. When his father had died, eight years back, he had inherited one of the biggest legal firms on the East Coast and had not hesitated to step into his father's shoes at once. Now, however, it seemed he was tired of the legal game. He wanted something bigger to take on.

Which was why he was there, speaking to them.

Joseph Kennedy was a big, good-humored man, handsome in the way that all the Kennedys were handsome, but with something else behind the good looks; something that made people look at him with respect, perhaps even with a degree of awe. He was powerful and charismatic, like an animal in some ways, but supremely intelligent with it. His mind missed nothing, while his eyes seemed to take in more than the surface of things.

Though he was a good six years older than the men he had come to meet, there was a youthfulness about him that made him seem one of them. He had made them at ease quickly and with a skill that was as much inherited as his vast personal fortune. But he did not play upon his charm. In fact, the opposite was true. When he spelled out what it was he wanted from them, he made certain that they knew the cost of their involvement. It would be bad, he told them. In all likelihood they would be disinherited before the year was out, estranged from their families. At worst there was the possibility that they would be dead. The stakes were high, and only a fool went blindly into such a game.

That said, however, he reminded them of their breeding, and of what there was to gain.

"Freedom," he said. "Not just for you, but for all men. Freedom from the old men who chain you, but also freedom from the Seven."

"We will make deals," he said. "At first our enemies will think us friends, or, at worst, accomplices. But in time they will come to know us as we really are. And then they'll find us worse than in their darkest dreams."

And when he said that he paused and looked at them, each in turn, measuring how each one faced him and then, as if satisfied, nodded to himself.

There was more, much more, but in essence they knew what he wanted of them. Loyalty. Obedience when the time came. Support— covert at first, but then, when he asked it of them, out in the open. When the time was right they would mobilize all their resources; four out of hundreds across the great continent who would rise up and change the face of North American politics for all time.

Behind them were discussions about the Edict, about the immortality treatments and the latest terrorist attacks in Europe. Now, at the tail end of the evening, they were talking of other things. Of women and ball games and mutual friends. Kennedy had been telling them an anecdote about a certain Representative and the daughter of a Minor Family. It was scandalous and close to the knuckle, but their laughter showed no fear. They were as one now; wedded to the cause. And when, finally, Kennedy left, they each shook his hand and bowed their heads, mock solemn, like soldiers, but also like friends.

"Was he always like that?" Stevens asked Kustow when he had gone. "I mean, was he like that at College, when you knew him?"

Kustow stubbed out his cigar and nodded. "Always. If we had a problem we went to him, not to one of the teachers or the Head. And he would always sort it out." He smiled, reminiscing. "We idolized him. But then, in my second year, he left, and everything changed."

There was a moment's silence, an exchange of glances.

"Does anyone fancy a meal?" Parker said, breaking the silence. "I don't know about you guys, but I'm starving."

"Sure," Kustow said, looking to Stevens, who nodded. "And you, Michael?"

Michael hesitated, then shook his head. "Another time, maybe. Right now IVe got to sort something out."

"Mary?"

He looked back at Kustow, wondering how he knew, then laughed. "I spoke to her earlier. Said I'd see her sometime this afternoon. I..."

There was a hammering at the outer door.

"What the hell?" Kustow said, turning to face the sound.

"Do you think. . . ?" Stevens began, looking to Michael.

"No," Michael said quietly as the hammering came again. "But whoever it is, they sure as hell want to see someone in a hurry."

He went across quickly and slid the door back, then strode out across the plush expanse of carpet in the reception room. The three men followed him, standing in the doorway, watching as he slid back the bolt and stood back, pulling the double doors open.

Outside, in the dimly lit corridor, stood a Han. A tall Han in plain green silks with mussed hair and a distraught expression.

"T'ai Cho!" Michael said, surprised. "What in the gods' names are you doing here?"

"It's Kim!" T'ai Cho said breathlessly, grasping Michael's arm. "He's been arrested!"

"Arrested? For what?"

"At the Patents Office! They say he stole the patent he was trying to register! You have to do something, Shih Lever! You must!"

"What is this, Michael?" Parker asked, but Kustow touched his arm and gave him a look, as if to say "leave it."

"I'll come," he said, looking across at Kustow. "Bryn, will you get word to Mary. Tell her that I've been delayed. I..." He turned back. "T'ai Cho ... has Kim got legal help?"

"No ... no, he .. ."

"Okay." He patted T'ai Cho's arm, as if to reassure him, then looked back at Kustow. "Do you know where Kennedy was off to, Bryn?"

"Just home, I think."

"Good. Then contact him. Tell him I need him. Tell him . . . tell him a good friend of mine is in trouble and that I'd appreciate his advice and help."

Kustow smiled and nodded.

"And Bryn . . . tell Mary that I'll see her when I can."

"So what happened?"

Kim had been standing at the far end of the bare detention room, facing away from where Michael Lever was sitting on a narrow, pull-

down bench, but at Michael's words he turned and came across, kneeling beside the taller man.

"It was my bookkeeper, Nong Yan," he said, looking up into Michael's face. "It had to be."

"How do you know?"

Kim shrugged. "No one else saw it. No one else had even the vaguest idea what I was working on. Even so, I don't know how he did it. He could only have had the briefest glimpse of it. I. . ."

Again his eyes drifted off, as they had once or twice already; as if this were a scientific puzzle, to be analyzed and solved. Not that it really mattered now.

In less than three hours it had all come apart. The patent was gone—stolen—and with it any chance of securing terms from the Hang Yu Credit Agency. Indeed, news had reached the bankers fast, for a handwritten message had reached Kim an hour back, expressing the regretful apologies of the Brothers Hang. But that was not all. Acting on the news, Kim's present bankers had recalled their development loan and taken immediate action to recover the debt, stripping the facility of all its equipment. At the same time, news had come that a third party had bought up all of the surrounding units—units Kim had made offers for only days before—at four times the normal rental, effectively preventing any physical expansion of Kim's operation. Not that it made any difference now.

"I should have realized. . ." he said, after a moment. "Realized what I was up against."

"My father, you mean?"

Kim nodded. "He's toyed with us both, neh? And for what? In my case, so that he might use me to pursue some addlebrained notion of postponing the inevitable. Even though I couldn't do it."

"He thinks you could. He thinks you could find a way of prolonging life. Of extending it, three, four hundred years. Maybe indefinitely."

Kim took a long breath, then looked up again, his expression suddenly intense, his eyes burning.

"Technically, perhaps. But that's not what I mean. I couldn't do it because I couldn't do it. I wouldn't let myself. The consequences are unthinkable. Once in my life already IVe meddled in things that should have been left well alone, but this time I have a choice. So no.

The dream of living forever must remain just that. A dream. I mean, just think of it! Unlink the great chain of being, and what would follow? It would be a curse, Michael. Nothing but a curse!"

Michael shuddered, then looked away, disturbed by this sudden glimpse of the young man's potency; by the dark, intense power locked away in his taut, diminutive form.

"So what will you do now?"

Kim smiled. "It depends on what your friend Kennedy can arrange. I was going to go to Europe next week, but what's the point? Whatever I do, your father blocks me. He's obsessed."

"You should go," Michael said quietly. "Really, Kim. You can't let him beat you. This . . ."He shivered, then stood, beginning to pace the room. "He's been like this all his life. If he wanted something, he'd get it, no matter what. If someone stood in his way, he'd crush them. And no thought for the consequences. Once . . . not long ago, really ... I thought that that was how things were. That it was normal to behave that way. But now . . ."

He stopped, turning to look back at Kim. "Look, Kim. If I could help you, I would. You know that. Whatever you needed. But he's fucked me too. Boxed me in. It's how he works. Destroy and control. There's no subtlety to him. No compromise, either. But he doesn't have to win. Not unless we let him."

Kim smiled. "Okay. I'll go to Europe. Just as soon as all the legal stuff's sorted out. But I'm finished here. Look . . ."

He took the four handwritten letters from his pocket and handed them across. Michael studied them a moment, then looked up again, his eyes pained. The stamped timings on the resignation letters showed they had come within an hour of his arrest. Kim took them back from Michael, staring at them a moment, as if they were a mystery he couldn't solve, then pocketed them again.

"I keep trying to tell myself that it's understandable. That I'd do the same. But it's not true. I..." He looked away, close, suddenly, to breaking down. "What's happening, Michael? What in the gods' names is happening?"

"It's this world," Michael answered softly. "That's why we have to change it. You in your way, me in mine. WeVe got to fight the old men who want to keep things as they are. Every step of the way. Because if we don't. . ."

There was a knocking on the door. A moment later a lock drew back and the door swung inward. It was Kennedy. Behind him two men stood to attention, like an honor guard.

"Michael . . . Kim . . ." Kennedy stepped into the room, tall and imperious, offering his hand for Kim to take. "Okay. It's all dealt with. I've filed bail for fifty thousand yuan, so you're free to go. However, the hearing has been brought forward, to eleven tomorrow morning. Which means we'll have to get our act together, fast."

"So what do we do?"

Kennedy smiled broadly. "We produce files. Experimental notes and the like. Things that'll prove beyond all doubt that the patent's your development."

Kim shook his head. "They don't exist. It was all up here, in my head."

"All. . ." Kennedy gave a small laugh, then looked to Michael. "I guess you were right, Michael. He is different."

"Even so," Kim said, as Kennedy returned his attention to him. "I doubt that theyVe got anything either. In fact, I'd guarantee that they don't even understand yet what theyVe got, let alone how it works."

"I see. But how do we use that? The burden of proof is on us, not them. They registered first. We're the ones in default."

"Unless we counterclaim? Sue them for false registration?"

Kennedy smiled, the smile growing broader by the moment. "Hey, now that's a good idea. A very, very good idea."

But Michael was shaking his head. "It's not on, Joe. I mean, Kim's broke. How can he sue when he's broke?"

"Maybe," Kennedy answered. "But I'm not. And I'm sure as hell not letting your father get away with this one, Michael. Unless youVe any personal objections?"

Michael looked down, then looked back at the two men, smiling. "No. None at all, as it happens."

"Good. Then let's go and get something to eat and talk this through. Somewhere where your father will get to hear of it. The Kitchen, maybe."

Kim stared at Kennedy a moment, then nodded. "Yes," he said quietly, remembering the first time he had visited Archimedes Kitchen, and Old Man Lever's joke about the shark meat they had eaten. Well, now he knew. Finally he understood what the Old Man had meant that evening. They had stripped him bare. Down to the bone. Even so, he had lost nothing. Nothing of substance, anyway. So maybe this was a good thing. To be taught this lesson. To progress from it and build anew. And maybe having the wiring implant put in—maybe that too was serendipitous. Maybe that too was meant.

He gave a little shudder. Just for now he was beaten. Things here were finished for him. But now was not forever. He turned, looking about him at the bareness of the room, remembering all the times he'd been incarcerated, then, smiling, put out a hand, touching Michael's arm.

"Okay. Let's go and be seen."

SOUCEK STOOD in the mouth of the cave, watching while Lehmann moved among the deep shadows within, gathering together his belongings. Out here he was afraid—possibly more afraid than he had ever been—but he showed nothing, conscious that Lehmann was watching him. To his back was the slope, that awful uneven surface, shrouded in treacherous whiteness, that in places fell sheer a thousand ch'i to the rocks and icy water below. He would not look there, not now, lest his courage fail him. No, the warm darkness of the cave was more to his liking—to the habit of his being. He had never, until two hours back, set forth beyond the City's walls. Had never suspected that such a place as this existed. But now he knew. This was where Lehmann had come from. This place of cold and ice and fearful openness.

Lehmann moved quickly, almost effortlessly about the interior of the cave, taking things from ledges and from small niches hacked into the rock face. Weapons and clothing, tools and food, and, most surprising of all, a complex communications system—unlike anything Soucek had ever seen—in an all-weather case, the logo of SimFic impressed into the hard plastic in the bottom right-hand corner.

"That's it," Lehmann said, coming out into the brightness once again. "I'll destroy the rest, then we can get out of here."

Soucek moved back, taking care with his footing, recalling how unpleasant it had been to fall, then watched as Lehmann set the timer on a small device and gently lobbed it into the cave. He turned at once, as if unconcerned, and began trudging back up the mountainside, following the ragged line of deep indentations they had made in the snow coming down. Soucek followed, glancing back once and then a second time. They were thirty ch'i up the slope when it blew, the sound startlingly loud, echoing back and forth between the great peaks, rock fragments scattered far into the valley below. Soucek stopped, looking about him anxiously, his fear getting the better of him momentarily. Across from him, half a U distant on the facing slope, a huge spoon-shaped wedge of snow slid, slowly, as if a giant, invisible hand were scooping it up, then settled, throwing up a fine cloud of whiteness, the snow packed high against the tree line.