Now time weighed heavy on him and the seas in his veins ran slow and sluggish.

Time was he'd been a child, carefree, a full ch'i smaller than his eldest brother. That same beloved brother whom he had seen fall from his horse like a mannequin and who had bled to death in his arms, the assassin's crossbow bolt in his neck, the black iron shaft of it poking obscenely from the bloodied flesh. He had promised himself he would never love anyone that much again and had fled into debauchery, as if that might stop the hurt or end the dreams that came to him, night after night. But never is a long time, and then Fei Yen had come. Fei Yen, his cousin Li Yuan's wife.

He shuddered, then held on to the door, a sudden weakness taking him. For a moment he clung on, as the blackness swept over him, then he let out a breath. He was okay. It was nothing. He had had several of these spells of late and he put them down to overexertion. It was simply his body telling him to ease off. There was no point mentioning them to his Surgeon.

I should eat something, he thought, taking a long, calming breath. Or maybe sleep. After all, he was no longer as robust as he had once been.

He stepped inside, closing his eyes briefly to catch the young girl's scent. He moaned softly, his senses intoxicated by the sweet perfume of her, then, opening his eyes once more, put his hand out, feeling for the edge of the bed. He could hear her now. From the soft regularity of her breathing he could tell that she was sleeping.His hand searched among the silken covers until it found something warm and smooth-her leg.

He sat, kicking off his slippers, his hand caressing the young girl's thigh, tracing the smooth contours of her. As he did she woke.

"Chieh Hsia?"

"Quiet, girl," he said, his hand finding her face in the dark. She nuzzled it, kissing it softly, wetly, making his sex stir.

Tomorrow, he thought, pushing her down then untying the sash of his sleeping robe. I shall reform myself tomorrow.

CHAPTER TWO.

Breathless Mouths.

KI M STIRRED, then turned abruptly on the bed, like a fish on a hook, mouth gasping, left hand reaching for the ceiling.

"A-dhywas-lur! A-dhywas-lur!"

He woke, his dark eyes blinking, staring up into the camera lens, the narrow band about his neck pulsing brightly in the darkened room. Silence, then: "What is she doing?"

It was the first question he asked, today and every day.

"She's awake," the Machine answered, the soft Han lilt of its voice filling the tiny room. "Right now she's eating breakfast. Would you like to see her?"

Each day the same struggle within him; each day the same answer.

"No."

Its circuits made a shrugging motion, unseen, unheard. Ward sat up, then twisted about, planting his feet firmly on the uncarpeted floor. One would have thought that today of all days something else would have been on his waking mind, but no, the young man was machinelike in his obsession. Not an hour went by without some reference to her.

Kim turned, looking up at the lens. "And her father? The Marshal? Will he be accompanying Li Yuan?"

"He is part of the T'ang's official party, so I assume ..."

Kim's raised hand silenced it. It watched him cross the bare, cell-like room and enter the bathroom, a second lens above the shower watching him step into the unit.

"Hot or cold?"

"Cold."

At once the water fell, bracingly cold, a touch of northern ice in its needle-sharp flow. It watched the young man grimace and then shudder in a kind of pained ecstasy.Why did he continually punish himself? What inner need drove him to such extremes? Or was the young woman, Jelka, the answer to that also?

"Enough!"

It cut the flow. At once warm air-currents filled the cubicle, drying the young man's body. Again there was that movement in his face; again that faint, almost indiscernible shudder.

What was it like to be a thing of the flesh? What secret languages of blood and nerve, sinew and bone, was he granted and it denied? It had access- access to a billion camera eyes, both on Earth and distant Mars, and to all the vast storehouse of information Mankind had amassed-but to be a thing of flesh, that was a mystery.

Kim stepped from the shower and went to the sink, popping a calcium pill to clean his mouth and teeth.

As it dissolved, he hummed a tune to himself-an air from the times before the City: a song of love and loss and constancy.

"Any messages?"

It would have been easier to have tapped them direct into the wire inside his head, but Kim had forbidden it. For some archaic reason he preferred this quasihuman form-this question-and-answer in the air.

"Only two. Reiss and Curval."

Kim slid the cupboard door open and took a pale red one-piece from inside. It was all he ever wore these days-a succession of crisp new lab suits, each one burned at the end of the day, as if in some constant ritual of self-purification.

"When does Reiss want to meet?"

Not "What does Reiss want?"-he knew what Reiss wanted: to settle the terms for the renewal of his contract-but When? As ever, Kim wasted no time with what was already known.

"Lunch if possible. This evening if not. He seemed quite concerned."

As he ought. In four weeks he could be losing the services of the greatest scientist on Chung Kuo. That was, unless he could come up with a deal enticing enough to make Kim Ward stay with SimFic.

Unconscious of the gesture, Kim touched the glowing band about his neck. "It'll have to be this evening.

Book dinner, at eight. At the Hive. But Reiss only. None of the other monkeys."

"He thought you'd say that, but he wants to bring someone along with him-a young executive named Jack Neville. Says you'd understand."

Kim stepped into the one-piece, zipped it up, then turned, looking up at the camera.

"Okay. And Curval?"

"He called half an hour back. Wanted to know if you'll need him for the trial run. To be frank, I think he just wants to be there."

"Then tell him I'll expect him, ten o'clock in the main lab."

He sat on the edge of the bed, reached underneath, then pulled on a pair of worn slip-ons. "And ourgame?"

In answer it placed a hologram in the air beside him-a life-size image of a wei chi board, the black and white stones of a half-completed game covering two thirds of the nineteen by nineteen grid. As Kim looked, a new black stone appeared two down, six in from the top right-hand edge. It glowed for the briefest moment, then grew dull.

Kim smiled. "Interesting."

It said nothing, merely watched, knowing that for that single moment they were alike, he and it-simple mechanisms that thought and calculated. Then Kim looked up, the faintest glimmer in his eye, and it knew the moment had passed.

"What is she doing now? Is she walking in the garden?"

JELKA STOPPED ON the tiny bridge at the center of the Ebert Mansion gardens, looking toward where her father crouched playing with the boy. Laughter filled the morning air, the boy's high-pitched shrieks threading the old man's deep laughter like a young bird fluttering in a great oak.

She smiled. Who would have imagined, three years back, when he'd first taken on the role of protector to the boy, that it would have come to this? Back then he had positively loathed the child; had raged, calling him "that half-caste little bastard," but now . . .

She watched him scoop the boy up and hold him high, his craggy face filled with an unusual lightness, his eyes drinking in the young lad's laughter. So he'd been with her, father and mother to her, for more than twenty years. She shivered then went across to join them.

"Father?"

Tolonen set the boy down and turned, smiling, one arm out to her in welcome. Beside him, the boy waited, his arms at his sides, his head bowed politely, as he'd been taught: every bit the little soldier.

"How are you, Pauli?"

He looked up at her shyly, through the dark fall of his hair, and nodded. It was the most she ever got from him. Whether she frightened him or whether, as her father said, he was half in love with her, she didn't know, but when she was there he clamtned up totally.

She smiled inwardly, but outwardly she kept her face stern and serious, walking slowly around him as if inspecting a young officer. Satisfied, she nodded.

"You've done all your schoolwork?"

He nodded, his eyes careful not to meet hers.

"Good." She permitted herself a smile, then reached out and ruffled his hair. Han . . . there was no doubt that the boy was Han, yet something of his father's blood-of Hans Ebert's Saxon stock-had shaped that young face, giving it a curious strength. With or without the great trading empire he would one day inherit, Pauli Ebert would be a force to reckon with when he was older.

She turned, looking to her father. "Oughtn't you to be getting ready?"

He glanced at the timer set into his wrist, then made a face of surprise. "Gods! Is that the time?"She nodded, amused by his pretense. These days he would even keep Li Yuan waiting if it meant an extra ten minutes playing with his ward.

"Still, there's not much to do," he said, making no move to leave, his eyes resting fondly on the boy.

"Steward Lo has already laid out my uniform. I only need to shower, and that won't take a minute."

"Even so . . ."

She paused as Steward Lo himself appeared in the doorway leading to the West Wing. Her father, noting her attention, turned.

"What is it, Lo?" he asked, suddenly more formal.

Lo bowed. "You have visitors, Master."

"What, at this hour?" A flash of irritation crossed his face, then he nodded. "All right. Show them into the main Reception Hall. I'll see them there. Oh, and tell them they have fifteen minutes of my time, no more.

The T'ang himself is expecting my company."

When Lo had gone, Jelka stepped closer. "Who is it?" she asked quietly.

His face was hard, his eyes troubled. "Oh, it's no one. . . ."

She laid her hand on his arm-his flesh-and-blood, human arm. "Father?"

He laughed gruffly at her admonishment, but still his eyes were troubled. "It's them again. Wanting, always wanting."

"Ah . . ." She understood at once. By "them" he meant the small group of powerful businessmen who-when Hans Ebert had ordered his bastard child terminated-had saved the boy and raised him secretly for his first four years. She shuddered. "What do they want now?"

A sourness filled the old Marshal's face. "Who knows? Favors. The usual thing . . ."

"And you give them what they want?"

His laughter was almost ugly. "No. Thus far I've delayed them, fobbed them off, but they're becoming more insistent, their claims more outrageous."

She squeezed his arm. "Tell them you owe them nothing."

He looked at her, then shook his head. "I wish I could, but it's not so simple. As the world perceives it, the boy owes them a great deal, maybe everything."

"But legally . . ."

He shook his head. "Leave it, please, my love."

She stepped back, bowing her head obediently, while beside her, his dark eyes taking in everything, the boy frowned.

"Well? What do you want?"

The two men got to their feet abruptly, surprised by the sudden presence of Tolonen in the room, shocked by the hostility in his voice."Forgive us for intruding at this hour," began the first of them, a rotund and balding man in pale lemon silks, "but this matter-"

Tolonen cut in. "You'll forgive me if I'm less than polite, Shih Berrenson, but I'm not accustomed to being dragged from my breakfast for ad hoc meetings. I am a busy man-a very busy man-and should you wish to make an appointment with me it can be done through my Private Secretary."

Berrenson looked to his partner, Fox, then ducked his head slightly, as if at the same time agreeing and disagreeing with Tolonen.

"Forgive me, Marshal, but that is exactly what we have been trying to do for the past six days. A dozen times we've approached him to arrange an audience with you and each time your man has put us off. In the end we were left with no option-"

"-but to come knocking on my door like tradesmen."

Berrenson's face stiffened. Beside him the thin-faced Fox looked indignant.

"Tradesmen?"

Tolonen stepped right up to him, then tapped his chest with the fingers of his golden, artificial arm.

"Tradesmen. Wheeler-dealers. What do you want me to call you? Ch'un tzu?" He laughed coldly. "No, gentlemen, let's not hide the fact with pretty words. I know what you want."

Berrenson stared at the golden fingers pressed into his chest, then met Tolonen's eyes again. "Whatever your personal feelings are in this matter, I feel it would be best-"

"Best?" Tolonen shook his head. "What would be best would be for you to go away and stop pestering the child. He is grateful, certainly, but your attempts to turn such gratitude into financial advantage are- and let me make this absolutely clear-becoming tiresome."

Berrenson took a long breath, then looked to his colleague again. "I see we are wasting our time here. It seems the Marshal has no understanding of how things work in the realm of finance. Not that that's surprising. He is, after all, a mere soldier."