The screen went blank. Neville sat back, letting out a long whistling breath, then let the girl begin to kneed the tiredness from his shoulders. A place on the executive council, huh? He nodded to himself, imagining it. And maybe, in a year or two, Reiss might groom him for his successor. If things kept going right for him.

"You big man, huh?" the girl asked, poking her head over his shoulder, her smile innocent, disarming.

He smiled. "Seems like it."

She nodded, impressed, then returned to her task with a new vigor. Neville closed his eyes, enjoying her touch. "That's great. You're very good at what you do."

"You, too, it seems."

He laughed. "Yeah. Seems the Company likes me."

"Seems so."

The screen beeped. Neville opened his eyes and looked. The MedFac logo had appeared on the screen, replaced a moment later by the image of a refined old Han with a long gray beard, flowing white silks, and the contemplative eyes of an ancient sage. It was Tung Chung-shu, MedFac's most senior arts reviewer. He was walking in the familiar setting of his garden-a small but tasteful affair-speaking slowly to the camera in Mandarin, one hand pulling at his beard thoughtfully. A voice-over gave the English equivalent.

". . . and until now I would have said there was no future for the medium, but Shih Shepherd's work hasconvinced me that a work of art-of real and genuine artistic significance-can be created within this previously trivial form."

Tung stopped, one arm resting lightly on the wooden balustrade of a tiny plank bridge, and looked out over a small pond filled with lilies. The camera angle changed, looking across at him, the old-fashioned house framed behind him.

"More impressive, perhaps, is Shepherd's manipulation of the recipient-the audience-for his art. As you know, I have always scorned the term interactive when applied to art. Most so-called interactive art-forms are little more than games-distractions. True art requires a deeper, more inward quality. And that-miraculously, one might almost say-is the true genius of this new work. At all times I was the passive recipient of the experience. Physically I went nowhere-and yet while I was inside Shepherd's work it felt as if I were in control of my environment, as if everything I did I had chosen to do. In that single respect-that of apparent volition-this experience was different, different in kind, from anything I have ever encountered in SimFic's product range, or anyone else's, come to that. There is no doubt about it, Ben Shepherd's The Familiar is a conceptual breakthrough, a new generation Stim-the product of new thinking and, so I gather from Jack Neville at SimFic, of brand new technologies."

Neville leaned back, nodding slowly, thoughtfully, as the screen blanked and a new logo-that of IntSat-appeared. Little do you know of the troubles we had with it, he thought, recalling the months they'd spent trying to perfect Shepherd's techno-gimmickry. But it had worked. And even the crusty old conservative Tung had had his silk socks knocked off by it!

"You want take this off?"

He nodded vaguely, then eased forward, letting the girl lift his silk one-piece and pull it over his head.

"That better, neh?"

But he was watching the screen, only half aware of the gentle movement of her hands on the skin of his back. The image had changed to show a studio set with four earnest young men-Hung Moo every one-leaning in toward each other. Behind them, forming a huge backdrop, was the cover of Ben's The Familiar, with its view of the idyllic German valley in which it was set.

That was a stroke of genius, he thought, preparing two versions-one from the Han perspective and one from the Hung Mao. Only Shepherd would have thought of telling the same story from two entirely different viewpoints.

Yes, and it had guaranteed an across-the-board sale. For the first time in living memory a single work had penetrated both markets. Indeed, if reports were to be believed a lot of people were buying both versions.

There were a few introductory exchanges and then the presenter of the show, Jake Kingsley, a dark-haired, soft-featured man in his mid-twenties, began to speak.

". . . the soundtrack is simply filled with the sound of birdcall and the hum of insects-strange sounds which, at the moment of one's immersion in the medium, seem natural and familiar things-as if it had always been-and yet afterward, in the quiet of recollection, I found the hairs on my neck rise; found myself disturbed profoundly by the memory of that strange, insistent sound."

"That's true," another of them said, joining in. "What also struck me was the amazing openness of things-you know, the big open skies above the town and the constant feeling of sun and wind on your flesh. It was so ... well so real. I mean, we're used to seeing these things on trivee dramas, but that's . . .well, it's like looking at a painting- it doesn't strike home. While I was there, inside the Stim, I was . . .

outside. There's no other way of putting it. Shepherd's work"-he shook his head, awed-"well, it's just masterful . . . the most brilliant thing I've yet encountered."

It went on: more, and yet more in the same vein, eulogizing, professing amazement, astonishment, simple awe. And no dissenting voices. Not a single one. That in itself was amazing, for his experience was that when half the critics loved something, the rest would hate it with a loathing that was little short of spitting fury. This once, however, they had been caught off guard, overwhelmed by the shock of something totally, unexpectedly new. Ben's work had simply seduced them.

Neville smiled, then, turning from the now-blank screen, stretched out on his front, letting the girl straddle him, her hands massaging the small of his back.

He had been right to embargo the thing-to keep it secure in SimFic's warehouses until the day of release-letting the media and the public know only that SimFic had the greatest piece of product they would ever see, and risking the possibility that the hype would fall flat and no one like the thing. It had been a big risk-a huge fucking risk, now that he thought about it-but he'd been convinced about it, from the very first time he'd put on the HeadStim and experienced Ben's Familiar for himself.

Yes, and today's attack on the Plantations hadn't harmed things any either. In his experience, the greater people felt threatened, the more they were in need of distractions and Ben's "Shell"-even in its neutered Stim form-was the ultimate distraction.

"Is that nice?"

He grunted softly. Tired he might be, but not so tired that her tender ministrations weren't getting to him.

He rolled over and faced her, enjoying the warm weight of her, the way she smiled.

"Today was a big day," he said, breathing deeply as she smoothed her hands across his chest, then slowly eased them all the way down into his groin. "Today I took a huge great gamble . . . and I won."

She grinned. "Fifty thousand. That big bonus. Fifty thousand keep me happy, oh"-she laughed-"many years!"

He smiled, liking her, enjoying the moment. Would there ever be a better moment-a moment when he felt more satisfied? Who could say? But even if there wasn't, even if this was all there was, it was enough.

He chuckled, feeling generous suddenly, wanting to share his good luck with her.

"What's your name?"

She looked away, then looked back at him, her smile different somehow. "I called Jia Shu. You Jack, right?"

He nodded. "Okay, Jia Shu, how about this? How about you come and work for me alone? Be my maid. Look after me. I'll pay you well, make sure you looked after, okay?"

Her hands had stopped, now they began again. She gave a tiny nod, her face suddenly tight as if keeping something in, but her eyes, when they met his again, were bright with gratitude, and her body, when it moved against his, was somehow more caring, more intimate, than it had been only moments before.

CHAPTER NINETEEN.

Faces.

THE WOMAN PEEKED through the screen, then quickly withdrew her head, tending to the stove once more. Uncle Pan had settled in the corner chair and lit his pipe. It looked like he was going to stay awhile.

Without being told, she poured hot water into the chung to brew some fresh ch'a, listening as the old man began his regular tirade.

"They're weak, that's what they are! They let that bastard get away with murder! If I were T'ang I'd kick his ass, good and proper! I'd break him over my knee like a rotten twig!"

In her mind's eye she could see Lin look up from his work and smile his lopsided smile, ever tolerant of his uncle's bluster.

"I'd crush him," the old man went on. "And no more silk glove treatment. I'd send a million troops against him and take back what's rightfully mine!"

She heard Lin stand and go to the door, listening a moment, then heard him speak softly to his uncle.

"Be careful what you say, Uncle. For myself, I do not mind, but if anyone should hear-"

"Let them hear!" the old man said belligerently. "That bastard should know the truth!"

She smiled and stood, lifting the steaming chung between her hands and carrying it through. The old man stared at her rudely as she emerged and made a scornful face, but Lin simply smiled at her and nodded.

"You took your time," the old man began, but a look from Lin silenced him. He would put up with most things from his uncle-out of respect and duty-but any criticism of her he stamped on instantly. "Thank you," Lin said, taking over from her, encouraging her with his eyes to go back behind the screen while his uncle was there.

She went back through and squatted by the kang, busying herself with some mending, only half listening to the old man's idle chatter, her mind dwelling instead upon his nephew, her protector, Lin.

In her mind she could see Lin's pale hands working as, smiling tolerantly, he listened to his uncle. Clever hands he had; hands that always knew the best way to fix a thing.

If something was broken, Lin could fix it, from the smallest, most delicate ivory to the biggest, most complex machine. People from stacks around brought things to him to be mended, and each year his reputation grew, each day more things would be brought for his clever hands to see to.

She smiled, looking at her own hands as they worked, neatly stitching the edge of the cloth so that it wouldn't fray again. That much she had learned from him: never to throw anything away. Everything__ everyone-had a use. With patience and care, there was nothing that could not be mended.

She looked up, sighing, remembering how he had nursed her through the long months of her sickness; how patiently he had attended to her, clearing up after her when she was sick, and sitting with her in the night when she was feverish. Mending her. And though that was some years ago now, still the lesson of it returned to her whenever he smiled at her. In all the time she'd known him, never an unkind word had passed his lips, nor had he ever asked a thing of her. What she did, she did from gratitude and because-as he showed by his example-a life of idleness was a life of waste."His father . . . now, there was a man!" the old man said, his voice booming loud suddenly. "He was a real emperor. A lion of a man!"

She set the square of cloth down and, leaning across, checked the pots on the kang. There was little enough for two, but for three She decided she would go without. Lin needed his strength, and even to consider not feeding Uncle Pan ... well, it was not done. Besides, she could eat later: have some crackers, or finish off the er-prawn paste in the cold box.

Sitting back, she looked about the room. Like the other half that lay behind the screen, its walls were covered with shelves on which were packed a thousand things waiting to be mended. Their belongings, such as they were, were stashed in a small cupboard to her right, beside the kang, which at nights doubled as a bed for her, Lin sleeping on a bedroll in the other room.

People talked. She knew they did. She had heard them when she'd walked to the washrooms at the corner of the stack to empty the night-soil pot. But she didn't care. They said he used her at nights-abused her badly-but both she and Lin knew the truth of that. What did it matter what idle tongues said? Besides, there were many who spoke up for them. Many who knew Lin's worth and weren't afraid to state it. She looked through the screen toward where he sat, working. "Everyone has a use, even those who seem most idle." That was what he always said, forgiving them. Yes, and he found work for people if he could; helped them in tiny but important ways-even those that spoke badly of him, so that when she thought of him she could not help but think of a great wheel, with Lin at the center, the hub about which so many lives, her own included, revolved, every one of them dependent in some way or other on him.

He didn't look like much, she knew. He was a pale, sickly-looking man, and his face . . .

She stood and went across to where, among a pile of chapter books he'd bought a week ago, she kept the mirror. It was a broken thing, the layer of reflecting ice bubbled on the right-hand side. Like his face, she thought, thinking of the way, when he smiled, the whole of the right-hand side was pulled into a grimace.

It was the kindest, loveliest smile she'd ever seen. . . . She held the mirror up and looked, holding it slightly away from her and moving her face to one side so she could see it whole. It was a strong-boned, healthy face. The face of a Hung Mao woman in her thirties, dark haired and hazel eyed. A handsome face, some said, describing it almost in boyish terms.

"Who are you?" she asked, her mouth forming the words silently. But the answer never came. Like much else, it was hidden from her, behind a screen much darker and thicker than the one that separated her right now from Lin. And Lin? If Lin knew, he wouldn't say. Or didn't know.

"I'd kick his ass!" Uncle Pan was saying, the tirade turning in on itself, like a snake swallowing its tail. "I'd break him over my knee like a rotten twig!"

She set the mirror back, then, with a tiny shudder, went across and began to prepare the meal.

FACES ... what could one tell from a face?

As Karr scrolled through the file of faces, studying each of the seventeen suspects as they appeared, he wondered just what they had in common, and what could be read of them with the eye.

Was it true what was written in the T'ung Shu, that a man's fate could be read in his face? Did the shape of the chin determine one's strength, or the length of the brow one's intelligence? Or was Sun Tzu right when he wrote that a man's exterior-however fine-had little bearing on his character or destiny? Forhimself he believed the latter. Hans Ebert had had a fine face, and look how he had fared? And DeVore .

. . Some said DeVore was handsome. But handsome was as handsome did, and the worldly face DeVore had put on had masked a nature so evil and so corrupt as to warrant a face as black and pestilent as a pit of swarming insects.

Karr froze the image and sat back, rubbing his eyes. He had been at it all night, trying to find connections between these men, but there were no connections. Not one of them knew or had dealings with any of the others, nor was there any point of common interest, as far as he could tell. The only thing they had in common was that they-or copies sent in to replace them-had been seen in the border stacks in the last four weeks, and had been there when they'd no business to be there.

It was time to call them in and question them. Time to take this a stage further. If Kim was right and the tests Surgeon Hu had devised worked, then maybe they'd find an answer to this mystery.

Karr sighed, exasperated. I should have gone home, he told himself. I should have let one of my staff officers do this!

That was true, but that was not his style. Tolonen's lesson was deeply ingrained in him. If you wanted something done properly you had to do it yourself. You trusted your own eyes-you didn't trust what others told you. But sometimes you had to let go. Sometimes you simply had to depend on others.

Kao Chen . . . what I could do with Chen at my side right now.

He smiled. It had been some while since he'd thought of his old friend Chen; some while since his face had crossed the screen of his memory. Now, there was a case in point! Face like a thug. Ugly as sin.

And yet an angel of a man. Loyal, trustworthy, the very best of friends. A man you could depend on in a tight corner. But Chen had long ago quit the service. It was nine years now since he had settled on the Plantations with his wife and family.

He chose well, settling so far north, Karr thought, recalling the devastation and loss of life he had witnessed yesterday. If he had settled in a warmer clime he would be dead now. He and all his darlings.

He ought to go and see him, once things were easier. It had been too long. Why, word was that Chen was a grandfather now. A grandfather! He laughed softly, then leaned forward, blanking the screen. It was hard to imagine it. No doubt he had a few gray hairs- "Sir?"

Karr looked around. His equerry was standing in the doorway.

"Yes, Pietr?"

"Shih Ward is here, sir. He'd like a word with you."

"Tell him I'll be with him in a moment. Take him through to my office and look after him, okay? I just want to finish here."

"Sir!"

He sat, resting a moment. To tell the truth, he'd done all he could, but he wanted a moment before he saw Ward again. Something was nagging at him. Something obvious he'd overlooked.

How often that happened. How often, when you focused on a problem, nothing would come, and then,just as soon ais you'd relaxed and were thinking of something else-BANG!-there it was, the answer, as if from nowhere.

He laughed and stood. Yes, but now I'm thinking about it again. . . .

Chen. Yes, he'd visit Chen. As soon as time permitted.

"Shih Ward ... how are you?"

"Well, thank you," Kim said, standing and greeting Karr. "I understand the camera trawl threw up seventeen suspects."

"That's right," Karr said, going around his desk. "I'm having them brought in right now. We should know before lunchtime whether we've got more copies on our hands."

"But no connections, right?"

Karr stared at him, then nodded. "How did you know?"

Kim smiled. "Just a hunch. I was thinking about it earlier, when I was swimming with my son."

"And?"

"And I was thinking that if I was going to try to infiltrate the City I would ensure that there were as few connections as possible between those people I was going to replace. In fact, I'd make the whole thing as inconspicuous as possible."

Karr shrugged. "Fine. But to what purpose?"

"To whatever purpose I wanted. To assassinate targeted officials, maybe. Or to cause maximum disruption, perhaps by acting as human bombs. Or-and this only occurred to me traveling across-simply to sow despair."

"You're not serious, surely?"

"Why not?" Kim leaned forward, placing his hands on Karr's desk. "What weapon could be more effective? What could damage us more as a society than a whole group of individuals going about spreading the gospel of negativity?"