"Ah . . ."

She watched him, surprised by how calm he was, how untouched by events. "It's ending," she said. "The world is ending, Ben."

His eyes were cool, unmoved by her words. "You don't think I know? We Shepherds have been awaiting this for centuries!" He turned slightly, looking back at the canvas, then laughed quietly. "When things break down, we artists forge new links. We make sense of it all. That's our purpose."

He turned back, staring at her, the full intensity of his gaze bearing down on her, then, beckoning hercloser, he offered her the brush. "Come . . . add your own figure to the dance."

SAMPSA CREPT SLOWLY down the hallway. Kneeling beside the open doorway, he looked into the room.

His grandfather lay there, propped up on the cushions, completely still, his hairless, skull-like head turned toward the window and the sea.

One quarter of his genetic makeup had come from the old man. One quarter of all he was. Slowly, like a fox creeping through the grass toward a chicken pen, he crawled into the room, making his way to the foot of the bed.

He could hear the old man's breathing, smell that strange, musty smell that seemed to cling to him.

Carefully he raised his head, looking over the carved wooden foot of the huge bed.

The old man's head looked like something that had been carved in jest. Those features which, in the portrait in the hall, created a sense of rocklike strength, now seemed merely ludicrous, the chin too wide, the nose too long for the collapsed bone-structure of the face.

The skin itself seemed stretched over the bone, like animal hides over a nomad's tent, its surface blotched and yellowed, blighted here and there by tufts of coarse ice-gray hair.

Slowly he moved around, creeping toward where his grandfather's hand lay on top of the sheet, its gleaming gold extending to the leather pad at the shoulder. Sampsa stared at it a moment. It was easy to imagine that the old man's body was slowly being turned from flesh to gold; that he would come back in the evening and the whole of the old man's chest and head would be made of the same bright, gleaming metal.

"Sampsa?"

Tolonen's head turned the slightest amount, those watery gray eyes still fixed upon the distant sea.

"Yes, Grandpa?"

"Ah . . ." The old man's mouth formed the suggestion of a smile. For a time he was silent, then he gave a little cough. The fingers of his hand flexed, like a machine coming to life. "Come closer, boy."

He stood, stepping to his grandfather's side, careful not to block his view. From this close the smell of the old man was much stronger. It was like the smell of old cupboards, of drawers that had been kept locked for years, their contents slowly rotting in the darkness.

"What do you see, Grandpa?"

"See?" The voice was like the wind whispering through the treetops. The old man made a sound that might have been either laughter or discomfort; he couldn't tell which. "I see old friends. Li Shai Tung.

Klaus Ebert. Young Vittorio Nocenzi. They're out there, waiting for me."

Sampsa turned and looked, but there was nothing; only an old man's imaginings. Turning back, he reached down and laid his hand against the old man's palm. The metal was soft and warm-not metal at all, he realized, but something that resembled it.

Looking back at the old man's face he saw Tolonen was watching him.

"Something's happening," the old man said, his voice a sigh. "I can feel it." Something of the old strengthflickered briefly in those eyes, then vanished, like a fish slipping back into the depths. "What is it, boy?

What's happening?"

It's the old world, Grandpa, he wanted to say. It's dying. Just as you are dying. And the new is being bom. That's what you feel. The death pangs of the old and the birth pangs of the new.

"It's nothing, Grandpa," he said, feeling the old man's attention slip from him, his eyes returning to the sea.

But it was true. New blood was coming into the world.

Sampsa drew his hand back, then, careful not to make a sound, he backed slowly from the room.

And in his head, he heard the other singing.

TOM SAT ON THE WALL overlooking the cottage, singing softly to himself. He had seen the woman come down the road with the soldier; had seen her go inside with his mother and, a while later, climb the stairs and go to the end room where his father worked. That had been an hour ago. Now he saw them come out from the shadow on the other side of the cottage and walk down the path toward the bay.

Clouds were forming high overhead and there was a sense of heaviness in the air. A storm was coming.

He could feel it on his skin.

He watched the walking couple for a moment, then jumped down, running toward the cottage. Inside he stopped, listening but hearing nothing. Only the regular tick of the grandfather clock in the hallway.

He went on, past mute screens that showed the same unfamiliar face-the face of a middle-aged man with near-black hair and cool green eyes-then made his way up the stairs. There he paused, staring at the painting of his father. Instinctively he made the connection. The woman who had come ... she had painted this.

He hurried on, padding along the polished wooden boards, his bare feet making no sound. The door to the end room was open. He could see the painting there. But that was not where he was headed.

Halfway along he stopped, trying the door to his right. It was locked, but that was no problem. He took the skeleton key from the pocket of his shorts and slipped it into the lock. A moment later he was inside.

It was dark, the curtains drawn. The screen on the desk-like all the screens- contained the face.

He glanced at it, then climbed into his father's chair, pulling himself in closer to the desk. Closing his eyes, he placed his hands upon the keyboard.

Sampsa? Can you hear me? What's happening? What are we waiting for?

At once he felt himself on the island, far to the north, staring out through Sampsa's eyes. The sea ... he was high up and looking out across the sea again.

Something's happening, Sampsa answered. That face. His name's DeVore. He's brought a great army here to Chung Kuo from the edge of the System. Copies, they are. My father- He stopped abruptly. Someone was calling from the house behind him. Sampsa turned, looking. It was his father. He had thrown the window to his study open and was leaning out.

"Sampsa! Sampsa! Come quickly!"

Tom's eyes flicked open. The screen, he said silently, talking to Sampsa across the miles. The image on the screen has changed.The face was gone. In its place was a black screen. Or almost black. At the top right a circle of white flickered fitfully, like a full moon obscured behind thick, fast-moving clouds. As he watched a tiny figure formed at the right-hand side of the screen-a white stick-man no bigger than his little finger. Above the hollow circle of its head three tiny, glowing spheres orbited like atoms.

Slowly, almost indiscernibly, the figure began to walk. Tom closed his eyes. At once the image of a second screen filled his head-the one Sampsa was staring at in his father's study.

What does it mean? Sampsa asked. But before Tom could even frame a thought, a voice sounded in the room where Sampsa stood: a deep rich-sounding voice of great intelligence.

"Kim . . ." it boomed. "It's been a long time since we talked. Sit down. It's time I told you what's been happening."

"It is no good, Chieh Hsia," Nan Ho said, looking up from the inert keyboard. "I can get nothing but this.

DeVore's face stared back at them from the screen, supremely confi-dent, as if he'd already won.

Li Yuan sighed. He had hoped to bring Kim and Ben together-to use his two best minds to find an answer-but it was no use. DeVore was jamming everything. Everything except the shortwave radio bands.

He turned, looking to Karr. "All right, Gregor. Send someone to Lehmann. Tell him the answer is yes."

Karr bowed. "Perhaps I ought to go, Chieh Hsia. He knows me."

"You know where he is?"

"The last we heard he was heading toward his garrison in Sofia. If he's there we could arrange a meeting somewhere between."

..: "Odessa?"

Karr smiled, aware of the irony in his Master's voice.

"Odessa, then," he answered, coming smartly to attention. "I shall go to him myself."

LI YUAN stood on the wall, watching Karr's cruiser disappear into the haze of the south, then turned, looking at his son.

Kuei Jen had really blossomed this past year. The lanky youth of twelve months back had become a young man, broad of shoulder and thick of arm. But it was not merely in his outward form that he had changed. In the last year he had matured immensely, throwing off the last vestiges of childishness. Lo Wen, his tutor, acknowledging this, now bowed his head respectfully to the Young Master, as he called him. The transformation was complete: the boy had become a prince.

Yes, Li Yuan thought sadly, but will he ever take my place?

It was strange. When he looked back over the years that had passed since his own father's death, it was with the feeling of a man who had begun to run downhill only to find the slope too steep, his footing uncertain. Now he was tumbling helplessly toward a sheer drop.

"Father?"He smiled at his son. "It is all right, Kuei Jen, I ..."

His hand, searching absently in the pocket of his silks, had fastened upon the tiny cloth bag Nan Ho had given him earlier.

"Here," he said, taking the bag out and handing it to Kuei Jen. "I want you to have these."

Kuei Jen took the bag and, untying the string at its neck, shook the contents out into his open palm. He looked back at his father, frowning. "What are they?"

Li Yuan took one of the eight tiny black figures and held it up, studying it in the daylight. "They were a gift from the Marshal's daughter. She gave them to me on the day of my betrothal to Fei Yen, my first wife.

My father tried to keep the matter from me, but I found out. There were two gifts that day. The first was from DeVore-a wei chi set."

"But I thought he was your enemy, father."

"He was, even then. It was the stones, you understand. There were no black stones, only white. And the stones . . . the stones were all carved from human bone."

"Ah . . ." Kuei Jen looked down at the figures in his palm. "And these?"

Li Yuan returned the eighth figure to his son's palm. "These are the eight heroes with blackened faces."

He smiled thoughtfully. "White for death, black for honor. My father, your grandfather, was delighted with the gift. He felt that the bad luck of DeVote's gift was balanced- nullified-by the good luck of these. But now"-the smile faded-"now DeVore is back. And once again he brings his gift of stones."

Kuei Jen nodded, then looked down at the eight delicately carved figures. "Which one is Pao Kung?"

Pao Kung was the Chinese Solomon, the epitome of wisdom. Li Yuan searched among them a moment, then picked out the one he'd taken earlier. "This one. See. His baldness is meant to denote his wisdom."

"Ah, so that is why . . ."

Kuei Jen gestured toward his father's full head of hair and laughed. "Maybe it's time to shave our heads and call on the spirit of Pao Kung for aid?"

"Perhaps," Li Yuan answered, saying nothing of his vain attempts to contact Kim and Ben. And yet he smiled, his spirits raised. It had been a long time since he'd looked at Jelka's gift; a long time since he'd held one of these tiny figures in his hand. When Nan Ho had given them to him this morning he had not understood, but now he did. Somehow the balance would be made, De Vote's advantage canceled out.

"Chieh Hsia!"

He turned at the urgency of the summons. Nan Ho stood at the top of the steps that led up to the wall, his hair disheveled, his eyes alarmed. Seeing him thus, Li Yuan felt all hope bum away, like a mist touched by the first rays of the winter sun.

"What is it?" he said soberly.

"You must come, Chieh Hsia. The screen . . ."

He hurried down, letting Nan Ho lead him through to the room where they had set up their headquarters.

A group of men were clustered about the screen. As he entered, they fell back, letting him approach.Li Yuan stepped closer then stopped and gave a tiny moan.

It was himself. Or, rather, it was his copy-his ching-taken from the place where it had been kept, awaiting his death. The ching stood before the camera, indistinguishable from himself, its silks torn, its hands bound with coarse rope, its eyes downcast, defeated as it spoke to the watching billions.

"It is over," it said, unable, it seemed, to meet the camera's eye; feigning shame at its fate. "You must submit to your new Lord and put down your arms. The Mandate of Heaven is broken."

He shuddered as the image froze and then replayed from the beginning.

"Aiya," he said softly, feeling the last tiny flicker of hope die in him; seeing how even those most loyal to him now looked at him with eyes of pity and regret. Yes, even Nan Ho. This . . . this pretense had been the final blow. Nothing now remained.

"Is Karr still in range?" he asked, looking to his Chancellor.

"I think so, Chieh Hsia."

"Then call him back. There is no point in meeting Lehmann now. It is over. This . . . there is nothing after this."

"Chieh Hsia . . ." Nan Ho made to obey, but a voice from the doorway made him halt and turn.

"Hold a moment, Master Nan! We are not beaten yet."

Pei K'ung strode into the room and faced her husband. "What is this, Yuan? Are you to let this showman beat you? Are you to meekly bow before this Prince of Lies and Illusions?" She shook her head. "No.

You must act at once to counter this. You must send out messengers to all your garrisons to let them know what has happened. Master Nan"-she turned to the Chancellor again-"bring paper, ink, and brushes. My husband must write to his commanders. And, Yuan . . . remember who you are."

He stared at her a moment, then bowed his head, honoring her. Looking about him at his men, he drew himself up to his full height. "You heard. Let's get to work at once. The Mandate is not broken. Nan Ho, do as my wife requests. Bring paper, ink, and brushes. And, Haavikko . . ."

The Major came to attention. "Yes, Chieh Hsia?"

"Prepare the imperial cruiser. We leave for Odessa within the hour."

ODESSA WAS A GUTTED SHELL. Its outer walls concealed a scene of utter devastation. More than a hundred thousand had died defending the great Black Sea fortress and pieces of their charred bones littered the landing platform, cracking underfoot as Karr paced back and forth, awaiting his Master's ship. Across from him, Lehmann waited patiently beneath his banner, his lieutenant, Soucek, at his side.

"You're certain he's coming?" Lehmann asked tonelessly.

"He'll be here," Karr answered, glaring at his onetime enemy. "My Master is a man of his word."