"It's completed?" Alice asked.

"Eh," Master Tang reproved her, "obviously you are not highly literate! I suspected you might not be. Did you not notice that the dot is missing on the character zhu, host?"

"Oh, yes, of course." She felt herself flush. "I cannot face you. "

"It doesn't matter," he grumped. "Anyway, this is what the cheng-zhu cheng-zhu ritual is all about, do you understand me or not? The tablet does not come to life until we paint the eye on the dragon. The dot on the character ritual is all about, do you understand me or not? The tablet does not come to life until we paint the eye on the dragon. The dot on the character zhu zhu must be completed. Now. Usually to do this we choose the most literary member of the family. This person is the must be completed. Now. Usually to do this we choose the most literary member of the family. This person is the dian-zhu, dian-zhu, the Inscriber of the tablet. But in this case-" the Inscriber of the tablet. But in this case-"

"You do it, Master Tang," she said swiftly.

"It will not do." He sighed. "The yin-yang master as the dian-zhu-oh dian-zhu-oh no, it is unlucky. You must be the one to do it, Interpreter Mo." no, it is unlucky. You must be the one to do it, Interpreter Mo."

"I'm not worthy."

He did not disagree. "Anyway, you must. In ink or in blood. You choose."

"In blood."

He bowed his head, removed a ceremonial pin from a silk box in his inner sleeve, and handed it to her.

He intoned a prayer while she stabbed her index finger. "Oh, s.h.i.t," she breathed, as too much blood bubbled out.

"Just complete the character," he said softly.

Thank G.o.d I know where the dot goes, she thought, bending over the tablet, it would be so humiliating to have to ask him. The blood was dripping now. Quick. Right above the top horizontal stroke-there-she stood up. It was messy, but in the right place.

"Thus we send the spirit on its journey," Tang said softly. "The ling-pai is its earthly home. Now: the ritual of an-zhu, an-zhu, in which we place the in which we place the ling-pai ling-pai on the altar and reincorporate it into the family. Now you will become part of Madam Meng's line. See that you serve her ghost well. In return she will always guide you." on the altar and reincorporate it into the family. Now you will become part of Madam Meng's line. See that you serve her ghost well. In return she will always guide you."

Alice waited.

"Koutou, " he said, Kowtow. " he said, Kowtow.

"What?"

"Koutou!" More sharply. More sharply.

Alice fell to her knees in front of the altar and knocked her forehead against the grimy carpet. Each time, she felt jolted a little farther off the track she'd been trapped on for so long. Could she really change ancestors so easily? Could she drop the scaffolding of Horace-or at least relax it?

When he was gone it would all change. She shivered with fear: this thought again, this possibility, Horace dying. Yet it might happen soon. She pictured herself in a world without him, a world where she had only her own heart and mind to follow. A world open and blank with possibility; terrifying, almost. She thumped her forehead on the carpet. All of you in the land of the dead, she prayed, help me. Let me become myself. And, Horace. When you go I want your love, I want to keep it to remember. But please go on and leave me in peace.

She paused in midreverence, half shocked at herself. She could feel Master Tang watching her. She looked up at him.

"You may rise now," he said. "You are the daughter of Meng Shaowen."

And Lucile, she added in her mind. And Horace. Then she thought: This is crazy. Even Chinese don't do this anymore. Not educated Chinese. To them this was like the earth being flat. Like curing illness with leeches.

The discomfort billowed up inside her and she wanted to get the whole thing over with. Quickly she counted out the sum to which they had agreed.

He pocketed the money. "Good health. Long life."

"Bici, " she whispered, The same to you. " she whispered, The same to you.

Guo Wenxiang slipped into an unmarked doorway in a back alley of the Chinese quarter, and knocked softly. He'd walked here casually, making many unnecessary turns, twisting and changing his route, entering buildings where he knew no one and standing in dark hallways, then leaving again quietly by other doors.

He was sure there was no one behind him. But in China there almost always was. He knew this well.

So as Guo knocked now, he glanced nervously around. The man who lived in this apartment had been a guard years ago at Camp Fourteen, the women's camp on the other side of the mountains. Camp Fourteen had been a cl.u.s.ter of ocher huts on the flat, silty plain that spread out below the purple wall of the Helan Shan. By all accounts evil attended it. There were women who died of illness and malnourishment. Other women lost their health, and whatever remained of their humanity. It was said of this man, this former guard, that he had seen everything, and knew everything, but that it angered him when people asked him about it. Hua you shuo huilai, Hua you shuo huilai, it was also said that after a few cups of wine his mouth loosened and his memories flowed. Guo held a bottle of Red Crane sorghum spirits tightly against his chest, waiting. it was also said that after a few cups of wine his mouth loosened and his memories flowed. Guo held a bottle of Red Crane sorghum spirits tightly against his chest, waiting.

When the door was opened four men stood there, none of them the man he was looking for. Something was not right. He took a step back. "I'm sorry," he said. "I'm seeking the Honorable Chen. Perhaps he is not at home."

"Eh, but he is. He awaits you."

Guo pivoted to dart away, but a powerful hand clamped his wrist, and then another. "Don't go," one of the men said cruelly, pulling him in and latching the door behind him.

A cold fatalism settled over Guo. He knew better than to show fear. And meanwhile he had his wits, and should he not deploy every power he had? Sometimes, the legends told, a man could prevail at times like this through words alone. Guo marshaled himself, sharpening his intelligence. He was prepared to speak- But they were already advancing toward him.

Spencer and Kong were bent over a table in the back room of the Bureau of Cultural Relics, examining the mountain of microliths Kong had collected near the Shuidonggou site. Sorting them, grading them, packing them. Cobbles, flakes, hammerstones, points, and sc.r.a.pers. From the Neolithic, pottery shards and beads.

"You see this?" Spencer examined a powerfully shaped stone sc.r.a.per. "Beautiful. Late Paleolithic. Twenty-five, thirty thousand years." He placed it in one of the piles.

A secretary burst in with a sheaf of fax papers. "Datongle." "Datongle."

"Haode. " Kong took the papers. He scanned them at once, then turned his smile on Spencer. " Kong took the papers. He scanned them at once, then turned his smile on Spencer. "Qianzheng!" "Qianzheng!" He indicated the pages. "Visa! Visa!" He managed to get the word in English. He indicated the pages. "Visa! Visa!" He managed to get the word in English.

"Oh! Oh, my G.o.d! The visas for Eren Obo?" Spencer took the pages and grinned at them.

"Tai hao-le!"

"And what's this?" Spencer pointed to the rest of the pile of fax pages. "Is this the literature search from your graduate student?"

But Kong only went off in a stream of Mandarin. Nevertheless his hand holding the pages aloft told Spencer they were practically the first scholars out here, the first since Teilhard. There'd been no surveys on archaic hunter-gatherer sites out here, no organized attempts to locate and date and describe and excavate anything besides Shuidonggou. No coherent picture at all of the nomadic foragers, or their transition to the Neolithic with its advent of settled life and agriculture. Nothing published-just the stuff on Shuidonggou itself.

Because, Christ, Spencer thought, they haven't even looked! They don't even know where where to look. But I know. I know from the years of surveying back home. I know exactly where ancient people lived in this kind of terrain. Winters they lived in the alluvial fans, the creek margins-then in the summer they might have gone up in the mountains. Just like in the American West. Only, in America you're lucky if you find a handful of intact sites in your whole career.... to look. But I know. I know from the years of surveying back home. I know exactly where ancient people lived in this kind of terrain. Winters they lived in the alluvial fans, the creek margins-then in the summer they might have gone up in the mountains. Just like in the American West. Only, in America you're lucky if you find a handful of intact sites in your whole career....

"Yanjiu jihui bu shao, " Kong exclaimed happily, tossing down the fax. His cellular phone rang and he pulled it off his belt and clicked it on. " Kong exclaimed happily, tossing down the fax. His cellular phone rang and he pulled it off his belt and clicked it on. "Wei! Wei!" "Wei! Wei!"

Spencer sat, listening to Kong's rapid Chinese, allowing his mind to drift. The opportunities in archaic desert cultures here were unbelievable, Christ yes, but he had to keep his mind on the real prize. Peking Man! Peking Man was the find that would make his career, that would get him noticed all over the world. He'd be back in at the conferences. He'd do papers, be quoted. And even though the agonizing reality was that he was now going to miss most of his son's Halloween costumes and campfires and summer fireflies in jars, at least-when the boy had grown into a thinking adult-he would know his father had done something. He would know his father had brought back the first forebear, the man from the dawn of time. That would count for Tyler, someday. It had to.

He glanced at Kong, working the phone now, drumming his long fingers on the fax paper. Kong caught his eyes and grinned. It was amazing how he and Kong communicated, considering they couldn't speak.

"Hao! Hao!" Kong shouted, and hung up. He folded the phone and clicked it back on his belt. Kong shouted, and hung up. He folded the phone and clicked it back on his belt.

Adam pulled a piece of paper from his pocket, unfolded it. "Dr. Kong," he said, "last night I wrote this letter to my son. Do you think I could use their fax machine before we go? Fax?" He pointed to the fax pages on the table.

"Keyi, " Kong said kindly, and pointed to the fax machine in the outer room. " Kong said kindly, and pointed to the fax machine in the outer room.

"Dr. Lin?" She knocked again, harder. Was he there? It was late afternoon, they were leaving for Eren Obo the next day, she hadn't seen him in hours. "Dr. Lin?"

Stirring sounds, then the faint sibilance of feet, and the door clicked open. "Xiao Mo." His eyes went wider. He'd been sleeping.

"Oh, I'm sorry," she said.

"It's nothing." He yawned, straightened his shirt.

"I wanted to talk with you." She held her breath. He could tell her to come back later if he wanted.

He looked down at her strange light eyes, her rumpled clothing, her dusty athletic shoes. His own clothes were haphazard. He'd got up and covered himself in a hurry. "Come in."

She pushed past him into the cluttered room, still warm with the smells of sleep, and he saw her gaze move about. "I suppose I shouldn't come here like this, just knocking on your door...."

"No, you're welcome," he said, meaning it. "You're always welcome."

"But I wanted to say something to you." She turned back toward him. She opened her mouth, then closed it. Could she just say it?

"Please." He indicated the two armchairs, the low table in between. "You'll have tea?"

"Yes." She let her breath go in relief. "Thanks."

He stepped behind her and closed the door. She felt a thrill. They were alone.

"Iron G.o.ddess of Mercy okay?" he asked, taking a small packet from the tea caddy.

"Oh yes, please."

"It's strong."

"I know."

So she liked it that way too. He smiled, uncorked the thermos, and poured steaming water over the leaves, then put the cups on the table and lowered himself into the chair opposite her. "What's happened?"

"Nothing. It's not that anything's happened."

He waited.

"Dr. Lin. Frankly speaking. I don't know how to ask you this. I think perhaps it's impolite to ask you. But I find that I need to know."

He made his voice quiet. "Whatever it is, Xiao Mo, put your heart at rest. It's okay." He picked up her cup from the table and handed it to her. "Gei. " Then he took up his own cup, welcoming as he always did the black, bracing taste of bitter metal.

She sighed. "Dr. Lin. Are you-all this time, all these little things you say-are you trying to tell me something?"

Aiya-was she going to say it, just like that?

"Are you interested in me?" she blurted.

"Of course," he evaded. "You are our interpreter-"

"Dr. Lin!" she pleaded. "You know what I mean."

"What do you mean?" he asked softly.

"Are you interested in me!" she hammered. "The way a man is in a woman!"

There, she had done it, remarkable, broken all the rules of discretion and subtlety with which a new relationship ought to be forged. It was rash, ill thought out, un-Chinese. Oh. But exciting.

Nevertheless he was still Chinese, and had to turn it around. "Are you?" he said. "In me?"

She stared at him, aroused, exasperated. The American in her wanted to scream, but the Chinese thing to do was deflect. She closed her eyes. "Dr. Lin. Didn't you ever have a dream, and in this dream you saw someone, let's say someone you didn't know very well, but in the dream you cared powerfully for them, maybe you even felt love, and when you awakened you knew immediately that this acquaintance was far more important than you had realized? Well? Have you?"

She opened her eyes and saw him looking at her, that hard look again.

"Yes," he said finally.

"Do I need to explain more?" she asked softly.

He shook his head, and felt his heart burst into bloom. So she did want him! Couldn't he be sure now? She did. Sometimes it had seemed so clear-the way she was looking at him, talking to him. Zai shuo, shuo, he'd told himself so many times, she was a foreign woman. An outside woman. What did he know about such creatures? And what if he moved to couple with her and he was wrong and he grievously offended her-what bitterness might rain down on him then? he'd told himself so many times, she was a foreign woman. An outside woman. What did he know about such creatures? And what if he moved to couple with her and he was wrong and he grievously offended her-what bitterness might rain down on him then?

"What about Dr. Spencer?" he asked with difficulty. "The way I've seen you touch him, I thought perhaps-"

"No!" she cried. "There is nothing between us. That's just being American. We are more suibian suibian in America. It's a friendly thing. Please. Believe me." in America. It's a friendly thing. Please. Believe me."

He smiled in relief. "Then what do you say I shall do?"

She thought. "Go with me now? Let's walk around the city."

He stood and held out his hand. They stepped over a warm, messy pile of undershirts, socks, and trousers on their way out.

They followed Sun Yat-sen to Shanxi Avenue, which cut across the center of the city. She watched him. Would he tell her about himself now? It was odd that she didn't know. Most Chinese, once they got comfortable with her, immediately and at considerable length spun out their life stories. Especially they detailed all that they had suffered during the Chaos.

Not that it had always been that way. In the seventies, she'd heard, everyone was furtive and afraid. Eyes down. But by the time she first came to China in the early eighties Mao had died and it had all erupted, everyone talking at her, talking, telling her their terrible stories. At the time it had seemed to her like a strange, sudden, ad-hoc form of Chinese opera, this verborrhea, so extravagantly histrionic. So like the squealingly ch.o.r.eographed dramas, played to audiences who knew the story already, knew it intimately, could then appreciate it as they laughed, applauded, gossiped, ate, and spat. The Luanshi, Luanshi,the Chaos.

"Did you have a bad time in the Chaos?" she asked softly. They had come to a park, and walked now under the trees.

"You can't imagine it," he said tightly.

"I believe you're wrong about that," she answered, which made him look at her. Inside, she thought: You should tell me, because I know all about holding and hiding. I could help you.

"Eh, Xiao Mo, I'm sorry." He stared at their scuffling feet. "If it was I who suffered, I could talk about it. I know, most people have told it all, they told it years ago and now it's a boiling river that has finally run out of them and left them in peace. But it was not I who was hurt. My wife would express only the truth-and she was the one who was taken. Not me. Do you understand me or not?"

"You mean you feel guilty. Because you survived. And it was Meiyan, and you don't like to talk about Meiyan."

"Yes. Especially-" he stopped.

Especially to me, she thought willfully, because you have feelings for me. Say it.

"Especially to you," he said, looking at her.

A group of rough-cotton-clad men brushed by them, talking boisterously in Mongolian. After several solid blocks of cement low-rises they were pa.s.sing a temple, with its ornate red pillars and curving golden roofs. Rustling acacias stretched out in front of them along the sidewalk.