I did my best to look as aimless and vacant as she did, but I didn't succeed. As far as I knew, I didn't have any casual genes.

Karate-ka stretched and warmed up everywhere, spectators applauded over my head from the stands, contestants yelled their lungs out in the rings. Keeping track of her strained my nerves. If I hadn't been so tall, I would've lost her.

But she was moving down the hall toward the place where Hong had set up his encampment.

He sat turned slightly away from me, with his students grouped behind him a few Chinese, the rest obviously not. He seemed to regard the tournament without interest, as if it were too transitory to impinge on his seamless facade. His features were so smooth that he could've posed for a bust of Buddha. He would've looked ageless if time hadn't marked his stiff short hair and eyebrows with grey.

I paused briefly to pull myself together. Hong Fei-Tung might look as placid as a saint, but I already knew that he had fire hidden inside him. I didn't want to get burned.

Ahead of me, the girl disappeared.

As soon as I panicked, she reappeared. Dammit, she'd probably lifted something from another gear bag, but I'd missed it. Too many people blocked my view I couldn't see her hands. Then the crowded parted for an instant, and I saw her strolling away with her hands loose at her sides.

Damn and damn. I'd missed the drop as well.

But now he had to be between us. And moving toward me. For the next new seconds, at least. Trying not to be obvious about it, I scanned hard.

Three candidates snagged my attention, all acting like they belonged here, all carrying bags that could've held gear or loot. Two of them wore warmup sweats. The other had on a white gi with an TAMA

I dismissed the karate-kaIn that getup he couldn't escape unobtrusively. And the competition interested him so much that he turned his head to watch every time he heard a yell.

The man right in front of me wasn't a likely candidate either. He wore light blue sweats and the toned whippet look of a sprinter. But he carried his bag wrong, zipped up tight, with his near hand hooked under the strap over his shoulder. He couldn't have accepted a handshake without making a production out of it.

That left a heavyset guy in dingy sweats the color of used bandages. He was only a couple of inches shorter than me, and at least forty pounds heavier, but he carried his bulk like it was made out of polyurethane, light enough to levitate. Dull eyes, a broken nose, jowls he could've used to store food for the winter, brows so full of bone that they gave him a perpetual scowl.

His black vinyl bag had a loose flap instead of a zipper, perfect for slipping things inside quickly. It hung from his right shoulder, with his hand resting on the flap.

He glanced at me unpleasantly as he shifted past, but if he saw anything that worried him, he didn't show it. With any luck I looked too lost, out of my element, to be a threat.

I let him go, didn't so much as turn my head as he went by. I wanted the whole team. If I could keep an eye on him, he might help me tag the other picks.

As casually as I could, I followed the girl toward Hong.

He still gazed out at the tournament vacantly, like he'd been hypnotized into oblivion. But his upright posture gave the impression that he'd starched his spine, and his hands rested on his thighs as if they might clench for blows at any moment.

As a group, his students copied him, but only a few of them looked like they sat in that position easily, and only a couple matched his air of being able to do it all day without strain.

I paused a stride away. Briefly I scanned the hall, practicing diffused concentration until I got a fix on the girl and the drop. Then I turned to Hong Fei-Tung.

I'd already met his temper, and I didn't want to set him off, so I bowed the way I'd seen Sternway bow. Striving to sound respectful, I said, "Sifu Hong. May I speak with you? I'd like to ask some questions."

His gaze slid toward me, smooth as oil, and away again. If he remembered meeting me yesterday, he kept it to himself. Instead he glanced at a man seated beside him. At once the man rose to his feet and answered my bow.

Like Hong, he was Asian, but with sharper features. He was obviously younger than his Sifu, but his face showed lines Hong's lacked. His smile accounted for some of them, but the creases between his eyebrows made him look like a man who took frowning seriously. The irises of his brown eyes held strange fragments of silver like chips of mica, sharp enough to cut.

"I am T'ang Wen, Mr.?" He was better at sounding polite than I was.

"Axbrewder," I told him. For good measure, I bowed again.

"I met Sifu Hong yesterday." Since Hong clearly hadn't mentioned me, I added, "I work with Sternway sensei and Mr. Appelwait."

T'ang Wen went on smiling.

"Mr. Axbrewder. Perhaps I may be of use?"

Sensing disasters I couldn't identify, I stifled a sarcastic retort.

Maybe having a student speak for the teacher was an obscure form of Chinese courtesy although I suspected that the courtesy was for Hong's benefit rather than mine. Either way, I didn't think I'd gain anything by challenging it.

Instead I said gruffly, "I'm sure you can.

"I hope you'll forgive my ignorance. I've been hired to help make sure nothing" I glanced deliberately toward Nakahatchi's display "unpleasant happens here. But I don't know enough. If you'll answer a few questions for me, I may be more effective."

T'ang inclined his head.

"If a mere novice in the study of ch'uan fa may do so, I will assist you."

In the stands behind their sifu, Hong's students had abandoned watching the tournament. Instead they stared at me expectantly, waiting for a chance to take offense. Their distrust was as plain as a wall.

I turned my back on them. I didn't have time for their expectations. I needed to see what went on around me.

"Ch'uan fa?" I asked, just to get started.

Anson Sternway now stood on the dais beside the master of ceremonies, consulting with her about something or other.

"Here in the West," T'ang Wen explained, "the Chinese martial arts have come to be called 'kung fu."

" He'd positioned himself so that he could see my face as well as Hong's without standing in front of his teacher.

"The term is acceptable, but it is not precise. The Chinese arts are more properly termed ch'uan fa, the Way of the Fist. Or perhaps wushu, which encompasses all martial discipline." He shrugged delicately.

"Like China herself, ch'uan fa is little understood elsewhere."

I heard hints in his voice that I wanted to pursue. But he was getting ahead of me. I kept my questions in order.

"So Wing Chun would be an example of ch'uan fa?"

"Indeed."

Off to my left, the girl rounded the corner of the hall, still apparently moving with no particular purpose. I'd lost track of the heavyset man, but when I blurred my attention I located him again. He remained on my side of the hall. In another minute he'd cross in front of the dais.

I didn't pause.

"How is it different from, say, Shotokan?"

"Wing Chun" T'ang made it sound like ving tsun "is a separate style from a different country. It has its own philosophy and history." His tone suggested a desire to correct my ignorance gently.

"However, ch'uan fa and karate are distinguished primarily by time. The Chinese martial arts are far older. They have been developed over centuries rather than decades.