the room was small and simply furnished. To the left of the rush-matted floor were a chair, a small table, and, above them, a single shelf. To the right was nothing, only the blank partition wall. The bare rock of the end wall seemed to gleam mistily in the light of the wall-mounted lamp. Ikuro went across and placed his fingers against the smooth, unyielding surface, understanding at once. The mist was real. The wall had been sealed with a tough, clear polymer coating. They did the same where he came from. It prevented oxygen leakage and helped insulate the room against the fiercely cold temperatures of the surrounding rock. Even so, the room was chill. He could see his breath in the air.
He turried, looking back into the room. It was like a cell. There was no ViewScreen, he noted, surprised. Instead, a scattering of papers lay on the desktop, an inkpad and brush nearby. On the shelf above were a dozen plastic-covered books and what looked like two file boxes. The door to the entrance lock was facing him, a tiny washroom to the left. From the galley-kitchen to the right came the sounds of the stranger preparing the ch’a; otherwise the silence was profound: the kind of silence one found only in such places, where one lived with the constant threat of decompression.
Ikuro nodded inwardly, impressed by the Spartan austerity of the place. Somehow it seemed to suit the man, though why he should think that he could not explain, only that he sensed an air of mystery about him, something that the strangeness of the mask only half explained. He had met all kinds of men in the past two days, big and small, rich and poor, and there seemed to be a definite correlation between their status and their behavior: a correlation one did not find in his own close-knit community. Yet this one was different. He might dress like a workingman, and the facial prosthetic he wore might be the cheapest one could buy, yet he had the air of a prince—of a leader of men. Why, even his smallest movement—
Ikuro stilled his thoughts. The stranger was standing in the doorway to the galley, a small plastic tray held out before him, two plain white ch’a bowls resting in its center. Pausing a moment he looked about the room, then indicated with his head. Ikuro understood at once and nodded, squatting on the floor as the other set down the tray and knelt, facing Ikuro.
The ch’a smelled good. Ikuro could feel the warmth of it even before he had tasted it.
“Are you cold?” the stranger asked, the blue eyes in the mask showing concern.
Ikuro smiled. “No. I am fine, thank you. This is like home.” “Ah ...” The stranger lifted the nearest of the bowls in one hand and offered it to him. Ikuro took it, inclining his head in thanks, enjoying the simple heat of the bowl and relishing the thought of drinking so fine smelling a ch’a. Even so, he waited, watching until the other raised his bowl. Only then, with a second bow of thanks, did he place the bowl to his lips and sip.
“Ahh . . .” he said, genuinely delighted. “Wonderful. You make excellent ch’a, Shih ...”
He laughed, embarrassed suddenly, realizing that he had been with the man almost an hour now and still did not know his name. “Latimer,” the stranger said. “I am known here as John Latimer.” Ikuro, he almost said, then checked himself. “My name is Shen,” he answered, inclining his head. “Shen Li, son of Shen Yeh.” Latimer returned the bow. “I am pleased to meet you, Shen Li. But tell me, what in the gods’ names were you doing in the Black Dragon? Did no one warn you?”
Ikuro hesitated, then shook his head.
“You’re from off-planet, I take it.”
“From Diomedes, in the Trojans.”
“Ah . . .” The thin artificial lips formed the shape of a smile. “Then you wouldn’t know, would you?”
“Know what?”
Latimer set his bowl down, then sat back on his haunches. “Things are happening here on Mars, Shen Li. Things that even our masters don’t know about. New currents. New movements. Like our friend Bates.” “The FFM, you mean?”
Again, the semblance of a smile lit the mask. “You remember, then?”
“I remember. But what does it mean?”
“The FFM? That’s the Federation of Free Men. They’re so-called patriots.
They want to reclaim Mars for the Martians.”
“The Martians?”
“The original settlers. By which they mainly mean Americans, though they’ll sign up anyone who’s not a Han. They see the Han as usurpers, you see, and they blame all of Mars’s ills on them. Their policy’s fairly simple. They aim to kill all the Han and make Mars independent of Chung Kuo.”
Ikuro set his bowl down, astonished. “And there are many who believe
this?”
“Quite a few, especially in Tien Men K’ou, but they’re not the only group—merely the most extreme. The two biggest are the Martian Radicalist Alliance and the PLF, the People’s Liberation Force. They want independence, too, but both draw their following from Han and Hung Mao alike. What they want is to get rid of the masters—a bit like the Ping Tiao back on Chung Kuo.”
Ikuro stared back at him blankly.
“The Ping Tiao . . . You mean you’ve never heard of the Ping Tiao!” Latimer laughed strangely. “The gods help us, you are cut off out there, aren’t you?”
For a moment Latimer was silent, thoughtful. Then, leaning closer, he spoke again. “Have you noticed anything about this place, Shen Li? I mean . . . anything unusual?”
Ikuro considered a moment. “It’s all wrong,” he said finally. “Everything is much bigger than it ought to be.”
He did not know how far they had descended, coming from the Black Dragon to Latimer’s apartment—forty, maybe fifty levels—but it had felt as if they had burrowed deep into the crust of Mars. Not that that had worried him particularly, for he was used to being deep within the rock, yet it had surprised him, for he had read in the official records that the Martian cities were domed cities—were surface structures. But now he knew. Mars was much bigger than the official records made out. Why, if Tien Men K’ou were typical of the rest, then the population here was—what?—ten, maybe twenty times the official estimate. And how could that be? How could they have made such a gross mistake? Unless it wasn’t a mistake. Unless someone was deliberately concealing the fact. Latimer was nodding. “I didn’t understand it either. Not at first. I didn’t see how it could be done, nor why. But I think I know now. I think it’s been going on for a long time, probably since the Han first came here. That’s when it began, a hundred and sixty years ago, after the Second War of Colonization.”
“When what began?” Ikuro asked, blinking, mesmerized by the intensity, the force of concentration, focused in the figure opposite him. “The revolution,” Latimer answered, his startlingly blue eyes staring back at Ikuro through the pale, moonlike mask. “They’ve been preparing for it all these years. Waiting, with unending patience. But now it’s about to end. It’s about to be taken out of their hands.” “Who? Who do you mean by ‘they’?”
Latimer lifted his head, staring away past Ikuro, almost as if he could see through the solid rock. “I don’t know. Not for certain. But it’s not the Seven back on Chung Kuo, nor is it Governor Schenck and his little crowd. They only think they run things. No. There’s something else at work here on Mars. Some other power, older and more deeply rooted than they.” Ikuro looked down, disturbed by this sudden turn in their talk, frightened—suddenly, inexplicably frightened—by the presence of the masked man across from him. For a while he stared at the steaming ch’a bowl, trying to still his thoughts, to reassure himself that all would be well, then, with an agitated little movement, he lifted the bowl to his lips and drained it at a go.