He stared at it, wondering if, despite all the reassurances of the experts, it had its own private thoughts, its own dreams and visions of the world. Wondering if, behind those vacant eyes, some other creature looked out at the world, cut off from speech and impotent to act. Some mad and staring thing. . .
That thought had always frightened him. Since his first visit here he had had dreams—dreams in which he was the ching, a machine of flesh and bone, made only to be woken once and killed. In those dreams he would find himself inside an empty, echoing palace of pale white alabaster, running from room to room, trying each door with a mounting desperation as he found all portals to the outside locked fast against him. Then, from beyond the walls, would come the sound of muted laughter—a deep, horrible, mocking sound. And he would run on, like a lost child, until he woke, his body sheathed in sweat, his heart racing like a newbom’s. “Chieh Hsia . . . ?”
He turned his head. The Chief Technician stood beside him, his head bowed.
“Are you ready?”
“We are, Chieh Hsia.”
“Then let us commence. I must be gone from here in an hour.”
“Chieh Hsta!”
He watched as two of them stood behind the ching, helping it to its feet. Encouraged by their touch it seemed to come alive, the waxwork sheen of its skin enlivened suddenly by the stretch and pull of muscle. Aided by them it moved toward the walkway. Mounting the step it took two paces and then stopped, letting them fasten its hands to the special grips on the rail.
Throughout it all the face-remained unchanged, its idiot vacancy somehow more terrible when glimpsed against the motion of that powerful, well-muscled form, and as ever Wu Shih found himself appalled and horrified. So like himself, it was, and yet... well, it was as if in coming to these rooms he stepped out of the world he knew and entered some other place—ti yu, the underworld, perhaps. As the walkway started up, its legs began to move, as if some conscious choice evoked the movement, yet from all he’d been told he knew that the motion was only the habit of the muscles—a habit patiently induced by its custodians.
Exercise, it was all that body knew. Pleasure and pain—such were strangers to it. Desire and simple need—these too had been kept from its experience. Fed regularly and exercised, it functioned perfectly. Much better, Wu Shih mused, than its original. No illness had ever plagued it, no worries disturbed its dreamless sleep.
Colorless, unconscious of its purpose, it waited.
My death, he thought. It measures its existence by my death. Later, as he was watching it perform a series of twists and turns that would have defied a more thoughtful athlete, he found himself thinking about Weimar and the importance of the vote that afternoon. He had done all he could in that regard. He had bought and bullied, made threats and given promises, drawing upon a lifetime’s experience in an attempt to place the matter beyond doubt. Even so, it would still be close. What’s more, the House was once again pressing for autonomy—an autonomy it could not be allowed to have. Power. It was all about power. Grant them a little and they wanted more. Grant them more and they wanted a lot more. Best, then, to give them nothing—to keep all power in the hands of the Seven and make the matter beyond question. But only force could achieve that, and right now forcing the matter was not an option—not unless they wanted war. Maybe Li Yuan was right, then. Maybe they ought to wire them all—reduce them all to ching!
He huffed irritably, then stood, tired suddenly of the whole business.
“Enough!” he cried. “Let it rest!”
He turned, the watching technicians and officials backing away hurriedly, their heads bowed low, as he moved quickly, impatiently, between them. And outside, in the main office, where representatives of the Ting Wei and the Ministry—the two custodians of the ching— had gathered to honor him, he did not even pause to greet them, but swept through, his mind filled with dark shadows and forebodings, knowing it had been wrong to come.
“Dan? Where’s Em? I’ve looked all over.”
Johnson looked up from where he was preparing the documents for the journey and looked across at Michael Lever. “She left early. I thought you knew. She’s gone in to Hythe-MacKay to see what she can pick up for Joe Kennedy’s birthday.”
Michael raised an eyebrow, surprised. “Strange. She didn’t mention anything. . . .”
Johnson shrugged, then returned to his task.
“When do we need to leave?”
“Not for an hour yet,” Johnson answered, signing a document, then closing the file. “We could leave it longer, but I thought we’d give ourselves plenty of time.”
Michael eyed him a moment, then laughed. “Okay. What have you got up your sleeve?”
“Me?” Johnson looked up, all innocence, then smiled. “I had a thought, that’s all. As we’re going up to Washington anyway, why don’t we make an unscheduled visit to our facility just south of there?” “Alexandria, you mean?”
“Sure. It would be a good opportunity to see for yourself how they’re implementing your changes.”
Michael nodded thoughtfully. “I like that. But what about a brief? I mean, who’s Manager there now?”
“It’s all here,” Johnson said, tapping the stack of files he was about to put in the special courier sack. “I’ve prepared an overview of our operation there. You can read it on our way across.” Michael laughed. “I should have known. . . .” Then, catching his assistant’s enthusiasm, he nodded boyishly. “Okay. Let’s do it.”
despite herself Mary was impressed. The vaults at Hythe-MacKay were massive, stretching down a full ten levels beneath their offices. Armed guards stood at each doorway and every intersection—more for show than anything else, the Senior Clerk confided, pointing out the computer-operated lasers that tracked them wherever they went. At the very heart of the vaults was a small room. Inviting her to enter he pulled out a chair for her behind the console, then sat beside her, placing a key from his belt into the desk before him. Facing them, ten ch’t from where they sat, was a blank screen. Turning toward her he smiled, then spoke to the air.
“Kate, it’sjefferies. Code gold. Display.” The screen lit up, showing a three-by-three grid, each square labeled with a two-letter subdirectory code. She studied them a moment, then looked back at him.
He smiled. “Was there anything in particular you were interested in? Are you thinking of collecting, or buying as a gift?” “Both,” she said, then hesitated, not certain she should show too direct an interest. Then, not knowing how to be indirect, she shrugged. “There was a picture in one of the old books my father-in-law bought here. It had men in it. Black men.”
“Ah, the Negroes . . .” Jefferies’s smile took on a new form, an element of professional interest giving it an almost genuine air. “Kate, give me subroute ST. General index.”
The screen changed at a blink. The nine squares had become a list of four categories:
ARTIFACTS BOOKS DOCUMENTS MAPS
“Maps,” she said, curious.