“Maps, Kate.”
At once the screen was filled with tiny pictures—eleven in all, each item numbered and priced in red. She studied them a moment, then nodded to herself. There was not an item there under two million. “Can I see item seven?”
“Item seven, Kate.”
As the other items faded, the one she had chosen seemed to separate itself from the screen and drift toward her, growing slowly larger and taking on a three-dimensional form in the air. It stopped, an arm’s length from where she sat—a big, solid-looking thing. It was a map of Africa. She stared at it, fascinated. The map was old, much older-looking than the frame. It was yellowed and the writing on it was irregular, not a normal machine script. But it was the names which most interested her.
“Those names . . . ?”
“Segu,” he said, turning and looking directly at her, “Ashanti, Bornu, Wadai, Darfur, Funj, Tutsi, Butua, Menabe, Boina, Oyo, Hausa, Masai. . .” He smiled. “I’m sorry, it’s a specialty of mine. They’re the names of tribes—of nations, if you like. There were literally hundreds of them, all of them black skinned. From what we can make out they led very diverse lifestyles. Most of them were highly primitive, of course—around the same level as the Clayborn—but not all. Some were extremely sophisticated. There was a whole varied culture there at one time. Of course, we’re very lucky here at Hythe-MacKay. We’ve probably the best collection of Negro artifacts in the world, and this map . . . well, it’s a beauty, neh?” And so it should be at fifty million, she thought. Even so, she was quite taken by it. Was it real? Was it really real? And if it was, what had happened to all those tribes—where had they gone? Hundreds of them . . . No. It wasn’t possible.
“Where do you find them?”
He laughed. “Now, that would be telling. Let’s just say we have our sources. And there’s new material coming in all the time.”
“But the Ministry—“
“—knows nothing, officially.” He smoothed his thumb over his fingertips, indicating what he meant. “It adds to the price, naturally, but then our clientele can afford that little extra it costs us.” She nodded, understanding. Corrupt. It was all corrupt, from First Level to the Net. There was probably not one straight official among the lot of them.
“Is there a book of it—a history?”
Jefferies thought a moment, then shook his head. “Of their origins, no.
But there are one or two books about the slave trade.”
“The what?”
“That’s how they came here to America. They were brought over from Africa to work on the plantations. Hung Mao traders went ashore and rounded them up by the thousand, chained them up, and brought them back.” He nodded admiringly. “It was a highly lucrative trade. Many a trading empire was built on black slaves, you know!”
She turned back, staring at the map, seeing it anew. First the Hung Moo had enslaved the blacks, and then the Han had enslaved the Hung Mao. And next? She shivered, sickened by the whole business. “Show me something else. Show me . . .”An idea struck her. “Show me something to do with the Kennedys.”
He smiled. “Now, there’s an interesting subject. Kate, give me sub-route AC, directory six, subfile Kennedy. Show me Documents, subfile Newspapers. Item nine, I think. The copy of the Dallas Times Herald.”
kemp waited in reception while the Steward went in to announce his arrival. He stood there, looking about him at the priceless paintings on the walls, conscious of Fairbanks secretary watching from his corner desk. He felt good. Britton’s report had been excellent and, together with the other material he had, was sure to satisfy the consortium. Even so, this was the first time he had met the four together, and the fact that they had summoned him here to AmLab’s headquarters in Denver put him on his guard.
They had treated him well, there was no denying. The apartment he had been given was of the highest quality, and the girl. . . He smiled, remembering the girl. He was almost tempted to ask for the girl as part of his fee, but knew it would be wrong. To admit any weakness was a mistake when dealing with these men.
“Shih Kemp?”
He turned. The Steward was in the doorway, holding the door open for him.
Taking a firm grip on the folder he gave a tiny bow and went across. The board room was massive, at least a hundred ch’i by fifty, the ceiling twenty ch’i above his head. The floor and walls were finished in a pale green stone, the polished hexagonal slabs embossed with the blood-red circling-atom logo of AmLab.
The old men were seated at the far end, behind a long table of polished ebony. A space of at least five ch’i separated each man. Behind them were their corporate banners—the black on yellow of RadMed; the pale green and red of AmLab; the blood-red eagle of NorTrek; and the blue star on white of WesCorp.
“Kemp!” Fairbank said, his voice still powerful despite his seventy-five years. “Come close where we can see you better.” He approached. Ten paces from the table he stopped and bowed his head.
“Gentlemen.”
He looked along the line, expecting some sign of eagerness in their faces—after all, they had waited a long time to get back at ImmVac— but there was nothing. Their faces were like weathered walls. “Is that it?” Egan asked, pointing to the folder.
“Yes, I—“
“Put it on the table,” Fairbank said abruptly.
“I beg pardon?”
“On the table. We’ll read it later.”
“But—“
“Don’t worry, Shih Kemp, you’ll be paid in full. And I’m sure you’ve done an excellent job. Britton’s a first-class investigator. But that’s not why you’re here.”
“No?”
Fairbank smiled, then turned in his seat, looking to Chamberlain.
“Geoffrey...”
Chamberlain stood and came around the desk, walking past Kemp to a low table placed against the wall. Picking up a small black lacquered box he brought it across and handed it to Kemp.
“What’s this?”
Chamberlain leaned close. “Open it and see.”
He opened it, looked, then looked again. “What the . . . ?” Chamberlain laughed. Behind him the others were laughing, too, sharing the joke.
“I”—Kemp turned, looking to Fairbank for an explanation, trying hard to
retain his composure—“I—I realize what it is, but . . . well, whose is
it?”
Chamberlain took it back from him and smiled. “Does it matter?”
“Not to me, no ... but to htm!”
“Oh, he was dead before it was cut off!”
Kemp stared at the pale gobbet of flesh and swallowed uncomfortably, bile rising in his throat. “So what’s going on?” Egan answered him. “You’re building up a network, right?”
“To use against Lever, sure. But what’s that to do with . . . this?” Egan’s grin was like a skull’s. “In my experience what’s good for one purpose is usually good for another. Your contacts. . . they’ve contacts of their own, right? Little men, operating among the levels.” Kemp nodded.
“And they’re keen to line their pockets, neh? To earn a little extra on the side?”
Again Kemp nodded.
“Good. So we use them.”
“Use them? How?”
Green of RadMed answered him, his voice stretched thin, like the skin of his cheeks and neck.
“We live in troubled times, Shih Kemp. Political agitation and riots . . . these things disturb the markets. And whatever disturbs the markets affects our livelihoods, neh? A climate of uncertainty is bad for trade. You’d agree?”
“Well, sure. . . .”