He patted the case. “You and I both.”
the old han sat across from Ebert, looking down at the wei chi board and stroking his neatly trimmed beard.
“You are improving,” he said without looking up. “Even so, I would place good odds on Nza beating you each time.”
Ebert laughed. “That bad, eh?”
Tuan Ti Fo looked up. “Bad? Did I say that was bad? No ... in fact the boy is very good. He has a natural aptitude for the game. He watches and learns. Have you not noticed how closely he watches?” Ebert nodded, sobered by the thought. “Yes . . . but I didn’t know he played.”
“I play him often.”
“Really?” Ebert frowned. “You mean . . . without the Machine?”
The old man laughed. “You think I live in there?”
“No, I”—he looked down—“I don’t know where you live.” “Behind it all,” Tuan Ti Fo answered, placing a white stone in Bhang, the south, “among the unnamed.”
“Ah. . .”
The old Han’s eyes twinkled mischievously. “Sometimes I think you take it all too seriously, Hans Ebert. You have come far these past two years, yet you are still only at the beginning of the path. It is as you said to young Nza. You must learn to row as if the boat were not there. Knowing is but the half of it. Now you must learn to forget. And to laugh. You have forgotten how to laugh.”
He stared at the old man a long, long time, then nodded. It was true. He laughed, yes, but it was the laughter of politeness or surprise, not the full belly-laugh of enjoyment. Darkness ... all he’d known these past few years was darkness, yet that, too, was only half of it. He placed a black stone on the board, in the north, in Tsu. “Ah . . .” Tuan Ti Fo said, chuckling to himself. “Maybe I’m wrong. Maybe you do have a sense of humor after all.”
it was some while since he had used the Machine other than to talk to the
Old Man and for once he felt ill at ease as he spoke to the glowing
screen.
“Machine . . . Show me the newcomers. Show me their leader.” At once an image formed. A big, corpulent man—a Han, naturally—looked on as two servants filled an ornate-looking bath. Ebert stared, surprised by the wasteful use of so much water.
“Focus on his face. I want to see ...”
His voice faded as the Han’s fat-jowled face filled the screen. It wasn’t a perfect image, for the camera viewpoint was above and to the right, yet it was good enough. He could see, as clearly as if the flesh were labeled, that this was a vain man, a cruel man—one who would not hesitate to carry out his orders, whatever they entailed.
Ebert narrowed his eyes.
“Who is he?”
“His name is Liang Yu and he is Hsien L’ing, Chief Magistrate, of the new settlement. Would you like his past record?” He nodded. At once a summary of Liang Yu’s career appeared on the screen.
“Would you like to know his vices?”
He smiled at the Machine’s understanding. “No. That’s all I need. By the way . . . are you still in touch with Chung Kuo?” “Chung Kuo, Titan, the Asteroids ... As long as the satellite links are open I can go where I wish.”
“I see.” Ebert hesitated; looked away. “The Marshal’s daughter . . . did she get back safely?”
“Jelka Tolonen? You wish to see her?”
He looked back at the screen, surprised. “Is that possible?” There was a moment’s delay, and then the image of a young, blond-haired woman appeared on the screen. The room she was in was almost dark, the only light coming from a small glow-lamp that hovered near where she sat at a desk, writing. He studied her awhile, fascinated, his eyes filled with pain and a longing that the years had not purged from him; then, satisfied, he nodded. The Machine, sensing the movement, blanked the screen.
“You want to know what she’s been doing?”
“No. I—I don’t want to pry.”
“And the meeting tonight. Will you go to it? Will you take me there?”
Ebert frowned. “Should I?”
“What does the Old Man say?” “He says be patient.” “Ah ...” The Machine seemed to pause, as if considering the mat-ter, then spoke again. “Perhaps this once the Old Man is right.”
at the midpoint of the night they gathered beneath the table rock, the Eldest of the ndichie standing on the ledge above them, one hand raised, facing the umunna, the gathered elders of the Osu. In their old-fashioned, heavy suits they seemed like ghosts, or like the crew of some long-abandoned ship, the metallic strips of their helmets glinting in the faint light of two glow-lamps. “Brothers . . .” the Eldest said, his voice carried on their suit mikes—a low, gruff voice, heavy with ancient inflections. “They are here. They are back. What are we to do?”
“Destroy them,” said one.
“Hide,” said another.
“Greet them,” said a third.
They turned, looking to the one who had spoken last. It was Ebert.
The Eldest took a step toward him, then beckoned him up onto the rock.
Ebert climbed up, then turned to face the ndichie.
“Speak. . . .” murmured a dozen, twenty voices.
“What do we fear?” he asked.
“That they will hunt us down,” one of the ndichie to his left answered.
“That they will kill our wives and children. That the Osu will be no
more.”
“And how might we prevent this?”
“Destroy them,” the same voice answered.
“Is that the only way? Is ochu the only answer the Osu have?”
Ochu . . . Murder. There, he had said it.
“Self-defense,” the same voice answered him. “We kill to live.”
“Ah ...” Ebert nodded. “And that is right, neh?”
“Not right. But necessary. Us or them.”
“And if I could prevent them from hunting the Osu?” There was a low murmur from among the ndichie. It was clearly what they had been hoping for.
“Tell us, Tsou Tsai Hei,” one called to him. “How can this be done?” “Listen . . .” he said, and as he did, a figure appeared at his side— the figure of an old and wizened Han, his gray hair flowing in the bitter wind, his eyes twinkling in the airless atmosphere.
liang yu, Hsien Ling of the new settlement, sat up with a start, spilling water over the side of the bath.
“Who the hell are you?”
Tuan Ti Fo bowed, a faint smile on his face. “Forgive me, Magistrate Liang. I did not mean to frighten you. But you are such a busy man. You are so seldom alone. I thought—“ Liang’s face was dark with anger. “Who the fuck let you in?” “Ah . . .” Tuan Ti Fo turned, looking about him, then shrugged. “I . . . seem to have let myself in. I am told I am good at that.” “A thief! . . . ahh, I understand.” Frowning fiercely, Liang sat right forward, gripping the edges of the bath. “So where in the gods’ names did you come from? Were you a stowaway?”
“Goodness, no. I live here.”
“Here? What... in Kang Kua City? But I thought—“
“Oh, no. Not here. Or rather, here, but not only here. On Mars, I mean.” Sticking out his chin Liang stood and stepped out of the bath, scattering water everywhere. He grabbed a towel and wrapped it around himself, then turned, facing Tuan Ti Fo again.
“This is outrageous, laojen. . . . Bursting in here without an invitation and—“ He stopped, his mouth open. He had put out his hand to prod Tuan Ti Fo in the chest and had seen it pass through the old man. “Aiya!” he cried, his voice trembling. “A ghost!” “Not at all,” Tuan Ti Fo said, and, raising his right hand, pushed Liang back firmly with the palm.