Now, seeing it so vividly—so physically—expressed, he realized he had missed something of real importance.
They were scared, yes; but it was more than that. They were on the run. Their cockiness was merely a front. Gesell's bluster masked a general fear that someone would come along and simply wipe them out. Them and everything they stood for. They had suffered too many setbacks, too many betrayals by their own kind. They were paranoid, afraid of their own shadows.
But that was good. He could use that. It would give him the whip hand when they met in two days time.
He went through what he knew. The Han male to the far left of the picture was Shen Lu Chua, a computer systems expert, trained as a mathematician. He was in his mid-thirties, his clean-shaven face long and drawn. Beside him was a rather pretty-looking woman with finely chiseled features—a Hung Moo, though her dark, fine hair was cut like a Han's. Her name was Emily Ascher and she was an economist, though of more interest to DeVore was the fact that she was Gesell's lover. On the other side of Gesell—second from the right in the photo—was the Han female, Mao Liang. She was an interesting one. The fourth daughter of a quite prominent Minor Family, she had been raised and educated at First Level but had rebelled against her upbringing in her late teens; after a year of arguments at home, she had vanished into the lower levels, surfacing only now, five years later, among the Ping Tiao.
Last of the five—on the far right of the photo—was Jan Mach. He was a tall broad-shouldered man of thirty-three with dark shoulder-length braided hair and a thick growth of beard. He worked for the Ministry of Waste Recycling as a maintenance official. It was a good job for a Ping Tiao member, allowing him quick and legitimate passage between the levels; but Mach had the further advantage of being a volunteer in the Security Reserve Corps, licensed to carry a firearm. In the circles in which he operated it provided the perfect cover for his Ko Ming activities.
Mach alone of the five was looking away from DeVore in the picture, his eyes lowered to a writing pad on the desk before him. On the pad—in neatly formed pictograms that could be read quite clearly—was written Jen to chiu luan lung to chiu han: "Too many people bring chaos; too many dragons bring drought."
The detail was interesting. If Gesell was the leader, Mach was the power behind the throne. He was the one to watch, to influence, the ideologue of the group.
There was a sharp knock on the door.
"Come in!"
Lehmann stood there in the doorway. "Our guests are here, sir."
DeVore hesitated, noting how well the albino looked in uniform, then nodded. "Good. I'll be down in a short while. Take them to the dining room, and make sure they're well looked after."
Lehmann bowed and left.
DeVore turned and had one last brief look at the life-size picture of the five terrorists. "As one door closes, so another opens."
He laughed softly, then went across to his desk and pressed out the code to link him to the landing dome. His man there, Kubinyi, answered at once.
"Is everything in hand?"
"As you ordered, Excellency."
"Good. I want no foul-ups. Understand me?"
He cut contact before Kubinyi could answer, then reached across and took the file from the drawer. He paused, looking about his office, conscious of the significance of the moment. Then, with a sharp laugh of enjoyment, he slammed the drawer shut and went out.
New directions, he told himself as he marched briskly down the corridor toward the elevator. The wise man always follows new directions.
They turned as he entered the room. Seven of them. First Level businessmen, dressed in light-colored silk pan.
"Gentlemen," he said, deliberately—ironically—avoiding the normal Han term, ch'un tzu. "How good to see you all again."
He saw at once how tense they were, how they looked to each other for support. They were afraid of him. Afraid how he might react to the news they brought. News they thought he was unaware of. But he saw also how resigned they were. A spent force. The Seven had routed them thoroughly. The confiscations, the arrests and executions—these had shaken them badly. They saw now the true cost of their involvement.
So it is, he thought. And now your time has passed.
He went among them, shaking hands, making small talk, his style and manner putting them at ease. He left Douglas until last, taking the old man's hand firmly, warmly, holding his shoulder a moment, as if greeting the best of friends. Douglas was leader of the Dispersionists now that Berdichev was dead. Leader of a broken party, unwilling even to whisper its own name in public.
The news of Berdichev's death had been broken publicly only two hours before.
While they were meeting, no doubt, finalizing what they would say to him this afternoon. The shock of that lay on them too. He could see it in Douglas's eyes.
"It's a sad business," he said, pre-empting Douglas. "I had nothing but respect for Soren Berdichev. He was a great man."
Douglas lowered his head slightly. The news had affected him badly. His voice was bitter and angry, but also broken. "They killed him," he said. "Like a common criminal. One of their animal-men—some GenSyn brute—did it, I'm told. Snapped his back like a twig. No trial. Nothing." He raised his eyes again and met DeVore's. "I never imagined . . ."
"Nor I," said DeVore sympathetically, placing an arm about his shoulders. "Anyway . . . Come. Let's have something to eat. I'm sure you're all hungry after your flight here. Then we'll sit and talk."
Douglas bowed his head slightly, a wistful smile on his lips softening the hurt and anger in his eyes. "You're a good man, Howard."
Little was said during the meal, but afterward, with the plates cleared and fresh drinks poured all round, Douglas came to the point, "The war is over, Howard. The Seven have won. We must plan for the long peace."
The outer-blast shutters had been drawn back, and through the thick clear glass of the wall-length window could be seen the sunlit valley and the cloud-wreathed mountains beyond. The late afternoon light gave the room a strangely melancholy atmosphere. DeVore sat at the head of the table, his back to the window, facing them, his face in partial shadow. "Ai mo ta yu hsin ssu."
Douglas gave a slow nod of agreement. "So it is. Nothing is more sorrowful than the death of the heart. And that is how we feel, Howard. Weary. Heartbroken. More so now that Soren is not with us."
"And?" DeVore looked from one to another, noting how hard they found it to look at him at this moment of surrender. They were ashamed. Deeply, bitterly ashamed. But of what? Of their failure to dislodge the Seven? Or was it because of their betrayal of him? Only Douglas was looking at him.
When no one spoke DeVore stood and turned his back to them, staring out at the mountains. "I'm disappointed," he said. "I can't help it, but I am. I thought better of you than this. I thought you had more . . ." He turned, looking at them. "More guts."
The Fifty-Ninth Stone 25
"We've lost." Douglas said, sitting back, suddenly defensive. "It's an unpleasant fact to face, but it's true. Things have changed drastically, even in the last few months. It would be suicide to carry on."
"I see." DeVore seemed surprised. He turned slightly aside, as if considering something unexpected.
"Surely you must have thought about it, Howard? You must have seen how things are. The arrests. The confiscations. The Seven are riding high. Anyone who shows even the slightest sign of opposing them is crushed. And no half-measures." He paused, looking about him for support. "That's how it is. I can't change that, Howard. None of us can change it. We failed. Now it's time to call it a day."