When they were settled around the table, Berdichev distributed the folders.
"Before you open them, let me ask each of you something." He turned and looked at Moore. "You first, John. Which is more important to you: a little of your time and energy—valuable as that is—or the future of our race, the Europeans?"
Moore laughed. "You know how I feel about that, Soren."
Berdichev nodded. "Okay. Then let me ask you something more specific. If I were to tell you that in that folder in front of you was a document of approximately two hundred thousand words, and that I wanted you to hand-copy it for me, what would you say to that?"
"Unexplained, I'd say you were mad, Soren. Why should I want to hand-copy a document? Why not get some of my people to put it on computer for me?"
"Of course." Berdichev's smile was harder. He seemed suddenly more his normal self. "But if I were to tell you that this is a secret document. And not just any small corporate secret, but the secret, would that make it easier to understand?"
Moore sat back slightly. "What do you mean, the secret? What's in the file, Soren?"
"I'll come to that. First, though, do you trust me? Is there anyone here who doesn't trust me?"
There was a murmuring and a shaking of heads. Parr spoke for them all. "You know there's not one of us who wouldn't commit half of all they owned on your word, Soren."
Berdichev smiled tightly. "Yes. I know. But what about one hundred percent? Is anyone here afraid to commit that much?"
Another of them—a tall, thin-faced man named Ecker— answered this time. A native of City Africa, he had strong trading links with Berdichev's company, SimFic.
"Do you mean a financial commitment, Soren, or are you talking of something more personal?"
Berdichev bowed slightly. "You are all practical men. That's good. I'd not have any other kind of men for friends. But to answer you, in one sense you're correct, Michael. I do mean something far more personal. That said, which of us here can so easily disentangle their personal from their financial selves?"
There was the laughter of agreement at that. It was true. They were moneyed creatures. The market was in their blood.
"Let me say simply that if any of you choose to open the folder you will be committing yourselves one hundred percent. Personally and, by inference, financially." He put out a hand quickly. "Oh, I don't mean that I'll be coming to you for loans or anything like that. This won't affect your trading positions."
Parr laughed. "I've known you more than twenty years now, Soren, and I realize that—like all of us here—you have secrets you would share with few others. But this kind of public indirectness is most unlike you. Why can't you just tell us what's in the folder?"
Berdichev nodded tersely. "All right. I'll come to it, I promise you, Charles. But this is necessary." He looked slowly about the table, then bowed his head slightly. "I want to be fair to you all. To make certain you understand the risks you would be taking simply in opening the folder. Because I want none of you to feel you were pushed into this. That would serve no one here. In fact, I would much rather that anyone who feels uncomfortable with this leave now before he commits himself that far. And no blame attached. Because once you take the first step—once you find out what's inside the folder—your lives will be forfeit."
Parr leaned forward and tapped the folder. "I still don't understand, Soren. What's in here? A scheme to assassinate the Seven? What could be so dangerous that simply to know of it could make a man's life forfeit?"
"The secret. As I said before. The thing the Han have kept from us all these years. As for why it's dangerous simply to know, let me tell you about a little-known statute that's rarely used these days—and a ministry whose sole purpose is to create an illusion which even they have come to believe is how things really are."
Parr laughed and spread his hands. "Now you are being enigmatic, Soren. What .statute? What ministry? What illusion?"
"It is called simply The Ministry, it is situated in Pei Ching, and its only purpose is to guard the secret. Further, it is empowered to arrest and execute anypne knowing of or disseminating information about the secret. As for the illusion . . ." He laughed sourly. "Well, you'll understand if you choose to open the folder."
One of the men who hadn't spoken before now sat forward. He was a big, powerful-looking man with a long, unfashionable beard. His name was Ross and he was die owner of a large satellite communications company in East Asia.
"This is treason, then, Soren?"
Berdichev nodded.
Ross stroked his beard thoughtfully and looked about him. Then, almost casually, he opened his folder, took out the stack of papers, and began to examine the first page.
A moment later others followed.
Berdichev looked about the table. Twelve folders lay empty, the files removed. He shivered, then looked down, a feint smile on his lips.
There was a low whistle from Moore. He looked up at Berdichev, his eyes wide. "Is this true, Soren? Is this really true?"
Berdichev nodded.
"But this is just so—so fantastic. Like a dream someone's had. It's..." he shrugged.
"It's true," Berdichev said firmly. They were all watching him now. "Which of us here has not been down into the Clay and seen the ruins? When the tyrant Tsao Ch'un built his City, he buried more than the architecture of the past, he buried its history too."
"And built another?" The voice was Parr's.
"Yes. Carefully, painstakingly, over the years. You see, his intention wasn't simply to eradicate all opposition to his rule, he wanted to destroy all knowledge of what had gone before him. As the City grew, so his officials collected all books, all tapes, all recordings, allowing nothing that was not Han to enter their great City. Most of what they collected was simply burned. But not all of it. Much was adapted. You see, Tsao Ch'un's advisors were too clever to simply create a gap. That, they knew, would have attracted curiosity. What they did was far more subtle and, in the long run, far more persuasive to the great mass of people. They set about reconstructing the history of the world—placing Chung Kuo at the center of everything; back in its rightful place, as they saw it."
He drew a breath, then continued, conscious momentarily of noises from the party in the gardens outside. "It was a lie, but a lie to which everyone subscribed, for in the first decades of the City simply to question their version of the past—even to suggest it might have happened otherwise—was punishable by death. But the lie was complex and powerful, and people soon forgot. New generations arose who knew little of the real past. To them the whispers and rumors seemed mere fantasy in the face of the reality they had been taught and could see about them. The media fed them the illusion daily until the illusion became, even for those responsible for its creation, quite real."
"And this—this Aristotle file ... is this the truth Tsao Ch'un suppressed?"
Berdichev looked back at Ross. "Yes."
"How did you come upon it?"
Berdichev smiled. "Slowly. Piece by piece. For the last fifteen years IVe been searching—making my own discreet investigations. Following up clues. And this—this file—is the end result of all that searching."
Ross sat back. "I'm impressed. More than that, Soren, I'm astonished! Truly, for the first time in my life I'm astonished. This is"—he laughed strangely—"well, it's hard to take it in. Perhaps it's the brandy but—"
There was laughter at that, but all eyes were on Ross as he tried to articulate their feelings.
"Well ... I know what my friend John Moore means. It is fantastic. Perhaps too much so to swallow at a single go like this." He reached forward and lifted the first few pages, then looked at Berdichev again. "It's just that I find it all rather hard to believe."