Berdichev leaned forward, light glinting from the lenses of his glasses. "That's just what they intended, Alexander. And it's one of the reasons why I want you all to hand write a copy. That way it will get rooted in you all. You will have done more than simply read it. You will have transcribed it. And in doing so the reality of it will strike you forcibly. You will see how it all connects. Its plausibility—no, its truth!—will be written in the blood of every one of you."
Ross smiled. "I see that the original of this was written in your own hand, Soren. You ask us to commit ourselves equally?"
Berdichev nodded.
"Then I for one am glad to do so. But what of the copy we make? What should we do with it? Keep it safe?"
Berdichev smiled, meeting his friend's eyes. Ross knew. He had seen it already. "You will pass your copy on. To a man you trust like a brother. As I trust you. He, in his turn, will make another copy and pass it on to one he trusts. And so on, forging a chain, until there are many who know. And then . . ." He sat back. "Well, then you will see what will happen. But this—this here tonight—is the beginning of it. We are the first. From here the seed goes out. But harvesttime will come, I promise you all. Harvesttime will come."
"Hung Moo or Han, what does it matter? They're Above. They despise us Clayborn."
The three boys were sitting on the edge of the pool, their feet swung out over the water.
Kim was looking down into the mirror of the water, his eyes tracing the patterns of the stars reflected from the Tun Huang map overhead. He had been silent for some while, listening to the others speak, but now he interrupted them.
"I know what you mean, Anton, but it's not always like that. There are some . . ."
"Like Chan Shui?"
Kim nodded. He had told them what had happened in the Casting Shop. "Yes, like Chan Shui."
Anton laughed. "You probably amuse him. Either that or he thinks that he can benefit somehow by looking after you. As for liking you . . ." '
Kim shook his head. "No. It's not like that. Chan Shui—"
Josef cut in. "Be honest, Kim. They hate us. I mean, what has this Chan Shui done that's really cost him anything? He's stood up to a bully. Fine. And that's impressed you. That and all that claptrap T'ai Cho has fed you about Han justice. But it's all a sham. All of it. It's like Anton says. He's figured you must be important—something special—and he's reckoned that if he looks after you there might be something in it for him."
Again Kim shook his head. "You don't understand. You really don't."
Anton laughed dismissively. "We understand, Kim. But it seems like you're going to have to leam it the hard way. They don't want us, Kim. Not for ourselves, anyway—only for what we are. They use us like machines, and if we malfunction they throw us away. That's the truth of the matter."
Kim shrugged. There was a kind of truth to that, but it wasn't the whole truth. He thought of Matyas and Janko. What distinguished them? They were both bullies. It had not mattered to Matyas that he, Kim, was Clay like himself. No. Nor was it anything Kim had done to him. It was simply that he was different. So it was with Janko. But to some that difference did not matter. T'ai Cho for instance, and Chan Shui. And there would be others, he was sure of it.
"It's them and us," said Anton, laughing bitterly. "That's how it is, Kim. That's how it'll always be."
"No!" Kim was insistent now. "You're wrong. You're both wrong. Them and us. It just isn't like that. Sometimes, yes, but not always."
Anton shook his head. "Always. Deep down it's always there. You should ask him, this Chan Shui. Ask him if he'd let you marry his sister."
"He hasn't got a sister."
"You miss my point, Kim."
Kim shivered and looked away, unconsciously stroking the bruise on his neck. Shame and guilt. It was always there in them, just beneath the skin. But why did they let these things shape them? Why couldn't they break the mold and make new creatures of themselves?
"Maybe I miss your point, but I'd rather think well of Chan Shui than succumb to the bleakness of your view." His voice was colder, more hostile, than he had intended, and he regretted his words at once—true as they were.
Anton stood up slowly, then looked down coldly at his fellow. "Come on, Josef. I don't think we're wanted here anymore."
"I'm sorry. I didn't mean—"
But it was too late. They were gone.
Kim sat there a while longer, distressed by what had happened. But maybe it was unavoidable. Maybe he could only have delayed the moment. Because he was different—even from his own kind.
He laughed. There! He had betrayed himself: had caught himself in his own twisted logic. For either they were all of one single kind—Han, Hung Mao, and Clay—or he was wrong.' And he could not be wrong. His soul cried out not to be wrong.
He looked up at the dull gold ceiling, stretching and easing his neck, then shivered violently. But what if he was wrong? What if Anton was right?
"No." He was determined. "They'll not make me think like that. Not now. Not ever." He looked down at his clenched fists and slowly let the anger drain from him. Then he stood and began to make his way back. Another morning in the Casting Shop lay ahead of him.
THE MACHINE flexed its eight limbs, then seemed to squat and hatch a chair from nothingness.
Kim laughed. "It seems like it's really alive sometimes." Chan Shui, balanced on his haunches at Kim's side, turned his head to look at him, joining in with his laughter. "I know what you mean, Kim. It's that final little movement, isn't it?"
"An arachnoid. That's what it is, Shui!" Kim nodded to himself, studying the now inert machine. Then he turned and saw the puzzlement in the older boy's face.
"It's just a name I thought of for them. Spiders—they're arachnids. And machines that mimic life—those are often called androids. Put the two together and . . ."
Chan Shui's face lit up. It was a rounded, pleasant face, A handsome, uncomplicated face, framed by neat black hair.
Kim looked at him a moment, wondering, then, keeping his voice low, asked the question he had been keeping back all morning. "Do you like me, Chan Shui?"
There was no change in Chan Shui's face. It smiled back at him, perfectly open, the dark eyes clear. "What an absurd question, Kim. What do you think?"
Kim bowed his head, embarrassed, but before he could say anything more, Chan Shui had changed the subject.
"Do you know what they call a spider in Han, Kim?"
Kim met his eyes again. "Chih chu, isn't it?"
Chan Shui seemed pleased. "That's right. But did you know that we have other, more flowery names for them. You see, for us they have always been creatures of good omen. When a spider lowers itself from its web they say, 'Good luck descends from heaven.'"
Kim laughed, delighted. "Are there many spiders where you are, Chan Shui?"
Chan shook his head, then stood up and began examining the control panel. "There are no spiders. Not nowadays. Only caged birds and fish in artificial ponds." He looked back at Kim, a rueful smile returning to his lips. "Oh, and us."
His bitterness had been momentary, yet it was telling. No spiders? How was that? Then Kim understood. Of course. There would be no insects of any kind within the City proper—the quarantine gates of the Net would see to that.
Chan Shui pulled the tiny vial from its slot in the panel and shook it. "Looks like weVe out of ice. I'll get some more."
Kim touched his arm. "I'll get it, Chan Shui. Where do I go?"
The Han hesitated, then smiled. "Okay. It's over there, on the far side. There's a refill tank—see it?—yes, that's it. All you have to do is take this empty vial back, slip it into the hole in the panel at the bottom of the tank, and punch in the machine number. This here." Chan Shui pointed out the serial number on the arachnoid's panel. "It'll return the vial after about a minute, full. Okay?"