Li Yuan turned. "What kind of problems?"
Kim smiled then put out an arm, inviting Li Yuan to accompany him. "I think you'd better see it for yourself."
LI YUAN STOOD BESIDE Kim in the tiny room, staring at the creature sprawled on the narrow bed. The first prototype had seemed little more than a complex marionette, like the golden bird in the poem Ben had sent him, but this . . . he felt a strange thrill—of fear? excitement?—run up his spine. This was something special. He could see that at a glance.
"So what is the problem?"
"Can't you see?"
Li Yuan made to step closer, but Kim touched his arm. "Forgive me, Chieh Hsia, but no closer. It's . . . erratic."
"Dangerous?"
"It hasn't been, but . . . well, I'd hate to be proved wrong."
"Should we ... ?" Li Yuan gestured to the door.
"No. It'll ignore us if we keep our distance. Usually it . . ."
"Usually it what?" The creature turned its head and stared at them, its eyes dark with intelligence.
Yes, Li Yuan thought, his breath catching in his throat, this was more like what he'd expected!
It turned and slid its legs over the edge of the bed.
"How are you today?"
It ignored Kim's question, staring at Li Yuan as if to place him.
"What do the latest figures show?"
"The same trend."
The creature nodded, then, in a gesture that was peculiarly human, combed its dark hair back from its eyes. "So what will you do?"
"I can reimplant."
"No good. If you do that I lose what I am. All I've been. Already—" it grimaced painfully—"already things are slipping from me."
"Has it a name?" Li Yuan asked.
Kim turned, surprised, as if he'd forgotten the young T'ang was there. "Ravachol ... I called him Ravachol."
"A Slavic name. Interesting. He looks Slavic."
Kim nodded, but already his attention was back with the creature.
"What do you want me to do?"
Ravachol looked away, pained, its every action revealing some deep inner torment. "I ... I don't know. Some new technique, perhaps? A drug?"
"There are no drugs."
It stared at Kim awhile, then shrugged. "So how long do I have?"
"Three, maybe four months."
It nodded. Then, smiling suddenly, it leaned toward Kim. "I had another dream."
"A dream? Tell me. Was it the same as before?"
Ravachol hesitated, concentrating, then shook its head. "No ... I don't think so."
Kim spoke to it softly, as if coaxing a child. "So?"
It frowned fiercely, as if struggling to recall the details, then began, its voice faltering. "It began in the light. A fierce, burning light. It seared me. I was consumed by it, caught up within a great wheel of incandescent light. And . . . and then it focused. I was ... I felt new-made. I stepped out from the center of the light and ... it was as if I was stepping into a airtight cube of glass—of ice—a place of stillness. Perfect, immaculate stillness." It sat back, its face beatific, and sighed. "I could hear nothing, feel nothing, smell and sense nothing. It was . . . strange. The silence was both within me and without. There was no pulse in me, no beating in my chest. It was like I was dead, and yet I was conscious. I could turn my head and see. But there was nothing to be seen. Even^he light . . . even that had gone. Not that it was dark. It was just . j ."
Ravachol stopped, its muscles locked, its eyes staring at Kim as if it had been switched off.
"And then?"
The way it came to again was eerie, frightening, like a timepiece clicking into motion on the hour. Li Yuan felt a small shiver of fear pass through him. Yes, he could see now what Kim meant. The thing was mad—totally, unequivocally mad.
"I can't remember. Something happened, but I can't remember. It's like a piece of cloth where the edge has frayed. I get so far and then there's nothing left."
It stared at Kim, mouth open in a perfect O of surprise.
"Okay, you'd better rest. If you dream the dream again, write it down. Or speak of it to the camera, before the edges fray."
It nodded, then, with a curious meekness, allowed itself to be tucked in beneath the thin white sheets. It lay there, passive, eyes open, staring at the ceiling. Then, with a suddenness that was shocking, its eyelids clicked shut.
Outside again, Li Yuan stood at the view window looking in.
"What does it mean, all that?"
"The dream?" Kim scribbled something in a small notebook, then slipped it into the pocket of his one-piece. "It's the same every time, detail for detail. It's not really a dream—not as you and I have them— more a symbolic landscape of its self-consciousness ... a tacit recognition of its basic nonexistence. It knows, you see. Knows what it is and how it was made. It even knows what's wrong with it. The dreams . . . they're a kind of anxiety outlet. The only one it has. Without them it would cease to function."
"I see." Li Yuan shuddered, feeling a strange pity for the creature. He was silent for a time, then he sighed. "I hoped we'd be farther along."
"We've come a long way."
"I know, it's just . . ."
"Time?"
Li Yuan nodded, then turned to face Kim. "Time. It's the curse of kings and emperors." He laughed wistfully. "When I was a child, I thought there was all the time in the world—that things would be the same forever. Time was like an old friend, unalterable, unending. But it isn't so. My father knew it. The day I was born, they say, he had a dream. A dream of the darkness to come."
Kim traced a circle on the one-way mirror. "You think collapse is inevitable, then?"
"Inevitable? No. But likely. More and more likely every day. Unless we take preventive action."
"And this?" Kim tapped the glass, indicating the sleeping android. "Do you really think this is any kind of solution?"
"You don't, I take it?"
Kim laughed. "You are the Pang, Chieh Hsia."
Li Yuan smiled. "So when will it be ready?"
"A year. Six months if we're really lucky."
"Lucky?" Li Yuan raised an eyebrow. "I thought your science was a precise thing."
"Oh, no, Chieh Hsia. Far from it. Luck plays a huge part in things. But the problems we've been having with the prototypes have stemmed mainly from the pace of development. We've come from nothing to this in less than three years. That's fast. Too fast, perhaps. If we were dealing with a single homogenous biosystem, it would be relatively straightforward—we could locate any errors as and when they occurred—but we're not: we're dealing with a dozen, fifteen different biosystems at any one time, and those systems aren't discrete, they're dependent on each other. One goes wrong, the whole lot goes wrong. And the trouble is, the systems have had no time to evolve properly—to grow together. We've had to rely on guesswork most of the time, and our guesses have sometimes been wrong. But why something doesn't work—whether it's this system we've got wrong or that— well, it's difficult to say."
Li Yuan raised a hand. "I understand. But a year ... a year should do it, right?"
Kim nodded.
"Good. Then it's time, perhaps, to make the thing specific."
"Specific?"
"Facial details, build, height and weight. That kind of thing."
"Ah . . ." Kim digested that a moment, then looked back at his T'ang. "Who is it?"
"I think it's best you don't know."
"Who is it?" Kim insisted. "I have to know."
Li Yuan stared at him, surprised, reminded briefly of Ben, then took the envelope from within his silks and offered it to Kim.
"He's a killer. A man named Soucek. But that information is classified, all right? Four men died getting those details."
Kim studied the sheaf of paper a moment longer, then nodded. "I understand. But why him?"