The director's eyes widened slightly, then he nodded. 'Hmm,' he said, the implications sinking in.
'Uh. This means the government will also have full and regular access to Info on this funded, guaranteed account.'
'Of course,' said the Director, arms held open.
'We will need to discuss security and coding.'
'I have a full report,' replied the Director. He had a copy for Mae.
He strolled with them to the front door.
'An honour, Madam,' Mr Saatchi Saatchi said. 'Such enterprise gladdens the hearts of all.' He shook hands with all of them. He smelled of pine, and through the white shirt was the brighter outline of his perfumed vest.
When he had gone, Sezen seized Mae's hand. 'Oh, Mae,' she said, lost for words.
Mae felt like chuckling. 'If only he knew who we were!'
Sezen shrugged. 'Did you notice,' she said, 'the Director was not wearing a wedding ring? Perhaps I can marry him if you cannot.'
Mr Oz and Mr Wing went off together to admire computers. Mae wanted to get her hair done. She went to Halat's. The little hussy was even busier and ruder than ever. She snapped her fingers and sent Mae and Sezen to her assistants. The young girls showed them on screens how Mae and Sezen would look with their new hair. The young girls looked very smug, expecting Mae to be knocked sideways by science. 'Tuh,' said Mae. 'I do that on the top of Red Mountain.'
As the girls cut and trimmed, they looked all the while at the screens for instructions.
'How can Halat be so foolish?' wondered Mae as they left.
'How do you mean?' Sezen asked.
Mae shook her head. 'She makes it too plain that she herself adds nothing.'
Fashion had shifted again. There was more garish colour, not less, particularly on the young women. Fashion had gone crazy, in all different directions at once.
But the ice cream shop was there, and the old streaked cinema showing Hong Kong movies, and the tiny shops offering acupuncture, healing herbs, fortune-telling. Lined up outside the tiled wall of a butcher's shop was a row of severed goat's-heads.
The shop of the disabled seamstress was closed. Mae had wanted to buy her stock of oatmeal cloth. Its green door had a hastily hammered board across it.
Mae went into the next shop, which sold various sweets, walnuts on thread in dried fruit juice. A rather sour, slumped-looking woman ran it.
'What happened to Miss Soo?' asked Mae.
'Oh! She left to be with her boyfriend.'
Mae was silent. She remembered the girl's staring eyes, the twisted limbs, and she wanted to know: how did she get the money, what did she find when she got there?
The woman was blunt. 'They didn't stay together, but she found a job anyway and stayed in Balshang. Tuh. I had to board her shop up myself to keep out the vermin.'
'What happened to her stock?'
The woman was not that interested. 'I think it was sold at auction.'
Mae paused. The oatmeal cloth. She saw it now with different eyes. It had been finely woven, with white mixed in, tight warp and weft, and it would hang so well, so well when weighted down with fine embroidery.
'Was anything left over?'
'Oh! You will have to ask around. Hold on. Hakan? Hakan?' The woman called her husband, a Karzistani. 'A lady here wants to know if Miss Soo had any stock left over.'
There was a bellow from behind the curtain, and a murmur from a TV. 'How should I know?'
The woman did not like to be shown to be lower-class, poor. She felt herself to be showed up by her husband's response. 'You are a man in business, I assumed you knew.'
Mae was surprised how sorry she was not to see Miss Soo, sorry not to be able to follow her story. She looked at the boarded-up shop, and its closed and shuttered windows. The plywood was already streaked and cracked. Mae discovered that she had liked Miss Soo very much, and admired her. And it would have been useful to have a friend in the Balshang fashion business.
'If she ever comes back,' said Mae. 'Do tell her that Mrs Chung sends affectionate regards.'
Sezen asked as they walked back to the van. 'So what now?'
Mae sniffed. 'I have credit now. I will order cloth online.'
Everything ends, said Old Mrs Tung.
The meeting was held in the Mudharet, the Town Hall, with its cracked tiles and filthy toilets.
The meeting room was laid out like a theatre, with a stage and rows of seats. It was crowded, unbearably hot, and roaring with sustained talk. On the wall was a blank panel of patterned teak with some twist of black iron pinned to it, like an ugly brooch. Sculpture.
There were no seats left except in the very front row, as if the participants were schoolchildren wanting to avoid the teacher's gaze.
Mae walked down the aisle and along the front row and saw faces. A young, sharp eagle of a man sat in a suit that looked expensive and cheap at the same time. He smiled slightly while his eyes glared. He is a shark, thought Mae. He eats people.
Beside the Shark, a masculine-looking woman with no makeup, short hair, a sleeping-bag jacket, and army boots was talking to herself into some kind of microphone.
A fat man with pink hair was blowing his nose. The boy next to him provocatively pulled up his T-shirt to display tattoos.
All these people, Mae realized, have new faces. I can only just read them. She began to feel a tremor again, the tremor of fear.
The Talent who read the local news walked onto the stage, to a mixture of polite applause and boos. She was immaculate in fire-engine red. She was prettier than she looked on TV, and far more steely. She gave a television smile and welcomed them, but there was no polite silence. If anything, the noise from the crowd got worse.
'Good afternoon. I am pleased to welcome you to the afternoon session of today's important discussions…' She explained that they had been enlightened and enthralled by the first set of speakers. They were now to usefully discuss and come to some conclusions about the use that the Green Valley should make of new technology.
Someone shouted at her, 'Don't bother with all of that. Why has the government accepted an outmoded Format for Air?' Mae looked around to see a scrawny middle-aged man.
The Talent's smile did not falter. 'The UN Format is the agreed international standard. Karzistan is not in a position to choose a different Format than everyone else.'
There was a groan of protest mingled with raucous laughter.
A scrawny man who was all white city teeth grinned. 'Not in Tokyo.'
'This is not Tokyo,' said the Talent with icy forbearance.
'In Tokyo they use both!'
'Just don't make it practically illegal!' shouted the Army Boot Woman.
'Please,' said the Talent, holding up her hands. 'This meeting can do nothing about the UN Format!'
'They are running the Gates Format at the same time, in New York!' another Head shouted.
'Look. This meeting is to review local efforts here in the Happy Province.'
'What efforts?' the fat man yelled, still eating. He was enjoying the atmosphere.
'This, among them-' began the Talent.
'This is supposed to be a discussion, give us Focus!'
'Focus!' someone else yelled.
The Talent turned and snapped her fingers. Mae found herself admiring her. The Talent's voice was suddenly louder. 'Okay, we each have the Focus in turn, but please stand up and say who you are. You first, sir.'
The fat pink-haired man stood up. 'Ali Bey Turkoman. I ask again, what efforts? There is only one Taking Wing officer for all of the Red Mountain area. Is there a single e-mail address for all those villages yet? Is this a concerted government effort?'
He wants to sell us things, thought Mae.
'It is precisely the lack of e-mail that Air and related technologies are meant to address. Next question!'
The Talent, tense, pointed to someone else. A scholarly looking man, bow-backed, spectacles, unfolded upwards from his chair. 'Professor Li Ho, Department of Medical-Computer Interface.'