"Maybe," he said, looking away from her. "And yet I've got to try to understand it. It may be awful, but this is what is, Meg. This is all that remains of the world we made."
She began to shake her head, to remind him of home, but checked herself. It was not the time to tell him why she'd come. Besides, talking of home would only infuriate him. And perhaps he was right. Perhaps he did have to try to understand it. So that he could return, satisfied, knowing there was nothing else—nothing missing from his world.
"You seem depressed, Ben. Is it just the place? Or is it something else?"
He turned, half smiling. "No. You're right. It's not just the place." He made a small despairing gesture, then looked up at one of the great tiers of balconies.
Through the glasslike walls one could see people—dozens, hundreds, thousands of people. People, everywhere you looked. One was never alone here. Even in his rooms he felt the press of them against the walls.
He looked back at her, his face suddenly naked, open to her. "I get lonely here, Meg. More lonely than I thought it possible to feel."
She stared at him, then lowered her eyes, disturbed by the sudden insight into what he had been feeling. She would never have guessed.
As they walked on he began to tell her about the fight. When he had finished she turned to face him, horrified.
"But they can't blame you for that, Ben. He provoked you. You were only defending yourself, surely?"
He smiled tightly. "Yes. And the authorities have accepted that. Several witnesses came forward to defend me against his accusation. But that only makes it worse, somehow."
"But why? If it happened as you say it did."
He looked away, staring across the open space. "I offered to pay full costs. For a new synthetic, if necessary. But he refused. It seems he plans to wear his broken hand like a badge."
He looked back at her, his eyes filled with pain and hurt and anger. And something else.
"You shouldn't blame yourself, Ben. It was his fault, not yours."
He hesitated, then shook his head. "So it seems. So I made it seem. But the truth is, I enjoyed it, Meg. I enjoyed pushing him. To the limit and then . . ." He made a small pushing movement with one hand. "I enjoyed it. Do you understand that, Meg?"
She watched her brother, not understanding. It was a side of him she had never seen, and for all his words she couldn't quite believe it.
"It's guilt, Ben. You're feeling guilty for something that wasn't your fault."
He laughed and looked away. "Guilt? No, it wasn't guilt. I snapped his hand like a rotten twig. Knowing I could do it. Don't you understand? I could see how drunk he was, how easily he could be handled."
He turned his head, bringing it closer to hers, his voice dropping to a whisper.
"I could have winded him. Could have held him off until the waiters came to break things up. But I didn't. I wanted to hurt him. Wanted to see what it was like. I engineered it, Meg. Do you understand? I set it up."
She shuddered, then shook her head, staring at him intently now. "No." But his eyes were fierce, assertive. What if he had!
"So what did you learn? What was it like?"
He looked down at her hand where his own enclosed it. "If I close my eyes I can see it all. Can feel what it was like. How easily 1 led him. His weight and speed. How much pressure it took, bone against bone, to break it.
And that knowledge is . . ." He shrugged, then looked up at her again, his hand exerting the gentlest of pressure on hers. "I don't know. It's power, I guess." "And you enjoyed that?"
She was watching him closely now, forcing her revulsion down, trying to help him, to understand him.
"Perhaps you're right," he said, ignoring her question. "Perhaps I ought to go home."
"And yet something keeps you."
He nodded, his eyes still focused on her hand. "That's right. I'm missing something. I know I am. Something I can't see."
"But there's nothing here, Ben. Just look about you. Nothing."
He looked away, shrugging, seeming to agree with her, but he was thinking of the Lu Nan Jen, the Oven Man, and about Catherine. He had been wrong about those things—surprised by them. So maybe there was more, much more than he'd imagined.
He turned, looking back at her. 'Anyway, you'd better go. Your appointment's in an hour."
She looked back at him, her disappointment clear. "I thought you were coming with me."
He had told Catherine he would meet her at eleven, had promised he would show her more of the old paintings; but seeing the look on Meg's face, he knew he could not let her go alone.
"All right," he said, smiling, "I'll come to the clinic with you. But then I've things to do. Important things."
ben LOOKED about him at the rich decor of the anteroom and frowned. Such luxury was unexpected at this low level. Added to the tightness of the security screening it made him think that there must be some darker reason than financial consideration for establishing the Melfi Clinic in such an unusual setting.
The walls and ceiling were an intense blue, while underfoot a matching carpet was decorated with a simple yellow border. To one side stood a plinth on which rested a bronze of a pregnant woman—Hung Mao, not Han—her naked form the very archetype of fecundity. Across from it hung the only painting in the room—a huge canvas, its lightness standing out against the blue-black of the walls. It was an oak, a giant oak, standing in the plush green of an ancient English field.
In itself, the painting was unsurprising, yet in context it was, again, unexpected. Why this? he asked himself. Why here? He moved closer, then narrowed his eyes, looking at the tiny acorn that lay in the left foreground of the composition, trying to make out the two tiny initials that were carved into it.
AS. As what? he thought, smiling, thinking of all those comparatives he had learned as a very young child. As strong as an ox. As wily as a fox. As proud as a peacock. As sturdy as an oak.
And as long-lived. He stared at it, trying to make out its significance in the scheme of things; then he turned, looking back at Meg. "You've come here before?"
She nodded. "Every six months."
"And Mother? Does she come here, too?"
Meg laughed. "Of course. The first time I came, I came with her."
He looked surprised. "1 didn't know."
"Don't worry yourself, Ben. It's women's business, that's all. It's just easier for them to do it all here than for them to come into the Domain. Easier and less disruptive."
He nodded, looking away, but he wasn't satisfied. There was something wrong with all this. Something . . .
He turned as the panel slid back and a man came through, a tall, rather heavily built Han, his broad face strangely nondescript, his neat black hair swept back from a polished brow. His full-length russet gown was trimmed with a dark-green band of silk. As he came into the room he smiled and rubbed his hands together nervously, giving a small bow of his head to Meg before turning toward Ben.
"Forgive me Shih Shepherd, but we were not expecting you. I am the Senior Consultant here, Tung T'an. If I had known that you planned to accompany your sister, I would have suggested . . ." He hesitated, then not sure he should continue, he smiled and bowed his head. "Anyway, now that you are here, you had better come through, neh?"
Ben stared back at the Consultant, making him avert his eyes. The man was clearly put out that he was there. But why should that be if this were a routine matter? Why should his presence disturb things, even if this were "women's business"?
"Meg," the Consultant said, turning to her. "It is good to see you again. We expected you next week, of course, but no matter. It will take us but a moment to prepare everything."
Ben frowned. But she had said. . . He looked at her, his eyes demanding to know why she hadn't told him that her appointment was not for another week, but her look told him to be patient.