"They're all trouble," said Teng, scratching his left buttock vigorously. "Stupid and trouble. It's genetic. That's what it is."
Chang laughed. "Maybe so."
They had come to a bridge. The first man had stopped, his head still bowed, waiting for the others. He was forbidden to cross the bridge without a permit.
"Get on!" said Teng, drawing the long club from his belt and jabbing the man viciously in the small of the back. "The Over-seer wants to see you. Don't keep him waiting, now!"
The man stumbled forward onto the bridge, then got up and trudged on again, wiping his dirtied hands against his thighs as he went and glancing up briefly, fearfully, as the big House loomed over him.
More guards lounged at the foot of the steps. One of them, a tall Hung Mao, sat apart from the rest, looked up as the three men approached, then, with the vaguest movement of his head to indicate that they should go on up, looked back down at the rifle in his lap, continuing his meticulous inspection of the weapon.
"Good day, ShzH Peskova," said Teng, acknowledging the Overseer's lieutenant with a bow. But Peskova paid him no attention. Teng was Han and Han were shit. It didn't matter whether they were guard or peasant. Either way they were shit. Hadn't he heard as much from The Man himself often enough?
When they had gone, Peskova turned and looked up at the House again. He would have to watch that Teng. He was getting above himself. Thinking himself better than the other men. He would have to bring him down a level. Teach him better manners.
With a smile he put the rifle down and reached for the next in the stack at his side. Yes, it would be fun to see the big Han on his knees and begging. A lot of fun.
OVER SHER BERGSON looked across as the three men entered.
"What is it, Teng Fu?"
The big Han knelt in the doorway and bowed his head. "We have brought the man you asked for, Overseer."
Bergson turned from the bank of screens that took up one whole wall of the long room and got up from his chair. "You can go, Teng Fu. You, too, Chang Yan. I'll see to him myself."
When they were gone and he was alone with the field supervisor, Bergson came across and stood there, no more than an arm's length from the man.
"Why did you do it, Field Supervisor Sung?"
The man swallowed, but did not lift his head. "Do what, Shih Bergson?"
Bergson reached out almost tenderly and took the man's cheek between the fingers of his left hand and twisted until Sung fell to his feet, whimpering in pain.
"Why did you do it, Sung? Of do you want me to beat the truth out of you?"
Sung prostrated himself, holding on to Bergson's feet. "I could not bear it any longer, Overseer. There is barely enough to keep a child alive, let alone men and women who have to toil in the fields all day. And when I heard the guards were going to cut our rations yet again . . ."
Bergson stepped back, shaking Sung's hands off. "Barely enough? What nonsense is this, Sung? Isn't it true that the men steal from the rice fields? That they eat much of the crop they are supposed to be harvesting?"
Sung started to shake his head, but Bergson brought his foot down firmly on top of his left hand and began to press down. "Tell me the truth, Sung. They steal, don't they?"
Sung cried out, then nodded his head vigorously. "It is so, Shih Bergson. There are many who do as you say."
Bergson slowly brought his foot up, then stepped away from Sung, turning his back momentarily, considering.
"And you stole because you had too little to eat?"
Sung looked up, then quickly looked back down, keeping his forehead pressed to the floor. "No ... I..."
"Tell me the truth, Sung!" Bergson barked, turning sharply. "You stole because you were hungry, is that it?"
Sung miserably shook his head. "No, Shih Bergson. I have enough."
"Then why? Tell me why."
Sung shuddered. A sigh went through him like a wave. Then,
resigned to his fate, he began to explain. "It was my wife, Overseer. She is a kindly woman, you understand. A good woman. It was her suggestion. She saw how it was for the others: that they were suffering while we, fortunate as we were, had enough. I told her we could share what we had, but she would not have it. I pleaded with her not to make me do as she asked. . . ."
"Which was?"
"I stole, Overseer. I took fruit from the Frames and gave it to the others."
Bergson laughed coldly. "Am I meant to believe this, Sung? An honest thief? A charitable thief? A thief who sought no profit from his actions?"
Sung nodded his head once but said nothing.
Bergson moved closer. "I could have you flogged senseless for what you did, Sung. Worse, I could have you thrown into the Clay. How would you like that, Field Supervisor Sung? To be sent into.the Clay?"
Sung stared up at Bergson, his terror at the thought naked in his eyes. "You'd not do that, Shih Bergson. Please. I beg you. Anything but that."
Bergson was silent a moment. He turned and went across to the desk. When he returned he was holding a thin card in one hand. He knelt down and held it in front of Sung's face a moment.
"Do you know what this is, Sung?"
Sung shook his head. He had never seen the like of it. It looked like a piece of Above technology—something they never saw out in the fields—but he would not have liked to have guessed just what.
"This here, Sung, is the evidence of your crime. It's a record of the hour you spent harvesting in the Frames. A hidden camera took a film of you."
Again Sung shuddered. "What do you want, Shih Bergson?"
Bergson smiled and slipped the thin sliver of ice into his jacket pocket, then stood up again. "First I want you to sit down over here and write down the names of all those who shared the stolen fruit with you."
Sung hesitated, then nodded. "And then?"
"Then you'll go back to your barracks and send your wife to me."
Sung stiffened but did not look up. "My wife, Overseer?"
"The good woman. You know, the one who got you into all this trouble."
Sung swallowed. "And what will happen to my wife, Shih Bergson?"
Bergson laughed. "If she's good—if she's very good to me— then nothing. You understand? In fact—and you can tell her this—if she's exceptionally good I might even give her the tape. Who knows, eh, Sung?"
Sung looked up, meeting Bergson's cold gray eyes for the first time in their interview, then looked down again, understanding perfectly.
"Good. Then come. There's paper here and ink. You have a list of names to write."
SHE CAME when it was dark. Peskova took her up to the top room—the big room beneath the eaves—and locked her in as he had been told to. Then he went, leaving the House empty but for the woman and the Overseer.
For a time DeVore simply watched her, following her every movement with the hidden cameras, switching from screen to screen, zooming in to focus on her face or watching her from the far side of the room. Then, when he was done with that, he nodded to himself and blanked the screens.
She was much better than he had expected. Stronger, prettier, more attractive than he'd anticipated. He had thought beforehand that he would have to send her back and deal with Sung some other way, but now he had seen her he felt the need in him, like a strong, dark tar in his blood, and knew he would have to purge himself of that. He had not had a woman for weeks—not since that last trip 'to the Wilds—and that had been a singsong girl, all artifice and expertise. No, this would be different; something to savor.
Quickly he went to the wall safe at the far end of the room and touched the combination. The door irised open and he reached inside, drawing out the tiny vial before the door closed up again.
He hesitated a moment, then gulped the drug down, feeling its warmth sear his throat and descend quickly to his stomach. It would be in his blood in minutes.