Andersen read the title page, then looked up at T'ai Cho. "What is this? Some kind of joke?"
"No. It's not a joke, Shih Andersen. It's something Kim put together."
Andersen studied him a moment, then looked back down at the document, leafing through a few pages before stopping, his attention caught by something he had glimpsed. "You knew about this, then?"
"Not until last night."
Andersen looked up sharply. Then he gave a tiny little nod, seeing what it implied. "How did he keep the files hidden?"
T'ai Cho shook his head. "I don't know. I thought it was something you might want to investigate."
Andersen considered a moment. "Yes. Yes. It has wider implications. If Kim can keep files secret from a copycat system . . ."
He looked back down at the stack of paper. "What exactly is this, T'ai Cho? I assume youVe read it?"
"Yes. I've read it. But as to what it is . . ." He shrugged. "I suppose you might call it an alternative history of Chung Kuo. Chung Kuo as it might have been had the Ta Ts'in legions won the Battle of Kazatin."
Andersen laughed. "An interesting idea. Wasn't that in the film they showed last night?"
T'ai Cho nodded, suddenly remembering Kim's words "Pan Chao was triumphant. As usual." In Kim's version of things Pan Chao had never crossed the Caspian. There had been no Battle of Kazatin. Instead, Pan Chao had met the Ta Ts'in legate and signed a pact of friendship. An act which, eighteen centuries later, had led to the collapse of the Han Empire at the hands of a few "Europeans" with superior technology.
"There's more, much more, but the drift of it is that the West—the Hung Mao—got to rule the world, not the Han."
The Director turned a few more pages, then frowned. "Why should he want to invent such stuff? What's the point of it?"
"As an exercise, maybe. A game to stretch his intellect."
Andersen looked up at him again. "Hmm. I quite like that. It's good to see him exercising his mind. But as to the idea itself . . ." He closed the file and pushed it aside. "Let's monitor it, eh, T'ai Cho? See it doesn't get out of hand and take up too much time. I'd say it was harmless enough, wouldn't you?"
T'ai Cho was about to disagree, but saw the look in Andersen's eyes. He was not interested in pursuing the matter. Set against the business of safeguarding his investment it was of trivial importance. T'ai Cho nodded and made to retrieve the file.
"No. Leave it with me, T'ai Cho. Shi/i Berdichev is calling on me tomorrow. The file might amuse him."
T'ai Cho backed away and made as if to leave, but Andersen called him back.
"One last thing, T'ai Cho."
"Yes, Director?"
"I've decided to bring forward Kim's socialization. He's to start in the Casting Shop tomorrow."
"Tomorrow? Don't you think . . .?" He was about to say he thought Kim too young, but saw that Andersen was looking at him again, that same expression in his eyes. I have decided, it said. There is to be no argument. T'ai Cho swallowed, then bowed. "Very well, Shih Andersen. Should I make arrangements?"
Andersen smiled. "No. It's all been taken care of. My secretary will give you the details before you leave."
T'ai Cho bowed again, humbled, then backed away,
"And, T'ai Cho . . ."
"Yes, Director?"
"You'll say nothing of this file to anyone, understand?"
T'ai Cho bowed low. "Of course."
FOR A MOMENT Kim studied the rust-colored scholar's garment T'ai Cho had given him, then he looked back at his tutor. "What's this, T'ai Cho?"
T'ai Cho busied himself, clearing out his desk. "It's your work pau."
"Work? What kind of work?"
Still T'ai Cho refused to look at him. "You begin this morning. In the Casting Shop."
Kim was silent a moment; then, slowly, he nodded. "I see." He shrugged out of his one-piece and pulled the loose-fitting pau over his head. It was a simple, long-sleeved pau with a chest patch giving the Project's name in pale green pictograms and, beneath that, in smaller symbols, Kim's ownership details—the contract number and the SimFic symbol.
T'ai Cho looked fleetingly across at him. "Good. You'll be going there every day from now on. From eight until twelve. Your normal classes will be shifted to the afternoon."
He had expected Kim to complain—the new arrangements would cost him two hours of his free time every day—but Kim gave no sign. He simply nodded. '
"Why are you clearing your desk?"
T'ai Cho paused. The anger he had felt on finishing the Aristotle file had diminished somewhat, but still he felt resentful toward the boy. He had thought he knew him. But he had been wrong. The file had proved him wrong. Kim had betrayed him.
His friendliness was like the tampered lock, the hidden files—a deception. The boy was Clayborn and the Claybom were cunning by nature. He should have known that. Even so, it hurt to be proved wrong. Hurt like nothing he had felt in years.
"I'm asking to be reposted."
Kim was watching him intently. "Why?"
"Does it matter?" He could not keep the bitterness from his voice. Yet when he turned and looked at Kim he was surprised to see how shocked, how hurt, the boy was.
Kim's voice was small, strangely vulnerable. "Is it because of the fight?"
T'ai Cho looked down, pursing his lips. "There was no fight, Kim. You told me there was no fight."
"No." The word was barely audible.
T'ai Cho looked up. The boy was looking away from him now, his head slightly turned to the right. For a moment he was struck by how cruel he was being, not explaining why he was going. Surely the child deserved that much? Then, as he watched, a tear formed in Kim's left eye and slowly trickled down his cheek.
He had never seen Kim cry. Nor, he realized, had he ever really thought of him as a child. Not as a true child, anyway. Now, as he stood there, T'ai Cho saw him properly for the first time. Saw how fragile Kim was. A nine-year-old boy, that was all he was. An orphan. And all the family Kim had in the world was himself, T'ai Cho.
He shivered and closed the desk, then went across to Kim and knelt at his side. "You want to know why?"
Kim could not look at him. He nodded and another tear rolled slowly down his cheek. His voice was small and hurt. "I don't understand, T'ai Cho. What have I done?"
For a moment T'ai Cho was silent. He had expected Kim to be cold, indifferent, to his news. But this? He felt his indignation melt and dissipate like breath, then reached out and held the boy to him fiercely.
"Nothing," he said. "YouVe done nothing, Kim."
The boy gave a little shudder, then turned his head slowly, until he was looking into T'ai Cho's face. "Then why? Why are you going away?"
T'ai Cho looked back at him, searching the child's dark eyes for evidence of betrayal—for some sign that this was yet another act—but he saw only hurt there and incomprehension.
"I've seen your secret files," he said quietly. "Brahe and Aristotle."
There was a small movement in the dark pupils, then Kim dropped his eyes. "I see." Then he looked up again, and the expression of concern took T'ai Cho by surprise. "Did it hurt you, reading them?"
T'ai Cho shivered, then answered the boy honestly. "Yes. I wondered why you would create a world like that."
Kim's eyes moved away, then back again. "I never meant to hurt you. You must believe me, T'ai Cho. I'd never deliberately hurt you."
"And the file?"
Kim swallowed. "I thought Matyas would kill me. He tried, you see. That's why I left the note in the book. I knew that if I was killed you'd find it. But I didn't think . . ."
T'ai Cho finished it for him. "You didn't think I'd find it before you were dead, is that it?"
Kim nodded. "And now I've hurt you. . . ." He reached out and gently touched T'ai Cho's face, stroking his cheek. "Believe me, T'ai Cho. I wouldn't hurt you. Not for anything." Tears welled in his big dark eyes. "I thought you knew. Didn't you see it? Don't you understand it, even now?" He hesitated, a small shudder passing through his frail, thin body, then spoke the words almost in a whisper. "I love you, T'ai Cho."