Lehmann turned from the balcony. "Let's go," he said, touching the Major's arm. "I want to be out of here before those alarms start sounding."
The Major nodded, studying Lehmann a moment, an unasked question on his lips, then turned, following the albino back down the stairwell toward the waiting lift.
THE CROWD in the great hall had fallen silent. Only a faint murmur of silks could be heard as heads turned to see who it was had come among them. A thousand faces, Han, aristocratic, looked toward the giant, jade-paneled doors at the far end of the hall. Two men stood there.
The Hung Mao stood between the towering doors, looking about him. There was the faintest trace of a smile on his lips, but his eyes were keen, sharply observant. For a min he held himself well; proudly, as if he too were ch'un tzu. Beside him was the Chancellor, Fen Cho-hsien, looking impatient, clearly put out by the fact that he had to accompany the man. "Come," he said distinctly, and started forward, moving between the lines of guests. The Hung Moo walked behind him, looking from side to side quite openly, his head making small bows, his face lit by the mildest, most innocuous of smiles, as though he realized his presence was offensive and wished to minimize that insult.
When Chancellor Fen reached the smaller doors on the far side of the hall he turned abruptly, and signaling to the musicians, whose instruments had fallen silent with the rest, he spoke a few words in the mother tongue to those nearest him. At once heads turned back and conversation began to pick up. The orchestra started up a moment later.
"I am sorry to come among you thus," said the Hung Mao quietly.
Fen Cho-hsien studied him a moment, then nodded, placated by the modesty of the man. He was not like most of the others. There was a subtlety, a grace about him that was rarely found among them. Most were like apes, crude in the expression of their needs. But this one was different. Fen Cho-hsien bowed slightly and turned to face the doors again, knocking firmly on the carved and lacquered panel.
Two guards opened the doors and they went through, into an anteroom, then down a narrow corridor where a ceiling scanner rotated in its flexible cradle, following them. At the far end of the corridor, more guards were waiting. The Hung Moo had been searched already, but now they repeated the process, checking him thoroughly while the Minister waited, his eyes averted. Satisfied, one of them spoke into a handset and pressed out a code. Behind them, the doors to the inner sanctum opened.
Wu Shih came forward, hands extended. "Representative Kennedy, it is a delight to meet you at last. I have seen much and heard much about you." He took the American's hands and pressed them firmly, his eyes meeting Kennedy's with an expression partway between greeting and challenge. "I felt it was time that we met. . . and talked."
The room was a delicate blue, every piece of furniture chosen to complement its soft, relaxing shade. When they sat it was on low chairs with silk cushions of a rich, deep blue, speckled with petals of peach and ivory and bronze. Kennedy's dark business silks seemed intrusive, a foreign element. He sat there, trying not to feel discomfort. There had been no time to change. The summons had said "At once," and you did not argue with the word of a T'ang. Not yet, anyway.
Wu Shih leaned forward, the silk folds of his long, flowing gown whispering softly. He seemed soft, almost effeminate beside the big, hard-featured Hung Mao, but his eyes were like the eyes of a hunting bird and his hands, where they showed from the soft blue silk, were hard and dark and strong.
"I am sorry I gave you so little time. In such matters it is best to act quickly. This way no one knows you are here."
Kennedy made a small, turning movement of his head, as if to indicate the crowded hall outside, but Wu Shih simply smiled.
"No one but you and I. What I tell my people not to see they do not see."
Kennedy smiled, understanding, but remained on his guard.
"You wonder what I want. Why I should ask you here today."
"You'll tell me," Kennedy answered matter-of-factly.
Wu Shih sat up a little, reassessing things. Then he laughed.
"Indeed. I am forgetting. You are a realist, not an idealist. You deal with real things, not dreams."
There was truth as well as irony in the words. Wu Shih had been doing his homework. But then, so too had Kennedy.
"The attainment of real things—that can be a dream, can it not?"
Wu Shih gave a small nod. "Not like other dreams, neh?"
He was referring clearly to the Cutler Institute. To the dreams of the Old Men.
"Yu Kung!" Kennedy said. Foolish old men.
Wu Shih laughed and clapped his hands. "You know our tongue, then, Shih Kennedy?"
"Enough to understand. Perhaps enough to pass."
The T'ang sat back, studying him. "There's something that was not in your file. Where did you learn the Kuan hua?"
"My father had many dealings with your servants and your father's servants. A little knowledge of your ways was helpful. It was one of the great secrets of his success."
"And your father taught you?"
Kennedy smiled and nodded. At that moment he seemed his most boyish and charming and Wu Shih, looking at him, felt some element of warmth creep into his calculations. He liked this particular American. So unlike the crabby old men and their shriveled dreams of forever.
"Then perhaps my intuition is better than I first thought."
Wu Shih hesitated, then stood and turned away from the American. Kennedy, aware of protocol, got to his feet, waiting silently to find out why Wu Shih had summoned him. After a minute or so, the T'ang turned back to face him.
"I must choose to trust you, Shih Kennedy. And that is no light thing for a T'ang to do. We trust few to know what lies within our minds, and you are a stranger here. Even so, I will trust you."
Kennedy gave the slightest bow, his eyes never leaving the other's face.
"You are a clever man, Joseph Kennedy. You know how things are. Where the power lies in this City. And you know how to use power, how to manufacture the raw stuff of which it is made." The T'ang allowed himself a smile. "And no, not money. Not just that. Something deeper, more dependable than money. Loyalty. I see you and I see those about you and I recognize what it is that binds them to you." He paused. "You are a strong man, Shih Kennedy. A powerful man. My ministers have told me I should crush you. Find ways to dishonor you. To entrap you and buy you. They have proposed a dozen different schemes to break you and humiliate you."
Kennedy said nothing. He stood there, his head slightly lowered, listening, his watchful eyes taking in everything. Wu Shih, noting this, smiled inwardly. Kennedy was no fool. His strength came from deep within—from a self-confidence that, like his own, was innate.
"However, what I see of you I like. I see a man who thinks like a man ought to think. Who puts his people before himself. And I like that. I respect it. But as a practical man I must ask myself a question. Can there be two Kings in City America? If I let this man— yourself—continue thus, will I not, in time, fall prey to his success?"
He was quiet a moment, then, "Well?"
"I am the T'ang's man," Kennedy answered, no hesitation or trace of uncertainty in the words. "I speak not against the Seven, but against the Old Men."
Wu Shih narrowed his eyes a moment, then nodded. "So you say now, Joseph Kennedy. But what when America is yours? What when the people come to you and say, 'You, Representative Kennedy, are the man who should be King. You are American. Let us be ruled by an American!' How will you answer them? Will you turn to them and say, 'I am the T'ang's man'?" He laughed. "I like you, and I do you the honor of trusting you with these thoughts, but I am no yu kung, Shih Kennedy. I too am a practical man."