"It's all right," he said to them, holding them tightly against him. "Everything's going to be all right. You'll see."
There was a knock. He freed himself, then turned and went across, pulling back the door.
A tall Han waited there. One of Wu Shih's men, the number seven—ch'i—embroidered in Mandarin on the chest of his powder-blue silks. Beyond him the press room was empty, except for two shaven-headed Han.
"Are they ready?" the tall Han asked.
Kennedy turned, looking at his wife, his sons, then turned back, giving a nod. "They're ready," he said, trying to keep the pain, the anxiety he suddenly felt, out of his voice. But the tears betrayed him.
He had had his moment. It was gone now. Ahead lay only hol-lowness.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
Weimar
NINE YEARS . . ." the ancient murmured, tears forming in his watery eyes. "Nine long years I've waited for this day."
His companion, a distinguished-looking graybeard of seventy-five years, nodded somberly. He looked about him at the tiers of empty or sparsely populated benches that stretched away on every side of the House, then leaned closer to his fellow, placing a thin, fly-speckled hand on his friend's arm. "Do you remember the last time we were here, Johann?"
"Like yesterday," the ancient replied, a faint light appearing in his eyes. "That was the day we voted down the Seven's veto, neh? The day Secretary Barrow indicted the tai. . ." He sighed heavily, his deeply lined face filled with a sudden pain. "Ach, had we but known what sadness would follow . . ."
"Had we but known . . ."
For a moment the two were silent, watching as, below them, at the center of the Great Hall, the officials of the Seven prepared the central rostrum for the ceremony to come. Then, clearing his throat, the younger of the two spoke again, drawing his powder-blue silks about him as he did.
"They were sad years, true enough, but maybe they were meant to be. Maybe that day and this were foreordained." He smiled morosely and patted his companion's hand. "You know, the more I think of those times, Johann, the more I feel that the conflict was inevitable. That the War . . . well, that the War was necessary."
The ancient shrugged, then laughed; a dry, asthmatic sound. "Maybe so. But we survived, neh? We few."
The graybeard looked about him again, conscious that, of the three and a half thousand Representatives who had packed the House that day, nine years before, a mere handful—two hundred at most—had lived to see this day.
"Few indeed," he said, feeling a sudden weight—not bitterness, but a mixture of regret and the inexorable workings of fate—descend on him.
Once more silence fell. Far below them, out on the central rostrum where the Upper Council sat, a group of gray-haired dignitaries were seating themselves.
There was a moment's brief delay and then the ceremony began. At the central lectern the elderly Representative for Shenyang Hsien, Ho Chao-tuan, cleared his throat and began to read from the prepared statement, formally dissolving the House. Overhead, a dozen remotes hovered in the air, relaying their images back to the watching billions.
With the faintest rustle, Ho Chao-tuan set the statement aside and began to read from the list of standing members. As each name was read, a shouted "Yes" would come down from one or other of the elders scattered about the massive chamber. Eventually, all one hundred eighty-three surviving members had responded. With a terse nod, Ho backed away from the lectern, his part in the ceremony concluded.
As Ho Chao-tuan moved back, a tall, middle-aged Han with a plaited white beard stepped forward. This was Ch'in Tao Fan, Chancellor of East Asia. Looking all about him at the near-deserted tiers, he thanked the members, then, with a dramatic flourish, unfurled the official scroll and began to read.
On the benches high above Ch'in Tao Fan, the ancient placed his hand on his friend's arm and smiled sadly. "Our day is done," he said quietly. "It is up to others now to finish what we began."
"So it is," the graybeard answered, sighing, helping his fellow to his feet. "So it is."
Down below them, Ch'in Tao Fan spoke on, talking of the days to come, and of the great step forward, while behind him, on the far side of the great chamber, in the broad ceremonial corridor beyond the great double doorways, the first of the newly elected Representatives, more than eight hundred in all, waited silently in their powder-blue silks, ready to take their places at the empty benches.
THREE HOURS LATER, their business in the House done, three of the new Representatives stood in the doorway of the private dining rooms above the Great Hall. At their appearance one of the House Stewards came across, his maroon silks embossed with the number thirty-five.
"Ch'un tzu," he said, bowing deeply. "You are most welcome here. Your guest has asked me to apologize on his behalf. He has been delayed, I fear, and will be a few minutes late. Refreshments, however, have been provided. So, please, if you would come in."
They entered, looking about them and exchanging glances.
The room was large yet not imposing, the decor and furniture clearly chosen with great care and with the most exquisite taste. Four tall Ming dynasty officials' chairs dominated the left-hand side of the room. Close by, on low Ching dynasty tables, bowls of lychees, plums, and strawberries had been laid out. At the far end, in front of a huge picture window that overlooked the formal gardens, a high scroll-legged table was laden with porcelain jugs and bowls, while to the right of the room, beyond a long, head-height screen of carved mahogany, a table had been set for six, western silverware set at each place beside the cloth-wrapped chopsticks.
"What will you drink, ch'un tzu?" the Steward asked, turning to face them again. "Will it be your usual, Representative Underwood? Or would you prefer a cordial?"
Underwood laughed, intrigued. "I'll have my usual," he said after a moment.
"And you, Representative Hart? A cool black dragon wine? Or is it too early in the day?"
Hart lowered his head slightly, both amused and impressed. "That would be fine, thank you. But tell me, Thirty-five, is it normal for the Stewards to know what each member drinks?"
The Steward looked at them, smiling politely. "It is not always so, no. But my master is a meticulous man. He likes to do things properly."
"Your master. . . ?" Hart looked to the other two. This grew more curious by the moment.
The man had contacted them a week back, using an intermediary, and had "bought" a meeting with them. Each had been informed that the other two would be present, but beyond that they had been told nothing. Nothing but the man's name. Li Min.
The Steward brought their drinks, then bade them sit. He smiled and bowed to each in turn, then took two small steps backward. "As I said, ch'un tzu, my master will be a little delayed. But please, be at your ease until he comes. I must leave you for a short while to supervise the meal, but help yourself. The fruit is fresh from the Plantations this very morning."
With a final bow, the Steward turned and went.
"Well. . ." Underwood said, sipping at the ancient malt whiskey the Steward had handed him. "If that doesn't beat it all! What do you think our man, Li Min, wants?"
Munroe laughed. "What do they all want? Advantage. Someone to make deals for them. To give them face."
"And is that why we're here?" Hart asked, reaching down to take one of the large, blue-black plums from the bowl beside him. "To make deals? And to give some Han merchant face?"
"I'm told it's what politics is about," Munroe said, straightening up again. "But what do you think this one wants? I mean, it's odd, don't you think? A Han, asking three Hung Moo Representatives to a meeting on the morning that the House reopens. You'd think he'd choose three of his own kind, neh? You know what they're like, these Han."
"Only too well," Underwood said, setting his drink down. He picked up one of the lychees and sniffed at it, then bit deep, lifting his pocket silk to his chin to dab at the trickle of juice. "That's exactly what I meant. I mean, I've heard there's been a lot of this kind of thing going on these past few months, but this feels different. The fact that he went out of his way to buy our time, for instance. Now why should he do that?"