Michael nodded, impressed by the Han's words. Yet if what Kim had told him were true, he owed T'ai Cho not merely his chance in life, but life itself. When Kim had come out of the Clay, it was T'ai Cho who—as his tutor in the Reclamation Project—had not merely recognized and fostered Kim's talent, but had interceded at a crucial moment to prevent his death.
"But let us not stand here talking, Shih Lever. Let me take you through. Kim is working just now—finishing something he began last night—but he will not be long. Maybe you would like to watch. If you would follow me..."
"Thank you, T'ai Cho. It will be a real pleasure." *
He followed T'ai Cho through. There were two small offices off to the left of the corridor, but the main work space was a big L-shaped room at the end. There he found Kim, sitting with his back to the door, crouched forward, facing an experimental environment—the vacuum-sealed transparent box five ch'i to a side. The top half of Kim's head was hidden within a bulky headwrap, a dozen or more wires trailing off into a console to one side, while his arms were inside the box, enclosed in skintight armatures as he operated the nano-fine waldoes. Two lab-coated technicians sat on the edge of the desk nearby, so engrossed in what Kim was doing that they didn't even look up as Michael came into the room.
Michael went across and stood behind them. As far as he could see nothing was happening. Or—and the thought struck him as strangely amusing—as if Kim were only pretending to do something. The delicate appendages seemed to cut and mold the air, drawing out fine lines of nothingness, the tips of the waldoes sparking and flickering, but it was all to no apparent purpose. He felt a vague twinge of disappointment. There seemed no point to what Kim was doing; no discernible result. Michael squinted, trying to make out something he had missed, but it was no good. There really did seem to be nothing there.
He turned, looking about him. There were benches, cabinets, various items of machinery, most of them inexpensive, older models, all of it so unexpectedly shabby that he found himself making unwarranted comparisons: setting all of this against the state-of-the-art efficiency of his father's labs. It all seemed wrong somehow; too small, too cobbled-together. How could anything worthwhile be produced in conditions like this?
For the briefest moment he wondered whether he might not be mistaken in his plans to work with Ward, but then he remembered his father's interest and what he had heard from his European contacts. And then there was what he himself knew about the boy's abilities.
The boy . . . He turned, studying Ward in profile, then looked away, conscious of how his thoughts had betrayed him. Appearances. With Ward it wasn't possible to judge things on appearances, for he was not what he seemed. Nineteen now, Ward seemed little more than a child, a boy of twelve, thirteen at most, his diminutive stature the result of his childhood in the Clay. That experience, down there in the darkness beneath the City's foundations, had shaped him, inwardly and out, making him—at a glance—different from those he went among. Michael smiled. Compared to the tall, well-fed citizens of First Level, Kim seemed but the unfleshed suggestion of humanity—a throwback to an earlier evolutionary stage. Physically, Kim had so little substance. But appearances were deceptive, for there was a fire in his eyes, a strength even in his smallest movement that belied that first impression. And one further thing. For Ward was reputedly the finest theoretical scientist in the whole of Chung Kuo.
He looked back. Kim was watching him, his dark eyes curious. "Michael. . ." he said softly, greeting him. "One moment and I'm done."
He watched. Where there had been nothing, a fine point of pure white light blossomed, a fine web of threads spreading out like buds from the radiant hub, then turning back on themselves until they formed a tiny, spherical net, the whole thing taking on detail and complexity until it seemed to glow with an intense energy. It began to turn, slowly at first, then faster, the glow fading and returning until it formed a regular pulse.
Michael shook his head, astonished. It was beautiful. He glanced at Kim and saw how he was leaning forward now, his lips parted, his breathing shallow. Michael shivered, then looked back, his eyes drawn to the spinning helix of light.
It spun, faster and faster, and as it spun brief, brilliant pulses of light flashed from its glowing heart, each pulse striking one of the tiny studlike targets that dotted the inside walls of the chamber. Slowly the light intensified until he had to half-lid his eyes, then turn aside, his eyes squeezed shut, one hand shielding his face. But even then he could still see it through the flesh of his eyelids, spinning at the center of the void, like a tiny, burning star, flashing magnificently.
For a moment longer it maintained its perfect equilibrium at the center of the vacuum, then, with a noisy crackle of static, the light abruptly died.
Michael turned, blinking, staring into the darkness of the chamber, then looked across. For a moment Kim sat there, perfectly still, then, with a tiny shudder, he sat back, pulling his arms from the waldoes.
"Kuan Yin!" Michael said softly, shaking his head.
Kim turned his head and looked at him, a faint, almost apologetic smile on his lips, then, tugging off the headwrap, he came across, taking Lever's hands. "Michael. . . It's good to see you. How are things?"
Michael smiled. "I'm fine. But what was that?"
Kim half glanced back at the empty chamber, then shrugged. "It's something long-term, that's all. A problem I've set myself. I thought I had a solution, but, well, let's just say that it's not stable."
Michael laughed. "Yes . . . but what was it? It looked beautiful."
Kim moved past him, then turned back, a rough sketch in one hand. "Basically, it's a switching device. It's meant to transmit energy at a molecular level. The trouble is, it has to be able to maintain its form and turn at phenomenal speeds—at the speed of molecular reactions themselves, to be accurate. At present, however, it's very fragile. The least molecular interference from outside and it breaks up. As you saw. Add to that the fact that it's far too big for practical use, and you can see just how far I am from solving things."
Michael glanced at the paper Kim had given him, but the equations meant nothing to him. They might just as well have been written in Shang dynasty Mandarin. "Maybe, but it's certainly impressive."
Kim laughed. "You think so? Well, maybe, but sometimes it feels like I'm grasping at nothingness itself. That I reach out and close my hand and . . . there's nothing there. And I ask myself, what if I'm wrong? Good as I am, what if I'm wrong? What if all the talent I have isn't enough? What if the universe is different from how I conceive it? What if it won't conform to the pattern in my head?"
"Then you change the pattern, surely?"
Kim studied Michael a moment, then looked away. "But what if I am the pattern?" For a moment Kim stood there, perfectly still, staring into the empty chamber, then, as if remembering suddenly where he was, he looked back, smiling. "Well, how did it go? Is it still on?"
It was Michael's turn to look away. "I'm sorry, Kim. The Old Man wouldn't budge. And without those funds . . ."
Kim reached out and touched his arm. "I understand. And it's all right. We can make do as we are for a while longer. But you . . . you needed that money, didn't you?"
Michael met his eyes and nodded.
"So? What will you do?"
Michael smiled stoically. "I've a scheme or two. The Old Man won't put bit and brace on me that easily."
Kim nodded, but he could see how disappointed—and, beneath that, how angry—Michael was at his father for freezing his accounts.
"It was such a small amount," Michael said quietly. "Less than he spends on some of the old memorabilia he buys. But that's how it is. We have to live with it, neh?" He reached inside his jacket and took out a letter. "Here. I thought this might help."