He had hoped it would be enough to extricate them from a potentially embarrassing situation and buy some time to discuss the matter privately among themselves, but Lever was shaking his head.
"No, George. If the boy has the impertinence to disturb me while I am in conference with my friends, he is hardly to be rewarded for it with a private audience, neh?"
Marley bowed his head slightly, the bitterness and determination in Lever's voice warning him against pursuing the matter. A moment later the son himself was there in the doorway; a tall, athletic-looking young man so like his father that they might easily have been taken for brothers.
"Father," the young man said, bowing his head dutifully, waiting to be asked into the room. But Old Man Lever gave no word, made no gesture of admittance. He merely stood there, stone-faced and implacable.
"I asked you not to come. So why are you here, Michael? What do you want?"
Michael Lever looked to the three men, then back to his father, as if expecting something of him. Then, understanding how things were, he lowered his head again.
"I had to see you, Father. To speak to you. This thing between us . . ." He hesitated, finding it hard to say the words, then looked up, meeting his father's eyes. "I wish to be reconciled with you, Father."
Old Man Lever stood there a moment, unmoving, silent, as if carved in granite, then, turning away abruptly, he gave a tight little laugh. A derisory, dismissive laugh.
"Then you will marry Louisa Johnstone, after all?"
"Marry her. . . ?" The younger man faltered, at a loss. He glanced uncertainly at the others, then took a step toward his father. "But that's behind us, surely, Father? I'm talking of the future. Of being your son again, your hands . . ."
"My hands!" Old Man Lever whirled around, his face ugly now, one angry look from him enough to make his son step back beyond the room's threshold again. "And if my hands will not do as I ask them?" He shook his head contemptuously and waved the young man away. "Pah . . . Go and play with your dreamer friends, boy. Go sleep with your low-level whores. I'll have nothing to do with you, boy. Nothing at all!"
For a moment the young man said nothing. Then, with one final, precise bow—a bow that showed immense self-control—he withdrew. "So be it, then," he said softly, turning away. "So be it."
But Marley, standing there, had seen that initial look of angry bewilderment on the young man's face and knew he had been witness to a final breach. Whatever the rights and wrongs of this—and Lever was certainly right to insist that his son obey him—there was no doubting that the old man had set out to deliberately humiliate his son, speaking thus to him before those who were not of his kin. He turned, looking at Lever, expecting to see that stern and unrelenting expression maintained on his features, and found, to his surprise, not anger but regret and—underlying all—a hurt so profound, so all-embracing, that it threatened momentarily to engulf the old man.
For the briefest unguarded moment it was so, and then, as if a steel door had slammed down over it, it was gone.
"Well, ch'un tot," Lever said, clearing his throat, "as I was saying . ,."
WHILE MILNE STOOD at the counter, asking questions of the clerk, Ross looked about him at the walls and furnishings of the Records Office, as if they might give some kind of clue.
It was a dirty, shabby place, empty drink-bulbs and crumpled paper forms littering the spittle-stained floor, while on the walls of the public space were torn and faded posters, overpainted with slogans and graffiti, one symbol—a simple black palmprint—dominating all others.
"Who's this?" Ross asked, leaning over an old Han seated on the bench. "Are they popular here in Atlanta?" But the ancient stared straight through him, as if he weren't there.
"Terrorists, I guess," Ross murmured, straightening up and looking about him once more. Not that there was much to know about places like this. They were all much of a muchness these days.
He went back across, standing beside Milne at the counter. A young Han clerk was talking animatedly to Milne in Mandarin, running his finger along the open page of one of the big official Records books.
"So what have we got?" Ross whispered. "Anything good?"
The clerk glanced at Ross, then, removing his finger, slammed the book shut. "That's it," he said, in halting English. "That's all there is."
"Shit," said Milne quietly. "Just our luck."
"What's the problem?"
Milne looked away nervously. "There was a deck fire, three years back. All of the local records were destroyed. Backups, too, in a separate fire. The deck itself was cleared. Reseeded with new settlers. TheyVe been rebuilding the files ever since, but there's not much. Only what we've seen already."
Ross looked down. "Hmm. Bit of a coincidence, neh? I mean, when was the last time you heard of something like that? Two fires?"
"It's not impossible. Fires happen."
"Maybe. But it's all too neat, don't you think? I mean, if you wanted to put in a sleeper, what better way?"
"And you think that's what happened? You think Mary Jennings is a sleeper for one of Lever's enemies?"
"And you don't?"
Milne hesitated, then gave a reluctant nod.
"Right. So what we do is this. We find out where the survivors of the fire were moved to, and then we go and speak to some of them. Find out what they remember about our friend Mary Jennings. That is,
if they remember anything." Ross turned back, facing the counter again, a fifty-yuan bill held out between his thumb and forefinger.
"And then?"
Ross looked back at his partner and smiled. "And then we do something we should have done right at the start. We make a facial check on our friend. Not just here in North America, but right across the seven Cities." He laughed. "It's time we found out just who Mary Jennings really is."
emily SAT before the mirror in her room, brushing out the long dark tresses of the wig. It was a tight fit, but that was good. Unlike the other she had bought, this one looked natural. As well it might, for it reminded her of how she had once looked, twelve years ago, when she was seventeen.
Seventeen. It was not long as the world measured things, and yet it seemed another lifetime. Back then things had seemed so simple. So black and white. She had known then where she stood in the world and what she wanted. Meeting Bent Gesell, she had become his woman, faithful to him alone, sharing his ideals; that vision of a better, purer world. A world without levels, free of hatred and corruption. For eight years that vision had sustained her. Had driven her on. But then Gesell had been seduced: won over by the dream of power DeVore had seeded in his head.
The vision had died. And yet DeVore had saved her. After the debacle at Bremen, it had been DeVore who had come to her, offering her a new identity and a passport to a new life—that same life she had led these past twenty-one months.
Yes, but what had she done in that time? What achieved?
Nothing, came the answer. For almost two years now she had sat on her hands, serving her natural enemies, doing nothing for the cause she'd once believed in.
So maybe it was time to begin anew. To go down the levels and organize again.
She stood, looking about her at the tiny room. Her bag was packed, her jacket laid neatly across it. Beside it on the bed rested the second of the two IDs DeVore had given her. Stooping, she picked it up and studied the tiny image within. Rachel DeValerian, it read. Maintenance Engineer.
She smiled. Even Mach knew nothing of this. Only DeVore. And he, if Mach could be believed, was dead now, his skull smashed into tiny pieces by the T'ang's man, Karr.
Only she didn't believe that. From what she knew of the man, she couldn't believe he would have let himself be caught so easily. No. He was out there somewhere. Waiting. Biding his time.