"I know," Kim said, impatient now. "But I have to get a message through. It's terribly important."
"I'm sorry," the guard began again, all politeness, "but that's simply not possible. Not until the ship is in orbit."
Kim looked away, wondering what he could do, what say, to persuade the guard to help him, then turned back, leaning across the barrier, deciding to confide in the young officer.
"The truth is that the girl I love is on board the Meridian. Her father wants to prevent us from getting married, so he's sending her off to the Colonies. I only heard about it a few hours back, so I must speak to her before she goes. I simply muct-"
The young guard sat back slightly. His chest patch showed that he was a lieutenant, but from his manner Kim could tell he was not long out of cadet school.
"I'd like to help you, Shih Ward, really I would, but I can't. The communications of the Meridian are locked into the launch sequence now. Even the great T'ang himself couldn't communicate with the Meridian right now—not unless he wished the countdown canceled."
"I see." Kim turned away, a sense of futility sweeping over him.
It was loss. He had lost her.
"Shih Ward. . ."
Kim turned back, staring at the guard, hardly recognizing him. "Yes?"
The young man came from behind the barrier, his eyes sorter than before, strangely sympathetic. "I'm off duty here in five minutes. If you want, I can take you up into the viewing tower. You can watch the ship go up from there. As for your message, well, maybe I can pass something on for you. Among the technical stuff. Fifty words maximum, mind you, and I can't guarantee it'll get through, but it's the best I can do."
Kim shivered, then bowed his head, a feeling of immense gratitude flooding through him. "Thank you . . ."
Twenty minutes later, watching the tiny point of flame disappear into the upper atmosphere, Kim shivered and looked away, touching his top teeth with his tongue thoughtfully. Seven years. Seven years he'd have to wait until she could be his. Yet even as he thought it, he knew what he would do. Knew just how he would fill those seven long years of waiting. They would be hard, but he would get through them. And then she would be his, meddling old men or no. His.
PART 2 SUMMER 2209
The Interpreted World
Who, if I cried, would hear me among the angelic
orders? And even if one of them suddenly pressed me against his heart, I should fade in the
strength of his
stronger existence. For Beauty's nothing but beginning of Terror we're still just able to bear, and why we adore it so is because it serenely disdains to destroy us. Every angel is terrible. And so I repress myself, and swallow the call-note of depth-dark sobbing. Alas, who is there we can make use of? Not angels, not men; and even the noticing beasts are aware that we don't feel very securely at home in this interpreted world.
—Rainer Maria Rilke, Dw.no Elegies; First Elegy
CHAPTER TWELVE
The Beginning of Terror
0N THE QUAY SIDE of the old town two knots of men stand before the Blind Dragon Inn, drinking and laughing, a space of twenty ch'i separating them, their voices carrying in the still early evening air. Out in the center of the broad estuary three large junks are moored, their quilted sails furled, their familiarly rounded shapes bobbing gently in the strong tidal current. Downriver, two hundred ch'i out from the enclosed square of the fishing harbor, a large three-masted Hung Mao merchantman rests, heavily laden, its long hull low in the water.
For a moment the sea breeze drops. There is an instant's perfect stillness; a stillness filled with the sun's late warmth. Then, as the wind picks up again, the high, tormented calls of seabirds rend the air, echoing across the old stone houses of the town.
At the edge of the farther group, a young Han turns, shielding his eyes, looking out past the party of Hung Moo sailors crowding the nearby quayside, his gaze traveling across the cobbled square toward the streets that climb the hillside, searching out the pale-cream facade of one particular house: a small, terraced cottage with a tiny, enclosed garden in which the moonlight dances in his memory and the smell of jasmine is strong.
"What're you staring at, chink?"
The Hung Moo is a big, barrel-chested man, the muscles of his arms like the thickly corded ropes that secure a ship at anchor. He stands over Tong Ye menacingly, his bearded face dark with mockery and loathing.
Behind Tong Ye there is a low murmur. Wine cups are set down hastily. There is the rustle of cloth and cheap silk as weapons are drawn from hidden places. All other talk is forgotten. There is a tension in the air now, like the moment before a storm finally breaks, and at the eye of that storm is Tong Ye, his eyes staring back uncom-prehendingly at the big man, his mind still half in reverie.
"Beg pardon?"
The tar, gap-toothed and pugilistically ugly, his red hair tied in a pigtail at his unwashed neck, leans forward, placing a calloused hand firmly on the young Han's shoulder.
"You know fucking well what I mean, you slanty-eyed little scumbag. WeVe seen you, sneaking about after dark. And we know who you've been calling on. But you're going to stop that, understand me, boy? You're going to keep to your fucking ship from now on, or you'll be missing the means to piss on your boots."
The young Han swallows, then moves back a pace, shrugging off the hand. He is frightened—shaken by the revelation that his visits to his lover have been observed. Even so, he brazens it out, facing the big man unflinchingly.
"Forgive me, ch'un tzu, but there is no law against it, surely? And the young lady ... if she does not object to my calling on her . . . ?"
The tar turns his head and hawks a fat gobbet of phlegm onto the cobbles. His head comes round, his eyes half-lidded now, his body tensed. One fist is already clenched, the other feels among the padded cloth of his jacket for the spike concealed there.
"Maybe not, but I do. The very thought of one of our own being touched by one of you . . . a/i-ni-mak."
The word is barely out, its rounded, nasal tones, heavy with a lifetime's stored resentment, still lingering in the air, as the first Han sailor throws himself at the big man, a thick stem of bamboo making an arc in the air toward the big man's head. A moment later, all hell has broken out.
On the cobbles before the inn, a single group of men are locked in struggle, their angry voices carrying in the still evening air. Out in the estuary the lookouts on the junks have paused in their task of lighting the mooring lamps and stare out across the water anxiously. On the merchantman there is frantic activity as a boat is prepared for lowering. A tall, dark figure sporting a tricorn hat stands briefly at the prow of the merchantman, a telescope raised to his eye, then he turns, making hurriedly for the boat.
On shore, the young Han is down, a steel spike embedded deeply in his guts. Beside him lies the red-haired tar, his skull split like an eggshell. Others lie on the cobbles as the fight continues, its viciousness unabated, long centuries of hatred fueling every blow. With a piercing shriek one of the Han falls backward from the quay and tumbles, slowly it seems, into the glassy water.
There is the blur of arms, fingers clenching and unclenching, the steady grunt and moan of blows given and received. And then there is a moment's stillness as the Han break off and, one after another, launch themselves from the high stone wall of the quay and into the water. And as they clamber aboard the shoreboats, they stare back at their adversaries, wide-eyed with shock and excitement, their hatred mixed with a strange, inexplicable longing.
There is a moment's silence, a moment's utter stillness as the android mannequins go limp, their programs ended, and then, from behind the barrier, applause.