He kept his eyes lowered, thinking it through. Meeting the bill for squeeze would stretch his resources to the limit, but he would cope, even if he had to borrow steeply; for the return, when it came, would be tremendous. He would be the Big Circle's man in the Above, buying into legitimate concerns on their behalf, making friends, gaining access where even men like Novacek could not go. And this other matter—this unexpected business with the drugs—that, too, could prove quite lucrative. He saw it now. He would recruit gamblers—would finance their debts, then agree to pay off what they owed in exchange for their becoming his men, dealing on his behalf. Yes, he could see it clearly; could picture a great web of connections with himself at the center.
He looked up, meeting the Red Pole's stare with a sudden confidence, knowing he had not been wrong all those months back. He, Shou Chen-hai, was destined for great things. And his sons would be great men too. Maybe even ministers.
When they had gone he sat there, alone at the table, studying the contents of the case. If what he had heard were true, this lot alone was worth half a million. He touched his tongue to his teeth thoughtfully, then lifted one of the tiny packages from its bed.
It was identical in size to all the others, its waxy, midnight-black wrapper heat-sealed on the reverse with the blue wheel logo of the Big Circle. The only difference was the marking on the front. In this instance the pictograms were in red. Pan shuai ch'i, it read—"half-life." The others had similarly strange names: leng tuan—"cold leg"; ting tui—"shutdown"; hsian hsiao ying—"yield point." He set the package carefully in its place and sat back, staring thoughtfully into the distance. He was still sitting there when Novacek returned.
"What are these?"
Novacek hesitated, then laughed. "You know what they are."
"I know they're drugs, but why are they so different? He said there was nothing like them in Chung Kuo. Why? I need to know if I'm going to sell them."
Novacek studied him a moment, then nodded. "Okay, Shou Chen-hai. Let me tell you what's happening . . . what's really happening here."
"It's all pipes now," said Vasska, his voice coming from the darkness close by. "The shit goes down and the water comes up. Water and shit. Growth and decay. Old processes, but mechanized now. Forced into narrow pipes."
A warm, throaty laugh greeted Vasska's comment, the darkness hiding its source. "Don't we just know it," said Erika, her knees rubbing against Ywe Hao's in the cramped space.
"They fool themselves," Vasska continued, warming to his theme. "But it isn't a real living space, it's a bloody machine. Switch it off and they'd die, they're so cut off from things."
"And we're so different?"
Ywe Hao's comment was sharp, her irritation with Vasska mixed up with a fear that they might be overheard. They were high up here, at the very top of the stack, under the roof itself, but who knew what tricks acoustics played in the ventilation system? She glanced at the faintly glowing figure at her wrist and gritted her teeth. "Yes, we're different, all right," said Vasska, leaning closer, so that she could feel his breath on her cheek. "We're different because we want to tear it down. To level it and get back to the earth."
It was close to an insult. As if she had forgotten—she who had been in the movement a good five years longer than this . . . this boy I Nor was it what she had really meant. They, too, were cut off. They, too, had lived their lives inside the machine. So what if they only thought they were different?
She was about to respond, but Erika leaned forward, touching her arm gently, as if to say, Don't mind him. We know his kind. But aloud she said, "How much longer, Chi Li? I'm stifling."
It was true. The small space at the hub hadn't been designed for three, and though it was well ventilated, it was cramped, hot, and rich with a mixture of mildly unpleasant smells.
"Anotrter five at least," she said, covering Erika's hand with her own. She liked the woman, for all her faults, whereas Vasska . . . Vasska was a pain. She had met his sort before. Zealots. Bigots. They used the Yu ideology as a substitute for thinking. The rest was common talk. Shit and water. Narrow pipes. These were the catch phrases of the old Ping Tiao intelligentsia. As if she needed such reminders.
She closed her eyes a moment, thinking. The three of them had been together as a team for only six weeks now—the first three of those in training for this mission and in what they termed "assimilation." Vasska, Erika—those weren't their real names, no more than her own was Chi Li, the name on her ID badge. Those were the names of dead men and women in the Maintenance Service; men and women whose identities the Yu had stolen for their use. Nor would she ever leam their real names. They were strangers, brought in from other Yu cells for this mission. Once they were finished here she would never see them again.
It was a necessary system, and it worked, but it had its drawbacks. From the start Vasska had challenged her. He had never said as much, but it was clear that he resented her leadership. Even though there was a supposed equality between men and women in the movement, the men still expected to be the leaders—the doers and the thinkers, the formulators of policy and the agents of what had been decided. Vasska was one such. He stopped short of open dissent, but not far. He was surly, sullen, argumentative. Time and again she had been forced to give him explicit orders. And he, in return, had questioned her loyalty to the cause and to the underlying dogma of the Yu ideology; questioned it until she, in her quiet moments, had begun to ask herself, "Do 1 believe in what I'm doing? Do I believe in Mach's vision of the new order that is to come once the City has been leveled?" And though she did, it had grown harder than ever to say as much—as though such lip service might make her like Vasska.
For a while there was only the sound of their breathing and the faint, ever-present hum of the life systems. Then, prefacing his remark with an unpleasantly insinuating laugh, Vasska spoke again. "So how's your boyfriend, Chi Li? How's. . . Wbl/-gang?" And he made the older man's name sound petty and ridiculous.
"Shut up, Vasska," said Erika, defusing the sudden tension. Then, leaning closer to Ywe Hao, she whispered, "Open the vent. Let's look. It's almost time."
In the dark Ywe Hao smiled, grateful for Erika's intervention, then turned and slipped the catch. Light spilled into the cramped, dark space, revealing the huddle of their limbs.
"What can you see?"
For a moment it was too bright. Then, when her eyes had focused, she found she was looking down into Main from a place some fifty or sixty ch'i overhead. It was late—less than an hour from first dark—and the day's crowds had gone from Main, leaving only a handful of revelers and one or two workers, making their way to their night-shift occupations. Ywe Hao looked beyond these to a small doorway to her left at the far end of Main. It was barely visible from where she was, yet even as her eyes went to it, a figure stepped out, raising a hand in parting.
"That's him!" she said in an urgent whisper. "Vasska, get going. I want that elevator secured." Dismissing him, she turned, looking into the strong, feminine face close to her own. "Well? What do you think?"
Erika considered, then nodded, a tight, tense smile lighting her features. "If it's like last time, we have thirty minutes, forty at the outside. Time enough to secure the place and get things ready."
"Good. Then let's get moving. There won't be another opportunity as good as this."
YWE HAO looked about her, then nodded, satisfied. The rooms seemed normal, no sign of the earlier struggle visible. Four of the servants were locked away in the pantry, bound hand and foot and sedated. In another room she had placed the women and children of the household; Shou's two wives, the new concubine, and the two young boys. Those, too, she had drugged, taking care to administer the exact dosage to the boys. Now she turned, facing the fifth member of the household staff, the Chief Steward, the number yi—one—emblazoned in red on the green chest patch he wore on his pure white pau. He stared back at her, his eyes wide with fear, his head slightly lowered, wondering what she would do next. Earlier she had taped a sticky-bomb to the back of his neck, promising him that at the slightest sign or word of warning, she would set it off.