She had sat up until late learning the brief she had been sent, then snatched three hours sleep before the call came. That had been an hour ago. Now she stood, quite literally, on the threshold of a new life, hesitating, wondering even now if she had done the right thing.
Was it really too late to go back—to make her peace with Mach? She sighed and let her fingers move slowly down the dark, smooth surface of the glass. Yes. DeVore might have been lying when he said he had no motive in helping her, but he was right about Mach wanting her dead. She had given Mach no option. No one left the Ping Tioo. Not voluntarily, anyway. And certainly not alive.
Even so, wasn't there some other choice? Some other option than putting herself in debt to DeVore?
She looked down at her bandaged left hand then smiled cynically at her reflection in the darkened glass. If there had been she would not be here. Besides, there were things she had to do. Important things. And maybe she could do them just as well in America. If DeVore let her.
It was a big if, but she was prepared to take the chance. The only other choice was death, and while she didn't fear death, it was hardly worth preempting things.
No. She would reserve that option. Would keep it as her final bargaining counter. Just in case DeVore proved difficult. And maybe she'd even take him with her. If she could.
Her smile broadened, lost its hard edge. She turned, joining the line of boarding passengers, holding out her pass to the tiny Han stewardess, then moved down the aisle toward her seat.
She was about to sit when the steward touched her arm.
"Forgive me, Fu Jen, but have you a reserved ticket for that seat?"
She turned, straightening up, then held out her ticket for inspection, looking the man up and down as she did so. He was a squat, broad-shouldered Han with one of those hard, anonymous faces some of them had. She knew what he was at once—one of those minor officials who gloried in pettiness.
He made a great pretense of studying her ticket, turning it over, then turning it back. His eyes flicked up to her face, then took in her clothes, her lack of jewelry, before returning to her face again, the disdain in them barely masked. He shook his head.
"If you would follow me, Fu Jen . . ."
He turned, making his way back down the aisle toward the cramped third- and fourth-class seats at the tail of the rocket, but she stood where she was, her stomach tightening, anticipating the tussle to come.
Realizing that she wasn't following him, he came back, his whole manner suddenly quite brutally antagonistic.
"You must come, Fu Jen. These seats are reserved for others."
She shook her head. "1 have a ticket."
He tucked the ticket down into the top pocket of his official tunic. "Forgive me, Fu Jen, but there has been a mistake. As I said, these seats are reserved. Paid for in advance."
The emphasis on the last few words gave his game away. For a moment she had thought that this might be DeVore's final little game with her, but now she knew. The steward was out to extract some squeeze from her. To get her to pay for what was already rightfully hers. She glared at him, despising him, then turned and sat. If he just so much as tried to make her budge . . .
He leaned over her, angry now. "Fu Jen! You must move! Now! At once! Or I will call the captain!"
She was about to answer him when a hand appeared on the steward's shoulder and drew him back sharply.
It was a big man. A Hung Moo. He pushed the Han steward back unceremoniously, a scathing look of contempt on his face. "Have you left your senses, man? The lady has paid for her seat. Now give her her ticket back and leave her alone, or I'll report you to the port authorities—understand me, Hsiao jen?"
The steward opened his mouth, then closed it again, seeing the Security warrant card the man was holding out. Lowering his eyes, he took the ticket from his pocket and handed it across.
"Good!" The man handed it to her with a smile, then turned back, shaking his head. "Now get lost, you little fucker. If I so much as see you in this section during the flight. . ."
The Han swallowed and backed away hurriedly.
The man turned back, looking at her. "I'm sorry about that. They always try it on a single woman traveling alone. Your kind is usually good for fifty yuan at least."
She looked at her ticket, a small shudder of indignation passing through her, then looked back at him, smiling. "Thank you. I appreciate your help, but I would have been all right."
He nodded. "Maybe. But a mutual friend asked me to look after you."
"Ah . . ." She narrowed her eyes, then tilted her head slightly, indicating the warrant card he still held in one hand. "And that's real?"
He laughed. "Of course. Look, can I sit for a moment? There are one or two things we need to sort out."
She hesitated, then gave a small nod. No strings, eh? But it was just as she'd expected. She had known all along that DeVore would have some reason for helping her out.
"What is it?" she asked, turning in her seat to study him as he sat down beside her.
"These ..." He handed her a wallet and a set of cards. The cards were in the name of Rachel DeValerian; the wallet contained a set of references for Mary Jennings, including the documentation for a degree in economics and a letter of introduction to Michael Lever, the director of a company called MemSys. A letter dated two days from then.
She looked up at him. "I don't understand."
He smiled. "You'll need a job over there. Well, the Levers will have a vacancy for an economist on their personal staff. As of tomorrow."
How do you know? she was going to ask, but his smile was answer enough. If DeVore said there was going to be a vacancy, there would be a vacancy. But why the Levers? And what about the other identity?
"What's this?" she asked, holding out the De Valerian cards.
He shrugged. "I'm only the messenger. Our friend said you would know what to do with them."
"I see." She studied them a moment, then put them away. Then DeVore meant her to set up her own movement. To recruit. She smiled and looked up again. "What else?"
He returned her smile, briefly covering her left hand with his right. "Nothing. But I'll be back in a second if you need me. Enjoy the flight." He stood. "Okay. See you in Boston."
"Boston? I thought we were going to New York."
He shook his head, then leaned forward. "Hadn't you heard? New York is closed. Wu Shih is holding an emergency meeting of the Seven and there's a two-hundred U exclusion zone about Manhattan."
She frowned. "I didn't know. What's up?"
He laughed, then leaned forward and touched his finger to the panel on the back of the seat in front of her. At once the screen lit up, showing a scene of devastation.
"There!" he said. "That's what's up."
THE TWO MEN sat on the high wall of the dyke as the dawn came, looking out across the flat expanse of blackened fields, watching the figures move almost somnolently in the darkness below. The tart smell of burned crops seemed to taint every breath they took, despite the filters both wore. They were dressed in the uniform of reserve-corps volunteers; and though only one of the two wore it legitimately, it would have been hard to tell which.
Great palls of smoke lifted above the distant horizon, turning the dawn's light ochre, while, two li out, a convoy of transporters sped westward, heading back toward the safety of the City.