Lever turned, smiling back at his best friend. "They say Kan Ying was a good man, Bryn. A strong man and yet fair. Under him the lands of la Ts'in were fairly governed. Had his sons ruled, they say there would have been a golden age."
Kustow nodded. "A good man, yes, until the great Pan Chao arrived."
The two men laughed quietly, then looked back at the statue.
Kan Ying knelt before Pan Chao, his back bent, his forehead pressed into the bare earth. He was unarmed, while Pan Chao stood above him, legs apart, his great sword raised in triumph, two daggers in his belt. Behind Kan Ying stood his four generals, their arms and insignia stripped from them, their faces gashed, their beards ragged from battle. There was honor in the way they held themselves, but also defeat. Their armies had been slaughtered on the battlefield by the superior Han forces. They looked tired, and the great, empty coffin they carried between them looked too much for their wasted strength to bear.
Nor would it grow any lighter. For, so the story went, Pan Chao had decapitated Kan Ying there and then and sent his body back to Rome, where it had lain out in the open in the great square, slowly rotting, waiting for the triumphal entry into the city three years later of the young Emperor Ho Ti.
Two thousand years ago, it had been. And still the Han crowed about it. Still they raised great statues to celebrate the moment when they had laid the Hung Moo low.
Lever turned. "Carl! Bryn! Come on! We're meeting Ebert in an hour, don't forget."
Stevens turned, smiling, then hurried across. "I was just watching one of the big interplanetary craft go up. They're amazing. I could feel the floor trembling beneath me as it turned on the power and climbed."
Kustow laughed. "So that's what it was . . . And there was I thinking it was the chow mein we had on the flight."
Stevens smiled back at them, then put his arms about their shoulders. He was the oldest of the three, an engineering graduate whose father owned a near-space research and development company. His fascination with anything to do with space and space flight bordered upon obsession and he had been horrified when the New Hope had been blown out of the sky by the Seven. Something had died in him that day, and at the same time, something had been born. A determination to get back what had been taken from them. To change the Edict and get out there, into space again, whatever it took.
"We'll be building them one day, I tell you," he said softly. "But bigger than that, and faster."
Kustow frowned. "Faster than that?" He shook his head. "Well, if you say so, Carl. But I'm told some of those craft can make the Mars trip in forty days."
Stevens nodded. "The Tientsin can do it in thirty. Twenty-six at perihelion. But yes, Bryn. Give me ten years and I'll make something that can do it in twenty."
"And kill all the passengers! I can see it now. It's bad enough crossing the Atlantic on one of those things, but imagine the g-forces that would build up if you—"
"Please ..." Lever interrupted, seeing how things were developing. "Hans will be waiting for us. So let's get on."
They went through to the main City Transfer barrier, ignoring the long line of passengers at the gates, going directly to the duty officer, a short, broad-shouldered man with neat black hair.
"Forgive me, Captain," Lever began, "but could you help us?" He took his documentation from his pocket and pushed it into the officer's hand. "We've an appointment with Major Ebert at eleven and—"
The officer didn't even look at the card. "Of course, Shih Lever. Would you mind following me? You and your two companions. There's a transporter waiting up above. Your baggage will be sent on."
Lever gave a small nod of satisfaction. So Ebert had briefed his men properly. "And the other two in our party?"
The officer smiled tightly. His information was not one hundred percent perfect then. "They . . . will join you as quickly as possible."
"Good." Lever smiled. No, even Ebert hadn't known he was bringing two experts with him. Nor had he wanted him to know. In business—even in this kind of business—it was always best to keep your opponent wrong-footed; even when your opponent was your friend. To make him feel uncertain, uninformed. That way you kept the advantage.
"Then lead on," he said. "Let's not keep our host waiting."
stevens was the first to notice it. He leaned across and touched Lever's arm. "Michael—something's wrong."
"What do you mean?"
Stevens leaned closer. "Look outside, through the window. There are mountains down below. And the sun—it's to the left. We're heading south. At a guess I'd say we're over the Swiss Wilds."
Lever sat up, staring outward, then looked down the aisle of the transporter.
"Captain? Can you come here a moment?"
The Security officer broke off his conversation with his adjutant and came across, bowing respectfully.
"What is it, Shih Lever?"
Lever pointed out at the mountains. "Where are we?"
The Captain smiled. "You've noticed. I'm sorry, ch'un tzu, but I couldn't tell you before. My orders, you understand. However, Shih Stevens is right. We're heading south. And those below are the Swiss Wilds." He reached into his tunic and withdrew a folded handwritten note, handing it to Lever. "Here, this will explain everything."
Lever unfolded the note and read it quickly. It was from Ebert.
Lever smiled, his fingers tracing the wax seal at the foot of the note, then looked up again. "And you, Captain? What's your role in this?"
The officer smiled, then began to unbutton his tunic. He peeled it off and threw it to one side; then sat down facing the three Americans.
"Forgive the deception, my friends, but let me introduce myself. My name is Howard DeVore and I'm to be your host for the next eight hours."
LEHMANN SAT at the back of the room, some distance from the others. A huge viewing screen filled the wall at the far end, while to one side, on a long, wide table made of real mahogany, a detailed map of City Europe was spread out, the Swiss Wilds and the Carpathians marked in red, like bloodstains on the white.
DeVore, Lever, and the others sat in big leather chairs, drinks in hand, talking. Above them, on the screen, the funeral procession moved slowly through the walled northern garden at Tongjiang—the Li family, the seven T'ang, their Generals, and their chief retainers. Thirty shaven-headed servants followed, the open casket held high above their heads.
DeVore raised his half-filled glass to indicate the slender, dark-haired figure in white who led the mourners.
"He carries his grief well. But then he must. It's a quality he'll need to cultivate in the days ahead."
DeVore's smile was darkly ironic. Beside him, Lever laughed; then he leaned forward, cradling his empty glass between his hands. "And look at our friend Hans. A study in solemnity, neh?"
Lehmann watched them laugh, his eyes drawn to the man who sat to the extreme right of the group. He was much older than Lever and his friends, his dark hair tied back in two long pigtails. There was a cold elegance about him that contrasted with the brashness of the others. He was a proud, even arrogant man; the way he sat, the way he held his head, expressed that eloquently. Even so, he was their servant, and that fact bridled his tongue and kept him from being too familiar with them.
His name was Andrew Curval and he was an experimental geneticist; perhaps the greatest of the age. As a young man he had worked for GenSyn as a commodity slave, his time and talents bought by them on a fifteen-year contract. Twelve years ago that contract had expired and he had set up his own Company, but that venture had failed after only three years. Now he was back on contract; this time to Old Man Lever.