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Authors: Humans (v1.1)
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child without the proper discipline.”
“The family has to pay for the
bullet that kills you,” Mortimer said, musing, thoughtful. “Is that the usual
procedure in China ?”
“Yes.”
“I didn’t know about that.” The
reporter fell into silence, brooding, seeming to lose interest in his next
question.
Kwan took the time to glance over at
the pool, which was now empty, and then the other way, at the interior of the
cafe. A westerner sat alone at the next table, drinking coffee and reading the Hong
Kong Times. He looked up, his eyes meeting Kwan’s for just a second, and then he
went back to his paper, but in that second Kwan suddenly felt afraid.
Of the man? No. He wasn’t from the Hong Kong police. He was a European or American,
heavy-set, about forty, with yellow hair like a Scandinavian. He wore a
short-sleeved shirt, pale blue, and a dark red necktie, but no jacket. He had a
large gold ring with a red stone on the little finger of his right hand.
Click.
Kwan looked at the table, and
Mortimer’s cassette player had stopped. “You’ve run out of tape.”
Mortimer looked up, embarrassed, as
though he’d been asleep. “Time went by fast,” he said, laughing awkwardly, and
spent the next moment fumbling with the machine, turning the tape over,
starting it again. cc Where were we?”
“My family would pay for the
bullet.”
“Oh, yes.” That fact still made
Mortimer uncomfortable.
“And you’re sure you wouldn’t have
an opportunity to make any sort of meaningful state—”
“Mr. Mortimer?”
It was the waiter, standing beside
their table, bowing in Mortimer’s direction. The reporter looked up, reluctant
and irritable. “Yes?”
“Telephone, sir. You can take it at
the cashier’s desk.”
Mortimer was torn, indecisive. He
rubbed the knuckles of his right hand against his bearded cheek. “I don’t
know,” he said, glancing at Kwan, at the cassette player, then back at the
waiter.
He made an aggravated mouth, as
though angry at the interruption, or angry at himself, or just angry. “Yes, of
course,” he said. “Here I come.” With a bright meaningless smile at Kwan, he
said, “Sorry about this. Be right back.”
“Yes, fine.”
Mortimer followed the waiter away toward
the door. Kwan saw that he’d left the cassette player on, and was about to
reach out and turn it off when the westerner from the next table stood up, came
smoothly and swiftly across, and said in a low voice, “Mortimer betrayed you,
that was the price of the interview. There’s no phone call. Get up and follow
me.”
Kwan immediately recognized the
truth. Mortimer’s strangeness at the end, his wanting to believe that Kwan
could turn capture and trial to his own advantage, his reluctance when the
“phone call” came. The end of the tape had been the signal; that was all the
interview Mortimer would be allowed. Another realist; Mortimer had believed
that Kwan’s betrayal was a fair trade for getting Kwan’s story into a magazine
read by millions of people all around the world.
Kwan rose. The stranger was already
walking away, striding away, around the curved glass wall toward the rear of
the cafe. Kwan followed him, to a door that said, in three languages: EMERGENCY EXIT ONLY— ALARM WILL SOUND . The Stranger pushed open the door. No alarm
sounded. He went down four metal steps, Kwan hurrying after, permitting the
door to close itself behind him, and then they crossed a corner of the rock
garden to a stone path and headed for the
“The family has to pay for the
bullet that kills you,” Mortimer said, musing, thoughtful. “Is that the usual
procedure in China ?”
“Yes.”
“I didn’t know about that.” The
reporter fell into silence, brooding, seeming to lose interest in his next
question.
Kwan took the time to glance over at
the pool, which was now empty, and then the other way, at the interior of the
cafe. A westerner sat alone at the next table, drinking coffee and reading the Hong
Kong Times. He looked up, his eyes meeting Kwan’s for just a second, and then he
went back to his paper, but in that second Kwan suddenly felt afraid.
Of the man? No. He wasn’t from the Hong Kong police. He was a European or American,
heavy-set, about forty, with yellow hair like a Scandinavian. He wore a
short-sleeved shirt, pale blue, and a dark red necktie, but no jacket. He had a
large gold ring with a red stone on the little finger of his right hand.
Click.
Kwan looked at the table, and
Mortimer’s cassette player had stopped. “You’ve run out of tape.”
Mortimer looked up, embarrassed, as
though he’d been asleep. “Time went by fast,” he said, laughing awkwardly, and
spent the next moment fumbling with the machine, turning the tape over,
starting it again. cc Where were we?”
“My family would pay for the
bullet.”
“Oh, yes.” That fact still made
Mortimer uncomfortable.
“And you’re sure you wouldn’t have
an opportunity to make any sort of meaningful state—”
“Mr. Mortimer?”
It was the waiter, standing beside
their table, bowing in Mortimer’s direction. The reporter looked up, reluctant
and irritable. “Yes?”
“Telephone, sir. You can take it at
the cashier’s desk.”
Mortimer was torn, indecisive. He
rubbed the knuckles of his right hand against his bearded cheek. “I don’t
know,” he said, glancing at Kwan, at the cassette player, then back at the
waiter.
He made an aggravated mouth, as
though angry at the interruption, or angry at himself, or just angry. “Yes, of
course,” he said. “Here I come.” With a bright meaningless smile at Kwan, he
said, “Sorry about this. Be right back.”
“Yes, fine.”
Mortimer followed the waiter away toward
the door. Kwan saw that he’d left the cassette player on, and was about to
reach out and turn it off when the westerner from the next table stood up, came
smoothly and swiftly across, and said in a low voice, “Mortimer betrayed you,
that was the price of the interview. There’s no phone call. Get up and follow
me.”
Kwan immediately recognized the
truth. Mortimer’s strangeness at the end, his wanting to believe that Kwan
could turn capture and trial to his own advantage, his reluctance when the
“phone call” came. The end of the tape had been the signal; that was all the
interview Mortimer would be allowed. Another realist; Mortimer had believed
that Kwan’s betrayal was a fair trade for getting Kwan’s story into a magazine
read by millions of people all around the world.
Kwan rose. The stranger was already
walking away, striding away, around the curved glass wall toward the rear of
the cafe. Kwan followed him, to a door that said, in three languages: EMERGENCY EXIT ONLY— ALARM WILL SOUND . The Stranger pushed open the door. No alarm
sounded. He went down four metal steps, Kwan hurrying after, permitting the
door to close itself behind him, and then they crossed a corner of the rock
garden to a stone path and headed for the
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