Julia Latynina. Insider --------------------------------------------------------------- © Copyright Julia Latynina © Copyright translation by Boris Itin (bitin@nysbc.org) Date: 08 Dec 2004 --------------------------------------------------------------- CONTENT The First Chapter Where Kissur the White Falcon gets in an accident while the first vice-minister of finance discusses the reasons for the dearth in the state treasury. The Second Chapter Where the sad history of the Assalah spacefield is told while the ex-first minister of Empire finds himself a new friend. The Third Chapter Where Kissur opens the Emperor's eyes to a foreign briber while Terence Bemish received a gift of a luxury villa. The Fourth Chapter Where Kissur tells investment bankers how to train a highwayman's horse while Terence Bemish makes an acquintance with other contenders for Assalah stocks. The Fifth Chapter Where Terence Bemish is being persuaded to drop out of Assalah stocks auction while Shavash reminds the visitors that he is not familiar with the financial term dictatorship. The Sixth Chapter Where company AC declares its real name while Mr. Shavash shares some unusual thoughts about democracy's drawbacks. The Seventh Chapter Where all investors' difficulties are solved in the best way. The Eight Chapter Where Terence Bemish pays taxes with fallen leaves while the rock with an ancient foretelling is dug out at the construction. The Ninth Chapter Where the demons' boss makes a pact with the pious people. The Tenth Chapter Where Terence Bemish becomes familiar with provincial life of the Empire while Mr. Shavash offers an original plan for the restructuring of the state debt. The Eleventh Chapter Where Terence Bemish's assistant goes to the sectants' meeting in Imissa while Kissur the White Falcon looks around the Galaxy for abandoned warheads. The Twelfth Chapter Where the Emperor of the Country of Great Light finds out the real purpose of the Assalah construction from the opposition press and expresses his confusion. The Thirteenth Chapter Where the nation expresses its will with unpredictable results. The Fourteenth Chapter Or the first minister as an international terrorist. The Fifteenth Chapter Where the saviors of the Country of Great Light pull the biggest insider deal in the history of the Galaxy. THE FIRST CHAPTER, where Kissur the White Falcon gets in an accident while the first vice-minister of finance discusses the reasons for the dearth in the state treasury. The walls of the living room were covered with blue silk and the corners were overlayed with hexagonal tiles making the room an octagon, the shape guided its owner's success in life and smoothed all turns in his fate. Embroiderings grew over silk - blossoming lotuses with leaves lowered from heat, plum flowers opening up, a snow white duck in a pond and a sping sun. A light hung almost all the way down to the floor, looking like a transparent upside down mushroom and golden figures of animals ran over its rim. A small table with a frosted jar and an armchair were next to the light. A 30 year old man sitting in the armchair was dressed in the silk pants and a jacket, girdled with a belt made from large silver links. His face was very handsome but cruel, with blue eyes and eyebrows rising at the tips. Old rings of delicate worksmanship looked strange on his predator's hands with untrimmed nails. His hair was twisted in a bun and held with a tortoise comb. A 3D transvisor on a fat golden leg stood in the left corner. Periodically, the man would fill a small five walled cup from the jar, close the cup with a lacquered cap enclosing a straw, and stick the straw in his mouth. He was watching the transvisor. On his left hand, a small drawing hung in a sable fur frame - a beautiful drawing of a sick chickadee in snow. The picture bore the Emperor's signature. It was a personal gift from the Emperor. Two golden rings of orchids and clematis hang next to it. A sonar rabbit ear antenna stuck up above the transvisor and a silvered pot with a blooming flower was behind the antenna. The flower had a artful name "furled belle's eyebrows." The picture in the transvisor greatly differed from that on the silk paintings decorating the room. The transvisor was not showing either a sick chickadee or blossoming plums. The transvisor was showing a press-conference. A self-important patrician Earthman was talking and his piggish eyes were routinely squinting from camera flashes. A whole flock of microphones was gosseling out in front of the Earthman. He was earnestly attempting to look inside the room through the screen and he probably felt alien surrounded by blooming plums and golden flower rings. Somebody asked the man on the screen in a thin voice, and he answered benevolently, "While we are not interfering in any way with the independent nation and are not pressuring its government, the Federation of Nineteen would encourage the Emperor to conduct the first Parliament elections in the history of your country as a one more step in of your nation's integration into the galactic society." The man sitting in the chair poured the last remnants from the silver jar into the cup. He slightly raised his hand and threw the jar at the forehead of the smiling Earthman on the screen. The Earthman stopped smiling and disappeared. The screen squeaked and exploded in tiny pieces. The "furled belle's eyebrows" loudly crashed, and the nauseating smell of burning plastic intestines filled the room. The painted doors moved apart and a middle-aged majordomo in a blue caftan rolled into the room. "Take it away," the man in the armchair said without raising his voice. The majordomo threw his hands up and exclaimed, "Oh, Mr. Kissur, that's the third one this week." Kissur jumped out of the chair, slammed the door and was gone. The majordomo in the room stuck his hand in the empty jar, scratched it and licked... The lord was not even drunk, or almost not drunk - there was a light palm wine in a jar, generously diluted by the apricot juice. Kissur could get drunk and get drunk to his eyebrows, drunk enough to fight, drunk enough to cut dogs or people cut in half. But, he could do it only at merry party with a dozen friends. Kissur never drank by himself. Kissur ran gasping down the staircase and leaped out into the inner yard. The night was already in. It smelled of mint from countryside gardens, gasoline and horses. A city mansion with a flat roof surrounded the yard on three sides. A left wing tower decorated with grape carvings rose gracefully like a reed leaf. In the past, high-ranking officials built towers like this, for them to touch the sky like little fingers. The towers would be like a staircase that Fortune walk down from the sky to the officials. In the past, people had said that only the Emperor's castle spires were higher. Now, one would not be able to say that, since a construction crane made from steel matches was showing up on the black sky background; the crane was touching the sky with its little finger. Enraged Kissur threw his fist to the sky and stomped flying down the moonlighted path. A servant in a short blue jacket stood in the backyard, in front of the gates wrapped by brass vines. The servant lovingly washed a long glossy car like he would be braiding a horse's tail. The black sides of the car gleamed in the moonlight and the silver gills of the hydrogen engine air intakes shined. Kissur ripped the hose out of the slave's hand and threw himself in a car. The tires screeched - the slave was barely able to jump away. The terrified booth guard hit the button on the keyboard, the gates bobbed up, and the car flew out on the deserted and wet night highway. "Once he won't be able to get the gates up in time", Kissur thought, "and I'll break my neck at my own wall." The car was purring and eating hydrogen - isn't it strange that a horse eats when it's resting while this black ironmonger eats only when it's moving, and when it's not moving it doesn't eat anything. Yes! Seven years ago when gloom was sometimes eating at his soul, Kissur would take a black stallion with a wide back and tall legs and race him in the Emperor's garden, in the gullies overgrown with bushes and grass, till the sunrise. Where is this garden now? They peddled it, sold it like a wench in the market, for some glass contraption. It was shameful, since Kissur himself sold it to some corporation . The highway ended abruptly at a flooded river; Kissur almost flipped over in the water on the sliver of the pontoon bridge. At least, this thing does race faster than a horse even if it stinks of iron. Only weapons smelled like iron in the past, while now in an every beaurocrat's house a barrel like this hangs out and stinks like iron. It's terrifying to think of the size of the motherland piece this beaurocrat sold for this barrel... Kissur turned around and slowly drove back. In a hundred yards, a cement road forked off the highway. Moon tatters floated in a little puddle at the road turn. "What road is that?", Kissur was curious and turned the car. The road ended in ten minutes. The car beams tore at the darkness and illuminated a tall concrete fence with barbed wire on top and a lonely guard getting bored at the watchtower. A dark open field could be seen on the left and a yellow light beam from the beacon was hitting the field. Kissur got out of the car and walked down the field to the excavator that was ascending like a clockwork mole over a not-yet-fully-eaten hill. Tracks and wheels bulldozed the field and water gleamed in the clay ruts. The excavator was huge, taller than a poplar. It was one of these huge machines that swallow clay with some additives delivered from afar and spit out finished construction blocks. Kissur climbed up a steep staircase to the top of the excavator. It was a long climb; the staircases twisted, went horizontal, changed in narrow paths between steel casings covering various mechanisms and finally finished at a tiny booth. The booth was locked; constellations of blue lights at the napping console looked at Kissur through the glass. At this moment, the moon peered out of clouds again; Drunken River gleamed far away with the multi-coloured tower of Seven Clouds Bridge above it. Kissur suddenly recognized this field; it happened here, next to Seven Clouds, eight years ago. Kissur caught up with the rebel Khanalai right when he was going to enter the capital; Kissur and his five hundred horsemen drowned four thousand rebels in the river. The commander wore a ruby necklace; Kissur remembered very well how he cut off his head with one hand and stuffed the necklace in his coat with the other. Kissur turned around and started to climb down the narrow staircase, smelling of oil and chemistry. His car purred quietly and complained about the open door. The guard hesitantly shifted from foot to foot in his nest. What's happening? Did some boss come in a luxurious barrel to look at the construction at night? It doesn't look like a robber... Take this excavator, such an insanely expensive machine that's tall like a cypress, walks by itself, digs earth by itself, piles the blocks behind by itself. They say that this machine costs three times more than the village that the guard was born and grew up in. They say even that it's more expensive than the Emperor's scepter covered with jewels and gold. That's probably bullshit; the Emperor's sceptor is the focus of the world and the buttress of power. When the Emperor knocks his scepter, flowers bloom and birds build nests; how can you compare it some ironmongery? You can't compare it to ironmongery and that's why people from the sky get angry and laugh at the scepter. Like it's all crap and the Spring comes not because the Emperor knocks the sceptor on the floor in the Hall of Hundred Fields but because Weia planet turns its side to the sun differently. But what if the people from the sky don't bullshit? What if their excavator is more powerful than the Emperor's scepter? "Hey," Kissur asked, "what are they building here?" " I don't know, sir", the frightened guard answered. "They say it will be a garbage plant." "Who is building it?" The puzzled guard was silent for a moment. "I knew, sir, but the name is such difficult..." "Earthmen?" "Earthmen." The beacon from the tower was blinding Kissur's eyes, shamelessly eclipsing the moon. Kissur rolled on the heels, threw a coin to the guard, got in the car and left. He didn't care where he went, but the wheels drove him of their own accord to Jasper Hills, the most expensive suburb of the capital. Painted walls extended behind the sidewalk covered with blue cloth; trees and turnip shaped turrets flashed behind the walls, and traffic lights blinked in the intersections illuminating statues of gods and road signs with transparent lights. Kissur drove the wrong way down a one way street, turned the wrong way again and raced down night intersections not bothering to decrease his speed. He passed red lights twice without problems, but third time he was less lucky. Out of a white fence came a grey Daiquiri, looking like a gopher with a sharp snout, the last year model made by the Republic of Gera. Kissur wrenched the steering wheel left even before the slow biolectronic guts of the car smelled danger. The brakes of both cars sang an ugly song in the night. Grey Daiquiri swerved left. Everything would have been fine, if not for the wet road cover. The grey car spun like a top and hit Kissur's car right side head-on. Metal screeched desperately, like a chainlink mail parting under an old sword strike. Everything became quiet. The owner of Daiquiri jumped out of the car and rushed to the other auto; he jerked the driver's door open and looked inside. He was probably expecting to find a corpse or somebody severely wounded; he looked astonished when he discovered that the culprit was sitting in the car and getting his wallet out. Then, Kissur looked in rearview mirror, shifted from the collision, and noticed that his hair twisted in a bun was in disarray and the comb popped out of the bun like a button out of a safety switch. Kissur pulled the comb out and started to arrange his hair. The other driver's face contorted like an image in a transvisor with a bad tracking; he started pulling Kissur out and hissed awfully in the language of the people from the stars. "You, Weian monkey! Climb down a tree first, before you start driving." The smile slowly left Kissur's face. He left the comb alone, grabbed the Earthman's wrists with his hands, got out of the car, and with a slight swing punched the Earthman in the solar plexis with his knee. He went limp and said "Ouch." Red unglazed tiles that were covering the ditch caved in with a crunch and the Earthman tumbled down through the tiles with his legs sticking up. Kissur grinned, straightened up his shirt and started opening the car door. In the next second, something gleamed above his head and refracted in the long titanium oxide rib of the car. Kissur turned with lightning speed. Great Wei! The Earthman dragged himself out of the tiled ditch and was flying at Kissur prancing like a goose. Astounded Kissur avoided the first punch, but the second almost shattered his jaw. Kissur was hurled in the corner between the door and rearview mirror. The mirror crunched and Kissur noticed the Earthman's right foot an inch away from his ear. Kissur grabbed and twisted this leg, but the masterly Earthman instead of smashing his face in the road, let out a war cry, threw his body strangely in the air and punched Kissur's belly with another leg. Kissur even fainted for a second. When he opened his eyes again, he found himself lying on the road like a pod from an eaten bean and the Earthman was going to punch him again. Kissur threw himself to the side; Earthman missed, and Kissur adroitly punched Earthman right in the place where the Earthman's corn grew from. This time Earthman's cry was less warlike. Kissur jumped with his back, bounced on his feet and hit the foe in the face, once and again; he went limp. Kissur prodded him in the groin to check, lifted him and flang the Earthman at the grey Daiquiri's windshield. The layered glass cracked and started to break, the Earthman dropped his head and lost consciousness. Kissur stood breathing deeply and blinking with half mad eyes. He was trained to loose any self control during a fight; at times like this, Kissur's ancestors turned into wolves and bears. If Kissur had a sword, he would cut the scoundrel down. However, it would be stupid to wear a sword now and Kissur didn't have a liking for all these things with nulls, lights, gases - all having a hole in the middle like a wench. Though he had an automatic six pound laser and another very fashionable gadget in the car's trunk, Kissur didn't know even why he carried them. His friends did, so did he. Kissur stood and shook his head purposelessly, slowly coming back in this world. The Earthman was lying on the car hood like a squashed frog. His white shirt and tie were hopelessly soiled with cranberry juice. The traffic light at the intersection blinked and changed color - the fugurine of a god-protector of intersections sparkled with green light. Kissur finally came to his senses. He chewed his lips and retrieved his round wallet out of a pocket. Kissur didn't respect plastic. He got out everything that he had in the wallet - he vaguely remembered that it was twenty or maybe fifty thousand - rolled the money in a wad and stuck it in the Earthmans's split lips. He didn't want them to say that he beat people free of charge. Then he got in his car and left. X X X The car slowly rolled forward. Kissur felt slightly sick; blood dripped out of his nose. It wouldn't be proper to come back home looking like this. Kissur passed several more mansions and stopped in front of beautiful brass gates. Horses and peacocks intertwined in a dance on the gates; the blue enamel on the horsetails glistened in the beam lights. The beauty of gates was such they seemed to lead from earth to heaven. Night garden's sweet smells wafted out from behind the gates. The turnip shaped turrets of the side houses stuck out from the dark mass of trees. Melancholic gods sat on the flat roofing of the covered road. At the side of the gates, a small ivory plaque glimmered, "Shavash Ahdi. The first vice-minister of finance. Vice prefect of the Sky City." A small figurine of the god-protector of the gates was next to the plaque. The god had a small basket with fish in his hand. A marble cup stood under the figurine. A piece of dried oil saturated cow dung burned in the cup; it demontrated the owner's modesty and honored the cane-built huts of ancient officials. Surprisingly, the gates were closed - the vice prefect of the capital was not feeding either officials or paupers today. Kissur smirked. The mansion's owner could've had numerous titles written on the plaque - the Keeper of Piety, the Brocade of Truth, the Flower Garden of the Wisdom Beyond the Sky, the Meadow of the State Virtue, etc... etc... He regularly received these titles from the Emperor and was supposed to engrave them on gate plaques. However, the owner of the mansion has often had visitors from the skies and he probably realized that the Brocade of Truth and the Flower Garden of Wisdom were not titles that would impress the foreigners. Kissur blinked the lights; the gates suddenly moved to the sides without a call and Kissur drove in. The yard was brightly lit. Streams of water and light erupted from the fountains and multi coloured balls bounced on the streams. Rows of columns and rose bushes led to the open front entrance. The columns tops made from carved jade and inlaid silver pointed to the moon. The host was already running down the staircase rushing to the wide path. A bowing servant opened the car door and Kissur stepped out of the car. Mr. Shavash froze as if he had ran into a wall but he recovered at once, opened his arms and embraced Kissur. "Hello," he said. "Well," said Kissur, "I was driving and decided to drop by. Sorry that I didn't warn you... I don't like these - beep, beep," Kissur traced a sickly body of a T-phone with his hand. "Are you busy?" Mr. Shavash regarded the caved in car door and looked Kissur over from his head to his toes. "Give me your driver's license," said the vice-minister of finance and the vice prefect of the capital. Kissur bent his eyebrows, got the wallet out and handed his license over. The vice prefect waved the license, thought a bit, tore it apart and threw it in the lighted fountain. "Whom have you run over?" "I haven't run anybody over," answered Kissur, "I hit a pole." This lie would have a short life span. If the Earthman is dead, Shavash will learn everything tomorrow morning. If he is alive, Shavash may learn about it tonight. Kissur, however, didn't come to Shavash to avoid a scandal. Thank God, the time hasn't come yet for a foreigner wearing a tie to turn in a complaint about a personal friend of the Emperor. "The pole," mentioned Shavash, "had leaden fists." "Are you waiting for somebody," asked Kissur, "did I come at a wrong time?" Shavash became slightly embarassed. "You are always welcome." Shavash gave orders; Kissur followed to the guest chambers. A servant rushed along in mincing steps carrying a basket with clean sheets. Shavash said to Kissur's back, "You will not drive again. Otherwise you will die sometime." "It's ok," replied Kissur, "if Gods like a man, he dies young." X X X Twenty minutes later, bowing servants walked Kissur down the roofed path to the Pavilion of White Creeks. There were two pavilions for receiving important guests in the Shavash's estate - the Pavilion of White Creeks and the Red Pavilion. Pavilion of White Creeks was decorated in the traditional style, the floors were covered with knee deep white rugs, flower spheres swang under the ceiling, incense flowed from golden braziers, silken scrolls rimmed with fur hang on the walls, while the corners (corners are indeed atrocious things, everything bad in a house comes from the corners) were hidden well from a random glance by long ivy plants rising all the way to the ceiling. Red Pavilion was designed by an Earthman. Shavash usually received Weians in the Pavilion of White Creeks and Earthmen in the Red Pavilion. They claimed that these places had magical properties - when Mr. Shavash received Weians in the Pavilion of White Creeks he discoursed one way, but when he received Earthmen in the Red Pavilion his speeches were very different. For instance, when questioned about the reasons for the Empire's poverty in the Pavilion of White Creeks, he complained about the greed of people from the skies who only try to buy as much Weia as possible for a keg of marinated onions. However when asked the same question in the Red Pavilion, he complained about laziness and selfishness of Weian officials. Since these different speeches belonged to the same person, you have to agree, that the magical properties of these buildings had to be involved. The servants brought trays of roasted goose and baskets of picked fruit and covered the table with vegetable and meat appetizers.The melon floating in a silver basin was delivered the last. Shavash seated Kissur as the guest of honor and broke off the top of clay wine jar. Kissur caught the top and glanced at the stamp. "Good wine," Kissur, "if this stamp is not counterfeited." "There are no fakes in my house," Shavash replied, "it was made in Inissa in the fifth year of sovereign Varnazd rein." "It was made when the empire was still the empire. It was made when I was not a minister yet, when I was a brigand in Kharain mountains and when my wife was your fiancee. Shavash smiled slightly and poured wine in the cups. "I would," Kissur spoke, "drink a wine that was bottled in the times of sovereign Irshahchan. When there were no merchants and bribers and when all these barbarians from the mountains or from the sky didn't wave their swords or their science in front of our people's faces. "I am afraid," Shavash replied, "that no wine that ancient exists. And even if it's around still, it has turned into vinegar." The friends intertwined their hands and drank wine. After that, Shavash started on a young bamboo shoot and a river calimari with a spicy Iniss sauce appetizers. Kissur, squinting, rolled a cup in his hands and looked at the man sitting across the table. Even among Weian officials that nobody would suspect to be excessively uncorrupted, Shavash had made himself quite a reputation. Shavash's servants took bribes, Shavash's assistants took bribes, Shavash's wife (by the way, Kissur's wife was her sister) took bribes; they took bribes with lands and stocks, with licenses and money, with options and thoroughbreds, with the newest financial tools and ancient paintings, took bribes from provincial and center worlds, took bribes from the Federation of Nineteen and the Republic of Gera - though the dictator of Gera didn't take bribes and didn't really give much. One official asked what kind of place a supermarket was; they told him that it was a place where one could by anything. "Oh, it's Mr. Shavash's house," the astonished official exclaimed. Kissur once, after some really offensive deal, grabbed Shavash by his shirt at the Emperor's soiree and asked what the current price was for a pound of motherland. "I love motherland and I charge a lot for it," Shavash leered. Mr. Shavash liked to state that if a man says that he doesn't like money, it means that money doesn't like him. Since the Earthmen came to the planet, seven years and four cabinets have passed. Every one of the cabinets fired all its predecessor's functionaries. Shavash was the only higher level official who worked for all the cabinets and survived. The first man he betrayed in order to survive was his teacher and lord, Nan, who had made him a big boss out of an street urchin thief. Thanks to such a long political life, Shavash was able to pull all the strings of power and influence in the country in spite of his relative youth - he was only two years older than Kissur. Shavash could help or hinder anything. Even the biggest country bumpkin Earthmen - who came to Weia to invest in a construction of some resort in the middle of untamed nature or in the development of a uranium mine that will sooner or later finish this untamed nature off - knew that they should introduce themselves to the first vice minister of finance and they should invest in Shavash first, and in a mine next. Kissur had just finished half of the goose, when a bowing servant slid in the room and handed Shavash a paper. "At the intersection of Spring Fires, the traces of a two car collision were found, the unglazed tile ditch cover was broken through, blood and fragments of headlights identical to the broken headlight of Kissur's car were present. The grey paint particles stuck to Kissur's car trunk match to the grey paint particles found at the collision place." That was the answer to the orders Shavash had given his secretary twenty minutes ago. Shavash folded the paper sheet and put it in his pocket. "What," Kissur asked, "are they building at the Seven Clouds field?" The official pondered. "Garbage processing plant," he said. "Who? Another of their corporations?" "The company CB Trade. The owner of company is Kaminski. What's the problem?" "Nothing. I was just passing by and got curious." "So, have they built the plant?" "No," Kissur said, "they haven't built it yet. They built a big road to the garbage plant." Shavash reflectively touched the paper in his pocket. Kissur sucked on a goose breast bone, washed it down with another wine cup and said, "Garbage plant! Our ancestors swept garbage out of their houses only at a full moon. They used to call a charmer, so that a warlock would not be able to pick up trash and put a spell on them. Imagine what would happen in Earthmen's houses if they threw garbage out only once a month? All their wraps and cans would rise above the ceiling even thought their ceilings are very high! How can a people that generates so much garbage call itself civilized? How dare these people teach us to manufacture goods only to dispose of them afterwards?! Shavash didn't react to this tirade in any way. Kissur silently finished wine and his eyes became even more desperate. "Why," Kissur asked, "does the capital need a garbage processing plant?" "Probably," Shavash supposed, "to process garbage." "Crap," Kissur objected, "Earthmen don't need plants to process garbage. They produce garbage, as an excuse to build garbage processing plants. Why don't we ask the sovereign to ban this construction? Almost in the center of the capital!" Shavash pressed his thumb in the armchair and looked thoughtfully at Kissur. It looked like he was pondering something. "Don't be afraid," Shavash said suddenly, "Kaminski will not built his garbage plant." "How so?" "As you mentioned, this is almost downtown. The status of the land will be reconsidered; industrial construction will be prohibited; the business and industrial land committee will submit a complaint; the sovereign will sign it and the garbage plant construction will be cancelled." "But the foundation is already there." "Mr. Kaminski will receive a compensation for the foundation - two million." "And then?" "Then, Mr. Kaminski will built a new business center instead of a garbage plant on the business zoned land." "I am probably very stupid," Kissur remarked, "but I don't understand what's going on." "Lands of the Empire that are sold to foreign investors as a private property," Shavash patiently explained, "can be divided in four categories - agrarian, residential, industrial and business lands. Industrial zoned land costs twelve times less than business zoned one. If Mr. Kaminsky had bought the land for a business center, it would have been too expensive for him." "And what about the foundation?" Shavash spread his hands. "I am not an engineer, of course, and they don't allow outsiders to visit the construction. If however, I was an engineer and I was allowed there, I would probably notice that the foundation and the underground communications confirm to a business center specifications and not to a garbage processing facility specifications." Kissur's face froze. "So," he said, "that's what Kaminsky will get two million compensation for?" "Kaminsky," Shavash responded, "will not get the compensation. The compensation will be procured by a Weian official who affirms the complaint and transfer land from one zoning category into another." "Hold on, this deal must have passed through your prefecture!" "In this case, the contract did not pass via the prefecture. It passed through Mr. Khanida's department." "I see. You can't forgive Khamida that it was him and not you to receive the money." "This money wouldn't hurt me" Kissur stood up and started pacing in the pavilion. "Mutual profit," Shavash talked, "is the basis of cooperation. Kaminsky will save four hundred million; Khamida will receive two million. Weian officials cost cheap." "What if everything falls through? If the sovereign fires Khamida before he changes the land zoning?" "Well, Kaminsky gave Khamida only a little bit, less than seven hundred thousand. The rest Khamida will get only upon a successful completion of the deal and he will not get it from the Earthman - he will get it from the state. Khamida is not the one who invented it, it's a well known setup." "What other setups are there?" Kissur asked quickly. The official spread his hands smiling like a porcelain cat. He evidently didn't want to tell Kissur about all the different ways of selling his own country, even though he was much more nimble than Khanida in this business. "Kissur, you haven't seen my watch collection in a while. Let's go and look at it." Standing up unhurriedly, Shavash approached a fifth dynasty cabinet that stood in the living room. Shavash' s collection of Weian pocket watches was filling the sparkling malachite shelves in the cabinet. The collection had indeed improved. A tiny sand watch in a tumbler braided with gold knots was added. Also new were three mechanical pocket watches that just started to appear in the Empire before the catastrophe and were luxury and therefore art, with fanciful ornament and decorations, with mother-of-pearl hands made in the image of the eternity god, hence they had nothing to do with this flat crap that even women now worn on their wrists. Other new additions were present: a tiny watch embedded in a lid of a jade powder box - it didn't have a glass cover, it had a twined filigree lattice and a single hour hand languished behind it as if in prison cell; an oval watch strewn with pearls had two faces - one face for the minute and another for the hour hand - and a long chain with jade pendants that high officials used to wear personal seals. A seal was at the botton and the watch covered with tiny jewels at the top. Kissur suddenly grabbed Shavash by his right hand - a homely watch with a simple platinum face was there and twenty six hours of Weian time were marked with Earthern numerals. "Yes," Shavash said thickly, "there are no more Weian numerals. Our time has been severed. Let my hand go now or you will break it again." Grinning Kissur released Shavash's hand, turned to the shelf and picked up an onion shaped watch with a crystal top. Agitation briefly ran over Shavash's face - he loved this onion more than any of his concubines and Kissur knew that. Kissur squeezed the onion in his fist and waved it in front of Shavash's face. "So," Kissur asked, "what other ways are there? How many of your monthly salaries did this onion cost?" Shavash suddenly twisted like a cat protecting its kittens. "Put it back now," he hissed. Nobody knows how Kissur woud have answered if a brass gong had not banged at the hall entrance and an incoming servant announced, "Mr. Bemish begs forgiveness for being late." "Let him in," Shavash cried desperately. Kissur's lips twitched; he put the onion back in place and for a second longer looked at the numerals in the hands of the eternity god twisted around the dial. Isn't it strange? A while ago this fashion for watches was started by this scoundrel, minister Nan, who later appeared to be a barbarian from the stars, - Kissur couldn't stand this fashion - how could it be that a watch hand commanded a Man like an owner his slave. And now his heart hurt when he saw the Weian numerals and a Weian device. When Kissur turned around, the official was already standing at the entrance and bowing ceremoniously to the Earthman. "Please," Shavash said, "let me introduce you to each other. Terence Bemish, the general director of ADO company and Mr. Kissur, an Emperor's personal friend...." The Earthman and Kissur looked at each other. Kissur's eyes popped out; it was the same man he had a fight with only two hours ago. Great Wei! Kissur thought the Earthman had died and the guy even managed to change his shirt! "We have met already," the Earthman reported in an even voice and added, "Mr. Kissur, I was just going to hand you over a letter." He stepped closer to Kissur and put a white envelope in his hand. Kissur felt a wad of crimpled money under the plastic paper. Kissur guffawed and slapped Bemish on the shoulder. Bemish bit his lips for a second, pondering if he should punch the guy in the face, but Kissur was laughing so merrily that Bemish couldn't help but join him. Shavash batted his eyelids apprehensively. The official had to solve several problems quickly and the most pressing one was where to receive the guests and what language to use. It was a very important question due to this strange quality of Shavash's soul; as we have discussed, a conversation in a different language seemingly transferred it to a different world. We have mentioned, that when somebody asked Shavash in Interenglish about the reasons for pauperism in the Empire, Shavash denounced passionately unbearable state expenses and the state budget that half of the country's banks made fortunes on. However, when somebody asked him the same question in Weian, he castigated the gluttony of the people from the stars who were buying the country for a wine jar. Hence, Shavash avoided speaking Interenglish next to a Weian and speaking Weian next to a person from the stars. His brain got muddled otherwise. Shavash carefully pulled a window curtain away and looked outside. A taxi stood far outside, behind the white wall. Oh, the Earthman flew in yesterday and rented a car - a grey Daiquiri. Hmm, to change a car is more difficult than to change a shirt. "Well, gentlemen," Shavash said, still undecided about the hall, "the night is divine, why should we sit inside eight walls, let's go into the garden." "I apologize," Kissur bowed, " but I need to go." "What..." Shavash started. "Gentlemen," Kissur said, "I'll only get in your way. Two respectable people are going to discuss an important business. It's not a place for a vagrant like me. You are not going to waste your time on small things like a garbage plant, are you?" THE SECOND CHAPTER Where the sad history of the Assalah spacefield is told while the ex-first minister of Empire finds himself a new friend. Next morning Terence Bemish sat in his room on the seventh floor of the local Hilton hotel nudging the back of his head and feeling annoyed. His head hurt as hell. A large peony-shaped bruise swelled on his cheekbone. Somebody knocked in the door - Stephen C. Welsey, an employee of one of the largest investment banks in the Galaxy and Terence's colleague on this stupid trip, walked in. "Wow," Welsey said, looking curiously at the peony bruise, "is it a local mafia?" "Ah, a guy shattered my car's headlamps." "And then?" Welsey asked with an undisguised curiosity knowing that a while ago the sixteen year old future corporate raider Terence Bemish got to the semi-finals of a youth kickboxing Galaxy championship. "To be honest," Bemish said, "I was a complete pig. These jerks charged me three times more for the rent than this tin can really costs. I grabbed the guy by his shirt and called him a Weian monkey or something like that. He punched me in the face." "Thank God, you were smart enough to hold back." "To the contrary," Bemish said bitterly, "I punched him back." Welsey's raised his eyebrows in astonishment. "To summarize," Bemish explained, "he drove away and left me sitting with my butt inside the crashed windshield." "What about Shavash?" "I changed my cl