Another letter from his fiancee of five years, Maureen Ross, more bad:... when am I to arrive? Have you sent the ticket? You promised this Christmas would be the last to be apart...

"It can't be this Christmas, lassie," he murmured with a scowl, much as he liked her, "can't afford it yet and, this isn't the place for a young lady."

How many times had he written and told her, knowing that really Maureen and her parents wanted him to work for Struan's in England or Scotland or better still to leave "that infamous company and work at home like a normal man," knowing that really he wanted her to break off the engagement and to forget him, knowing that most British wives soon hated Asia, loathed Asians, abominated the Pleasure Girls, raged against their ready access, despised the food, moaned for "home" and family, making their husband's lives a permanent misery.

Knowing, too, that he enjoyed Asia, loved his work, adored the freedom, treasured their Yoshiwara and would never happily go home.

Well, he thought, not until I retire.

The only good in the mail were the books from Hatchard's in Piccadilly: a new illustrated edition of Darwin's explosive On the Origin of Species, some Tennyson poems, a newly translated pamphlet by Karl Marx and Friedrich Engels called the Communist Manifesto, five copies of Punch, but most important of all another edition of All the Year Round. This was the weekly started by Charles Dickens, and contained the fourteenth installment of Great Expectations-- to be published in twenty parts.

In spite of all that he had had to do, McFay, like everyone else who had received a copy, locked the door and consumed the installment rapaciously. When he read the last sentence, "to be continued next week," he sighed.

"What the devil will Miss Havisham do next, evil old bitch? Reminds me of Maureen's mother. Hope to God it all works out for Pip.

Somehow or other it has to! Hope to God good old Dickens gives us a happy ending..."

For a moment he was bemused, lost in admiration of the man and his marvelous range of stories, from the Oliver Twist more than twenty years ago, through Nicholas Nickleby, David Copperfield and a dozen others to the riveting Tale of Two Cities. Dickens is the greatest writer in the world, no doubt about it.

He got up and stood at the window, watching the sea and sending good thoughts to the fleet at Yedo and to the mail ship that need not now be diverted but would continue on her regular route to Shanghai instead of direct Hong Kong with Malcolm Struan, worrying about him and the future that somehow quickly became mixed up with Pip and Miss Havisham, wondering how Pip would extract himself from the mess he was in and would the girl fall in love with him.

Hope so, poor lass. What about my lassie, Maureen? It's time I had a family...

A knock. "Mr. McFay. May I see you a moment?" It was Piero Vargas, his assistant.

"Just a moment." Feeling a little guilty he put the copy under the pile, stretched and opened the door.

Piero Vargas was a handsome, middle-aged Eurasian from Macao, the tiny Portuguese enclave, forty-odd miles west of Hong Kong, set like a pimple on a slip of Mainland China and occupied since 1552.

Unlike the British, the Portuguese considered Macao equal to the mother country and not a colony, encouraged their settlers to intermarry with Chinese, accepted Eurasian offspring as nationals, allowing them permanent access to Portugal. British intermarriage was greatly discouraged, though many had families. Their offspring, however, were not accepted in Society.

By custom those born in Shanghai took their father's name, in Hong Kong their mother's.

Ever since the British came to China, they had contentedly employed the brightest Macaoans as shroffs--money changers--and compradores, who, of necessity, spoke English as well as dialects of Chinese. Except the Noble House. Their compradore was the enormously wealthy Gordon Chen, the illegitimate son of their founder, Dirk Struan, by one of his many mistresses, though not the last, the fabled May-may.

"Yes, Piero?"

"Sorry to interrupt, senhor," Piero said, his English liquid and sweet-sounding.

"Kinu-san, our silk supplier, asks for a personal interview with you."

"Oh, why?"

"Well, it's not really for him but for two buyers who arrived with him. From Choshu."

"Oh?" McFay's interest picked up.

Almost two years of tentative probes from the daimyo of Choshu, the fief far to the west on the Straits of Shimonoseki, had produced some very important business last year, authorized by Head Office in Hong Kong and arranged by them: a 200-ton paddle steamer with a very private cargo: cannon, shot and ammunition. Paid for promptly in gold and silver, half in advance, half on delivery. "Bring them in. Wait, better I see them in the main reception room."

"Si, senhor."

"Is one of them the same fellow as last time?"

"Senhor?"

"The young samurai who spoke a little English?"

"I did not take part in the discussion, senhor, I was on leave in Portugal."

"Ah yes, now I remember."

The reception room was big, seating for forty-two at the oak table. Matching sideboards and tallboys for silver plate and glass fronted display cases, gleaming and well kept, some with arms. He opened one of them, took out a belt and holstered pistol attached. He buckled the belt around his waist, making sure the pistol was loaded and loose in the holster. It was always his custom when meeting samurai to be as armed as they were. "A matter of face," he told his subordinates, "as well as safety." As a further prop he leaned the Spencer rifle against a chair, and stood by the window, facing the door.

Vargas came back with three men. One was middle-aged, fat, unctuous and swordless, Kinu, their silk supplier. The other two were samurai, one young the other in his forties though it was difficult to tell. Both short, spare, hard-faced and armed as usual.

They bowed politely. McFay noted that both men had instantly seen the breech-loader. He returned the bow in kind. "Ohayo," he said.

Good morning. Then, "Dozo"--please-- indicating the chairs opposite him, a safe distance away.

"Goo'd morning," the younger said without a smile.

"Ah, you speak English? Excellent.

Please sit down."

"Speak 'ritt're," the youth said--the l's sounding like r's because there was no l sound in Japanese, v's being equally awkward. For a moment he spoke to Vargas in Fukenese, their common Chinese dialect, then the two men introduced themselves, adding they had been sent by Lord Ogama of Choshu.

"I am Jamie McFay, chief of Struan and Company in Nippon and am honored to see you." Again Vargas translated. Patiently Jamie went through the obligatory fifteen minutes of enquires after their daimyo's health, their own health, his health and that of the Queen, the outlook in Choshu, in England, nothing particular, everything bland. Tea was served and admired. At length the young man came to the point.

With great care Vargas kept the excitement out of his own voice. "They want to buy a thousand breech-loaders with a thousand bronze cartridges per gun. We are to name a fair price and deliver within three months. If within two months, they will pay a bonus--twenty percent."

Outwardly, McFay was equally calm. "Is that all they wish to buy at the moment?"

Vargas asked them. "Yes, senhor, but they require a thousand rounds per rifle. And a steamship of small size."

McFay was counting the huge potential profit, but more so he was remembering his conversation with Greyforth, and the well-known hostility of the Admiral and General, supported by Sir William, to any sale of any armaments.

Remembering the various murders. And Canterbury hacked to pieces. And that he himself did not approve of the sale of armaments, not until it was safe. Would it ever be safe with such a warlike people? "Please tell them I can give them an answer in three weeks." He saw the pleasant smile vanish from the younger man's face.