Dog Fucker drags open the gate and steps in. The woman at the elevator controls disengages the brake and shouts into the speaking tube before yanking the gate closed again. Dog Fucker smiles through the gate. "Wait here, yellow card." And then he is whisked up into darkness.

A minute later, ballast men slide into view in the secondary shaft. They squeeze out of the lift and dash for the stairwell in a herd. One of them catches sight of Hock Seng. Mistakes his look.

"There aren't any more places. He has enough of us already."

Hock Seng shakes his head. "No. Of course not," he mutters, but the men are already disappearing back up the stairs, sandals slapping as they scramble for the sky to make the ballast drop again.

From where he stands inside the building, the glare of the tropics is a distant rectangle, clotted with refugees, all watching the street with nothing to do and nowhere to go. A few yellow cards shuffle the halls. Babies cry, their small voices echoing against hot concrete. From somewhere above, the grunt of sex comes. People screwing in halls like animals, out in the open because they have given up on privacy. It is all so familiar. Extraordinary that he once lived in this same building, sweltered in this same pen.

Minutes tick by. Perhaps the Dung Lord has changed his mind. Dog Fucker should have returned by now. Movement catches the corner of Hock Seng's eye and he flinches, but there is nothing but shadow.

Sometimes he dreams that the Green Headbands have become cheshires, that they can molt and appear where he least expects them-while he pours water over his head as he makes his bath, or as he eats a bowl of rice, or squats over the latrine… they simply shimmer into existence and grab him and gut him and stack his head on the streets as a warning. Just like Jade Blossom and First Wife's elder sister. Just like his sons…

The lift rattles. A moment later Dog Fucker descends. The elevator woman is gone, Dog Fucker's own hand runs the brake system.

"Good. You didn't run away."

"I'm not afraid of this place."

Dog Fucker gives him an appraising look. "No. Of course not. You came from it, didn't you?" He steps out and motions toward the tower dimness. Guards materialize where Hock Seng thought only shadows existed. He forces himself not yelp, but Dog Fucker still catches his twitch. Smiles at it. "Search him."

Hands pat Hock Seng's ribs, run down his legs, prod at his genitals. When the guards are finished, Dog Fucker gestures Hock Seng into the lift. He guesses the heft of them and shouts up the speaking tube.

From high above, the rattle of men climbing into the ballast cage filters down. And then they are rising, climbing up through the layers of hell. The heat thickens. Deep in the heart of the building, exposed as it is to the full force of the tropic sun, it is an oven.

Hock Seng remembers sleeping in the stairwells here, struggling to breathe as the bodies of his fellow refugees stank and rolled about him. Remembers how his belly pressed against his spine. And then, all in a rush he remembers blood on his hands, hot and alive. A fellow yellow card, reaching out to him, begging for aid, even as he drove the knife edge of his whiskey bottle into the man's throat.

Hock Seng closes his eyes, forcing away memory.

You were starving. There was no other way.

But he has a hard time convincing himself.

They continue to rise. A breeze caresses him. The air cools. Scents of hibiscus and citrus.

An open hall flashes by-a promenade, exposed to the city air, careful gardens, lime trees bordering the edges of wide balconies. Hock Seng wonders at the amount of water men must carry to this height. Wonders at the calories that must be spent and the man who has access to such power. It's both thrilling and terrifying. He is close. So very close.

They reach the top of the building. The sun-drenched expanse of the city spreads before them. The gold spires of the Grand Palace where the Child Queen holds court and the Somdet Chaopraya pulls the strings, the chedi of Mongkut's temple on its hill, the only thing that will survive if the levees fail. The broken and tumbling spires of the old Expansion. And all around, the sea.

"It's a good view, isn't it, yellow card?"

Across the wide roof, a white pavilion has been erected. It rustles gently in salt breezes. Under its shade, in a rattan chair, the Dung Lord sprawls. The man is fat. Fatter than anyone Hock Seng has seen since Pearl Koh in Malaya cornered the market on blister rust-resistant durian. Perhaps not as fat as Ah Deng who ran a sweet stand in Penang, but still, the man is astonishingly fat, given the privations of the calorie economy.

Hock Seng approaches slowly, wais, lowering his head until his chin touches his chest and his pressed palms are nearly above his head with the respect he shows the man.

The fat man regards Hock Seng. "You wish to treat with me?"

Hock Seng's throat catches. He nods. The man waits, patient. A servant brings cold sweet coffee and offers it to the Dung Lord. He takes a sip. "Are you thirsty?" he asks.

Hock Seng has the presence of mind to shake his head. The Dung Lord shrugs. Sips again. Says nothing. Four servants in white suits shuffle over, carrying a linen draped table. They set the table before him. The Dung Lord nods to Hock Seng.

"Come now, don't worry about being polite. Eat. Drink."

A chair is produced for him. The Dung Lord offers Hock Seng wide fried U-Tex noodles, a crab and green papaya salad, along with laab mu, gaeng gai, and steamed U-Tex. Along with it all, he offers a plate of sliced papaya. "Don't be afraid. The chicken is latest generip and the papaya are just picked, from my eastern plantation. Not a trace of blister rust in the last two seasons."

"How-?"

"We burn any trees that show the disease and those around them as well. Also, we have widened our buffer perimeter to five kilometers. With UV sterilization, it seems to be enough."

"Ah."

The Dung Lord nods at the small kink-spring, sitting on the table. "A gigajoule?"

Hock Seng nods.

"And you have them to sell?"

Hock Seng shakes his head. "The way of making them."

"What makes you think I am a buyer?"

Hock Seng shrugs, forcing himself to hide his nervousness. There was a time when this sort of bargaining was easy for him. Second nature. But he wasn't desperate then. "If you are not, then there are others."

The Dung Lord nods. Finishes his coffee. A servant pours more. "And why do you come to me?"

"Because you are rich."

The Dung Lord laughs at that. He nearly spits out his coffee. His belly rolls and his body shakes. The servants freeze, watchful. When the Dung Lord finally controls his laughter, he wipes his mouth and shakes his head. "A fair answer, that." His smile disappears. "But I am also dangerous."

Hock Seng buries his nervousness and speaks directly. "When the rest of the Kingdom would have rejected our kind, you took us in. Not even our own people, the Thai-Chinese, were so generous. Her Royal Majesty the Queen showed mercy, allowing us to come across the border, but it was you who provided safe haven."

The Dung Lord shrugs. "No one uses these towers anyway."

"And yet you are the only one who showed compassion. An entire country full of good Buddhist people, and only you gave shelter, instead of forcing us back across the border. I would be dead by now if not for you."

The Dung Lord studies Hock Seng a moment longer. "My advisors thought it was foolish. That it would put me in opposition with the white shirts. Set me at odds with General Pracha. Maybe even threaten my methane deals."

Hock Seng nods. "Only you had enough influence to risk it."

"And what do you want for this wondrous bit of technology?"

Hock Seng readies himself. "A ship."