"Our locker room," Bling said. "Ritzy digs, right? And here" – he pulled a cardboard box from beneath the cot – "our equipment room."

The box was piled with shabby mismatched spike shoes, four bamboo batons, a shot, and a discus.

"The javelin is that thing stabbed yonder, airing them sweet-smellin' sweatsuits," the girl told the journalists.

Back outside, Bling put his blue glasses on and started walking back the way they had come.

"Gives you some idea why China doesn't have such great track times, doesn't it?"

When they got back to the campus gate their familiar bus was gone. In its place was one of the huge black Russian-made limos called Red Flags. It looked like a cross between a Packard and a Panzer. The driver stepped out and bowed and handed them a note and four embossed invitations.

"It's from Mude. He says the bus was required for other tasks, that this diplomatic limousine will take us back to the hotel to dress, then bring us to the banquet at the Great Hall. The fourth invitation is for Mr. Wu, and Mude suggests we advise Mr. Wu that a place has been reserved for him."

"Oh, shit," said Bling. "Oh, shit."

It might be the most beautiful dining hall in the world, certainly the biggest. A Canadian football game could be played comfortably in one of its rooms, with space left a-plenty on all sides for bleachers and bathrooms.

During the day there is always a small crowd outside, gaping at the Great Hall's grandiosity. Tonight, a very large crowd was gathered because two monumental events were occurring: the banquet for the Beijing Marathon, and the State Formal Dinner for President Gnassingbe Eyadema of Togoland. In a land without M.A.S.H. reruns or video games this was big potatoes.

The crowd waited on tiptoes behind the line, hoping to catch a glimpse of something exotic – a famous athlete; perhaps the glint of an African potentate's eye. All the limos. Certainly they had to be disappointed by the first passenger exiting from the big black sedan they had allowed through – a spiny-headed Chinese in plain brown sports jacket was all. The next passenger was better, a big occidental stranger with beard, and the next was yet better and bigger. The last apparition rising out of the upholstered depths of the Russian limo – why, he was enough to stretch even the most curious rubberneck to its limits of awe. The man was beyond size or measure, and he carried an optical arsenal of the most convincing proportions crisscrossed across his girth, like bandoliers on one of the bandit giants of old. Many of the onlookers went home immediately after, sufficed.

The foursome was late. The feast had begun. The roar of it could be heard down the marble corridors, drawing them on like the seductive roar of a waterfall. When they at last reached the two ten-foot urns at the door and were passed by the armed guard, they were as dazzled as had been the crowd on the walk outside. A room big as a blimp hangar, with thousands of people at hundreds of round tables, each table manned by dozens of bustling attendants refilling glasses, removing platters, producing new dishes seemingly from the very air.

An usher led them to the table assigned by their invitation, where they found the eight other diners all still waiting politely for their arrival – two middle-aged Africans wearing somber suits and expressions, two seedy-looking Beijing men in drab Sun Yat-sen, a beautiful oriental woman, two young Chinese runners and their coach. All stood when they approached and shook hands while the woman translated.

The black men were from Tanzania, a coach and trainer. They were somber because their athlete apparently had not managed to fly out of Tanzania for the race tomorrow; they felt obliged to attend the banquet insofar as a place had been reserved, but they were flying out in the morning, too chagrined by their athlete's absence to attend the race. The seedy pair were from China Sports, a limp but adequate little sports rag printed in English. The two young runners were from the same village in a distant province, their faces subtly different from the Beijing faces-flatter, darker, with something almost Gypsy dodging about the eyes. The larger and older of the pair responded to introductions with a dental display that ranked right up there with the rest of the day's sights: he had an extra tooth, right in the middle, and was not at all backward about showing it off. The smaller runner was as shy as his friend was forward, frequently dropping long lashes over his black eyes and buttoning and unbuttoning the sports coat he was wearing. Their coach was studiously aloof.

After the initial ganbei of introduction they all sat down for the first course of a meal that would prove to be a marathon in its own right. While they were stabbing at the lead-off oddities with their sticks, the prizes for tomorrow's winners were unveiled on a table in front of the raised dais – ten cloisonne vases, each bigger than the last, and a solid silver trophy that would return to Beijing each year for the new winner. There could be heard all across the room an audible insucking of covetous acclaim. They were very classy prizes.

The speeches then commenced to drone from the dais. They saw Mude had a seat very near the podium. He had changed his attire from Western western to Eastern western – a preppy dark-blue blazer with coat-of-arms. He was introduced and stood to speak. The photographer took Bing's little Panasonic cassette recorder from his shoulder bag. He punched the Record button and set it on the table. It soon became obvious that neither Chinamen nor Roundeyes could understand a word of Mude's address, and the multitudinous roar of small talk rose again from the tables. Mude didn't seem to notice.

The American editor began to interview his Chinese magazine colleagues and the coach. The writer took notes. The photographer busied himself with photographing the exotic dishes as they arrived and whispering descriptions of each into the recorder: if this marathon thing didn't float he might get a cookbook out of it:

GREAT HALL – NIGHT BEFORE RACE

(Much noise of dining; unintelligible speech over loudspeaker in b.g.)

WHISPER NEAR MIKE:… tiny tomatoes pickled and arranged in delicate fan, gingered eel, lotus root in oyster sauce, duck neck, radishes carved to look like roses…

EDITOR: Whose idea was this race tomorrow?

(Chinese translation back and forth)

FEMALE VOICE: He says it started as a mass movement, the idea. In New China all ideas come from the masses.

EDITOR: Why don't they have better times? Ask him that.

FEMALE VOICE: He says their fastest runner is two hours and thirteen minutes. You will meet him tonight. He is from a minority in Union Province.

EDITOR: What is a minority?

FEMALE VOICE: In China there are many! These two boys are called minorities. From some provinces they speak different languages.

YOUNG MALE VOICE (Bling): Those stars you see on the Chinese flag? They each represent one of the minorities.

WHISPER: Boiled eggs, pickled eggs, eggs soaked in tea, and one one-thousand-year-old fossilized egg for each table, like sinister black jelly with a blacker yolk…