Photographs of the old forts, tales of Eloi heroes against the Cossacks, the Turks, and the Chinese. A history of war.

A section on the 'Heroes,' meaning the men who fought against the Communists.

'Few people in the West even knew of the conflict. It lasted for generations and ended in defeat for the Communists and the creation of a new republic. We thought it would be for all the people, not just the Karzistani majority.'

Behind Kwan's voice, shepherds began to sing. They sang of heroism, about living in the hills and praying to all their various gods, smoking thin cigarettes in freezing winds under clear stars. Heroes rolled rocks down onto the heads of troops, only to find that the crushed bodies were those of their cousins conscripted into the Communist armies.

Photographs, in smeared black-and-white, were shown. Handsome young Eloi dead stared up at the sky, their chins missing. Handsome young Eloi, alive around fires, their eyes burning with this message: I may die, but it will be worth it. We are the people who stopped the Chinese, who stopped the Arabs. The Eloi are the world's great secret force against tyrants.

Where did Kwan get these photos?

Then Mae remembered: Kwan's father, dear Old Mr Kowoloia.

Dear Old Mr Kowoloia must have been a terrorist. Kwan had these photos. She has kept them secret from all of us.

So this is why she wanted the Central Man gone.

'Kwan, is this wise?' Mae asked.

'The site is locked against any instructions in Karzistani. Only in Eloi or in English.'

On came the video of the Karzistani woman in her new Balshang apartment. Kwan's recorded voice grew harsher.

'Listen closely to the Eloi woman, torn away from her people, praising refrigerators. Her voice is rehearsed, her eyes fearful. For she knows: Her people are being destroyed.'

Mae looked over her shoulder. What if the government man should hear? She looked back, and saw: Kwan's hands were two pale fists, the skin over the knuckles dead white. With rage.

'We appeal to the world. Do not let this great and graceful people disappear from history. All you need do is show that you are interested in us, as you once were when we controlled the passes through which wound the Silk Road to China.'

'Sleep,' ordered Kwan.

Mae breathed out. 'I'll keep that spy away.' No wonder you had not told me. Tell the truth, Mae.

'I am jealous,' said Mae. 'I had vague plans to learn how to do that. You went and did it. How?'

'After you left,' said Kwan.

'From four a.m. to seven a.m., every day?'

Kwan nodded. 'Suloi and me together.'

'Wing did not know?'

'He did not care,' said Kwan, and stood up, graceful, dignified. Eloi, thought Mae. Every particle of her soul is Eloi, and I did not know that, so I did not know her. Like her screens, she is locked away. You must speak Eloi, to have the key.

'Will… Will you teach me how to do that?' Mae burned to know.

Kwan looked bleary now from confession and the exhaustion that follows. 'The TV will do a better job of that than I can,' she said. She took Mae's hand and slapped it as if in apology. Do not be surprised -you are my dear Mae, but you are also Chinese in the end: the enemy.

Kwan lit a cigarette. She pulled a bit of stray tobacco from the tip of her tongue. 'The real question is: What is the nature of our alliance with Sunni?'

Mae shook her head. This was all moving very quickly. 'Not very strong,' she replied.

Kwan turned to Mae. 'Do you want to destroy Sunni?'

'She tries to destroy me,' said Mae.

'Do you wish to see her destitute?'

Mae shrugged. 'No. I don't wish anyone in the village to be destitute. Why?'

Kwan was really very strange. She seemed to uncoil like a serpent, pushing herself away from the TV box.

Kwan sighed. 'TV does not come free, you know.'

Mae waited.

'It comes like calls on a mobile phone. Every time you choose something, you pay. Our government subsidy pays Mr Wing's telephone bills so the TV gets used for the entire village. But the telephone company will charge everyone else. We administer for them.'

Kwan unfolded a blue, official-looking piece of paper. I told Faysal Haseem that. But you know how he is: "Uh, you charge twice, you try to trick me, I no pay you!"' Kwan did a remarkably good job of imitating him. 'So I didn't tell him again. The first month's bill is fifty riels.'

Mae felt nothing; or rather, she felt a balancing that left the scales at zero. 'We need him as an ally.'

'What I was going to do, was let it get to one hundred and twenty-five riels, and then say: "My husband's company will cover these costs. Even though we warned you. We will do this if you write off the loan to Chung Mae."'

'That was very kind,' said Mae. She could imagine it: Sunni's face held like it was fragile porcelain as Mae kept the money without paying it back. She could see Faysal Haseem glower.

And she could see herself in debt to Wing Kwan in other ways.

'We will drop all this rivalry,' said Mae. In the end you had to support your own against the government, or even the telephone company.

Kwan smiled, pleased, 'I thought so.'

Sunni's TV set was on even at eleven at night.

It flickered in Mr Haseem's courtyard, showing a fashion parade. Mae hid her smile. Is that as far as Sunni had got with it? To choose picture shows?

Only one person was watching. Mrs Ali turned in her chair, saw Mae, and blinked.

'Good evening, Mrs Chung,' Mrs Ali said after a moment.

'Mrs Ali.' Mae bowed. 'I wish to speak to Mrs Haseem-ma'am.'

Mrs Ali considered. 'I will tell her you are here.'

'I will need to talk to her alone,' said Mae.

Mrs Ali did not respond, except to push her chair back and walk into Sunni's kitchen.

In the courtyard, the Talent chattered. 'It would seem that bright colours once again adorn fashion in the West. Could it be our own local Green Valley designers are in the lead?

Mae heard real voices murmuring in the kitchen. She heard the rumble of Mr Haseem, but she judged he would stay out of this unless there was some kind of argument. If there were some kind of argument, it would give him an excuse to be abusive. He would not wish to take part without that chance.

Mae was not here to apologize. She was here to get both sides to see sense. And out of that sense, to get advantage for herself.

Mrs Ali was in the kitchen doorway, outlined in electric light. 'Please come in,' she said in a quiet voice. She stood away from the door, and reassured Sunni's whining dog as Mae approached. Mae gave her a polite nod, and entered Sunni's room.

A modern stove had replaced the old brazier. It seeped raw gas. There were new white curtains in the tiny windows and a new metal top to the sink. All of these things meant fresh expense. Sunni sat behind her table, perfect as always, her hair a motorcycle helmet of crisp, hard shellac. She looked tense, insecure and arrogant. Mae found in herself a strain of pity for her, and brought that to the surface.

'Hello, Sunni,' she said.

'I hope it will be more of a pleasure to have you in my house than it was the last time.'

Mae gestured: May I sit? Sunni nodded yes, dismissively.

'Last time, both of us were angry. Both of us said things. I find life moves quickly these days. That night seems years ago now.'

Sunni made no reply. She certainly did not agree.

'I find after the events of this morning, that we have more in common than the disagreements which divide us.'

A brief moue flickered across Sunni's face; it was true, but it did not please her.

'We could cooperate for the common good. We both need the village to be prepared for what is to come. A possible agreement is this. We both do all we can to help our neighbours learn to use this new thing. In the meantime, both of us are free to pursue our commercial interests.'