'Oh! She left to be with her boyfriend.'

Mae was silent. She remembered the girl's staring eyes, the twisted limbs, and she wanted to know: how did she get the money, what did she find when she got there?

The woman was blunt. 'They didn't stay together, but she found a job anyway and stayed in Balshang. Tuh. I had to board her shop up myself to keep out the vermin.'

'What happened to her stock?'

The woman was not that interested. 'I think it was sold at auction.'

Mae paused. The oatmeal cloth. She saw it now with different eyes. It had been finely woven, with white mixed in, tight warp and weft, and it would hang so well, so well when weighted down with fine embroidery.

'Was anything left over?'

'Oh! You will have to ask around. Hold on. Hakan? Hakan?' The woman called her husband, a Karzistani. 'A lady here wants to know if Miss Soo had any stock left over.'

There was a bellow from behind the curtain, and a murmur from a TV. 'How should I know?'

The woman did not like to be shown to be lower-class, poor. She felt herself to be showed up by her husband's response. 'You are a man in business, I assumed you knew.'

Mae was surprised how sorry she was not to see Miss Soo, sorry not to be able to follow her story. She looked at the boarded-up shop, and its closed and shuttered windows. The plywood was already streaked and cracked. Mae discovered that she had liked Miss Soo very much, and admired her. And it would have been useful to have a friend in the Balshang fashion business.

'If she ever comes back,' said Mae. 'Do tell her that Mrs Chung sends affectionate regards.'

Sezen asked as they walked back to the van. 'So what now?'

Mae sniffed. 'I have credit now. I will order cloth online.'

Everything ends, said Old Mrs Tung.

The meeting was held in the Mudharet, the Town Hall, with its cracked tiles and filthy toilets.

The meeting room was laid out like a theatre, with a stage and rows of seats. It was crowded, unbearably hot, and roaring with sustained talk. On the wall was a blank panel of patterned teak with some twist of black iron pinned to it, like an ugly brooch. Sculpture.

There were no seats left except in the very front row, as if the participants were schoolchildren wanting to avoid the teacher's gaze.

Mae walked down the aisle and along the front row and saw faces. A young, sharp eagle of a man sat in a suit that looked expensive and cheap at the same time. He smiled slightly while his eyes glared. He is a shark, thought Mae. He eats people.

Beside the Shark, a masculine-looking woman with no makeup, short hair, a sleeping-bag jacket, and army boots was talking to herself into some kind of microphone.

A fat man with pink hair was blowing his nose. The boy next to him provocatively pulled up his T-shirt to display tattoos.

All these people, Mae realized, have new faces. I can only just read them. She began to feel a tremor again, the tremor of fear.

The Talent who read the local news walked onto the stage, to a mixture of polite applause and boos. She was immaculate in fire-engine red. She was prettier than she looked on TV, and far more steely. She gave a television smile and welcomed them, but there was no polite silence. If anything, the noise from the crowd got worse.

'Good afternoon. I am pleased to welcome you to the afternoon session of today's important discussions…' She explained that they had been enlightened and enthralled by the first set of speakers. They were now to usefully discuss and come to some conclusions about the use that the Green Valley should make of new technology.

Someone shouted at her, 'Don't bother with all of that. Why has the government accepted an outmoded Format for Air?' Mae looked around to see a scrawny middle-aged man.

The Talent's smile did not falter. 'The UN Format is the agreed international standard. Karzistan is not in a position to choose a different Format than everyone else.'

There was a groan of protest mingled with raucous laughter.

A scrawny man who was all white city teeth grinned. 'Not in Tokyo.'

'This is not Tokyo,' said the Talent with icy forbearance.

'In Tokyo they use both!'

'Just don't make it practically illegal!' shouted the Army Boot Woman.

'Please,' said the Talent, holding up her hands. 'This meeting can do nothing about the UN Format!'

'They are running the Gates Format at the same time, in New York!' another Head shouted.

'Look. This meeting is to review local efforts here in the Happy Province.'

'What efforts?' the fat man yelled, still eating. He was enjoying the atmosphere.

'This, among them-' began the Talent.

'This is supposed to be a discussion, give us Focus!'

'Focus!' someone else yelled.

The Talent turned and snapped her fingers. Mae found herself admiring her. The Talent's voice was suddenly louder. 'Okay, we each have the Focus in turn, but please stand up and say who you are. You first, sir.'

The fat pink-haired man stood up. 'Ali Bey Turkoman. I ask again, what efforts? There is only one Taking Wing officer for all of the Red Mountain area. Is there a single e-mail address for all those villages yet? Is this a concerted government effort?'

He wants to sell us things, thought Mae.

'It is precisely the lack of e-mail that Air and related technologies are meant to address. Next question!'

The Talent, tense, pointed to someone else. A scholarly looking man, bow-backed, spectacles, unfolded upwards from his chair. 'Professor Li Ho, Department of Medical-Computer Interface.'

He took out a written statement, and there was another squawk of laughter.

He droned. Mae wanted to understand. It was the first time she had heard a professor talk, and she expected wisdom, and it was no surprise to her that she could not follow what was said.

But she did begin to find it difficult to breathe.

There was something called Juh-ee Em. Another English word. Was all the world English? GM was something about very small things. It was about growing things. It was also, somehow, about making people smarter. The professor wanted to change things in people.

He started talking about children who could read after six months, who were doing advanced mathematical work at thirteen. That, she could understand. That, she could picture. He was saying that people were stupid, but they could be cured.

He was having to raise his voice. 'GM is one area in which Karzistan could push ahead, becoming a new centre of advancement for the world.'

'More like a playground for crooks!' someone shouted.

'Karzistan is not a garbage pail for the rest of the world!'

The professor was shouted down.

'We're here to talk about Air. Go play with your own Juh Nee Sus!'

An Airhead got overexcited. He leapt up, like a dancer, and he didn't need the Focus. He yelled, voice breaking, 'Air can do anything GM could do! In New York, they merge minds for a hobby to make new music! We are still talking about it as if it were television! We still use the word "screens"!'

'The blind could see!' roared the Army Boot Woman next to Mae.

'School's out. No more need for Teachers!'

'Or Talents! That's her real problem.'

Is this a war? Mae wondered. The shouting was so unlike the Karzistani way. It was ugly, showed lack of control, lack of harmony, even lack of Islamic discipline. Lack of everything. Who were these… these… children? In their goggles and crazy clothes?

And were people so very stupid that they all were to be erased, made better?

The Shark stood up. He smiled slightly and flicked a finger toward the Talent. The air around him seemed to brighten.

'Hikmet Tunch, Green Valley Systems.' His voice, typically Karz, was gravelly, but surprisingly high, almost like a woman's. He said nothing else, but immediately the noise in the hall reduced.