Mae spent the rest of the morning having magazines passed to her. She could not read them. She thought about what these people had said, and the way they had said it.

Fatimah took her to the bright noisy canteen and bought her a lunch of spicy red leaves that Mae had never seen before. 'We'll see about getting a car to drive you back to the hotel,' Fatimah said.

'Be sure to tell Mr Tunch for me,' Mae said, 'that I will be going straight back home to Kizuldah.'

Fatimah protested.

'Just ask Mr Tunch to talk to me,' said Mae.

Mr Tunch drove Mae back to the hotel himself.

The car was bronze-coloured and inside it smelled like a toilet, all false pine.

'You are going to have to give me something else to keep me,' said Mae.

'I beg your pardon!' coughed Mr Tunch.

'You can't cure me, why should I stay?'

'Why should I want you to stay?' Mr Tunch's eyes twinkled. It was cool in the car, air-conditioned. People outside squinted against the sun, walking on empty, baking streets.

'You want information from me. And information is like sugar, it is to be sold.'

'How very wise,' replied Mr Tunch, sounding very pleased, as if she were a clever pupil.

'You always sound surprised when I am not stupid. That's insulting.'

He dipped his head in respect. 'I'm sorry. But I would have thought that a possibility of a cure was reason enough for you to stay.'

'Possibility of a cure. That's not a lot. What do you get?'

'I get to understand your unusual situation. That will tell me a lot about how Air works.'

'Then,' she sighed, 'I am afraid this is not a fair trade. I do not want to spend time here being explored by you, only to find that there is no cure. I have work to do.'

'What else do you want?' he asked blandly.

'To learn everything you know,' she said. 'About what is coming.'

He chuckled. 'My dear woman, why would you want to know that?'

'So I can prepare my people.' Mae paused. 'Not your people. My people. There is a difference.'

His face did not lose a mote of its benevolence. 'You could not possibly learn all the things I know.'

'I want to know about this "Juh-ee" stuff. And what these Gates are. And what will really happen inside people's heads. What the great powers are using Air for, what they are going to get out of it.'

Mr Tunch smiled. 'Is that all?' he said, his irony losing its airy touch.

'One other thing. What is your full name?'

She almost saw his tongue flick. 'Surely a modern woman such as yourself does not believe in the Wisdom of Names?'

You do, Mae realized. That's why you don't want to give it to me.

'I am just a peasant,' she said. 'It is not good to do business without knowing your client's name.'

He shook his head slightly. 'I am your client, am I? In your professional hands?' He relented. 'My full name is Mr Hikmet Tunch.'

Mr Wisdom Bronze. A wise criminal has no need to soil his hands and so stays shiny. People mistake the polished bronze for gold. A wise criminal can sometimes even help his people, but always for a price.

Mae, you are flying with hawks. Watch out for their talons.

'So. Okay. The deal is this. I stay here one week. Not one day longer. We spend three hours a day finding out what you want, and three hours a day finding out what I want. Okay?'

'Agreed,' he said after a moment.

'I have the mornings,' she said.

Doors bleeped and blew and said hello to Mr Tunch.

'Sorry about all this, but we try to get rid of all the dust,' he said.

His office walls were covered in wood, and it was cool, without windows, and the electric lights were phony, made of bronze to look old-fashioned.

The surface of his desk was covered in glass. Mr Tunch touched it and spoke to it and it came alive with the familiar Interface.

'In order,' he said. ' "Intro background briefing on genetics, cosmology, and Air history." "Resistance to GM and its relevance to the development of Air." "The nature of the UN Format and background history." "The nature of the Gates Format and background history." "Speculative futures." ' He paused. 'Is that what you want to know?

'I will check my list.'

'Good. I will be back here at lunchtime.' He caught her scowl. I did not agree to teach you myself. That machine is far more used to teaching than I am. And much more patient. But please let me know if there is anything it cannot tell you.'

'I don't know how it works.'

'No. But it knows how you work. Good morning, Mrs Chung-ma'am.'

And he was gone, through another jet of air.

The machine began to speak and show pictures.

They had, apparently, unthreaded humanity like a carpet.

Inside the beautiful white semen, nestled inside the warm home of the womb, were threads, one from the male, one from the female. They now knew what made the threads, and the meaning of each stitch, as if it were Eloi embroidery.

They could place each stitch. Or replace it with better ones.

This was miraculous stuff to learn. Mae could imagine the souls of the unborn blossoming in new forms like flowers bred for new colours or perfumes.

They could make people prettier, stronger, and smarter. Mr Tunch's desk repeated the arguments against doing this. Favourable modifications would be available only for the rich. An even greater gap would open up between Haves and Have-nots.

Air, however, would make everyone a Have. So they said.

These Everyone-Haves would have their memory, their knowledge, and their skills increased. Their ability to calculate figures and link previously unrelated information would all be enhanced by using Info through Air.

It all sounded so calm and clear and reasonable, a briefing for the Disney people of Yeshiboz Sistemlar.

Mae knew when she was being sold something. You are trying to scare me with all this talk of rich people buying smarter babies. You want me to buy Air instead.

She sat forward. Already the bland neutral voice was slipping in warnings. Like old village gossips trying to get their way. Unplugged security problems that might mean the UN Format may not be controllable.

Like her Kru. They put him in Air and they can't turn him off, and all that knowledge goes away for free.

No money to be made. What you need me for, Mr Tunch, is to learn how to turn off Mrs Tung and turn off my Kru.

There was a tickle somewhere. The tickle was a way of looking at the world, a narrative. It was impatient.

'The benefits of Air for social inclusion are evident,' said Mr Tunch's desk. 'But questions of safety for users must be paramount. And intellectual property must be protected.'

The tickling grew as insistent as a headache. It was fear. It was hopelessness. It was a dread of the world beyond Kizuldah.

The desk said, 'Liberal economists wanted to open up Air to the competitive marketplace. Others argued that there could only be one Air, and that it would be wrong to grant a monopoly to any purely business interest. With two competing Formats, users could choose.'

They want to own our souls.

You see! You see?

Her. She's here.

The desk said, An international consortium of software houses agreed to set standards. The anti-monopolists soon claimed that the consortium was in fact controlled by the Company.'

It's always the same with these people.

Showdown, thought Mae. It's you or me.

'Tension increased when the Director of the International Air Consortium resigned, charging the Company with bad faith.' The Desk still spoke.

Before there was time for conscious thought to signal what she was doing, Mae said, 'It is so sad about your daughter-in-law's death.'