The Windup Girl

A rational company would shut down the factory. Even Anderson, with his limited understanding of the processes involved in this next-generation kink-spring manufacture would do so. But if his workers and the unions and the white shirts and the many listening ears of the Kingdom are to believe that he is an aspiring entrepreneur, the factory must run, and run hard.

Anderson shakes Banyat's hand and congratulates him on his good work.

It's a pity, really. The potential for success is there. When Anderson sees one of Yates' springs actually work, his breath catches. Yates was a madman, but he wasn't stupid. Anderson has watched joules pour out of tiny kink-spring cases, ticking along contentedly for hours when other springs wouldn't have held a quarter of the energy at twice the weight, or would simply have constricted into a single molecularly bound mass under the enormous pressure of the joules being dumped into them. Sometimes, Anderson is almost seduced by the man's dream.

Anderson takes a deep breath and ducks back through the fining room. He comes out on the other side in a cloud of algae powder and smoke. He sucks air redolent with trampled megodont dung and heads up the stairs to his offices. Behind him one of the megodonts shrieks again, the sound of a mistreated animal. Anderson turns, gazing down on the factory floor, and makes a note of the mahout. Number Four spindle. Another problem in the long list that SpringLife presents. He opens the door to the administrative offices.

Inside, the rooms are much as they were when he first encountered them. Still dim, still cavernously empty with desks and treadle computers sitting silent in shadows. Thin blades of sunlight ease between teak window shutters, illuminating smoky offerings to whatever gods failed to save Tan Hock Seng's Chinese clan in Malaya. Sandalwood incense chokes the room, and more silken streamers rise from a shrine in the corner where smiling golden figures squat over dishes of U-Tex rice and sticky fly-covered mangoes.

Hock Seng is already sitting at his computer. His bony leg ratchets steadily at the treadle, powering the microprocessors and the glow of the 12cm screen. In its gray light, Anderson catches the flicker of Hock Seng's eyes, the twitch of a man fearing bloody slaughter every time a door opens. The old man's flinch is as hallucinogenic as a cheshire's fade-one moment there, the next gone and doubted-but Anderson is familiar enough with yellow card refugees to recognize the suppressed terror. He shuts the door, muting the manufacturing roar, and the old man settles.

Anderson coughs and waves at the swirling incense smoke. "I thought I told you to quit burning this stuff."

Hock Seng shrugs, but doesn't stop treadling or typing. "Shall I open the windows?" His whisper is like bamboo scraping over sand.

"Christ, no." Anderson grimaces at the tropic blaze beyond the shutters. "Just burn it at home. I don't want it here. Not any more."

"Yes. Of course."

"I mean it."

Hock Seng's eyes flick up for a moment before returning to his screen. The jut of his cheek bones and the hollows of his eyes show in sharp relief under the glow of the monitor. His spider fingers continue tapping at the keys. "It's for luck," he murmurs. A low wheezing chuckle follows. "Even foreign devils need luck. With all the factory troubles, I think maybe you would appreciate the help of Budai."

"Not here." Anderson dumps his newly acquired ngaw on his desk and sprawls in his chair. Wipes his brow. "Burn it at home."

Hock Seng inclines his head slightly in acknowledgment. Overhead, the rows of crank fans rotate lazily, bamboo blades panting against the office's swelter. The two of them sit marooned, surrounded by the map of Yates' grand design. Ranks of empty desks and workstations sit silent, the floor plan that should have held sales staff, shipping logistics clerks, HR people, and secretaries.

Anderson sorts through the ngaw. Holds up one of his green-haired discoveries for Hock Seng. "Have you ever seen one of these before?"

Hock Seng glances up. "The Thai call them ngaw." He returns to his work, treadling through spreadsheets that will never add and red ink that will never be reported.

"I know what the Thai call them." Anderson gets up and crosses to the old man's desk. Hock Seng flinches as Anderson sets the ngaw beside his computer, eyeing the fruit as if it is a scorpion. Anderson says, "The farmers in the market could tell me the Thai name. Did you have them down in Malaya, too?"

"I-" Hock Seng starts to speak, then stops. He visibly fights for self-control, his face working through a flicker-flash of emotions. "I-" Again, he breaks off.

Anderson watches fear mold and re-mold Hock Seng's features. Less than one percent of the Malayan Chinese escaped the Incident. By any measure, Hock Seng is a lucky man, but Anderson pities him. A simple question, a piece of fruit, and the old man looks as if he's about to flee the factory.