packing.' For the moment, he just wanted to get out before
Grossback did something irretrievable, like threatening him or
offering a bribe. 'Goodbye,' Gonzales said. The other man said
nothing as Gonzales left the room.
#
Gonzales returned to the Thiripyitsaya Hotel, a collection of
low bungalows fabricated from bamboo and ferro-concrete that stood
above the Irrawady River. The rooms were afflicted by Myanmar's
tattered version of Asian tourist decor: lacquered bamboo on the
walls, along with leaping dragon holos, black teak dresser,
tables, chairs, and bed frame, ceiling fans that had wandered in
from the twentieth century just to give your average citizen that
rush of the Exotic East, Gonzales figured. However, the hotel had
been rebuilt less than a decade before, so, by local standards,
Gonzales had luxury: working climatizer, microwave, and
refrigerator.
Of course, many nights the air conditioner didn't work, and
Gonzales lay sweaty and semi-conscious through hot, humid nights
then was greeted just after dawn by lizards fanning their ruby
neck flaps and doing push ups.
He had gotten up several of those mornings and walked the
cart paths that threaded the plains around Pagan, passing among
the temples and pagodas as the sun rose and turned the morning
mist into a huge veil of luminous pink, with the towers sticking
up like fairy castles. Everywhere around Pagan were the temples,
thousands of them, young and flourishing when William the
Conqueror was king. Now, quick-fab structures housing government
agencies nested among thousand year old pagodas, some in near
perfect condition, like Thatbyinnu Temple, myriad others no more
than ruins and forgotten names. You gained merit by building
pagodas, not by keeping up those built by someone long dead.
Like some other Southeast Asian countries, Myanmar still was
trying to recover from late-twentieth century politics; in
Myanmar's case, its decades-long bout with round-robin military
dictatorships and the chaos that came in their wake. And as was
so often the case in politically wobbly countries, it still
restricted access to the worldnet; through various kinds of
governments, its leaders had found the prospect of free
information flow unacceptable. Ka-band antennas were expensive,
their use licensed by permits almost impossible to get. As a
result, Gonzales and the memex had been like meat eaters stranded
among vegetarians, unable to get their nourishment.
He'd taken down the memex that morning. Its functions
dormant, it lay nestled inside one of his two fiber and aluminum
shock-cases, ready for transport. The other case held memory boxes
containing SenTrax Myanmar group's records.
When they got home, Gonzales would tell the memex the latest
news about Grossback, how the man had cracked at the last moment.
Gonzales was sure the m-i would think what he didGrossback was
dog dirty and scared they would find it.
#
At the edge of a sandy field south of Pagan, Gonzales waited
for his plane. Gonzales wore his usual international traveller's
mufti, a tan gabardine two-piece suit over an open-collared white
linen shirt, dark brown slipover shoes. His hair was gathered
back into a ponytail held together by a silver ring made from
lizard figures joined head-to-tail. Next to him sat a soft brown
leather bag and the two shock-cases.
In front of him a pagoda climbed in a series of steeples to a
gilded and jeweled umbrella top, pointing to heaven. On its
steps, beside the huge paw of a stone lion, a monk sat in full
lotus, his face shadowed by the animal rising massive and lumpy
and mock fierce above him. The lion's flanks were dyed orange by
sunset, its lips stained the color of dried blood. The minutes
passed, and the monk's voice droned, his face in shadow.
'Come tour the temples of ancient Pagan,' a voice said.
'Shwezigon, Ananda, Thatbyinnu'
'Go away,' Gonzales said to the tour cart that had rolled up
behind him. It would hold two dozen or so passengers in eight
rows of narrow wooden benches but was now emptyalmost all the
tourists would have joined the crush on the terraces of
Thatbyinnu, where they could watch the sun set over the temple
plain.
'Last tour of the day,' the cart said. 'Very cheap, also
very good exchange rate offered as courtesy to visitors.'
It wanted to exchange kyats for dollars or yen: in Myanmar,
even the machines worked the black market. 'No thanks.'
'Extremely good rate, sir.'
'Fuck off,' Gonzales said. 'Or I'll report you as
defective.' The cart whirred as it moved away.
¤¤¤¤¤¤¤¤¤¤¤¤¤¤¤¤¤¤¤¤¤¤¤¤¤¤¤¤¤¤¤¤¤¤¤¤¤¤¤¤¤¤¤¤¤¤¤¤¤¤¤¤¤¤¤¤¤¤¤¤¤¤¤¤¤¤¤¤¤
Gonzales watched a young monk eyeing him from the other side
of the road, ready to come across and beg for pencils or money.
Gonzales caught the monk's eye and shook his head. The monk
shrugged and walked on, his orange robe billowing.
Where the hell was his plane? Soon hunter flares would cut
into the new moon's dark, and government drones would scurry
around the edges of the shadows like huge mutant bats. Upcountry
Myanmar trembled on the edge of chaos, beset by a multi-ethnic mix
of Karens, Kachins, and Shans in various political postures, all
fierce, all contemptuous of the central government. They fought
with whatever was at hand, from sharpened stick to backpack
missile, and they only quit when they died.
A high-pitched wail built quickly until it filled the air.
Within seconds a silver swing-wing, an ungainly thing, each huge
rectangular wing loaded with a bulbous, oversized engine pod, came
low over the dark mass of forest. Its running lights flashing red
and yellow, the swing-wing slewed to a stop above the field, wings
tilting to the perpendicular and engine sound dropping into the
