Air (or Have Not Have)

and I will transmit.'

She did so. The window was full of writing in the Roman alphabet and a photograph of the Circle: Kwan, Mae, Sezen, Suloi, Mrs Doh, Hatijah.

We look so happy, Mae thought. We look like the kindest people in the world, and the happiest.

Mr Genuinely Sincere kept talking: 'Mae. It is an article that has appeared in the New York Times, both online and in disk. It is called 'Mae's Story,' and it is by one of your customers – you know her, an editor of a New York magpie. Mae, it is all about your life and how you fight for info, and how Mrs Tung was copied into your mind by overhasty Formats. It quotes your friend Mr Tunch. It quotes you saying you hate the UN Format. But Mae! It is a perfect reflection of the government line! How the West must not take us for granted, but must consult on Info. It could not be better. Everyone here is so pleased! They are calling it a diplomatic coup for Karzistan!'

Mae looked at the photograph of Kwan's beautiful face. Have I managed, accidentally, to save my friend?

'Does this mean I get my own machine?' Mae asked.

Mr Oz laughed. 'I expect so.'

And suddenly Mae was sure: Oz was not the one who had warned her. He would never be so cunning or so quick. She was relieved she had been so discreet in her mail to him.

It was Tunch, she realized, Tunch who had intervened.

'Let me complete the form and send it to you.'

And that meant the encryption equations came from Tunch as well.

That means Tunch watches me, in Air. Guardian angel indeed.

Oz jerked with pleasure like a colt. Mae thought: Being robbed and thrown in jail by his bosses has not made him older. He will always be a boy.

He asked her. 'You okay on what to say on the form?'

'I know exactly what I want to do with it, but you advise me, okay?'

'Okay. You want to save the article? Your machine can read it.'

Mae paused and reflected. 'No,' she said quietly. 'I would rather not.'

He looked a bit perplexed. Then the windows closed. Mae completed her application and sent it to him.

Then she asked the television to write a proper letter to Sunni.

My old friend,

How strange is life. I keep saying that these days, especially thinking over the last few months. Now, here comes something just as strange as everything else that has happened.

Can I rent my old house from you? Consider: The real value of what you have purchased resides in the land, and there are plenty of farmers hereabouts to whom you can rent the land. That is very good business for you, especially as you do not need to give accommodation as part of the deal. It is pure land rental. So what do you do with the house? Rent it to Mr Ken for his hens? How much is he going to pay you for a barn?

Ah, but, Sunni, a workshop for my Circle, now that is a business premise, and you can charge far more for that. And I will have the money to pay, once my machinery arrives.

I make a proposition to you. I offer 10 riels a month rental. That is in place of given-away accommodation on which you make nothing, or 5 riels a year for a ham - 120 riels a year.

Do we need to talk further?

And, Sunni, for me the old days are dead, forgotten. Forgiven. My hope now is that you can forgive me the wrongs I did to you. Your friend Mae

Mae sat back and looked at the letter. So, she thought, my battle for the future begins again. I'm doing it for my baby. New song new life.

CHAPTER 17

Mae looked out of her attic window and saw snow was falling.

Winter is here, she thought with excitement. Winter was dark, enfolding, and safe. She saw her new winter very clearly: long happy hours alone in her old house, with her own glowing screen.

In the grey morning, snow blew like feathers. It nestled along the top of the stone wall, and on the roof tiles. This was good heavy snow that fell with a gentle hissing sound and mounted up quickly, as if the town were being padded with thick white pillows.

It had been so long since Mae had been outside. In winter, everyone stayed inside; no one would see her. The snow would be a veil.

Mae threw a scarf over her head, and wrapped round one of Kwan's Eloi sheepskins. It sat slightly askew around her shoulders, bulky and still smelling of lanolin.

Outside on the landing, she snapped on a light. The staircase stayed dark. Kwan called up through the darkness. 'There's a power failure!'

Mae felt her way down the staircase. The main room had its front door open to let in grey light.

'I'm going out in the snow!' Mae announced. 'Come along!'

Kwan's answering chuckle was both affectionate and edgy. There had been no sign of the army, but Kwan was still cautious. 'I'll stay here,' said Kwan.

Mae eased herself down Kwan's slippery stone steps. The snow was already sealing over the dungheap next to the barn. Mae's own breath was a sheltering scarf of fog.

All sounds were muted. On the chilly stones of the courtyard the snow looked like lace, its delicate patterns refrigerated from underneath. Mae pushed the courtyard gate, and for the first time in weeks stepped back out into her village.

Everything was being tucked into a bed of snow, as if by a mother. The houses and terraces were all outlined in white. From the high hillside came the tuneless clanking of twenty or thirty sheep bells. Someone had left his flock out to pasture too long. Mae smiled. The same happened every year. Was it Old Mr Pin? Lazy Mr Mack? Who would sit in a corner of the Teahouse, smoking a hubbly-bubbly and grinning with embarrassment?

Mae walked up and over the bridge. The invulnerable ducks still paddled in snow-rimmed water. Mae passed the door of Mrs Doh and her fearsome dog. Mae heard its breath, and the scratching of its giant claws against the other side of the doorway. She caught a gasp of food odours from Mrs Doh's kitchen window: garlic, bean sauce, rice.

The next door opened just as Mae was beside it.

Out came Sunni's friend, Mrs Ali. 'Oh!' she said startled. Then she saw it was Mae. Her face faltered and then recovered.

'Hello,' she said. 'It snows.'

This was awkward. Village manners would not allow them to part without talking. Mrs Ali slammed her door twice with her customary thoroughness. She was bundled up against the chill, tall, skinny, regal and slightly absurd, like a walking telephone pole.

'It is very beautiful,' said Mae. 'It makes me feel like I have come home.'

Then the old rake did not know what to say, for Mae plainly had lost her home several times over. She was discomfited, but not hostile.

'Well, we all have fond memories of snow.' Mrs Ali paused. 'I hear your business does well.'

They both started to walk down the hill together.

'Yes. We have orders from America for five hundred collars. I don't know how we will do all the work!'

That was so far beyond Mrs Ali's imagination that she could not be sure she had heard correctly.

'Successful indeed!' she said, and her smile froze. 'That brings in money?'

'It is a special deal. We have a good relationship with a New York fashion magpie. So we said, join our Circle and wear our collar for only ten dollars each.'