no doubt hungry from your morning exertions. Few goats are up to that passage.”
“I was seeking a few other goats,” Shan said in a level voice.
Gao’s steady gaze did not drop but a thin smile formed on his lips. “Officially this entire valley is a military reservation. Officially, Heinz and I are supposed to call friends below should intruders appear. Their response time averages eleven minutes. They would convey you to a rather unpleasant place.”
“Of course,” Kohler interjected, amused by the conversation, “what is unpleasant to one man may be mere routine to another.”
The youth in black reappeared, carrying a teapot, and slid into the last empty chair.
“Officially,” Shan said, every nerve alert, acutely aware of the treacherous ground he trod on, “this would not be an approved place for a general to retire to.” For Gendun’s sake, he could not afford to be arrested.
The youth choked back a laugh. Then, eyes lowered, he began to noisily consume his soup.
“Since you are as yet unacquainted with us,” Dr. Gao replied in his smooth, refined voice, “we will not take that as an insult. Generals are seldom invited to this table.”
“Still,” Shan said, “I can’t help but wonder if your invitation to lunch means I am to be the main course.”
Gao’s laugh was genuine. He rose and extended his hand. “I like you, comrade. When I saw you coming down the slope in the open sunlight I said, there is a man without fear, the rarest of creatures.”
Shan hesitantly took the man’s hand. “I am called Shan,” he said, “and in the world I inhabit fear is as common as salt.”
Gao held his hand for a moment as he gazed at the row of numbers tattooed on Shan’s forearm. Shan mentally raced through the possible explanations for his host’s presence there. One moment Gao seemed like a monk, the next a gloating bureaucrat. Gao was not a soldier. Senior politicians were sometimes disciplined with internal exile, but never in such comfort.
“My nephew, Feng Xi, is visiting from Beijing,” Gao explained as he sat again and began to eat. “Summer vacation from his labors at the university.”
The youth acknowledged Shan with a disinterested nod. “Thomas,” he interjected. “My name is Thomas.” Even before Shan had been sent into exile, to the gulag in Tibet, it had become popular among certain of China’s globally connected youth to adopt Western names.
Gao offered the boy a patient smile and spent several minutes describing the nest of lammergeiers they had been observing. Kohler took over the conversation, speaking about the weather, recent news reports describing the cloning of a dog, the announcement of a new Chinese space mission, and even, to Shan’s mute surprise, a new movie about invaders from outer space.
“Of course, if it were true, the aliens would have had to travel thousands of years to get here,” Thomas interjected.
“Hardly seems worth the trouble,” Kohler rejoined.
“It is impossible to travel faster than the speed of light,” the youth added with a hint of pride. “We’ve done the calculations.”
“Nearly as difficult,” Shan offered, “as trying to bridge the worlds on the two sides of this mountain.”
“We know of no one else who has traversed the old pass, if that is what you seek to learn. No one crosses without our knowledge since, as you see, we are situated like a gate across the path.”
“There are miners.”
“The miners are the perfect buffers for us. They may be terrified of us but everyone else is terrified of them.”
Shan declined a serving of what the boy described, in English, as French fried potatoes. “I know that for some men, forbidding them something only makes it more desirable.”
Kohler set his utensils down. “At our table, we are the ones allowed to prod and pry. Why are you here?” he asked.
“Because two men were murdered on the other side.”
“And are you playing policeman?”
“A man may be
“I was seeking a few other goats,” Shan said in a level voice.
Gao’s steady gaze did not drop but a thin smile formed on his lips. “Officially this entire valley is a military reservation. Officially, Heinz and I are supposed to call friends below should intruders appear. Their response time averages eleven minutes. They would convey you to a rather unpleasant place.”
“Of course,” Kohler interjected, amused by the conversation, “what is unpleasant to one man may be mere routine to another.”
The youth in black reappeared, carrying a teapot, and slid into the last empty chair.
“Officially,” Shan said, every nerve alert, acutely aware of the treacherous ground he trod on, “this would not be an approved place for a general to retire to.” For Gendun’s sake, he could not afford to be arrested.
The youth choked back a laugh. Then, eyes lowered, he began to noisily consume his soup.
“Since you are as yet unacquainted with us,” Dr. Gao replied in his smooth, refined voice, “we will not take that as an insult. Generals are seldom invited to this table.”
“Still,” Shan said, “I can’t help but wonder if your invitation to lunch means I am to be the main course.”
Gao’s laugh was genuine. He rose and extended his hand. “I like you, comrade. When I saw you coming down the slope in the open sunlight I said, there is a man without fear, the rarest of creatures.”
Shan hesitantly took the man’s hand. “I am called Shan,” he said, “and in the world I inhabit fear is as common as salt.”
Gao held his hand for a moment as he gazed at the row of numbers tattooed on Shan’s forearm. Shan mentally raced through the possible explanations for his host’s presence there. One moment Gao seemed like a monk, the next a gloating bureaucrat. Gao was not a soldier. Senior politicians were sometimes disciplined with internal exile, but never in such comfort.
“My nephew, Feng Xi, is visiting from Beijing,” Gao explained as he sat again and began to eat. “Summer vacation from his labors at the university.”
The youth acknowledged Shan with a disinterested nod. “Thomas,” he interjected. “My name is Thomas.” Even before Shan had been sent into exile, to the gulag in Tibet, it had become popular among certain of China’s globally connected youth to adopt Western names.
Gao offered the boy a patient smile and spent several minutes describing the nest of lammergeiers they had been observing. Kohler took over the conversation, speaking about the weather, recent news reports describing the cloning of a dog, the announcement of a new Chinese space mission, and even, to Shan’s mute surprise, a new movie about invaders from outer space.
“Of course, if it were true, the aliens would have had to travel thousands of years to get here,” Thomas interjected.
“Hardly seems worth the trouble,” Kohler rejoined.
“It is impossible to travel faster than the speed of light,” the youth added with a hint of pride. “We’ve done the calculations.”
“Nearly as difficult,” Shan offered, “as trying to bridge the worlds on the two sides of this mountain.”
“We know of no one else who has traversed the old pass, if that is what you seek to learn. No one crosses without our knowledge since, as you see, we are situated like a gate across the path.”
“There are miners.”
“The miners are the perfect buffers for us. They may be terrified of us but everyone else is terrified of them.”
Shan declined a serving of what the boy described, in English, as French fried potatoes. “I know that for some men, forbidding them something only makes it more desirable.”
Kohler set his utensils down. “At our table, we are the ones allowed to prod and pry. Why are you here?” he asked.
“Because two men were murdered on the other side.”
“And are you playing policeman?”
“A man may be
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