Prisoners of Tomorrow by James P. Hogan Page B

the farmost table. He was of Oriental appearance, lithely built, and wearing a black skullcap in addition to the regulation gray tunic. As he came closer, McCain found that he had an abstruse face that managed to both reinforce and contradict at the same time the impression of years conveyed by his physique. It was furrowed and wizened about the eyes, yet surprisingly smooth everywhere else. His chin sprouted a short beard that was turning gray, but his stare was bright and alert like that of a curious child.
    “You must be the American,” he said. “My name is Nakajima-Lin Kohmei-Tso-Liang.” His voice and expression were neutral, carrying neither undue warmth nor hostility. McCain was instantly confused. The construction was typically Asiatic with the family name coming first, but the double name itself was a composite of Japanese and Chinese; the first of the given names following sounded Japanese, but the other two were Chinese. He watched McCain curiously, and McCain had the feeling that he was able to read if the contradiction meant anything to McCain or not. “Generally I am called Koh.”
    “Lewis Earnshaw,” McCain responded. “Most people call me Lew.”
    Koh came to where McCain was standing and indicated the lower tier of the bunk by the first partition to the left. “Your place will be there,” he said. He nodded toward the corner bunk behind McCain’s right. As McCain had noticed with some of the other bunks, its upper cot was hinged upright out of the way. It suggested that the place was not occupied to full capacity at present. “I live across there. It seems, therefore, that for a while we are to be neighbors.” Koh spoke English well, with slow and careful articulation.
    McCain picked up his bags from the table and moved across. “Well, I guess that’s fine with me. Does your name make you Japanese or Chinese?”
    “A mixture of the two, which goes back many generations. Appropriate to this century.”
    “I’ve spent some time in both countries. It sounds as if you were expecting me.”
    “The billet foreman is usually notified when a new arrival is due.”
    “What exactly is a foreman?”
    “You are not familiar with the system?”
    “How could I be?”
    “Aren’t you transferring from another part of Zamork?”
    “No, I only just arrived.”
    Koh nodded. “I see. Every billet has a foreman. It’s a trusted category of inmates who are responsible for discipline, take complaints to the right quarters, and hand out work assignments. Ours is called Luchenko, a Russian.” He gestured vaguely in the direction of the far end of the room with his free hand. “His place is back there. He’ll talk to you when he gets back.”
    “So, what’s he like?”
    “Oh, some days good, some days not so good. Most times okay.”
    McCain looked down at his cot, which held just a bare mattress. “What do we do about getting blankets and stuff?”
    “You pick up a kit at OI—dishes, eating implements, and so on.”
    “What’s OI?”
    “The Official Issue store, in the Core complex across Gorky Street.”
    “Gorky Street?”
    “Outside the block mess area—where you just came along. If you wish, I will show you the way when I’m finished.”
    “Are you here all the time, Koh?”
    “One half day each week is for cleaning. This week it’s my turn. It provides a welcome opportunity to think in peace and quiet. One seldom gets time to be alone in Zamork.”
    “How long have you been here now?”
    “A year, roughly.”
    McCain nodded absently and stepped back to survey the bunk above his, trying to gauge something about the person who would be his closest neighbor. There were several raunchily explicit pinups attached to the head end of the partition, a rock magazine cover showing a pop group in action behind a star-spangled logo in the shape of the letters “USA,” and, folded on the pillow below, an Ohio State University T-shirt. “What are you in here for?” he inquired.
    “Vy