All Quo Boon’s family thought that it pleased him, the old man, to notice the increase, the swelling generations, fantastic and multiplying as seed of ants from his loins. They visioned him with gigantic account book in hand, keeping check of the numbers of his tribe; frowning when he had to cross off one life, adding up the profit and loss of his human capital. And so child after child, baby after baby, all owning him the primal seed, was born in the houses of Quo, in Burma and in Siam, in Indonesia and in Borneo, in Malaya and the Philippines and Hongkong and Mauritius, in America North and South. Yet Quo Boon did not remember having asked for such affluence of manpower, but if they thought it pleased him, well
let them.

The interview with the General whom Quo Boon had come to Kuala Lumpur to see was at four, and Quo Boon’s secretary, who drew horoscopes, had reminded him in Singapore the previous night that his first wife’s birth-hour was between three and five, when female essences are strongest. Though Quo Boon pooh-poohed such beliefs he felt a pleasurable glow at the Zodiac’s aptness, and waited in his nephew’s house, at peace.

And now, Mr Clerkwell (promoted to Headquarters in Kuala Lumpur) arrived at the house to hint at the best way in which conversation with a general might be conducted.

‘He’s not in a very good mood, not what I’d call absolutely cheerful, don’t you know.’ (Clerkwell had acquired in the last tour a trick of rubbing his hands together, like a waiter, meanwhile looking extraordinarily frank and candid.) ‘He’s been slightly upset lately … I wouldn’t upset him further if I were you …’

Quo Boon’s round head shifted owlishly on his short neck, quizzical wise.

‘He works so hard, none of us can keep up with him … in fact he hardly keeps up with himself. And he gets … erh … ideas about things. Todak New Village for instance. Wouldn’t mention the place to him, if I were you. He’s already been down there and … erh … scolded them all. It does no good bringing up things like that … let sleeping dogs lie. …’

They drove together to the new and furiously pink house in which the General dwelt.

It was true that the General was in no good mood. Sitting on their chair edges in the waiting-room, five trade unionists, three Indian, one Malay, and one Chinese, were waiting. As Quo Boon entered they were being called. The panelled doors with polished knobs turned firmly behind them and no sound escaped. After ten minutes they filed out again, and the three Indians looked definitely paler.

‘Your turn, sir.’

Quo Boon crossed the threshold and the doors shut with finality behind him.

The General sat at a large glass-topped desk with his feet in an open side drawer.

As Quo Boon entered, he fixed upon him stern and brilliant eyes.