Moments later they passed a crude wooden sign on which the name of the village had been written in several languages: desa new sarandib town, in approximate English. Half a mile farther on a skinny kid, not much more than twenty years old, Lise guessed, if that, stepped into the road and waved them down.

He came to Turk's side of the car and leaned into the window.

"Going to Sarandib?" The kid's shrill voice made him seem even younger than he looked. His breath smelled like rancid cinnamon.

"Headed that way," Turk said.

"You got business there?"

"Yeah."

"What kind of business?"

"Personal business."

"You want to buy ky? Not a good place to buy ky."

Ky was the hallucinogenic wax produced by some kind of native hive insect, lately a big deal in the Port Magellan clubs. "I don't want any ky. Thanks anyhow." Turk stepped on the gas—not hard enough to injure the kid, who ducked away promptly, but hard enough to win him a nasty look. Lise glanced back and saw the kid still standing in the road, glaring after them. She asked Turk what that was all about.

"Lately you get townies driving around the boondocks trying to score a gram or two, getting robbed, getting into trouble."

"You think he wanted to sell us some?"

"I don't know what he wanted."

But the kid must have had a phone on him, and he must have called ahead, because as soon as they passed the first few inhabited shacks along the road and before they reached the town center the local gendarmerie, two big men wearing improvised uniforms and driving a years-old utility truck, forced Turk's vehicle to the side of the road. Lise sat still and let Turk do the talking.

"You have business here?" one of the men asked.

"We need to see Ibu Diane."

Long pause. "No such person here."

"Okay," Turk said. "I must have made a wrong turn. We'll stop and have lunch, and then, since there's no such person, we'll be on our way."

The cop—if you could call him that, Lise thought, because these smalltown constabularies had no standing with the Provisional Government—gave Turk a long sour look. "You have a name?"

"Turk Findley."

"You can get a tea across the road. I don't know about lunch." He held up a single finger. "One hour."

* * * * *

They were seated at a table that appeared to have been made from an enormous discarded cable spool, sweating in the afternoon heat and drinking tea from chipped ceramic cups while the other patrons of the cafe avoided their eyes, when the curtains parted and a woman entered the room.

An old, old woman. Her hair was the color and texture of dandelion fluff, her skin so pale that it seemed in danger of tearing. Her eyes were unusually large and blue, framed inside the stark contours of her skull.

She came to the table and said, "Hello, Turk."

"Diane."