What The Left Hand Was Doing, Page 3
Randall Garrett
exactly where he was, butthe lights of Peiping weren't far away, and a breeze was carrying himtoward it. He wanted to be in just the right place before he set foot onthe ground.
By morning, he would be just another one of the city's millions.
* * * * *
Morning came three hours later. The sun came up quietly, as if its solepurpose in life were to make a liar out of Kipling. The venerable oldChinese gentleman who strolled quietly down Dragon Street looked asthough he were merely out for a placid walk for his morningconstitutional. His clothing was that of a middle-class office worker,but his dignified manner, his wrinkled brown face, his calm brown eyes,and his white hair brought respectful looks from the other passers-by onthe Street of the Dragon. Not even the thirty-five years of Communism,which had transformed agrarian China into an industrial andtechnological nation that ranked with the best, had destroyed theancient Chinese respect for age.
That respect was what Spencer Candron relied on to help him get his jobdone. Obvious wealth would have given him respect, too, as would thetrappings of power; he could have posed as an Honorable Director or aPeople's Advocate. But that would have brought unwelcome attention aswell as respect. His disguise would never stand up under carefulexamination, and trying to pass himself off as an important citizenmight bring on just such an examination. But an old man had both respectand anonymity.
Candron had no difficulty in playing the part. He had known many elderlyChinese, and he understood them well. Even the emotional control of theOriental was simple to simulate; Candron knew what "emotional control"_really_ meant.
You don't control an automobile by throwing the transmission out of gearand letting the engine run wild. Suppressing an emotion is notcontrolling it, in the fullest sense. "Control" implies guidance anduse.
Peiping contained nearly three million people in the city itself, andanother three million in the suburbs; there was little chance that thePeople's Police would single out one venerable oldster to question, butCandron wanted an escape route just in case they did. He kept walkinguntil he found the neighborhood he wanted, then he kept his eyes openfor a small hotel. He didn't want one that was too expensive, but, onthe other hand, he didn't want one so cheap that the help would beuntrustworthy.
He found one that suited his purpose, but he didn't want to go inimmediately. There was one more thing to do. He waited until the shopswere open, and then went in search of second-hand luggage. He had enoughmoney in his pockets to buy more brand-new expensive luggage than a mancould carry, but he didn't want luggage that looked either expensive ornew. When he finally found what he wanted, he went in search ofclothing, buying a piece at a time, here and there, in widely scatteredshops. Some of it was new, some of it was secondhand, all of it fit boththe body and the personality of the old man he was supposed to be.Finally, he went to the hotel.
The clerk was a chubby, blandly happy, youngish man who bowed his headas Candron approached. There was still the flavor of the old politenessin his speech, although the flowery beauty of half a century before haddisappeared.
"Good morning, venerable sir; may I be of some assistance?"
Candron kept the old usages. "This old one would be greatly honored ifyour excellent hostelry could find a small corner for the rest of hisunworthy body," he said in excellent Cantonese.
"It is possible, aged one, that this miserable hovel may provide somespace, unsuited though it may be to your honored presence," said theclerk, reverting as best he could to the language of a generationbefore. "For how many people would you require accommodations?"
"For my humble self only," Candron said.
"It can, I think, be done," said the clerk, giving him a pleasant smile.Then his face took on an expression of contrition. "I hope, venerableone, that you will not think this miserable creature too bold if he asksfor your papers?"
"Not at all," said Candron, taking a billfold from his inside coatpocket. "Such is the law, and the law of the People of China is to bealways respected."
He opened the billfold and spread the papers for the clerk's inspection.They were all there--identification, travel papers, everything. Theclerk looked them over and jotted down the numbers in the register bookon the desk, then turned the book around. "Your chop, venerable one."
The "chop" was a small stamp bearing the ideograph which indicated thename Candron was using. Illiteracy still ran high in China because ofthe difficulty in memorizing the tens of thousands of ideographs whichmade up the written language, so each man carried a chop to imprint hisname. Officially, China used the alphabet, spelling out the Chinesewords phonetically--and, significantly, they had chosen the Latinalphabet of the Western nations rather than the Cyrillic of the Soviets.But old usages die hard.
Candron imprinted the ideograph on the page, then, beside it, he wrote"Ying Lee" in Latin characters.
The clerk's respect for this old man went up a degree. He had expectedto have to put down the Latin characters himself. "Our humbleestablishment is honored by your esteemed presence, Mr. Ying," he said."For how long will it be your pleasure to bestow this honor upon us?"
"My poor business, unimportant though it is, will require it least oneweek; at the most, ten days." Candron said, knowing full well thattwenty-four hours would be his maximum, if everything went well.
"It pains me to ask for money in advance from so honorable a gentlemanas yourself," said the clerk, "but such are the rules. It will be sevenand a half yuan per day, or fifty yuan per week."
Candron put five ten-yuan notes on the counter. Since the readjustmentof the Chinese monetary system, the yuan had regained a great deal ofits value.
* * * * *
A young man who doubled as bellhop and elevator operator took Candron upto the third floor. Candron tipped him generously, but notextravagantly, and then proceeded to unpack his suitcase. He hung thesuits in the closet and put the shirts in the clothes chest. By the timehe was through, it looked as though Ying Lee was prepared to stay for aconsiderable length of time.
Then he checked his escape routes, and found two that were satisfactory.Neither led downward to the ground floor, but upward, to the roof. Thehotel was eight stories high, higher than any of the nearby buildings.No one would expect him to go up.
Then he gave his attention to the room itself. He went over itcarefully, running his fingers gently over the walls and the furniture,noticing every detail with his eyes. He examined the chairs, the lowbed, the floor--everything.
He was not searching for spy devices. He didn't care whether there wereany there or not. He wanted to know that room. To know it, becomefamiliar with it, make it a part of him.
Had there been any spy devices, they would have noticed nothing unusual.There was only an old man there, walking slowly around the room,muttering to himself as though he were thinking over something importantor, perhaps, merely reminiscing on the past, mentally chewing over hismemories.
He did not peer, or poke, or prod. He did not appear to be looking foranything. He picked up a small, cheap vase and looked at it as though itwere an old friend; he rubbed his hand over the small writing desk, asthough he had written many things in that familiar place; he sat down ina chair and leaned back in it and caressed the armrests with his palmsas though it were an honored seat in his own home. And, finally, heundressed, put on his nightclothes, and lay down on the bed, staring atthe ceiling with a soft smile on his face. After ten minutes or so, hiseyes closed and remained that way for three-quarters of an hour.
Unusual? No. An old man must have his rest. There is nothing unusualabout an old man taking a short nap.
When he got up again, Spencer Candron was thoroughly familiar with theroom. It was home, and he loved it.
Nightfall found the honorable Mr. Ying a long way from his hotel. Hehad, as his papers had said, gone to do business with a certain Mr. Yee,had haggled over the price of certain goods, and had been unsuccessfulin establishing a mutual price. Mr. Yee was later t
o be able to proveto the People's Police that he had done no business whatever with Mr.Ying, and had had no notion whatever that Mr. Ying's businessconnections in Nanking were totally nonexistent.
But, on that afternoon, Mr. Ying had left Mr. Yee with the impressionthat he would return the next day with, perhaps, a more amenableattitude toward Mr. Yee's prices. Then Mr. Ying Lee had gone to arestaurant for his evening meal.
He had eaten quietly by himself, reading the evening edition of thePeiping _Truth_ as he ate his leisurely meal. Although many of theyounger people had taken up the use of the knife and fork, the venerableMr. Ying clung to the chopsticks of an earlier day, plied expertlybetween the thumb and forefinger of his right hand. He was not the onlyelderly man in the place who did so.
Having finished his meal and his newspaper in peace, Mr. Ying Leestrolled out
By morning, he would be just another one of the city's millions.
* * * * *
Morning came three hours later. The sun came up quietly, as if its solepurpose in life were to make a liar out of Kipling. The venerable oldChinese gentleman who strolled quietly down Dragon Street looked asthough he were merely out for a placid walk for his morningconstitutional. His clothing was that of a middle-class office worker,but his dignified manner, his wrinkled brown face, his calm brown eyes,and his white hair brought respectful looks from the other passers-by onthe Street of the Dragon. Not even the thirty-five years of Communism,which had transformed agrarian China into an industrial andtechnological nation that ranked with the best, had destroyed theancient Chinese respect for age.
That respect was what Spencer Candron relied on to help him get his jobdone. Obvious wealth would have given him respect, too, as would thetrappings of power; he could have posed as an Honorable Director or aPeople's Advocate. But that would have brought unwelcome attention aswell as respect. His disguise would never stand up under carefulexamination, and trying to pass himself off as an important citizenmight bring on just such an examination. But an old man had both respectand anonymity.
Candron had no difficulty in playing the part. He had known many elderlyChinese, and he understood them well. Even the emotional control of theOriental was simple to simulate; Candron knew what "emotional control"_really_ meant.
You don't control an automobile by throwing the transmission out of gearand letting the engine run wild. Suppressing an emotion is notcontrolling it, in the fullest sense. "Control" implies guidance anduse.
Peiping contained nearly three million people in the city itself, andanother three million in the suburbs; there was little chance that thePeople's Police would single out one venerable oldster to question, butCandron wanted an escape route just in case they did. He kept walkinguntil he found the neighborhood he wanted, then he kept his eyes openfor a small hotel. He didn't want one that was too expensive, but, onthe other hand, he didn't want one so cheap that the help would beuntrustworthy.
He found one that suited his purpose, but he didn't want to go inimmediately. There was one more thing to do. He waited until the shopswere open, and then went in search of second-hand luggage. He had enoughmoney in his pockets to buy more brand-new expensive luggage than a mancould carry, but he didn't want luggage that looked either expensive ornew. When he finally found what he wanted, he went in search ofclothing, buying a piece at a time, here and there, in widely scatteredshops. Some of it was new, some of it was secondhand, all of it fit boththe body and the personality of the old man he was supposed to be.Finally, he went to the hotel.
The clerk was a chubby, blandly happy, youngish man who bowed his headas Candron approached. There was still the flavor of the old politenessin his speech, although the flowery beauty of half a century before haddisappeared.
"Good morning, venerable sir; may I be of some assistance?"
Candron kept the old usages. "This old one would be greatly honored ifyour excellent hostelry could find a small corner for the rest of hisunworthy body," he said in excellent Cantonese.
"It is possible, aged one, that this miserable hovel may provide somespace, unsuited though it may be to your honored presence," said theclerk, reverting as best he could to the language of a generationbefore. "For how many people would you require accommodations?"
"For my humble self only," Candron said.
"It can, I think, be done," said the clerk, giving him a pleasant smile.Then his face took on an expression of contrition. "I hope, venerableone, that you will not think this miserable creature too bold if he asksfor your papers?"
"Not at all," said Candron, taking a billfold from his inside coatpocket. "Such is the law, and the law of the People of China is to bealways respected."
He opened the billfold and spread the papers for the clerk's inspection.They were all there--identification, travel papers, everything. Theclerk looked them over and jotted down the numbers in the register bookon the desk, then turned the book around. "Your chop, venerable one."
The "chop" was a small stamp bearing the ideograph which indicated thename Candron was using. Illiteracy still ran high in China because ofthe difficulty in memorizing the tens of thousands of ideographs whichmade up the written language, so each man carried a chop to imprint hisname. Officially, China used the alphabet, spelling out the Chinesewords phonetically--and, significantly, they had chosen the Latinalphabet of the Western nations rather than the Cyrillic of the Soviets.But old usages die hard.
Candron imprinted the ideograph on the page, then, beside it, he wrote"Ying Lee" in Latin characters.
The clerk's respect for this old man went up a degree. He had expectedto have to put down the Latin characters himself. "Our humbleestablishment is honored by your esteemed presence, Mr. Ying," he said."For how long will it be your pleasure to bestow this honor upon us?"
"My poor business, unimportant though it is, will require it least oneweek; at the most, ten days." Candron said, knowing full well thattwenty-four hours would be his maximum, if everything went well.
"It pains me to ask for money in advance from so honorable a gentlemanas yourself," said the clerk, "but such are the rules. It will be sevenand a half yuan per day, or fifty yuan per week."
Candron put five ten-yuan notes on the counter. Since the readjustmentof the Chinese monetary system, the yuan had regained a great deal ofits value.
* * * * *
A young man who doubled as bellhop and elevator operator took Candron upto the third floor. Candron tipped him generously, but notextravagantly, and then proceeded to unpack his suitcase. He hung thesuits in the closet and put the shirts in the clothes chest. By the timehe was through, it looked as though Ying Lee was prepared to stay for aconsiderable length of time.
Then he checked his escape routes, and found two that were satisfactory.Neither led downward to the ground floor, but upward, to the roof. Thehotel was eight stories high, higher than any of the nearby buildings.No one would expect him to go up.
Then he gave his attention to the room itself. He went over itcarefully, running his fingers gently over the walls and the furniture,noticing every detail with his eyes. He examined the chairs, the lowbed, the floor--everything.
He was not searching for spy devices. He didn't care whether there wereany there or not. He wanted to know that room. To know it, becomefamiliar with it, make it a part of him.
Had there been any spy devices, they would have noticed nothing unusual.There was only an old man there, walking slowly around the room,muttering to himself as though he were thinking over something importantor, perhaps, merely reminiscing on the past, mentally chewing over hismemories.
He did not peer, or poke, or prod. He did not appear to be looking foranything. He picked up a small, cheap vase and looked at it as though itwere an old friend; he rubbed his hand over the small writing desk, asthough he had written many things in that familiar place; he sat down ina chair and leaned back in it and caressed the armrests with his palmsas though it were an honored seat in his own home. And, finally, heundressed, put on his nightclothes, and lay down on the bed, staring atthe ceiling with a soft smile on his face. After ten minutes or so, hiseyes closed and remained that way for three-quarters of an hour.
Unusual? No. An old man must have his rest. There is nothing unusualabout an old man taking a short nap.
When he got up again, Spencer Candron was thoroughly familiar with theroom. It was home, and he loved it.
Nightfall found the honorable Mr. Ying a long way from his hotel. Hehad, as his papers had said, gone to do business with a certain Mr. Yee,had haggled over the price of certain goods, and had been unsuccessfulin establishing a mutual price. Mr. Yee was later t
o be able to proveto the People's Police that he had done no business whatever with Mr.Ying, and had had no notion whatever that Mr. Ying's businessconnections in Nanking were totally nonexistent.
But, on that afternoon, Mr. Ying had left Mr. Yee with the impressionthat he would return the next day with, perhaps, a more amenableattitude toward Mr. Yee's prices. Then Mr. Ying Lee had gone to arestaurant for his evening meal.
He had eaten quietly by himself, reading the evening edition of thePeiping _Truth_ as he ate his leisurely meal. Although many of theyounger people had taken up the use of the knife and fork, the venerableMr. Ying clung to the chopsticks of an earlier day, plied expertlybetween the thumb and forefinger of his right hand. He was not the onlyelderly man in the place who did so.
Having finished his meal and his newspaper in peace, Mr. Ying Leestrolled out
