Free The Windup Girl by Paolo Bacigalupi Page A

has even talked about building a separate stairwell for patrons, simply so they will not be seen entering and leaving Ploenchit tower at all, an access passage that would allow them to enter from a block away, under the street. And yet now he wants her to reveal so much.

    "The boy?" she asks, stalling for time, unnerved by Raleigh's eagerness to expose a guest, and a white shirt, at that. She glances at the stranger again, wondering who he is, and what sort of hold he has on her papa-san.

    "Go on," Raleigh motions impatiently, the opium pipe gripped in his teeth. He leans into the opium lamp to smoke again.

    "He was a white shirt," Emiko begins. "He came with a group of other officers. . ."

    A new one. Brought around by his friends. All of them laughing and egging him on. All of them drinking free because Raleigh knows better than to charge, their good will worth more than the liquor. The young man, drunk. Laughing and making jokes about her in the bar. And then stealthily returning later, in privacy, hidden from his colleagues' prying eyes.

    The pale man makes a face. "They'll go with you? With your kind?"

    " Hai ." Emiko nods, showing nothing of what she thinks of his contempt. "White shirts and Grahamites."

    Raleigh laughs softly. "Sex and hypocrisy. They go together like coffee and cream."

    The stranger glances sharply at Raleigh, and Emiko wonders if the old man can see the disgust in those pale blue eyes or if he is too stoned on opium to care. The pale man leans forward, cutting Raleigh out of the conversation. "And what did this white shirt tell you?"

    Is there a flicker of fascination there? Does she intrigue him? Or is it simply her story that interests him?

    Despite herself, Emiko feels a stirring of her genetic urge to please, an emotion that she hasn't felt since her abandonment. Something about the man reminds her of Gendo-sama. Even though his blue gaijin eyes are like pools of chemical bath acid and his face is kabuki pale, he has presence. The air of authority is palpable, and strangely comforting.

    Are you a Grahamite? she wonders. Would you use me and then mulch me? She wonders if she cares. He is not beautiful. He is not Japanese. He is nothing. And yet his horrifying eyes hold her with the same power that Gendo-sama used to exercise.

    "What do you wish to know?" she whispers.

    "Your white shirt said something about generipping," the gaijin says. "Do you remember?"

    " Hai . Yes. I think perhaps he was very proud. He came with a bag of newly designed fruits. Gifts for all of the girls."

    More interest from the gaijin. It warms her. "And what did the fruit look like?" he asks.

    "It was red, I think. With. . . threads. Long threads."

    "Green hairs? About so long?" He indicates a centimeter with his fingers. "Thickish?"

    She nods. "Yes. That's right. He called them ngaw . And his aunt had made them. She was going to be recognized by the Child Queen's Protector, the Somdet Chaopraya, for her contribution to the Kingdom. He was very proud of his aunt."

    "And he went with you," the man prompts.

    "Yes. But later. After his friends were gone."

    The pale man shakes his head impatiently. He doesn't care about the details of the liaison: the boy's nervous eyes, the way he approached the mama-san and how Emiko was sent up to wait for him to follow a safe time later, so that no one would make the connection. "What else did he say about this aunt?" he asks.

    "Just that she rips for the Ministry."

    "Nothing else? Not where she rips? Where they have test fields? Nothing of that sort?"

    "No."

    "That's it?" The gaijin glances at Raleigh, irritated. "This is what you dragged me here for?"

    Raleigh rouses himself. "The farang ," he prompts. "Tell him about the farang ."

    Emiko can't help but show her confusion. "Sorry?" She remembers the white shirt boy, bragging about his aunt. How his aunt would be given a prize and a promotion for her work with ngaw . . . nothing of farang . "I don't