Free Sacrifice of Fools by Ian McDonald Page B

hell out of the big chemical and manufacturing companies. Who’s going to buy their goods when anyone can get whatever they want built just down the street, in their own back gardens? We were so desperate to get what you had; your starships, your zero-point energy, your nanofacthingies; come to us, stay with us, have some land, have some money, have whatever you want but don’t forget to bring your technology with you; and now we’ve got it and the people who wanted it have realized that it’s a gun down their throats. Wam! and they’re blown to fucking pieces.
    All be better with a hell of a lot less people controlling things, Andy Gillespie thinks.
    ‘You can drop me here,’ he tells the taxi driver and gets out in front of the farmhouse. ‘I don’t know how long I’m going to be. If you get bored you can always have a chat with the copper. She might even buy you a cup of coffee. Where is she, by the way?’
    ‘She pulled in back down the lane.’
    Probably got the high-powered glasses in the glove box, or is she going to risk getting her good shoes muddy and follow me on foot?
    The driver settles down with today’s Sun. Not a soul else in the farmyard. Must be off doing whatever rural Shian do. Andy Gillespie goes over to the big mushroom farm. There’s a white BMW parked outside — a customer, no Shian would drive a white BMW. The skin of the big tent-like construction is translucent; a golden glow fills the interior of the factory. The air smells rich, soily, musky, as if it’s been put through the molecule-weaving machine and come out with added value. The stems of the processors hold up the roof like the poles of a big top, the bases flare out like whiskey stills. They can probably make you that too. There are two figures at the end processor. One is tall, the other is wearing a Pringle sweater. No difficulty spotting the BMW driver.
    ‘Looking for Ongserrang Huskravidi,’ Gillespie calls.
    ‘Who’s looking?’ the Shian says.
    ‘Andy Gillespie.’
    ‘Are you from the police?’
    ‘No, I’m from the Welcome Centre.’
    ‘I will see.’ The Shian goes out a back door.
    Pringle sweater has had a golf club made. Looks like some kind of driver to Gillespie, who’s more a football man. He practises his swing in the golden light of the nanofactory.
    ‘Look at that,’ he says, shoving the grip end in Gillespie’s face. His eyes are shining with delight. ‘Custom made. Built to fit my grip. Do you know what it’s made out of? Diamond. They take carbon fibres and they weave them into diamond. If this was a jewel, it would be about fifty thousand carats, but it’s only cost me a hundred quid. Incredible.’
    ‘Incredible,’ Gillespie agrees.
    The Shian returns with two others, both males, one older than the other. They sniff, lick, do the greeting thing with Gillespie.
    ‘This is Ongserrang Huskravidi,’ the older one says. He is carrying a staff taller than even his tall self. Gillespie recognizes the insignia of a genro. ‘I am Saipanang Harridi, of this Hold. I have been appointed to protect the rights and interests of Ongserrang Huskravidi. Shall we go somewhere we may talk in more privacy?’
    They walk down to the shore. The tide has turned and is advancing around the keels of the stranded yachts and orange anchor buoys in little fondlings of foam.
    ‘I thought you people were suspicious of water,’ Gillespie says.
    ‘The Harridis are a coastal Nation,’ the genro Saipanang says. ‘Many do not trust us for that reason. Too much water in our blood.’
    Gillespie finds a rock and sits down. He pulls his jacket tight. The wind is finding every crack and gap in it. It’s always cold or wet. Or both. The Shian look comfortable in T-shirts and skirts. Higher body temperature. He used to be able to warm himself by the University Street Harridis. Those high-output metabolic furnaces need stoking with big food every couple of hours.
    ‘I don’t see why we need your lawyer here,’