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porridge to eat. It was freshly cooked, scalding. A piece of sweet bean had stuck between my teeth, and I was picking at it as I entered Chen's apartment complex. If I had been paying atten-tion, I probably would have noticed the vehicle a few meters down from the front door, the sedan with the color-coded plates, that particular mix of red and green that signified Central. Chen insisted on living here, on the outskirts, where the communication lines were cheaper, less re-liable. I climbed the long steps to his floor, past faded posters and peeling wallpaper. Most of the posters were antiques, political slogans, calls to action, strange turns of phrase that probably actually meant something once. The East is Red. Double Your Pleasure. 
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At the top of the stairs, a man in an overcoat waited. When he saw me, he raised his arm, his fingers waggling, the universal sign for show ID. I handed mine to him and after a cursory glance, he nodded and snapped me a half-salute. Thank you sir, he said. Mr. Kellen is here. Kellen -- should have known. He stood at the door to Chen's apartment, a sour look on his face. Two of his assistants were inside, just inside the threshold, casting lazy glances around but doing nothing otherwise. Good evening, Kellen said. Your arrival is fortuitous. My men are dawdling somewhat. Did Chen invite you here? No. He just called. Sounded like something was --  |
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