Geoff Ryman - Air (or Have Not Have)

The name alone made Sunni and Mae chuckle as they stepped out of the van, braving public view and the eyes that dismissed them as peasants.

'It sounds like a newspaper headline…'

'A cheap romance…'

Sezen was not to have her modernity fazed. She shrugged and managed to step down from the van like a princess.

Sezen belonged.

'They call it that because they know everything that is bought, and can predict exactly what is needed. They sell out every day.

'So does a good trader here,' sniffed Sunni.

Perhaps no longer. There were grannies, some middle-aged women, some potbellied men come to sit on folding deck-chairs and chat with friends who stayed by their unrolled mats. There were few customers to distract them from their open tins of beers. Mae felt disappointment. She had always loved stepping out into the market, the heart of the town.

No fires or spangled trucks, no drunken Cossacks dancing.

Around the square a forest of bright new plastic signs danced, opening and closing like flowers.

Akai. Sony. Yeshiboz Sistemlar…

A far cry from the dingy restaurants, the boys running with trays bearing glasses of tea.

You are dead, the Airhead said.

'Right, what is the plan?' Sunni asked.

'Mr Oz and I will go to the bank…' began Mae.

'Me too,' said Sezen, and the hunger in her eyes said: I want to learn about money.

Sunni adjusted her sunglasses. 'I have some errands.' Fashion work she did not want Mae to know about.

Fair enough, thought Mae.

Mae suggested, 'Shall we meet by the van at, oh, two hours from now? For lunch?'

'That will be lovely!' exclaimed Sunni. 'We can go to the temple gardens.'

'Ugh,' said Sezen.

Mr Oz intervened. 'We don't have time, if we are to get to the congress. I'll just order lunch now.'

He keyed in the address of Just-in-Time Rescue.

The Central Man escorted Mae to the bank.

They were welcomed with great politesse. Mae had expected to feel uncomfortable, but found herself immune to feeling inferior. She found that money made her as good as anyone else.

They sipped tea in the Director's office, and he was friendly and polite in white shirt and tie. He was full-blooded Karz, big, with hairy arms and a moustache like a trimmed broom and he had a full-blooded Karz name: Mr Saatchi Saatchi.

I am here, thought Mae. I am where I always wanted to be. I am a businesswoman, modern, respected. Sezen sat clenched like a fist with admiration. Mae felt her eyes swell. Don't cry, she warned herself.

'Madam Chung will need a cellular account. She will be doing business with you always through mobile services.'

'We have had such facilities for over ten years, so it is good to see them in more general use,' the Director said, determined the government should know how advanced they were. Mr Oz had enough wisdom to nod approval.

'Under the terms, you will notice that Madam Chung has the full backing of the TW Initiative, with extendable credit. If she verifies any overdrafts are for the Initiative-sponsored business, then the government will made good any losses.' Mr Oz paused. 'The credit is therefore to be extended when she asks.'

The director's eyes widened slightly, then he nodded. 'Hmm,' he said, the implications sinking in.

'Uh. This means the government will also have full and regular access to Info on this funded, guaranteed account.'

'Of course,' said the Director, arms held open.

'We will need to discuss security and coding.'

'I have a full report,' replied the Director. He had a copy for Mae.

He strolled with them to the front door.

'An honour, Madam,' Mr Saatchi Saatchi said. 'Such enterprise gladdens the hearts of all.' He shook hands with all of them. He smelled of pine, and through the white shirt was the brighter outline of his perfumed vest.

When he had gone, Sezen seized Mae's hand. 'Oh, Mae,' she said, lost for words.

Mae felt like chuckling. 'If only he knew who we were!'

Sezen shrugged. 'Did you notice,' she said, 'the Director was not wearing a wedding ring? Perhaps I can marry him if you cannot.'

Mr Oz and Mr Wing went off together to admire computers. Mae wanted to get her hair done. She went to Halat's. The little hussy was even busier and ruder than ever. She snapped her fingers and sent Mae and Sezen to her assistants. The young girls showed them on screens how Mae and Sezen would look with their new hair. The young girls looked very smug, expecting Mae to be knocked sideways by science. 'Tuh,' said Mae. 'I do that on the top of Red Mountain.'

As the girls cut and trimmed, they looked all the while at the screens for instructions.

'How can Halat be so foolish?' wondered Mae as they left.

'How do you mean?' Sezen asked.

Mae shook her head. 'She makes it too plain that she herself adds nothing.'

Fashion had shifted again. There was more garish colour, not less, particularly on the young women. Fashion had gone crazy, in all different directions at once.

But the ice cream shop was there, and the old streaked cinema showing Hong Kong movies, and the tiny shops offering acupuncture, healing herbs, fortune-telling. Lined up outside the tiled wall of a butcher's shop was a row of severed goat's-heads.

The shop of the disabled seamstress was closed. Mae had wanted to buy her stock of oatmeal cloth. Its green door had a hastily hammered board across it.

Mae went into the next shop, which sold various sweets, walnuts on thread in dried fruit juice. A rather sour, slumped-looking woman ran it.

'What happened to Miss Soo?' asked Mae.

'Oh! She left to be with her boyfriend.'

Mae was silent. She remembered the girl's staring eyes, the twisted limbs, and she wanted to know: how did she get the money, what did she find when she got there?

The woman was blunt. 'They didn't stay together, but she found a job anyway and stayed in Balshang. Tuh. I had to board her shop up myself to keep out the vermin.'

'What happened to her stock?'

The woman was not that interested. 'I think it was sold at auction.'

Mae paused. The oatmeal cloth. She saw it now with different eyes. It had been finely woven, with white mixed in, tight warp and weft, and it would hang so well, so well when weighted down with fine embroidery.

'Was anything left over?'

'Oh! You will have to ask around. Hold on. Hakan? Hakan?' The woman called her husband, a Karzistani. 'A lady here wants to know if Miss Soo had any stock left over.'

There was a bellow from behind the curtain, and a murmur from a TV. 'How should I know?'

The woman did not like to be shown to be lower-class, poor. She felt herself to be showed up by her husband's response. 'You are a man in business, I assumed you knew.'

Mae was surprised how sorry she was not to see Miss Soo, sorry not to be able to follow her story. She looked at the boarded-up shop, and its closed and shuttered windows. The plywood was already streaked and cracked. Mae discovered that she had liked Miss Soo very much, and admired her. And it would have been useful to have a friend in the Balshang fashion business.

'If she ever comes back,' said Mae. 'Do tell her that Mrs Chung sends affectionate regards.'

Sezen asked as they walked back to the van. 'So what now?'

Mae sniffed. 'I have credit now. I will order cloth online.'

Everything ends, said Old Mrs Tung.

The meeting was held in the Mudharet, the Town Hall, with its cracked tiles and filthy toilets.

The meeting room was laid out like a theatre, with a stage and rows of seats. It was crowded, unbearably hot, and roaring with sustained talk. On the wall was a blank panel of patterned teak with some twist of black iron pinned to it, like an ugly brooch. Sculpture.