Islands in the Net by Bruce Sterling Page B

do our part. We are doing it. Here and now.”
    â€œYou make a pretty good case,” David said. “But I imagine the pirates see things differently.”
    â€œOh, we’ll be hearing their side soon enough.” She smiled. “But we may have some surprises for them. The havens are used to multinational corporations in the old style. But an economic democracy is a different animal. We must let them see that for themselves. Even if it means some risk to us.”
    David frowned. “You don’t seriously think they’ll try anything?”
    â€œNo, I don’t. If they do, we’ll simply call the local police. It would be scandalous for us—this is, after all, a very confidential meeting—but worse scandal, I think, for them.” She placed fork and knife neatly across her plate. “We know there’s some small risk. But Rizome has no private army. No fellows in dark glasses with briefcases full of cash and handguns. That’s out of style.” Her eyes flashed briefly. “We have to pay for that luxury of innocence, though. Because we have no one to take our risks for us. We have to spread the danger out, among Rizome associates. Now it’s your turn. You understand. Don’t you?”
    Laura thought it over, quietly. “Our number came up,” she said at last.
    â€œExactly.”
    â€œJust one of those things,” David said. And it was.
    The negotiators should have arrived at the Lodge all at the same time, on equal terms. But they didn’t have that much sense. Instead they’d chosen to screw around and attempt to one-up each other.
    The Europeans had arrived early—it was their attempt to show the others that they were close to the Rizome referees and dealing from a position of strength. But they soon grew bored and were full of peevish suspicion.
    Emerson was still mollifying them when the Singapore contingent arrived. There were three of them as well: an ancient Chinese named Mr. Shaw and his two Malay compatriots. Mr. Shaw was a bespectacled, balding man in an oversized suit, who spoke very little. The two Malays wore black songkak hats, peaked fore and aft, with sewnon emblems of their group, the Yung Soo Chim Islamic Bank. The Malays were middle-aged men, very sober, very dignified. Not like bankers, however. Like soldiers. They walked erect, with their shoulders squared, and their eyes never stopped moving.
    They brought mounds of luggage, including their own telephones and a refrigerated chest, packed with foil-sealed trays of food.
    Emerson made introductions. Karageorgiu glared aggressively, Shaw was woodenly aloof. The escorts looked ready to arm-wrestle. Emerson took the Singaporeans upstairs to the conference room, where they could phone in and assure their home group that they had arrived in one piece.
    No one had seen the Grenadians since the day before, at the airport. They hadn’t called in, either, despite their vague promises. Time passed. The others saw this as a studied insult and fretted over their drinks. They broke at last for dinner. The Singaporeans ate their own food, in their rooms. The Europeans complained vigorously about the barbarous Tex-Mex cuisine. Mrs. Delrosario, who had outdone herself, was almost reduced to tears.
    The Grenadians finally showed up after dusk. Like Ms. Emerson, Laura had become seriously worried. She greeted them in the front lobby. “So glad to see you. Was there any trouble?”
    â€œNuh,” said Winston Stubbs, exposing his dentures in a sunny smile. “I-and-I were downtown, seen. Up-the-island.” The ancient Rastaman had perched a souvenir cowboy hat on his gray shoulder-length dreadlocks. He wore sandals and an explosive Hawaiian shirt.
    His companion, Sticky Thompson, had a new haircut. He’d chosen to dress in slacks, long-sleeved shirt, and business vest, like a Rizome associate. It didn’t quite work on him though; Sticky looked almost