He congratulated himself on his sweet reasonableness, that and the excellence of his grammar, avoiding the dangling preposition even in speech.

“I can talk to my partners about the changes,” Don said. “And they’ll be okay with it.”

“Ask yourself,” Austin said, “if they’ll be okay with finding another source of start-up money after I refuse to give you any further capital.”

“But we agreed…”

Austin’s reply was lazy, airy, while he thought of cowgirls.

“Why do I have to follow the agreement, Don, when you don’t? ”

While Don, with greater intensity, explained his ideas all over again, Austin thought of cowgirls riding in slow motion through fields of daisies.

“Don,” Austin finally interrupted, “if you follow the business plan and achieve every benchmark and every deadline, and the firm establishes itself in its market niche, and the IPO happens and everyone leaves rich, you can buy all the buildings you want. And hang around and make all the new implementations that strike your fancy. No one will argue with you-you’ll be rich.”

“But-”

“So for now you need to follow the strategic plan. And if you don’t”-Austin smiled at the thought-“I will join your partners in voting you off the board, and you’ll get nothing. And please don’t think I can’t do it, because I can. Ask Gene Kring.”

There was a moment of puzzlement.

“Who’s Gene Kring?” Don asked.

“Exactly my point,” Austin said.

Honest to Christ, he thought, this guy was almost as bad as BJ.

In midafternoon Dagmar heard tramping outside and peered out to see a double line of police marching down the street in line abreast, followed by police cars and vans. The police were dressed more seriously this time, in khaki, with long batons, shotguns configured to fire tear gas grenades, transparent shields marked POLISI, and round helmets that looked as if they were designed by samurai, with plates hanging down to cover the ears and back of the neck.

The kid with the Frankie Avalon hair was awake by then, if still unwell. He slouched against the wall beneath one of the shelves. His eyes weren’t very focused yet, but he didn’t seem about to drop dead.

Dagmar saw as the police passed that they were heading in the general direction of her hotel. She figured this was about as safe as her day was going to get.

She went to the door and rolled the screen up to waist height, then ducked down beneath the screen and out into the street. The rotating lights on the vehicles flashed on broken windows. Dagmar followed the police line down the street.

At the next intersection the police paused for directions, and that’s when someone noticed her. One of the cops in a car saw her, blipped the horn, and gestured her over. She bent toward him, and-talking around the cigarette in the corner of his mouth-he asked her a question in Javanese.

“Royal Jakarta Hotel?” she said hopefully.

The cop looked at her for a long, searching moment, then motioned her to stay where she was. He thumbed on his radio mic, spoke briefly with someone Dagmar assumed was a superior, and then turned back to Dagmar and spoke to her while gesturing at the rear door.

It seemed he wanted her to get in his car.

“There’s a man back there,” she said, pointing, “who’s hurt.”

He squinted at her and pointed at the rear door again.

She pointed at the download store. “Ambulance?” she said.

“No ambulance.” The cop was losing patience.

Dagmar thought she should insist on an ambulance. Instead she got in the backseat and hoped this wasn’t her last moment of freedom.

The car smelled strongly of the driver’s harsh tobacco. The driver put the car in gear and it sprang away, turning onto a side street. They were still heading in the general direction of the Royal Jakarta, which was encouraging.

A second cop riding shotgun turned around and grinned at her. He seemed very young.

“How are you?” he asked.

Dagmar looked at him in surprise.

“I’m all right,” she said. And then, because he seemed to expect a response, she asked, “How are you?”

“I’m good.” He made a fist and pumped it in the air. “I’m very good.”

The car swayed as it swerved around a truck that had been driven onto the curb and then looted. The young policeman nodded, then said, “Where are you going?”

“I’m going to Bali,” she said.

He pumped his fist again. “Bali’s very good.” He opened the fist and patted himself on the chest.

“I’m from Seringapatam.”

Dagmar thought about all the places she was from, and decided to mention the most recent.

“I’m from Los Angeles.”

“Los Angeles is very good! Very famous!” The cop was enthusiastic.

She glanced down a side street as they sped along, and gasped. A large building was on fire-she thought it might have been the shopping center she’d visited. Tongues of flame extruded from smashed windows to lick at the sides of the building. Fire trucks and police were parked outside, and she saw pieces of furniture in the streets where they’d been dropped-looted, apparently.

She thought she glimpsed bodies lying among the abandoned furniture, and then the car sped on.

“Are you in the movies?” asked the young cop.

Dagmar tried to get her mind back on the track of the conversation. Was she in the movies? she wondered.

The right answer was sort of, but that led to too much exposition. And she had a feeling that reality had taken enough turns today without her having to explain about alternate reality gaming.

“I write computer games,” she said.

“Computer games! Excellent!” The cop made a gun with his two hands and made machine-gun sounds. “Felony Maximum IV!” he said. “I always take the MAC-10.”

Dagmar had never played Felony Maximum, but it seemed wise to agree.

“The MAC-10 is good,” she said.

The car took another turn, and there, visible through the windshield, was the shining monolith of the Royal Jakarta Hotel. The car rocketed under the portico, and the driver stomped on the brakes, bringing the vehicle to a juddering halt.

“Thank you!” Dagmar said. “Thank you very much!”

She tried to open the door and found it wouldn’t open from the inside. The driver barked some impatient commands at the Sikh doorman-the same one who had been on duty in the morning-and then the doorman opened the car door and she stepped out.

“Thank you!” she said to the driver, who ignored her and sped away.

The Sikh was holding the hotel door for her. She looked up and down the facade of the hotel and saw broken windows. Hotel workers had already cleaned up the glass. A hundred yards farther down the street was an overturned minibus that had been set on fire. Greasy smoke hung in the brilliant tropical air.

No bodies, at least. A small favor, this.

Dagmar walked into the hotel, nodded to the doorman’s “Good afternoon, miss,” and went to Mr. Tong’s office. Mr. Tong was alone-apparently he’d already discouraged everyone who needed discouraging-and he looked up as she knocked on the doorframe.

“Miss Shaw?” he said. “Nothing’s changed, I’m afraid.”

“There’s a man,” Dagmar said, “who needs an ambulance.”

Together they got a map of the area, and Dagmar reconstructed her morning walk and the location of the music store. Mr. Tong made the call, then looked up at Dagmar.

“I’ve told them,” he said. “But I don’t know if they’ll come.”

Dagmar thanked Mr. Tong and left, trying to think if there was anything else she could do. Short of going back out onto the streets, there was nothing.

She went to her room and took off her sweat-stained clothing and stood in the shower for a long while. Then she lay naked on her sweet-smelling sheets and turned on a news program and heard the reporter from Star TV talk about “anti-Chinese rioting.”