Chan Ho-chi is a very snappy dresser. His shoes are always polished till they gleam, like glass with black paper backing. He is carrying a briefcase in his left hand as he walks into the Star Ferry terminal; his right hand holds a newspaper; a cigarette is clenched between his teeth. It is the morning of the eighteenth of November, 1967. The weather is clear: the sky is like cleanly washed blue silk. 'It really is a nice day,' he thinks, 'I can take the last hydrofoil to Macau this afternoon, have a further on the dogs this evening, and watch the motor racing tomorrow.' His plan made, he opens the newspaper. The headline is: Sterling will not be devalued. He immediately foresees a problem: 'What if the pound is devalued? Will it affect the Hong Kong dollar?' Chan Ho-chi has some money put away: he cannot afford to take these things lightly. It says in the paper: Thirty-six bombs, some real some fake, were discovered throughout the territory yesterday. Another item: Miss Peru weeps lovely tears as she is crowned. Another item: There may be diamonds on the moon. Another item: Salty drinking-water is not a health hazard. Another item: Broadcast television comes to Hong Kong tomorrow. A smile comes unbidden to Chan Ho-chi's lips. Because he is fat, his eyes narrow to a slit when he smiles. He already has a Lorenz colour television that he ordered when they put on a TV fair some time ago at Ocean Terminal. 'Tomorrow when I get back from Macau,' he thinks, 'I'll be able to watch the Shaw Brothers' Queen of the Emperor's Haremin Technicolor on my own screen.' Life is so full of interest and variety: it has all the patterns of a kaleidoscope. By this time the ferry is docking at the pier. Chan Ho-chi gets up; as he is crossing the gangplank, someone steps on his foot. The brightly polished surface of his shoe shatters like a mirror. A sideways glance tells him the culprit is a young woman wearing a brightly coloured miniskirt. This woman's surname is Chu. She has a very long English first name: Christina.