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what with the tents and the buses.
    It’s like a small town, and—” “A shantytown,” Clee cut in.
    “You’re right. Does it smell again tonight?”
    “They’ve probably removed the garbage by now. In any case, there’s a nice breeze blowing up.”
    “The other day when I came looking for Yoyo it stank, that’s the only word for it. The stench was disgusting—rotting food, unwashed bodies, heaven knows what else. I felt nauseated.”
    As they entered the encampment and walked past several buses where some of the students lived, the air was surprisingly fresh, and the area looked as if it had recently been swept and cleaned up. There was no trash in sight.
    Nicky was surprised, once again, by the neat lines of olive-green tents, waterproof and commodious, which had been sent from Hong Kong.
    They were arranged in horizontal patterns, with almost military precision, and lettered signs hung over each group of tents, identifying where the different contingents had come from.
    There were delegations of students from almost every university in every province of China.
    Weeks ago she had discovered that most of the students slept during the day because the action came at night. Now the majority of the tents were empty, although a few late stragglers were only just emerging, getting ready for the rest of the evening and the early hours of the morning that lay ahead.
     
    Vendors hung around on the pavement, selling sodas, bottled water, ices, popsicles and other small snacks.
    Clee glanced at her. “Would you like a popsicle?”
    She made a face and shook her head.
    The young Chinese student, Chin Yong Yu, nicknamed Yoyo, was standing with a young woman in the center of the encampment near his tent. Both of them wore blue jeans and white cotton shirts.
    The girl was attractive and looked to be about the same age as Yoyo, who was twenty-two. Nicky wondered if this was his girlfriend, whom he had mentioned and who had been visiting relatives in Shanghai for the past few weeks. Yoyo was deep in conversation with the girl, but when he saw Nicky and Clee he broke off and waved enthusiastically, then turning to the girl, he said something and then hurried over to greet them.
    Nicky had met Yoyo, an art student, quite by accident, in Tiananmen Square, when she first arrived in Beijing. She had been endeavoring to speak to some of the students that day, hoping to find someone who understood English. Yoyo had approached her with a smile and told her in fairly understandable English that he would be happy to help her if he could. After that, he had been useful in all sorts of ways, he had passed on information, introduced her to other student leaders, such as Chai Ling and Wuer Kaixi, and kept her abreast of developments among the students and the leaders of the movement. He was not only friendly but bright, and she had grown very fond of him, as had the crew, and Clee. They worried about Yoyo, worried about what would happen to him when all this was over.
    “Nicky!” Yoyo cried, coming toward her, smiling widely, his hand outstretched.
    “Hello, Yoyo,” she said, shaking his hand. “Clee and I were looking for you.”
    “Good evening, Clee,” Yoyo said.
    “Hi, Yoyo! What’s going on?” Clee asked as he took the student’s hand.
    Yoyo’s expression changed, and he said grimly, “Bad things coming.
    Army drop canisters of tear gas from helicopters. On square.
    Tonight.
    You see. You have masks? Also, troops coming.”
    “Tonight? The troops are coming tonight?” Nicky probed.
    Yoyo nodded. “I hear troops hidden in buildings near square. They come. Very sure. Bad things happen. You tell world, yes?”
    “We’ll certainly keep telling the world, Yoyo,” Nicky assured him.
    “But do you believe the People’s Liberation Army will open fire on the people?”
    “Oh yes. Yes.” He nodded emphatically. “Some students say no, not possible. The People’s Liberation Army our army, they say. Won’t kill us. They