Minister Nambashtadiri had been waiting patiently at the entrance to the monastery for almost half an hour. Her dark formal suit was hideously uncomfortable in the morning heat. She wanted to return to the air-conditioned interior of her official limousine, but her stubborn nature had kept her waiting in the square. Her bodyguards had remained with her, keeping the beggars and street hawkers a respectable distance from their mistress.

"Minister?" A shaven-headed monk dressed in a saffron-coloured winding sheet bowed deeply to her. Nambashtadiri returned the greeting. "I have been sent to bring you in."

"Thank you." The minister made to follow the monk, her bodyguards accompanying her, but the monk stopped them.

"My apologies, minister. But you must know that the Dharma Treaty forbids entry to non-accredited individuals."

Nambashtadiri nodded towards her escorts. "I am sure that I will be as safe here as I would be with you. You may wait in the car for my return."

The bodyguards stared at the minister for moment or two, their expressions unreadable behind their mirrored sunglasses. Then they turned around and made their way to the limousine.

"Thank you for understanding," the monk said.

Together, Nmabshtadiri and her guide entered the precincts of the monastery. Once past the main gate, it was a confusing maze of passageways and courtyards. Everywhere they went, there was the cloying smell of incense and burning wax. Occasionally, as they passed between buildings, Nambashtadiri would catch a glimpse of the great stupa that lay at the heart of the monastery. It was a beehive-shaped structure, with tiers of alcoves arranged around it. Inside each alcove sat a Buddhist monk, their orange robes bright against the yellow sandstone. a strangely discordant chorus rose from their collective throats.

Nambashtadiri paused to listen. She could make out several strands of chant within the overall chorus. They seemed to move in and out of synchronisation with each other, creating a strange arrhythmic effect. However, there seemed to be no overall pattern to the voices. She stopped the monk. "What are they doing?"

"Them?" The monk shrugged. "It is a prayer to the Buddha. This way - please."

Sensing that she would not get anything further from her escort, Nambashtadiri fell in behind the monk.

Their journey finished outside the door to a monastic cell - one of many identical doors in a long, cool passageway. "This is Shi Miao-Yin's quarters," the monk said.

"But I am here to see Doctor - ," the minister began.

The monk interrupted her. "This is Shi Miao-Yin's quarters," he repeated, then stood to one side.

Nambashtadiri took hold of the patinaed door knob and pushed. The wooden door opened, and she ducked her head to avoid the stone lintel.

Nambashtadiri had imagined the cell to be an austere space, barely big enough for a palette bed. But she was surprised to see a omely, comfortable room that was almost as big as her maidservant's bedroom. Shelves filled with textbooks and bound journals lined the walls of the room. Any free space was filled with colourful tapestries of mandalas that softened the impact of the stone walls. A small fan by the door stirred the air, keeping it from growing stale.

The occupant of the room - an elderly monk wearing designer-framed glasses - was sitting at an antique camphor-wood desk, his head bowed over a high-specification laptop. Or, at least, he had been until the minister entered the room. Nambashtadiri recognised him from the picture in his file.

"Doctor Xiang?"

The monk turned to face the minister and bowed in welcome. "That is my secular name. What can I do for you?"

"I am Minister Nambashtadiri of the Asian Coalition Government."

"Indeed." The monk nodded. "I recognise you from the news programmes. We are not as isolated from the world as you seem to think we are."

"May I talk to you, doctor?"

"I would prefer it if you addressed me by my religious name, Shi Miao-Yin."

Nambashtadiri decided she would acquiesce to the old man's request. "May I talk to you, Shi Miao-Yin?"

"Please."Shi Miao-Yin stood up and offered his seat to the minister, before sitting down on his bed. "Don't worry." He smiled. "My bed is comfortable enough for me if I am not working."

Nambashtadiri took the stool and sat on it. She caught a glimpse of the image on the screen of the laptop: an animation of a three-dimensional graph; swirling coloured dots that moved according to some algorithm that was not familiar to her. The minister pointed at the laptop. "I see you are still active in your field?"

Shi Miao-Yin peered at the laptop's screen. "No," he said. There was a trace of regret in his voice. "That is the work of a student of one of my ex-colleagues. She wants me to check the reasoning behind their work. I am just an advisor these days. Nothing more. While I am still respected for my knowledge, I am no longer involved in research." The old man sighed. "It is a condition of my being allowed sanctuary here. You should be aware of that. It is part of the terms of the Dharma Treaty."

Nambashtadiri picked up her black briefcase from between her feet, and placed it on the camphor-wood desk. "Well, I have come here to talk to you about resuming your research. Under our guidance, of course." She stared at Shi Miao-Yin, her thin eyebrows arched into exquisite question marks. "Well, Doctor Xiang? Would you be willing to help us?"

The old monk sat in silence for a minute. "I might," he said at last. "May I ask why the change of heart? The last time I had any dealings with your government, they wanted me put to death. Has the regime's opinion of me - or my work for that matter - changed that much?"

"No. But I can tell you that we are prepared to ... forget."

"Please go on."

"The Coalition is pragmatic. We have need of your knowledge. Since the Dharma Treaty was signed, all work in your field has been halted. It has become an outlawed area of research. Students are discouraged from learning any more than is absolutely necessary to support their work. Even then, their access is restricted and their activities monitored. There are very few who can even approach your level of expertise."

Shi Miao-Yin's expression was unreadable. "Then why not go to them? To your tame experts?"

"Because this problem is beyond them."

"I see." Shi Miao-Yin sat in silent contemplation. "And what do I get out of it?"

"Vindication. Freedom of a sort. A chance to pursue your studies again - if you wish."

Nambashtadiri pulled out a sealed file from her briefcase. It was bright yellow in colour; a conspicuous shade that would be hard to ignore. "Please," the minister said. "Read this. Then tell me if you think our problem is worthy of your attention."

The monk took the file and examined the contents. He read through them silently, taking about half an hour to finish. All through this Nambashtadiri watched Shi Miao-Yin, trying to work out what he was thinking. Finally, Shi Miao-Yin put down the file.

"Fascinating," he said. "I can see why you decided to come to me."

Minister Nambashtadiri felt hopeful. Perhaps her disclosure had swayed the academic to her side. "Well? Will you help?"

"Perhaps."

Nambashtadiri tried to hide her disappointment. "What would it take to convince you?"

"Time," Shi Miao-Yin replied. "I promise that I will consider your proposal. Would not be acceptable if I was to give you an answer by the end of the week? Assuming your data is accurate, your problem is still in its early stages."

"By the - ?" Nambashtadiri stopped herself. "Yes. The end of the week will be time enough."

"May I keep the file?"

"No." Nambashtadiri shook her head. "I am sure that you can appreciate that the Coalition does not want knowledge of the situation reaching the public. It took a lot to convince my colleagues to let you see this much."

Shi Miao-Yin bowed his head. "I understand. Now, shall I take you back to the gate?"

"Thank you."

Minister Nambashtadiri gathered her papers and put them away. That done, she followed Shi Miao-Yinback through the labyrinthine passages of the monastery.

As they approached the stupa, Nambashtadiri heard the chanting of the monks coming from the structure. "I asked what was going on over there," she nodded at the ranks of monks in their alcoves, "but the monk who brought me here told me it was just a prayer to Buddha."

Shi Miao-Yin chuckled. "Yes. He was being somewhat misleading. That chant is known as the Ten Thousand Year Prayer. It's a cycle of prayers that are meant to be recited continuously. Each of the mantras is different. If you listen closely, you can hear the individual patterns as they repeat. The cadences seem to change at random, but that is not the case."

"So, why 'ten thousand years'?"

"According to legend, it will take ten thousand years for the cycle of prayers to repeat itself. And that will be but a blink of Buddha's eye."

Nambashtadiri nodded. "I think I understand."

The two continued on their way to the gate.