Who do you work for?' I asked Gabrielle.

'L 'Humanite.'

'Are you covering anything specific for them?'

I got a very direct look from the dark blue eyes, as if I'd said something offensive. 'Just Phnom Penh,' she said.

'What have you got so far?'

'Nothing. I am waiting. We are all waiting.' She looked away, around the big shabby-ornate room, as a boy brought the sodas she'd ordered from the bar. In a moment she squeezed the lemons into them, her thin strong hands moving automatically, her eyes abstracted. 'But meanwhile' — her mouth tightened — 'I might be lucky and get a shot of a little girl being blown to pieces in the sunshine, something like that. Something to make the world pay attention, if it will ever open its eyes.' She passed me one of the sodas. 'Where is your identity bracelet?' She'd followed the thought train from the little girl.

'I'm getting one made.' The bracelet she wore on her left wrist was stainless steel, the standard issue, fireproof and even percussion proof, within limits.

'But you've had your shots?'

'Yes.' My medic in London had thrown the book at me: tetanus, diphtheria, meningitis and gamma globulin.

'It's very important,' Gabrielle said, 'in this — ' she broke off as the bulbs in the grimy-looking candelabra in the centre of the ceiling flickered for a bit and went out.

'Is the power station under attack?' I asked her.

'No. The power station does not work very well.' The serving boys were lighting small kerosene lamps, one of them giving a giggle as he hung his lamp back on the wall; the sound was as shocking as laughter at a funeral. As the flames burned brighter the room took on an unearthly glow. 'You are in the media?' Gabrielle was asking.

'No. I'm on a roving commission for Trans-Kampuchean Air.'

A man came up to our table and dropped a Kodak bag in front of Gabrielle. 'Et voila! '