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giant factory in Okhla III. The manager. That bastard was smarter than he looked.
    At dusk Jora assembled his brothers and nephews and cousins at the bus stop. They
stood wreathed in blankets, and carried cricket bats and bags of roti and chana dal .
In the dim winter monochrome they looked like a mongrel cricket team about to go
on tour. Jora went among the men and counted heads.
    Thirty, he told the frightened driver.
    Please, sahib , no trouble, the man said. Is it a family feud? A matter of love?
    No, Jora said, a matter of theft.
    From Jodhpur the mob took a sleeper to Delhi. They stayed awake singing and smoking bidis to hide their nerves. Raj and Sunil bragged about how many copiers they would
smash. Other passengers entering the carriage turned and left with eyes averted.
    In Delhi the next morning a convoy of rickshaws ferried them south. Most had never
been to Delhi before. The desert men gripped their bats and stared out at the gleaming
boutiques and chain stores of South Extension. It was too loud and cold to talk above
the engines.
    At Okhla III they piled out to stand in the factory’s shadow.
    Follow me, Jora yelled. He marched towards the guard post with his bat held in both
hands.
    There was nobody there. The post was unmanned and the gates stood open. They stormed
down to the reception shoulder to shoulder. There was no sign of the receptionist,
and Jora simply walked around her desk and buzzed them through.
    Ten of them pushed into the elevator, packed close with the smell of sweat and smoke.
Jora could hardly bear to stand still. No Delhi choot stole from him and his family.
    The doors slid apart and the men piled out. The cavernous expanse of the factory
opened before them. Jora had no time for the spectacle. He turned towards the manager’s
office.
    Halfway along the metal gangway, hunched over the railing, staring vacantly across
the factory floor, was the manager himself.
    You, Jora said, pointing his cricket bat at the man’s head. You’re copying my guidebooks.
    Accha , the manager said, blinking angrily. The beggar returns a publisher. Only an
illiterate man could make such a monstrous book.
    And only a goat-licking cripple would copy it.
    You are right, the manager said. He spat over the side of the railing. I prefer to
copy nothing at all.
    Jora frowned.
    The manager jerked his head. See for yourself.
    For the first time Jora noticed the vast factory floor in disarray below. The copiers
had burned to lumps of scorched plastic, or been scavenged for parts, leaving just
their carcasses in scattered rows. The breeze from an open fire escape blew tumbleweeds
of paper down the empty aisles.
    What the hell happened? Jora asked.
    You happened, you son of a bitch, the manager said. You ruined me.
    But you were copying my books!
    I refused to copy your filth. I kept on with the official guide, but soon enough
I could barely sell fifty a week. Everyone wanted yours.
    But—
    You bankrupted me. They’re throwing me out.
    Jora studied the manager more closely. Gone was the proud bearing. Deep shadows ringed
his eyes, and his suit was filthy and stained.
    So who is copying my book? Jora demanded.
    The manager laughed, an exhausted bleat. Does it matter? Your hotel is full, isn’t
it?
    Tell me!
    All right then, the manager said bitterly. It’s Lonely Planet . The real Lonely Planet .
They’ve given up on their own guide. Now the bastards just copy yours.

RUSH
    THERE ARE five of them crammed into a white council ute, speeding through the waking
city. Jackhammers and shovels rattle in the tray. The young guys in the back are
knee to knee in work pants and steel-capped boots. One of them slugs at a Farmers
Union iced coffee. It’s a Monday morning in Melbourne and just past dawn. Sunlight
ripples bronze across the high rises, licks out from laneways in golden tongues.
    Big Toff’s driving. He’s a reassuring bulk up there in the front, not even forty
but big and dark