Roger glanced around and ducked into the conference room. A neat hand-lettered sign announced a Botany Club Meeting. Roger could have cared less about botany, but his flight home was delayed until tomorrow and he was bored.

A crowd bunched up near the front. From their impeccably tailored clothing, winter tans and expensive haircuts, it appeared that they were very well-heeled. As Roger moved forward, a tiny old Asian man entered the room.

He was deeply wrinkled and gnarled and his long, white hair hung in a tail. He bowed and walked to the front of the crowd. Roger stood at the back, but he was too short to see.

The old man spoke halting broken English in a mellifluous - almost hypnotic - voice. He had a heavy accent and the habit of tossing in a foreign word - presumably Japanese - when he couldn't find one in English.

"Welcome to the demonstrate of Shounin. We are honor to speak for you."

He paused. Roger imagined him bowing again.

"I will speak of six members of collection. Shounin are delicate and cannot bring much across ocean. The first specimen I collect in Hokkaido, in north of Japan where most of Shounin come from. Is very ancient art in my country, but not practice by many."

"This I train with wire since first year. It hang over edge of pot and trail to floor. We call kengai. In English called cascade. Most important about Shounin is not water too much or feed. Keep alive but not outgrow pot."

Roger edged forward.

"This is old and majesty specimen. It pass to my father from his father - is ninety-one of years. Many bump and lump on ashi and ude. We can tie wire to make grow faster. I show."

Roger pushed through the crowd as the man discoursed on wiring, tying, bending, shaping, feeding and repotting. Roger was entranced by his voice - or maybe he was just drunk.

He imagined himself puttering with his own collection of Shounin. He had always done well with roses, but found little time for any serious gardening. The old man droned on about an ancient Shounin that belonged to Emperor Hirohito's nephew.

Roger kept moving, but the crowd was tighter near the front. A few people eyed him. He pushed through and there were the Shounin, arrayed around the old man in a variety of ornate pots, seated on pedestals of rich polished wood.

Roger gasped. The Shounin were perfectly formed miniatures of humans, wrapped and trained with heavy gauge wire into grotesque and unnatural poses. The kengai was a wispy woman, bent over backward at an angle that would make a yogi wince. The ninety-one year old "specimen" was all gnarls and knobs and wrinkles like the aged tree it was modeled on.

Something caught Roger's eye then. His innards turned to ice and he felt nauseous as he noticed the tiny chests heaving and the limbs twitching ever so slightly.