[jin guangyao has no idea what a mini-recorder is, but he knows what men look like once they have hit bedrock, having been flung against it enough times himself. for a moment or two he considers the back of mike enslin's head, his expression an inscrutable jade mask, then opts for an inoffensive smile. he steps carefully into the stranger's field of vision, near enough for polite conversation, but far enough away that he can beat a hasty retreat if he has misjudged this man's temperament.]

xiansheng--[a term of address, probably, and one intended to be courteous if the modest bow that accompanies it is anything to go by]--this one humbly begs your pardon for the interruption, but what is... [and there, he carefully points with his left hand at the electronic device in mike's grasp] ...that?