Кобо Абэ - The Ark Sakura

“Could be, if it’s got dark blue and red stripes.”

“It’s covered with dust.”

“That’s a top-quality brand, I’ll have you know. It’s in a different class from the chintzy stuff they palm off on you in sporting goods stores.”

“What’s the difference?” asked the girl.

“Enough so that a little dust doesn’t matter. The bottom is triple-layered, with nylon, carbon fibers, and a spring, so that whether you’re lying on rocks, gravel, or whatever, you can sleep as comfortably as in a hotel bed.”

The shill tucked the crossbow under his arm, inserted the remaining aluminum arrows in his belt, and stood up. Going around the table, he pulled out a sleeping bag and threw it down from the parapet. Then he grabbed the shoulders of the insect dealer, who was asleep, leaning against the table leg, and began to shake him roughly.

“Okay, Komono — time to go downstairs and go beddy-bye. Wake up, will you!”

“There’s no point in moving too fast,” I counseled. “At least let’s wait till Komono is sober. The more help we have, the better.”

“It’s worse to let the enemy get an edge on you. Don’t forget, the best defense is a good offense. When politicians want to sound tough, they start talking about their indomitable resolve. In a fight, the trick is to let fly a stiff punch that will put a damper on your opponent. You can’t let guys like that Sengoku have it all their own way. Corrupts discipline.”

“But there’s no hard evidence that he did turn traitor. It’s all circumstantial, isn’t it?”

“The best way to check it out is to go back there for a look.”

“Why are you so eager for a fight?”

“Drink sharpens my faculties, remember? What is there to be afraid of?”

“All right, then, let me contact Sengoku. His radio is set up in the store. If he’s there, that’ll give him an alibi, and disprove your idea that he’s in league with the Broom Brigade.”

“I haven’t got anything personal against the guy, mind you,” said the shill. “He’s just one possible suspect. But go ahead and try to contact him, if that’ll make you feel better. If he’s there, he may have some new information for you, and if he isn’t, the cloud of suspicion will deepen and you can throw away your doubts.”

“I’ll give it a try — but somehow I just cannot believe that he’s that rotten.”

My radio set was in locker number three. The lock combination was easy to remember: 3-3-3. I set the dial and switched it on.

— Channel check. Channel check. Is anyone using this channel?

No answer.

— I repeat. Hello, this is Mole. Mole here. Come in, please.

No answer.

Twice more I repeated the call; still there was no answer.

“That settles it.” The shill clapped his hands. “You’d better give up, Captain. You want to take your camera along when we go? I hear you’re a professional. A photograph of the evidence could be worth a fortune. And, Komono, you wake up. We’ve got to get moving. Come on, I’ll take you downstairs.”

He gave the insect dealer’s shoulder another hard shake, until at last Komono stood up, his whole body emanating sleepiness. Even so, he never loosened his grip on the converted toy Uzi.

“I’ve got to pee,” he mumbled.

The insect dealer leaned on the shill, whose knees buckled. There was a good four-inch difference in their heights, and their weights must have differed to a corresponding degree. Using my head as a prop as he went by, he passed in back of me, nearly knocking over a chair in the process. He had terrible body odor. The odor itself was menacing, and even apart from that there’s something about big men I don’t like — probably from association with Inototsu. As he wavered, unable to negotiate the turnabout, the shill grabbed his belt and held him up. Their unsteady footsteps receded down the staircase.

“What shall I do?” The girl, still lying curled on the chaise longue, looked up at me with a troubled expression.

“Can you swim? I think probably we’ll be diving underwater.”

“No, I can’t. And I can’t hold my beer very well, either — unlike him.”

“Then you shouldn’t come. You’d just end up an encumbrance.” As I went by, I gave her bottom a light slap. Without a flicker of expression, she sighed and said:

“You know, you’ve got to hide your feelings better than that.”

“Was it so obvious?”

“Just like a dog looking for a pat on the head.”

“You’ve got to be kidding.”

“I think he wants to start a new life. But don’t forget, he has only six months to live.”

From down below, mixed with the sound of someone passing water, came the noise of voices quarreling. Then a queer voice, with laughter in it. A pause, and then the roar of the toilet being flushed, like a subway train thundering by in the middle of the night.

“He seems nicer than he looks.”

“He’s a fairly complicated person,” she answered thoughtfully. “That may be the very reason why he acts so simpleminded.”

“Has he ever used violence on you?”

She put a hand on her hip where I had slapped her, and said nothing. From below, the shill’s voice boomed out, echoing through the hold.

“C’mon, Captain, let’s go!”

14

THE SHILL WENT FIRST,

CROSS BOW IN HIS ARMS

The shill went first, clutching the loaded crossbow in his arms, and I followed, holding a trigger-operated tear gas cylinder. Kicking aside the sprung trap, we cut across the work hold, our footsteps resounding. From habit I tried to muffle mine, but the shill strode boldly ahead, apparently eager to cover ground. Each step we took created its own echo. The sum effect was a loud pattering like the noise of falling raindrops.

“If we make this much noise they’ll hear us coming,” I said. “You know, whoever it was that got away before might have doubled back, and be waiting in ambush up ahead.”

“That’s okay,” he said. “As long as the enemy isn’t planning an all-out attack, it’s safer to make a lot of noise as you approach, whether it’s a bear you’re up against, or anything else.”

By the time we reached the top of the lift, I was panting. I stopped to lean against the wall and catch my breath, but the shill signaled me to hurry, indicating his watch. After a few more yards we reached a room of medium size (still easily as big as a school auditorium), with a split-level floor. Light from the work hold provided soft, indirect illumination, covering the walls with a thick velvety sheen. I planned to set up a periscope here someday for outdoor observation. For the present, taking advantage of the room’s soundproof structure, I used it to test-fire converted guns and mock bullets.

“We’re up so high now, the ground must be just overhead,” said the shill, switching on his cap light. His breathing remained unaffected by his exertion. He must have a liver the size of a cow’s, I thought, able to convert beer directly into water. It was hard to believe the man had only six months to live.

“Even so, there’s a good thirteen feet of solid rock up there, at the minimum,” I answered. “So the law says.”

“This is where the smell starts to get worse, notice?” he said.

Besides the passageway through which we had come, two other ceiling-high openings extended on right and left, separated by a wall of rock. The shill headed for the one on the right.

“You got through there with no difficulty before, did you?” I asked.

“Yes — why?”

“There’s another booby trap planted in there.”

This was one route I had figured an invader would be sure to take, and so, without begrudging the effort required to replace the laminated batteries once a month, I had installed a rather nasty device: a cylinder of cockroach spray, activated by an infrared sensor.