Then she'd invited him back for the dinner. Why? Could Humpty-Dumpty be put back together again? Crack eggs, make an omelet . . . she half smiled at the odd way your mind connects absurdities when you're a little overworked. . . .That was when the phone rang.Was it Dave, dropping out at the last minute to prove he could still piss her off, one more time? She headed for the kitchen, so she could at least chop some veggies while they argued for half an hour on the phone.It wasn't Dave. Instead it was a scratchy old voice, one she loved. Shouting into a cell phone at Kennedy was Allan Stern, who announced in his staccato tones that he'd just stepped off a JAL flight fresh from some conference inTokyo. He had to see her tonight."Tonight?" When it rains, it pours, she thought. "Allan, I'd love to, but I'm having some people in from school . . . What? . . . Well, sure, nothing that special . . . Allan, I adore you dearly, but you wouldn't know any of the . . . Okay, okay . . . Can you get down by eight?""See you then, Tamara. You're a dear."Stern was an old, old friend, and a guy everybody in the country had probably heard of vaguely. Any freshman in computer science could tell you he was one of the unofficial founders of the field known as artificial intelligence, now usually shortened to "AI." As it happened, she had convinced him the previous spring that they ought to collaborate on a book about the growing use of smart robots in the workplace, but for some reason his input had never made it past the talking stage. She'd decided just to go ahead on her own with the writing.Well, she thought, maybe he's decided to pitch in after all. Great. That would mean it might be adopted for a lot of college courses. Allan had plenty of respectability with the establishment.He was probably the closest friend she had, her mentor almost. They went back to a Denver conference fifteen years agp, when he'd stood up in a session and challenged the conclusion of the very first paper she ever gave, though he'd come in midway through. Even then he had been a powerhouse inWashington, chairing one of the technical committees that reviewed federal grant applications submitted by university researchers. The inside talk on campuses was: love him or hate him, but think twice before you cross the opinionated bastard.She was so mad she didn't care. She had sidled up to him at the coffee break and introduced herself, saying what an honor it was to meet a scholar so highly regarded, a man whose reputation was so well established. He nodded in absent acknowledgment, sipped at his Styrofoam cup, and stared over her shoulder. She then proceeded to advise the celebrated Allan Stern that he'd missed the whole thrust of her talk, which she'd explained in the introduction, and furthermore—judging from the data at hand—he struck her as a pompous asshole.Such forthrightness, which was entirely new to Dr. Allan Stern's sheltered existence, so astonished him he apologized on the spot. By week's end he was trying to recruit her out to Stanford. He still was.Allan was always punctual, to the minute, and that Saturday night was no exception. The doorman downstairs announced him at eight sharp. When she met him at the elevator, her first impression was he looked a trifle worn down. America's foremost futurist was gaunt, as always, but his trademark shock of white hair streamed over a lined face that was more than usually haggard. His hard eyes, which could bore through screw-off Congressional staffers like a pair of Black & Decker drills, were actually bloodshot. In short, the man looked awful. Then she remembered he'd just come in on the 747 directly from Narita. Into the teeth of the latest baggage-handlers' slowdown at Kennedy. Give the poor old guy a break.She made him a drink and then asked, "Okay, Allan, what's up?""Later, Tamara. It's a long story." With which he lapsed silent. Very out of character.About then everybody else started coming up, reasonably on time since Tam was known far and wide to hate the concept of "fashionably late." Also, she was a great cook. Bottles of bargain wine with the prices scraped off collected on the table in the foyer, and coats amassed in the second bedroom. Given that everybody knew everybody, it was mostly elbow patches and open collars. Only the women had bothered to dress. Simpson from Computer Science, whose wife worked in Admissions; Gail Wallace from Business, whose pudgy, skirt- chasing husband had guided two companies into bankruptcy; Alice and Herman Knight, who both taught in Economics (she was dean of the undergraduate college) and published as a team; Kabir Ali from Mathematics and his browbeaten little Iranian wife Shirin who seemed frightened of the world—and her husband. Only Dave had the nerve to be late and hold things up.While they waited, they knocked off a little Scotch and white wine, trashed the administration, and complained about all the committees on which they were being pressured to serve. Around a quarter to nine Dave finally appeared, sandy curls askew to let her know where he'd been. She didn't even bother offering him a drink, just announced that everything was ready so let's adjourn to the dining room.There're two kinds of dinners: ones that follow the rules, and ones that break them all. Tarn's were the latter. This time it would be real tallow candles and everybody's wine, including her own. Somehow her craziness always seemed to click; they inevitably came back for more. This time she'd decided to pay an offhand tribute to autumn and American cuisine. Cheddar cheese soup, marinated Ottomanelli's quail broiled with fresh sage, sweet potato fritters and baby peas, homemade corn bread, and then, as a change of pace (keep 'em off balance), an endive salad spiked with coriander. Dessert was an apple- walnut casserole, washed down with pots of McNulty's dark Haitian coffee. At the end she produced an ancient cognac you could inhale forever. By eleven-thirty everybody thought they'd just ascended to paradise.She ordered Dave to take care of the dishes (since he'dbeen acting as if he owned the place, let him help), then led everybody back into the living room. In the park below the weather was perfect, and marijuana sales were in overdrive. A couple of joints also appeared around the room, accompanied by withering glares from Allan. Then, while Ed Wallace was chatting up Shirin and everybody else was drinking and smoking, Allan picked up his cognac and motioned her in the direction of the study.Finally, she thought. This must be some story.She was right.It wasn't her book he wanted to discuss. Instead, he wanted to tell her about what he'd just seen, and not seen, in Tokyo."Loved dinner." He settled into a leather chair, the one next to her long bookcase, and drained his snifter. "I was afraid I was turning into a fish over there." He laughed, but only briefly. Social hour was over. "Tam, I wanted to ask you if you could maybe help me out with something.""What do you have in mind?""Well, you know I've always thought I was on top of what Tokyo is doing, but now I'm not so sure anymore. I'm afraid things are starting to get away from me.""Such as?""Okay. Now, it's no secret I've been to Japan a lot. I've got my share of friends over there, people I respect and admire very much. But this trip started to get very strange. It's as though I'm suddenly an outsider. Just anothergaijin. I'm puzzled, and I wonder if maybe I ought to be worried."Gaijin. That sounds familiar, she thought. But it wasn't something that usually bothered Allan. She brushed her brown hair back out of her eyes and studied him. He'd never been more serious."What happened?"He paused. "You know about their big artificial intelligence effort, called the Fifth Generation Project. If it goes the way they're saying, before too much longer they'll have programs, software, to design the next generation of computer technology. "This was supposed to be news? Come on, Allan. Everybody knew. It was the talk of the industry. Japan's goal was computer logic capable of replicating human thought processes, a monumental, maybe impossible, undertaking."Allan, don't you remember we discussed doing a chapter on it in the robotics book? And if you—""Tamara, bear with me. You also know very well that project is Japan's attempt to leapfrog American technology. Added together with all their R&D on chip technology. In my opinion, by the way, our response is definitely too little, too late. More and more we're having to buy essential components for missile guidance systems from Japan. The Department of Defense is already nervous, but not nervous enough. We may have dug our own grave. And now I think our worst fears may be about to come true. Something funny seems to be happening, only I'm not sure what.""What do you mean?""Let me close that door." He got up and did so, then turned back. "Maybe first I ought to tell you about the odd experience I had last week.""Go on." She heard somebody in the living room put on one of her old Beatles albums—still the middle-ager's idea of hip."Well, as always, I scheduled a stop at the Fifth Generation lab to get up to speed on how their effort's doing. But all of a sudden it seems I'm too darned famous to be bothered with the shirtsleeve stuff. I tried to get in there for three days running. It was always the honorable Stern-san this and the celebrated Stern-san that and you must meet the head of every damned ministry and we have to set up this formal dinner and blah, blah, blah.""Allan, you're the Grand Old Man these days." She laughed. "Get used to it.""Wash out your mouth, Tamara Richardson. I'm not grand and I'm most decidedly not old." He sniffed. "No, it's as if they were very politely cutting me out. Okay, they didn't exactly say the project was off-limits now or anything, but there never seemed to be a convenient time to drop by the lab.""Who knows? Maybe they just didn't want some American partisan poking about the place anymore.""Could be. But why? I'm scarcely a spy for DOD, or the CIA. They know I only do pure science. Okay, maybe I'm old- fashioned, but Dr. Yoshida at least has always claimed to respect me for that. I used to spend hours with him going over his work there and vice versa. We swapped ideas all the time.Now all of a sudden there's this smokescreen." He paused, sipped at his brandy, and then leaned back. "Which brings me to that favor I need.""What?'"Well, I was wondering if maybe you could try and get into the Fifth Generation lab yourself, check around a bit. See if you can find out what's cooking.""Go to Tokyo?""I realize it's a lot to ask, but who else can I turn to? Tam, you're the only person I know who could pull this off. You know the technology, and they respect you. Also, you understand the language. Maybe you can cut through all the politeness and the translated PR. If you'd like a little per diem, I'll see if I can't shake loose the money from somewhere.""Allan, really, don't you think you're maybe going overboard just a little. What if Dr. Yoshida was just tied up? The last time I visited the lab, he showed me everything, completely open.""Ho, ho." He set down his brandy, and his eyes hardened. "I still haven't told you the clincher. There's some new guy in charge now.""That's hard to believe. Yoshida practically invented the Fifth Generation Project. He's the director—""That's just it. Kaput. All of a sudden he's not around anymore. They said he's now 'technical adviser.' But you know what that really means. Removed.Sayonara. Promoted upstairs or downstairs or some damn thing. That in itself is mystifying. He's one of the most competent . . . oh, hell, the man is a genius. Why would they do that?""Very strange.""Exactly. But now he's out. Couldn't even see me. 'On vacation.' The new director is some bureaucrat by the name of Asano. I spent a little time with the man, and I can testify he's a smoothie. Lots of pious generalities about 'technical cooperation.' But I got the distinct feeling he didn't want to talk details with me. Actually, I wondered if maybe he wasn't even a bit afraid to say anything."Asano? Oh, shit. She took a deep breath. "Was his name Kenji Asano?""Ken. Right, that's his first name. Maybe you know him. I think he used to be a flunky with some government bureauover there. But now he's just been put in charge of the Fifth Generation work. It's more than a little curious."She puzzled a minute. From what she knew about the Fifth Generation, and about Kenji Asano, he had a lot more important things to do than run the lab. The "government bureau" he worked for was none other than MITI, the Ministry of International Trade and Industry. In fact, at last count he was Deputy Minister for Research and Planning, a top-ranked executive slot. Could this mean thatJapan's ambitious artificial intelligence effort was being moved in on by MITI, their industrial war room?"Allan, I'll tell you the truth. You may not have heard, but I'm in a fight now at the university. I expect to win, but I've got a lot on my mind. Notes for the book. I can't just suddenly—""Tam, I need your help. Look, maybe they've had some new breakthrough that none of us ever imagined." He paused. "Just between us, I lifted a strange MITI memo I found lying around an office when Asana took me on an escorted tour up to the labs atTsukubaScienceCity."She looked at him. "Was it classified?""How would I know? There was something about it. My sixth sense told me it was a document nobody was supposed to see. When I get back to Stanford, I plan to have a postdoc over in Physics make me a quick translation."It was very unlike Allan to walk off with confidential memos uninvited. Which could only mean he must suspect something he wasn't telling."You'd better give me the whole story.""Not now. Not yet. It's only guesswork, Tam." He glanced away. "Nothing to bore you with at the moment. But if you can find out anything, we'll write it up as a report I can circulate around the Hill. This could be important, believe me. Already Cray has started having to buy critical chips for its supercomputers fromJapan. And while the Department of Defense is pouring billions into research on semiconductors that will withstand nuclear radiation,Japanis forging ahead on speed and miniaturization—what really counts. I think they could be about to have us by the balls, pardon my French. If they've somehow incorporated AI—""Allan, it doesn't add up. I once met Asano. In fact it was a couple of years ago at that Kyoto University symposium onThird World industrialization. He spent a lot of time trying to pick my brain about our specialized silicon-chip manufacturing here. But he wasn't the slightest bit interested in artificial intelligence.""Well, prepare yourself for a surprise. He's plenty interested now. And knowledgeable. But still, it's not like the Japanese to do something like this, install some government guy to run an R&D program.""That's certainly true." She strolled over, looked down upon the park, and began to want a brandy of her own as she chewed over the implications. Was MITI setting up some new high-tech industrial assault? If the Fifth Generation had been taken over by Kenji and his planners . . . "Allan, let me think about this for a couple of days.""Don't think too long. I'm convinced somebody over there is suddenly in a very big hurry. I need to find out the real story. Am I just starting to go nuts in my old age? . . . Well, make that my prime." He grasped her hand for emphasis. "And you really should make it a point to see this Asano fellow. If you already know him from somewhere, I'd say that's even better."She started to respond, then stopped. She knew Kenji Asano all right. From a little episode at that conference, when he had invited the panel members of a session he chaired to a late-night tour of the endless tiny bars in Kyoto's Gion district. She remembered all the steaming sake and being ignored by flustered bar girls who were pretending that another woman wasn't around. They had no idea what to do about a member of their own sex there in their sanctuary of male flattery. Ken apparently had staged it mainly to watch their reaction, and hers.Part of the scene was that Ken Asano was actually something of a hunk, as Westernized as they come and attractive in that way seemingly reserved for men of great wealth or great power. He may have had both, but she was sure only about the second. Whenever he handed out thatmeishicard with the MITI logo, even millionaire industrialists and bankers automatically bowed to the floor.A lot of sake later, after the other panel members had piled into a cab for their hotel, she decided to show Kenji Asano a few things about women he wouldn't learn from giggling bar girls. She'd always heard that Japanese men were pretty humdrum in bed, quick and self-centered, at least in the opinion of a woman she knew who'd done exhaustive field research on the topic. After her own experience with Ken, though, she wasn't so sure. Still, it had been a passing thing. The next morning she awoke in her own room in the Kyoto International and half tried to tell herself it hadn't really happened—just a dream, a chimera of the sultry Kyoto night, brought on by all those quaint little side streets and red paper lanterns.The truth was she still thought about him from time to time. He was a talented lover, she certainly recalled that part well enough, and he was a charmer. In fact, she could use a little of that charm right this minute.What she didn't admire was the organization he worked for: the infamous MITI. Behind a smokescreen of "fair trade" rhetoric, MITI's intentions clearly were to extinguish systematically Japan's world competition, industry by industry. And so far they were batting a thousand. They'd never once failed to knock off a designated "target." What was next? Had MITI finally concluded that, down the road, intelligent computers could be the drive behind some massive shift in world power?Maybe she should go.She poured another dash of cognac for Allan, and they wandered back into the living room, just in time to see the Simpsons out. Everybody else followed except for Dave, now perched by the windows and glaring out into the dark. She decided to ignore him as she walked over, opened one a crack, and looked down. In the park below, commerce was tapering off and the Jamaican Rastas had begun toting up receipts for the night. No sounds, except the faint strains of reggae from a boom box.Funny, but every once in a while she'd stop everything and watch the kids in the playground down there. What to do? The damned shadows were growing longer by the minute. Maybe Dave wasn't so bad. Trouble was, he needed mothering too.Think about it tomorrow, Scarlet. She sighed, poured herself a cognac, and headed for the bedroom to get Allan's coat.After she'd put him on the elevator, she came back and checked out Dave, now slouched in the big chair by the lamp, his eyes closed. He looked positively enticing, and she sounded his name quietly. Nothing. Then she realized he was sound asleep. Snoring.The bastard. This was it. She grabbed his coat, pushed him out the door, poured herself another cognac, and plopped down in the living room to think.All right, Allan. You've got a deal. Could be you're on to something. I seem to remember there's a conference inKyotostarting week after next on supercomputers. Kenji Asano will probably show. Good time to catch him off guard and try to find out what's suddenly so hush-hush.Yes, by God, I'll do it.She didn't bother with any of Allan Stern's funding. This trip would be strictly off-the-record. She wrapped up some loose ends, called a few people she knew inTokyo, lined up half a dozen interviews that might be helpful on the new book, packed her toothbrush and tape recorder, and boarded a Northwest flight for Narita.She had no idea then, of course, but she wasAlice, dropping down the rabbit hole. A fortnight later she was dining with the Emperor of Japan.CHAPTER FOURAllan Stem's alarm aboutJapan's semiconductor challenge reflected only part of the picture. There was also plenty going on with Japanese research in addition to information processing. Superconductivity was getting a big push, as was biotechnology, optoelectronics, advanced materials. Although we in the West think ofJapanas a newcomer in the high-tech sweepstakes, it actually has a long tradition of innovation. A typical for-instance: in the area of advanced materials those of us hooked on swords know the Japanese were already creating "new materials" hundreds of years ago that still haven't been bettered. Back then it was flawless steel forkatanablades; today it's, say, gallium arsenide crystals for laser-driven semiconductors. How, one might inquire, did all this expertise come about?To stick to materials research, if you think a moment you realize it's a discipline that actually must have begun in the latter days of the Stone Age. "High technology" in those times meant figuring new ways to use fire and clay to create something nature had neglected to provide. Not integrated circuits, but a decent water pot.And the Japanese have been making terrific pots for a thousand years. As it happens, some historians claim the very first Japanese pottery was made in theprovinceofTamba, nearKyoto. Why mention this? Because, then as now, technology and politics had a way of getting mixed together inJapan, and Tamba was a perfect example. Tamba's artisans made great use of a special oven known as a climbing-chambered kiln. Whereas ceramics kilns elsewhere in the country were narrow and high, Tamba's climbing-hill chambers were wide and low, thereby allowing the fire to touch the clay directly. The result was a rugged, flame-seared stoneware that pleased the manly eye—powerful earthy grays, burnt reds, greenish-browns, all with a hard metallic luster. Thus Tamba was a locale much frequented by the warrior shoguns.Which may be why Tamba province has another claim to history as well. It is the location of the one-time warrior castle- fortress of Sasayama, once a regional command post of the Tokugawa strongmen inTokyo. You won't find overly much about Sasayama in the usual guidebooks, since it has the kind of history that's more interesting to Japanese than to tourists. The place has no gaudy vermilion temples, no bronze Buddhas ten stories high. Fact is, very little remains of the fortress itself these days except for a wide moat, green with lotuses, and a few stone walls lined with cherry trees that blossom an exquisite white for a few breathtaking moments each spring.Although the castle is now burned down, a few homes of the samurai retainers of its various warlords remain. If you stand on the rocky edge of the moat at its southwest corner and look down through the cherry trees, you'll see an old-style house built some two hundred years ago by the twelfthdaimyoof Sasayama for his most loyal retainer. Its walls of white plaster are interspersed with beams of dark wood, its thatch roof supported by the traditional ridgepole. Think of it as the home of the samurai most trusted, the guardian of the gates, the warrior nearest the fount of power.Perhaps it will not seem surprising, therefore, that this ancient samurai residence, in the shogun stronghold closest to ancientKyoto, was now home base for a powerful warrior of modernJapan. Matsuo Noda.Samurai had once battled in Sasayama's streets; many's the time its castle had been stormed by raging armies; much blood had been shed and much honor lost. But the event that occurred in Sasayama precisely two weeks after Tamara Richardson's dinner inNew Yorkwas a historical moment more important than any in its thousand years prior.It began shortly after dawn, a cool September gray just ripening to pink over the mountains. The early sounds of morning—birdsong, the faint bell of the tofu seller, the steam whistle of the autumn sweet-potato vendor—were only beginning to intrude on the quiet. Noda was where he always was at this moment: on the veranda overlooking his personal garden, a classic Zen-style landscape whose central pond was circled by natural-appearing rocks, trees, bushes, paths. It was, of course, about as "natural" as those sculptured hedges atVersailles. In order to create the illusion of perspective and depth, the stones along the foreshore of the pond were bold, rugged, massively detailed, while those on the opposite side were dark, small, smooth—a little trick to make them seem farther away than they were.It's a game heavy with nuance. For example, the stone footpath on the left side of the pond may look as if it goes on forever, but that's just part of the art: the stones get smaller toward the back, curving in and out among the azalea bushes till they make one last twist and disappear among the red pines and maples at the rear. Which trees, incidentally, have themselves been slightly dwarfed, again enhancing the illusion of distance, just as the back is deliberately shaggy and dark, like the beginnings of a forest that goes on for miles.Noda's Zen garden, which deludes rational judgment by manipulating all the signposts we use to gauge distance and space, appeared to be limitless. The secret was that nothing actually ends: everything simply fades out and gets lost. It was a closed space that seemed for all the world as if it went on and on if you could only somehow see the rest of it. Yet peek only a few yards away, and you've got the mundane streets of sleepy Sasayama.This special dawn, as a few frogs along the edge of thepond croaked into the brisk air, he knelt on the viewing veranda in a fine cotton morning robe, ayukataemblazoned with his family crest (an archaic Chinese ideogram meaning "courage") and began to center his mind. He'd left hisKyotoheadquarters early Friday evening, skipping the usual after-hours-drinking obligation of Japanese executives and grabbing the eight-thirty San-in Express to Sonobe, where his limo waited to bring him the rest of the way home. Now he was up before daybreak and readying his usual morning ritual. As he sat there, gazing across the placid water dotted with lotuses at the foreshore and framed with willows at the far horizon, his silver hair contrasted with the marine blue of the robe to create a presence easily as striking as the garden itself.For a time he merely knelt, silently contemplating the view and listening to the metrical drip of water from a bamboo spout situated just at the edge of the steps. Finally he turned and picked up hissumistick, a block of dried ink made from soot, and carefully began to rub it against the concave face of an ancient inkstone, till its cupped water darkened to just the proper shade. When the fresh ink was ready, he wet a brush in a separate water vessel, dried it by stroking it against a scrap of old paper, dipped it into the dark liquid, and looked down.This was the moment that demanded perfect composure, absolute control. Before him was a single sheet of rice paper, purest white, and now his hand held the brush poised. He was waiting for that instant when his senses clicked into alignment, when the feel of the brush merged with his mind, much the way a samurai'skatanablade must become an extension of his own reflexes.Although he would stroke only a few kanji characters, scarcely enough for a telex or a memo, the moment required discipline acquired through decades of practice. His Zen-style calligraphy allowed for no hesitation, no retouching. It must be dashed off with a spontaneity that was, in itself, part of the art. As with the swordsman, there could be no time for conscious thought, merely the powerful stroke guided by intuition. No decision that confronted him throughout a business day would demand half so much mental control, inner resolve.Just then, at the far end of the pond, the first sun flickered through the wisteria. Suddenly, without his consciously knowing the exact moment had arrived, as a Zen archer's arrow must release itself of its own will, his hand struck. The dark tip ofthe brush pirouetted down the paper, starting at the left and laying down a mere five lines, twenty-two syllables.Inishie niOnce held,ari kemu hito noit’s said,moteri choby men of long ago,omitsuwa womy ancient prize--ware wa mochitariat last is near!It was done.He sighed, leaned back, and reached for the cup of green tea that rested beside him on the polished boards. The verse was in an archaic style, a few syllables longer than a haiku, modeled on an eight-hundred-year-old work by a court poet of the Heian era. The strokes were perfectly nuanced, the flow of the brush precise, the intuitive strength as natural as a waterfall.Noda drained his tea, then rose to go back inside. His antique house was tastefully "empty": itstatami-floored rooms, measured in multiples of those standard three-by-six reed mats, were barren, a museum to times past. They also were open to each other, their sliding doors,fusuma, being pushed wide. The walls, too, were vacant expanses of white plaster with only an occasional mounted six-fold screen depicting poetry parties of the Heian era, that courtly civilization portrayed in The Tale of Genji. And there were no overhead lights, merely an occasional cypressandonfloor lamp to augment the pastel glow of the rice-paper shop windows."Asa-han." He curtly ordered his gray-haired cook to bring breakfast, then turned to mount the ancient stairs."Hai." She nodded and was gone.Although he kept the lower floor exactly as it had been two centuries past, the upstairs was a different matter entirely. It had been converted into a high-tech office, hooked through a maximum security TeleSystems TCS-9000 direct uplink (via the mid-Pacific Mareks-B satellite) to the mainframe of his new NEC information management system in the Kyoto headquarters, an augmented NEAX 2400 IMS, which handled voice, data, text, image. He had scarcely flipped on the system when the woman who managed his kitchen appeared, bowing, and deposited a tray bearingmisobroth, rice, an uncooked egg, and more tea.He grunted thanks as he was checking a CRT screen for the current rate on Fed funds, the cost of the money American banks lend each other overnight to meet reserve requirements. No surprises. Then he turned and cracked the egg over his rice, adding a leaf of driednoriseaweed. As he leaned back, chopsticks in hand, he quickly glanced through theTokyopapers, followed by The Asian Wall Street Journal and the satellite edition ofLondon's Financial Times. Finally he tossed them aside.This was always the moment when he liked to take measure of the three photos standing in a row across the back of his teak desk. The first was his deceased wife Mariko—long-suffering, deferential, resignedly selfless. A model Japanese woman. He still thought of her with fondness, but as was expected of a Japanese helpmate, she always ran a distant second in his affections. His work came first.The next picture was very different. This woman's face was white, her hair a lacquered wig, her lips a tiny red pout. Her name, Koriko, had been assigned years ago in the Gion district of Kyoto, and she was holding a three-stringed lute, a samisen, and intoning some classical melody from centuries past. These days she purchased thousand-dollar kimonos the way most office girls bought jeans, but she worked for the money. She was a geisha, a real one, an artist whose calling required years of training and commanded the awe of even the most modern Japanese. Like a prizefighter or a matador, she'd spent long painful hours perfecting style, technique, art. She had been Noda's one-time protégée, beneficiary of his patronage. Now, though, she had other "patrons." He still missed her, but the memory was fading.The third photo was a face familiar to all ofJapan's avid TV viewers—Akira Mori. She was wearing a dark blue Western suit, her hair a glossy pageboy cut, the conservative look of times past. It was the occasion of her graduation from theSchoolofLaw,TokyoUniversity(Tokyo Daigaku, or Todai as it's known), an important moment. Todai's alumni represent a network, abatsu, of the country's ruling elite, who compete with each other for the choicest, most prestigious government ministries. Although she had chosen a more visible career, she still relied heavily on her contacts in this governing clique, heads of the leading ministries, including Finance, Foreign Affairs, and of course the Ministry of International Trade and Industry, MITI.Matsuo Noda himself had, in fact, once headed MITI, probablyJapan's most powerful ministry. He came from ancient samurai stock—fittingly perhaps, since the bureaucrats of modernJapanare mostly of that class. The samurai caste, men who served a liege lord and were forbidden to engage in trade, were actuallyJapan's first public servants. In between civil wars they became sword-carrying bureaucrats. Many a modern bureau chief has ancestors who wore two swords and sliced up a peasant or a merchant now and then with impunity, which may help explain why the average citizen still views government officials with such nervous awe.A Todai honors man himself, Noda was a natural for MITI, which runs what is in many ways a covert operation. The head offices are in a nondescript, soot-covered building of tinted glass and limestone nearTokyo'sHibayaPark, guarded by armed, helmeted members ofJapan's National Police. Inside it's mostly open floors and lines of gray steel desks; no plush carpets and mahogany suites. MITI has twelve bureaus, each devoted to a major industrial sector. If its officials decideJapan's strategic interests would be served by a certain manufacturing group's cutting production, lowering prices, altering product lines, these "recommendations" are passed along. And it happens.Noda began his career there by circulating through the different sections, "going around the track" as it's called, after which he proceeded to run the General Affairs office of various bureaus, by which time everybody had him picked for a mover, on the "elite course." Eventually he was promoted to section chief in the International Trade Bureau, next on to bureau chief, and finally at age forty-seven he made the top. Vice minister.After he reached the pinnacle, he held the job for a mere five years, then routinely left. He had to go; early fifties and you're out. MITI is no country for old men. He moved on to head the Japan Development Bank, JDB, where he financed various high-tech start-up industries. Finally he retired and went out on his own.Unlike most other retired government officials, however, he didn't accept any of the lucrative private offers he received, the suddenly "vacant" spot on a conglomerate's board of directors. No, he had his own smoldering vision. In a dazzling and successful departure from usual Japanese convention, hefounded Nippon, Inc., an adjunct toJapan's major financial players, with headquarters in the commercial center ofKyoto. His new organization immediately became a financial fixture in the new postindustrial, high-techJapan, and now, five years later, Nippon, Inc. was a thriving force in the management of capital. These days even the new generation at MITI routinely called him up for "consensus."For Matsuo Noda now, everything was in place; he was at last ready to pursue a lifelong dream. He'd never forgotten the end of the war, that last day onOkinawawhen Ushijima's 32nd Army was a dazed remnant. He'd been in the cave above Mabuni when the general radioed his farewell to Imperial Headquarters, then severed his own spinal cord. Matsuo Noda, with anguish he could still remember, had burned the regimental flag and told those remaining to scatter, to become guerrillas—repeating Ushijima's last command to "fight to the last for the eternal cause of loyalty to the emperor." Noda had declared that their struggle would continue on for a hundred years if need be.He had overestimated the difficulty. The plan now poised had required less than fifty.As usual for a work-at-home Saturday (just another business day inJapan), he was wrapping up loose ends from the week, finishing reports, signing off on audits. Two printers were running, since he preferred to work with hard copy, and he was reviewing the list of outstanding loans NI was in charge of monitoring, checking for any early signs of trouble. Had any credit ratings slipped? If a receiving corporation was publicly traded, had its stock faltered? What was the overview: securities, un-amortized discounts on bonds, cash on hand? Next he paged through the weekly updates from the Small Business Finance Corp., the National Finance Corp., the Shoko Chukin Bank, various credit associations and savings banks. It was all on hisKyotoinformation base, pulled off the new fiber-optic network that linkedJapan's financial centers.He was about to ring down for fresh tea when a priority override flashed on the screen for his eyes only. This meant a coded message that could only be unscrambled using a special module in the computer. TheKyotooffice knew he was on line, but they hadn't wanted to route the information directly.Highly irregular.He punched in the code, called up the receiving routine, and waited for the message.There had been a call from ship-to-shore phone, the communications line linking him directly with Dr. Shozo Takahashi, director-in-charge of his top secret "project" in theInland Sea. The director was requesting that Noda-sama contact him immediately via scrambler. Top security. He felt his pulse begin to race as he digested the news.It had been so easy. Almost too easy.He sat perfectly still for that timeless, historic moment, gazing at the photograph of Akira Mori. A promise kept, from long, long ago. Four decades now, and he had never forgotten what he had said he would do for her.He called down for tea, waited till it had been delivered, then punched on the phone and switched it to the security mode.But even on the scrambler, Takahashi began circumspectly. As the esteemed Noda-sama was aware, their "project" had, over its three years, contended with great difficulties and many disappointments. They were working at the very limits of undersea technology. As Noda-sama also knew, he went on, their early attempts at seismic vertical profiling had been a complete failure. Takahashi took personal responsibility for that. Next they had changed strategy and utilized state-of-the-art microwave radar, hoping that minuscule changes in density along the bottom might indicate what they sought. That too, Takahashi apologized, had been unproductive from the start as Noda-sama had been informed, and he, Takahashi, took full blame for the failure.Noda cut in at that point, impatient and wanting to circumvent the litany of apologies. Why was Takahashi calling?The director paused dramatically, then declared he wished to inform the august Noda-sama that their latest approach, the use of a new digital magnetometer, had at last borne fruit. Only this morning they had detected and brought up an "item." In the treacherous straits east-northeast ofShikoku. It was a water-tight gold case embossed with what appeared to be a sixteen-leaf chrysanthemum orkiku. The imperial insignia.Other confirming inscriptions? Noda nervously reached out and clicked off the humming computer.Yes, the formal script across one end appeared to be no later than tenth century. Although they dared not open the gold case for fear of damaging its contents, at this moment preliminary analytical procedures were underway and the early results, including a makeshift attempt at shipboard X-ray crystallography, suggested that the steel inside, which clearly showed traces of copper alloy, contained less than a hundredth of one percent of iron oxide. In short, it was possible the "item" might be perfectly preserved.It was theirs, Takahashi said, in that breathy, clipped language inferiors use to signify great importance and great deference. It was his extreme honor to announce to the esteemed Noda-sama that the most important archeological find in the history ofJapannow belonged to Nippon, Inc., and they—"Chigau," Noda cut him off, in the curt tone expected of superiors. Incorrect: it belonged to its rightful owner and would now be returned.And furthermore, he added, Nippon, Inc. had just ceased to exist. Since the name for ancientJapanwas Dai Nippon, "Great Japan," as of this moment Nippon, Inc. had just become Dai Nippon, International. A complete reorganization would begin immediately.Finally he ordered a total blackout. Radios silenced. No shore leave for crew or scientists.He clicked off the phone and repressing a tremble, descended the stairs.And there on the garden veranda, using a new brush and perfumedsumiink from his rare collection, Matsuo Noda composed a very elaborate letter, long swirls of black down a perfect sheet of thick, flowered paper hundreds of years old. It was then sealed in a silver case and hand delivered by special messenger to a fortress in, the center ofTokyo.Five days later its recipient read it before a nationally televised press conference, andJapanexploded.
Then she'd invited him back for the dinner. Why? Could Humpty-Dumpty be put back together again? Crack eggs, make an omelet . . . she half smiled at the odd way your mind connects absurdities when you're a little overworked. . . .
That was when the phone rang.
Was it Dave, dropping out at the last minute to prove he could still piss her off, one more time? She headed for the kitchen, so she could at least chop some veggies while they argued for half an hour on the phone.
It wasn't Dave. Instead it was a scratchy old voice, one she loved. Shouting into a cell phone at Kennedy was Allan Stern, who announced in his staccato tones that he'd just stepped off a JAL flight fresh from some conference inTokyo. He had to see her tonight.
"Tonight?" When it rains, it pours, she thought. "Allan, I'd love to, but I'm having some people in from school . . . What? . . . Well, sure, nothing that special . . . Allan, I adore you dearly, but you wouldn't know any of the . . . Okay, okay . . . Can you get down by eight?"
"See you then, Tamara. You're a dear."
Stern was an old, old friend, and a guy everybody in the country had probably heard of vaguely. Any freshman in computer science could tell you he was one of the unofficial founders of the field known as artificial intelligence, now usually shortened to "AI." As it happened, she had convinced him the previous spring that they ought to collaborate on a book about the growing use of smart robots in the workplace, but for some reason his input had never made it past the talking stage. She'd decided just to go ahead on her own with the writing.
Well, she thought, maybe he's decided to pitch in after all. Great. That would mean it might be adopted for a lot of college courses. Allan had plenty of respectability with the establishment.
He was probably the closest friend she had, her mentor almost. They went back to a Denver conference fifteen years agp, when he'd stood up in a session and challenged the conclusion of the very first paper she ever gave, though he'd come in midway through. Even then he had been a powerhouse inWashington, chairing one of the technical committees that reviewed federal grant applications submitted by university researchers. The inside talk on campuses was: love him or hate him, but think twice before you cross the opinionated bastard.
She was so mad she didn't care. She had sidled up to him at the coffee break and introduced herself, saying what an honor it was to meet a scholar so highly regarded, a man whose reputation was so well established. He nodded in absent acknowledgment, sipped at his Styrofoam cup, and stared over her shoulder. She then proceeded to advise the celebrated Allan Stern that he'd missed the whole thrust of her talk, which she'd explained in the introduction, and furthermore—judging from the data at hand—he struck her as a pompous asshole.
Such forthrightness, which was entirely new to Dr. Allan Stern's sheltered existence, so astonished him he apologized on the spot. By week's end he was trying to recruit her out to Stanford. He still was.
Allan was always punctual, to the minute, and that Saturday night was no exception. The doorman downstairs announced him at eight sharp. When she met him at the elevator, her first impression was he looked a trifle worn down. America's foremost futurist was gaunt, as always, but his trademark shock of white hair streamed over a lined face that was more than usually haggard. His hard eyes, which could bore through screw-off Congressional staffers like a pair of Black & Decker drills, were actually bloodshot. In short, the man looked awful. Then she remembered he'd just come in on the 747 directly from Narita. Into the teeth of the latest baggage-handlers' slowdown at Kennedy. Give the poor old guy a break.
She made him a drink and then asked, "Okay, Allan, what's up?"
"Later, Tamara. It's a long story." With which he lapsed silent. Very out of character.
About then everybody else started coming up, reasonably on time since Tam was known far and wide to hate the concept of "fashionably late." Also, she was a great cook. Bottles of bargain wine with the prices scraped off collected on the table in the foyer, and coats amassed in the second bedroom. Given that everybody knew everybody, it was mostly elbow patches and open collars. Only the women had bothered to dress. Simpson from Computer Science, whose wife worked in Admissions; Gail Wallace from Business, whose pudgy, skirt- chasing husband had guided two companies into bankruptcy; Alice and Herman Knight, who both taught in Economics (she was dean of the undergraduate college) and published as a team; Kabir Ali from Mathematics and his browbeaten little Iranian wife Shirin who seemed frightened of the world—and her husband. Only Dave had the nerve to be late and hold things up.
While they waited, they knocked off a little Scotch and white wine, trashed the administration, and complained about all the committees on which they were being pressured to serve. Around a quarter to nine Dave finally appeared, sandy curls askew to let her know where he'd been. She didn't even bother offering him a drink, just announced that everything was ready so let's adjourn to the dining room.
There're two kinds of dinners: ones that follow the rules, and ones that break them all. Tarn's were the latter. This time it would be real tallow candles and everybody's wine, including her own. Somehow her craziness always seemed to click; they inevitably came back for more. This time she'd decided to pay an offhand tribute to autumn and American cuisine. Cheddar cheese soup, marinated Ottomanelli's quail broiled with fresh sage, sweet potato fritters and baby peas, homemade corn bread, and then, as a change of pace (keep 'em off balance), an endive salad spiked with coriander. Dessert was an apple- walnut casserole, washed down with pots of McNulty's dark Haitian coffee. At the end she produced an ancient cognac you could inhale forever. By eleven-thirty everybody thought they'd just ascended to paradise.
She ordered Dave to take care of the dishes (since he'd
been acting as if he owned the place, let him help), then led everybody back into the living room. In the park below the weather was perfect, and marijuana sales were in overdrive. A couple of joints also appeared around the room, accompanied by withering glares from Allan. Then, while Ed Wallace was chatting up Shirin and everybody else was drinking and smoking, Allan picked up his cognac and motioned her in the direction of the study.
Finally, she thought. This must be some story.
She was right.
It wasn't her book he wanted to discuss. Instead, he wanted to tell her about what he'd just seen, and not seen, in Tokyo.
"Loved dinner." He settled into a leather chair, the one next to her long bookcase, and drained his snifter. "I was afraid I was turning into a fish over there." He laughed, but only briefly. Social hour was over. "Tam, I wanted to ask you if you could maybe help me out with something."
"What do you have in mind?"
"Well, you know I've always thought I was on top of what Tokyo is doing, but now I'm not so sure anymore. I'm afraid things are starting to get away from me."
"Such as?"
"Okay. Now, it's no secret I've been to Japan a lot. I've got my share of friends over there, people I respect and admire very much. But this trip started to get very strange. It's as though I'm suddenly an outsider. Just anothergaijin. I'm puzzled, and I wonder if maybe I ought to be worried."
Gaijin. That sounds familiar, she thought. But it wasn't something that usually bothered Allan. She brushed her brown hair back out of her eyes and studied him. He'd never been more serious.
"What happened?"
He paused. "You know about their big artificial intelligence effort, called the Fifth Generation Project. If it goes the way they're saying, before too much longer they'll have programs, software, to design the next generation of computer technology. "
This was supposed to be news? Come on, Allan. Everybody knew. It was the talk of the industry. Japan's goal was computer logic capable of replicating human thought processes, a monumental, maybe impossible, undertaking.
"Allan, don't you remember we discussed doing a chapter on it in the robotics book? And if you—"
"Tamara, bear with me. You also know very well that project is Japan's attempt to leapfrog American technology. Added together with all their R&D on chip technology. In my opinion, by the way, our response is definitely too little, too late. More and more we're having to buy essential components for missile guidance systems from Japan. The Department of Defense is already nervous, but not nervous enough. We may have dug our own grave. And now I think our worst fears may be about to come true. Something funny seems to be happening, only I'm not sure what."
"What do you mean?"
"Let me close that door." He got up and did so, then turned back. "Maybe first I ought to tell you about the odd experience I had last week."
"Go on." She heard somebody in the living room put on one of her old Beatles albums—still the middle-ager's idea of hip.
"Well, as always, I scheduled a stop at the Fifth Generation lab to get up to speed on how their effort's doing. But all of a sudden it seems I'm too darned famous to be bothered with the shirtsleeve stuff. I tried to get in there for three days running. It was always the honorable Stern-san this and the celebrated Stern-san that and you must meet the head of every damned ministry and we have to set up this formal dinner and blah, blah, blah."
"Allan, you're the Grand Old Man these days." She laughed. "Get used to it."
"Wash out your mouth, Tamara Richardson. I'm not grand and I'm most decidedly not old." He sniffed. "No, it's as if they were very politely cutting me out. Okay, they didn't exactly say the project was off-limits now or anything, but there never seemed to be a convenient time to drop by the lab."
"Who knows? Maybe they just didn't want some American partisan poking about the place anymore."
"Could be. But why? I'm scarcely a spy for DOD, or the CIA. They know I only do pure science. Okay, maybe I'm old- fashioned, but Dr. Yoshida at least has always claimed to respect me for that. I used to spend hours with him going over his work there and vice versa. We swapped ideas all the time.
Now all of a sudden there's this smokescreen." He paused, sipped at his brandy, and then leaned back. "Which brings me to that favor I need."
"What?'
"Well, I was wondering if maybe you could try and get into the Fifth Generation lab yourself, check around a bit. See if you can find out what's cooking."
"Go to Tokyo?"
"I realize it's a lot to ask, but who else can I turn to? Tam, you're the only person I know who could pull this off. You know the technology, and they respect you. Also, you understand the language. Maybe you can cut through all the politeness and the translated PR. If you'd like a little per diem, I'll see if I can't shake loose the money from somewhere."
"Allan, really, don't you think you're maybe going overboard just a little. What if Dr. Yoshida was just tied up? The last time I visited the lab, he showed me everything, completely open."
"Ho, ho." He set down his brandy, and his eyes hardened. "I still haven't told you the clincher. There's some new guy in charge now."
"That's hard to believe. Yoshida practically invented the Fifth Generation Project. He's the director—"
"That's just it. Kaput. All of a sudden he's not around anymore. They said he's now 'technical adviser.' But you know what that really means. Removed.Sayonara. Promoted upstairs or downstairs or some damn thing. That in itself is mystifying. He's one of the most competent . . . oh, hell, the man is a genius. Why would they do that?"
"Very strange."
"Exactly. But now he's out. Couldn't even see me. 'On vacation.' The new director is some bureaucrat by the name of Asano. I spent a little time with the man, and I can testify he's a smoothie. Lots of pious generalities about 'technical cooperation.' But I got the distinct feeling he didn't want to talk details with me. Actually, I wondered if maybe he wasn't even a bit afraid to say anything."
Asano? Oh, shit. She took a deep breath. "Was his name Kenji Asano?"
"Ken. Right, that's his first name. Maybe you know him. I think he used to be a flunky with some government bureau
over there. But now he's just been put in charge of the Fifth Generation work. It's more than a little curious."
She puzzled a minute. From what she knew about the Fifth Generation, and about Kenji Asano, he had a lot more important things to do than run the lab. The "government bureau" he worked for was none other than MITI, the Ministry of International Trade and Industry. In fact, at last count he was Deputy Minister for Research and Planning, a top-ranked executive slot. Could this mean thatJapan's ambitious artificial intelligence effort was being moved in on by MITI, their industrial war room?
"Allan, I'll tell you the truth. You may not have heard, but I'm in a fight now at the university. I expect to win, but I've got a lot on my mind. Notes for the book. I can't just suddenly—"
"Tam, I need your help. Look, maybe they've had some new breakthrough that none of us ever imagined." He paused. "Just between us, I lifted a strange MITI memo I found lying around an office when Asana took me on an escorted tour up to the labs atTsukubaScienceCity."
She looked at him. "Was it classified?"
"How would I know? There was something about it. My sixth sense told me it was a document nobody was supposed to see. When I get back to Stanford, I plan to have a postdoc over in Physics make me a quick translation."
It was very unlike Allan to walk off with confidential memos uninvited. Which could only mean he must suspect something he wasn't telling.
"You'd better give me the whole story."
"Not now. Not yet. It's only guesswork, Tam." He glanced away. "Nothing to bore you with at the moment. But if you can find out anything, we'll write it up as a report I can circulate around the Hill. This could be important, believe me. Already Cray has started having to buy critical chips for its supercomputers fromJapan. And while the Department of Defense is pouring billions into research on semiconductors that will withstand nuclear radiation,Japanis forging ahead on speed and miniaturization—what really counts. I think they could be about to have us by the balls, pardon my French. If they've somehow incorporated AI—"
"Allan, it doesn't add up. I once met Asano. In fact it was a couple of years ago at that Kyoto University symposium on
Third World industrialization. He spent a lot of time trying to pick my brain about our specialized silicon-chip manufacturing here. But he wasn't the slightest bit interested in artificial intelligence."
"Well, prepare yourself for a surprise. He's plenty interested now. And knowledgeable. But still, it's not like the Japanese to do something like this, install some government guy to run an R&D program."
"That's certainly true." She strolled over, looked down upon the park, and began to want a brandy of her own as she chewed over the implications. Was MITI setting up some new high-tech industrial assault? If the Fifth Generation had been taken over by Kenji and his planners . . . "Allan, let me think about this for a couple of days."
"Don't think too long. I'm convinced somebody over there is suddenly in a very big hurry. I need to find out the real story. Am I just starting to go nuts in my old age? . . . Well, make that my prime." He grasped her hand for emphasis. "And you really should make it a point to see this Asano fellow. If you already know him from somewhere, I'd say that's even better."
She started to respond, then stopped. She knew Kenji Asano all right. From a little episode at that conference, when he had invited the panel members of a session he chaired to a late-night tour of the endless tiny bars in Kyoto's Gion district. She remembered all the steaming sake and being ignored by flustered bar girls who were pretending that another woman wasn't around. They had no idea what to do about a member of their own sex there in their sanctuary of male flattery. Ken apparently had staged it mainly to watch their reaction, and hers.
Part of the scene was that Ken Asano was actually something of a hunk, as Westernized as they come and attractive in that way seemingly reserved for men of great wealth or great power. He may have had both, but she was sure only about the second. Whenever he handed out thatmeishicard with the MITI logo, even millionaire industrialists and bankers automatically bowed to the floor.
A lot of sake later, after the other panel members had piled into a cab for their hotel, she decided to show Kenji Asano a few things about women he wouldn't learn from giggling bar girls. She'd always heard that Japanese men were pretty humdrum in bed, quick and self-centered, at least in the opinion of a woman she knew who'd done exhaustive field research on the topic. After her own experience with Ken, though, she wasn't so sure. Still, it had been a passing thing. The next morning she awoke in her own room in the Kyoto International and half tried to tell herself it hadn't really happened—just a dream, a chimera of the sultry Kyoto night, brought on by all those quaint little side streets and red paper lanterns.
The truth was she still thought about him from time to time. He was a talented lover, she certainly recalled that part well enough, and he was a charmer. In fact, she could use a little of that charm right this minute.
What she didn't admire was the organization he worked for: the infamous MITI. Behind a smokescreen of "fair trade" rhetoric, MITI's intentions clearly were to extinguish systematically Japan's world competition, industry by industry. And so far they were batting a thousand. They'd never once failed to knock off a designated "target." What was next? Had MITI finally concluded that, down the road, intelligent computers could be the drive behind some massive shift in world power?
Maybe she should go.
She poured another dash of cognac for Allan, and they wandered back into the living room, just in time to see the Simpsons out. Everybody else followed except for Dave, now perched by the windows and glaring out into the dark. She decided to ignore him as she walked over, opened one a crack, and looked down. In the park below, commerce was tapering off and the Jamaican Rastas had begun toting up receipts for the night. No sounds, except the faint strains of reggae from a boom box.
Funny, but every once in a while she'd stop everything and watch the kids in the playground down there. What to do? The damned shadows were growing longer by the minute. Maybe Dave wasn't so bad. Trouble was, he needed mothering too.
Think about it tomorrow, Scarlet. She sighed, poured herself a cognac, and headed for the bedroom to get Allan's coat.
After she'd put him on the elevator, she came back and checked out Dave, now slouched in the big chair by the lamp, his eyes closed. He looked positively enticing, and she sounded his name quietly. Nothing. Then she realized he was sound asleep. Snoring.
The bastard. This was it. She grabbed his coat, pushed him out the door, poured herself another cognac, and plopped down in the living room to think.
All right, Allan. You've got a deal. Could be you're on to something. I seem to remember there's a conference inKyotostarting week after next on supercomputers. Kenji Asano will probably show. Good time to catch him off guard and try to find out what's suddenly so hush-hush.
Yes, by God, I'll do it.
She didn't bother with any of Allan Stern's funding. This trip would be strictly off-the-record. She wrapped up some loose ends, called a few people she knew inTokyo, lined up half a dozen interviews that might be helpful on the new book, packed her toothbrush and tape recorder, and boarded a Northwest flight for Narita.
She had no idea then, of course, but she wasAlice, dropping down the rabbit hole. A fortnight later she was dining with the Emperor of Japan.
CHAPTER FOUR
Allan Stem's alarm aboutJapan's semiconductor challenge reflected only part of the picture. There was also plenty going on with Japanese research in addition to information processing. Superconductivity was getting a big push, as was biotechnology, optoelectronics, advanced materials. Although we in the West think ofJapanas a newcomer in the high-tech sweepstakes, it actually has a long tradition of innovation. A typical for-instance: in the area of advanced materials those of us hooked on swords know the Japanese were already creating "new materials" hundreds of years ago that still haven't been bettered. Back then it was flawless steel forkatanablades; today it's, say, gallium arsenide crystals for laser-driven semiconductors. How, one might inquire, did all this expertise come about?
To stick to materials research, if you think a moment you realize it's a discipline that actually must have begun in the latter days of the Stone Age. "High technology" in those times meant figuring new ways to use fire and clay to create something nature had neglected to provide. Not integrated circuits, but a decent water pot.
And the Japanese have been making terrific pots for a thousand years. As it happens, some historians claim the very first Japanese pottery was made in theprovinceofTamba, nearKyoto. Why mention this? Because, then as now, technology and politics had a way of getting mixed together inJapan, and Tamba was a perfect example. Tamba's artisans made great use of a special oven known as a climbing-chambered kiln. Whereas ceramics kilns elsewhere in the country were narrow and high, Tamba's climbing-hill chambers were wide and low, thereby allowing the fire to touch the clay directly. The result was a rugged, flame-seared stoneware that pleased the manly eye—powerful earthy grays, burnt reds, greenish-browns, all with a hard metallic luster. Thus Tamba was a locale much frequented by the warrior shoguns.
Which may be why Tamba province has another claim to history as well. It is the location of the one-time warrior castle- fortress of Sasayama, once a regional command post of the Tokugawa strongmen inTokyo. You won't find overly much about Sasayama in the usual guidebooks, since it has the kind of history that's more interesting to Japanese than to tourists. The place has no gaudy vermilion temples, no bronze Buddhas ten stories high. Fact is, very little remains of the fortress itself these days except for a wide moat, green with lotuses, and a few stone walls lined with cherry trees that blossom an exquisite white for a few breathtaking moments each spring.
Although the castle is now burned down, a few homes of the samurai retainers of its various warlords remain. If you stand on the rocky edge of the moat at its southwest corner and look down through the cherry trees, you'll see an old-style house built some two hundred years ago by the twelfthdaimyoof Sasayama for his most loyal retainer. Its walls of white plaster are interspersed with beams of dark wood, its thatch roof supported by the traditional ridgepole. Think of it as the home of the samurai most trusted, the guardian of the gates, the warrior nearest the fount of power.
Perhaps it will not seem surprising, therefore, that this ancient samurai residence, in the shogun stronghold closest to ancientKyoto, was now home base for a powerful warrior of modernJapan. Matsuo Noda.
Samurai had once battled in Sasayama's streets; many's the time its castle had been stormed by raging armies; much blood had been shed and much honor lost. But the event that occurred in Sasayama precisely two weeks after Tamara Richardson's dinner inNew Yorkwas a historical moment more important than any in its thousand years prior.
It began shortly after dawn, a cool September gray just ripening to pink over the mountains. The early sounds of morning—birdsong, the faint bell of the tofu seller, the steam whistle of the autumn sweet-potato vendor—were only beginning to intrude on the quiet. Noda was where he always was at this moment: on the veranda overlooking his personal garden, a classic Zen-style landscape whose central pond was circled by natural-appearing rocks, trees, bushes, paths. It was, of course, about as "natural" as those sculptured hedges atVersailles. In order to create the illusion of perspective and depth, the stones along the foreshore of the pond were bold, rugged, massively detailed, while those on the opposite side were dark, small, smooth—a little trick to make them seem farther away than they were.
It's a game heavy with nuance. For example, the stone footpath on the left side of the pond may look as if it goes on forever, but that's just part of the art: the stones get smaller toward the back, curving in and out among the azalea bushes till they make one last twist and disappear among the red pines and maples at the rear. Which trees, incidentally, have themselves been slightly dwarfed, again enhancing the illusion of distance, just as the back is deliberately shaggy and dark, like the beginnings of a forest that goes on for miles.
Noda's Zen garden, which deludes rational judgment by manipulating all the signposts we use to gauge distance and space, appeared to be limitless. The secret was that nothing actually ends: everything simply fades out and gets lost. It was a closed space that seemed for all the world as if it went on and on if you could only somehow see the rest of it. Yet peek only a few yards away, and you've got the mundane streets of sleepy Sasayama.
This special dawn, as a few frogs along the edge of the
pond croaked into the brisk air, he knelt on the viewing veranda in a fine cotton morning robe, ayukataemblazoned with his family crest (an archaic Chinese ideogram meaning "courage") and began to center his mind. He'd left hisKyotoheadquarters early Friday evening, skipping the usual after-hours-drinking obligation of Japanese executives and grabbing the eight-thirty San-in Express to Sonobe, where his limo waited to bring him the rest of the way home. Now he was up before daybreak and readying his usual morning ritual. As he sat there, gazing across the placid water dotted with lotuses at the foreshore and framed with willows at the far horizon, his silver hair contrasted with the marine blue of the robe to create a presence easily as striking as the garden itself.
For a time he merely knelt, silently contemplating the view and listening to the metrical drip of water from a bamboo spout situated just at the edge of the steps. Finally he turned and picked up hissumistick, a block of dried ink made from soot, and carefully began to rub it against the concave face of an ancient inkstone, till its cupped water darkened to just the proper shade. When the fresh ink was ready, he wet a brush in a separate water vessel, dried it by stroking it against a scrap of old paper, dipped it into the dark liquid, and looked down.
This was the moment that demanded perfect composure, absolute control. Before him was a single sheet of rice paper, purest white, and now his hand held the brush poised. He was waiting for that instant when his senses clicked into alignment, when the feel of the brush merged with his mind, much the way a samurai'skatanablade must become an extension of his own reflexes.
Although he would stroke only a few kanji characters, scarcely enough for a telex or a memo, the moment required discipline acquired through decades of practice. His Zen-style calligraphy allowed for no hesitation, no retouching. It must be dashed off with a spontaneity that was, in itself, part of the art. As with the swordsman, there could be no time for conscious thought, merely the powerful stroke guided by intuition. No decision that confronted him throughout a business day would demand half so much mental control, inner resolve.
Just then, at the far end of the pond, the first sun flickered through the wisteria. Suddenly, without his consciously knowing the exact moment had arrived, as a Zen archer's arrow must release itself of its own will, his hand struck. The dark tip of
the brush pirouetted down the paper, starting at the left and laying down a mere five lines, twenty-two syllables.
Inishie ni
Once held,
ari kemu hito no
it’s said,
moteri cho
by men of long ago,
omitsuwa wo
my ancient prize--
ware wa mochitari
at last is near!
It was done.
He sighed, leaned back, and reached for the cup of green tea that rested beside him on the polished boards. The verse was in an archaic style, a few syllables longer than a haiku, modeled on an eight-hundred-year-old work by a court poet of the Heian era. The strokes were perfectly nuanced, the flow of the brush precise, the intuitive strength as natural as a waterfall.
Noda drained his tea, then rose to go back inside. His antique house was tastefully "empty": itstatami-floored rooms, measured in multiples of those standard three-by-six reed mats, were barren, a museum to times past. They also were open to each other, their sliding doors,fusuma, being pushed wide. The walls, too, were vacant expanses of white plaster with only an occasional mounted six-fold screen depicting poetry parties of the Heian era, that courtly civilization portrayed in The Tale of Genji. And there were no overhead lights, merely an occasional cypressandonfloor lamp to augment the pastel glow of the rice-paper shop windows.
"Asa-han." He curtly ordered his gray-haired cook to bring breakfast, then turned to mount the ancient stairs.
"Hai." She nodded and was gone.
Although he kept the lower floor exactly as it had been two centuries past, the upstairs was a different matter entirely. It had been converted into a high-tech office, hooked through a maximum security TeleSystems TCS-9000 direct uplink (via the mid-Pacific Mareks-B satellite) to the mainframe of his new NEC information management system in the Kyoto headquarters, an augmented NEAX 2400 IMS, which handled voice, data, text, image. He had scarcely flipped on the system when the woman who managed his kitchen appeared, bowing, and deposited a tray bearingmisobroth, rice, an uncooked egg, and more tea.
He grunted thanks as he was checking a CRT screen for the current rate on Fed funds, the cost of the money American banks lend each other overnight to meet reserve requirements. No surprises. Then he turned and cracked the egg over his rice, adding a leaf of driednoriseaweed. As he leaned back, chopsticks in hand, he quickly glanced through theTokyopapers, followed by The Asian Wall Street Journal and the satellite edition ofLondon's Financial Times. Finally he tossed them aside.
This was always the moment when he liked to take measure of the three photos standing in a row across the back of his teak desk. The first was his deceased wife Mariko—long-suffering, deferential, resignedly selfless. A model Japanese woman. He still thought of her with fondness, but as was expected of a Japanese helpmate, she always ran a distant second in his affections. His work came first.
The next picture was very different. This woman's face was white, her hair a lacquered wig, her lips a tiny red pout. Her name, Koriko, had been assigned years ago in the Gion district of Kyoto, and she was holding a three-stringed lute, a samisen, and intoning some classical melody from centuries past. These days she purchased thousand-dollar kimonos the way most office girls bought jeans, but she worked for the money. She was a geisha, a real one, an artist whose calling required years of training and commanded the awe of even the most modern Japanese. Like a prizefighter or a matador, she'd spent long painful hours perfecting style, technique, art. She had been Noda's one-time protégée, beneficiary of his patronage. Now, though, she had other "patrons." He still missed her, but the memory was fading.
The third photo was a face familiar to all ofJapan's avid TV viewers—Akira Mori. She was wearing a dark blue Western suit, her hair a glossy pageboy cut, the conservative look of times past. It was the occasion of her graduation from theSchoolofLaw,TokyoUniversity(Tokyo Daigaku, or Todai as it's known), an important moment. Todai's alumni represent a network, abatsu, of the country's ruling elite, who compete with each other for the choicest, most prestigious government ministries. Although she had chosen a more visible career, she still relied heavily on her contacts in this governing clique, heads of the leading ministries, including Finance, Foreign Affairs, and of course the Ministry of International Trade and Industry, MITI.
Matsuo Noda himself had, in fact, once headed MITI, probablyJapan's most powerful ministry. He came from ancient samurai stock—fittingly perhaps, since the bureaucrats of modernJapanare mostly of that class. The samurai caste, men who served a liege lord and were forbidden to engage in trade, were actuallyJapan's first public servants. In between civil wars they became sword-carrying bureaucrats. Many a modern bureau chief has ancestors who wore two swords and sliced up a peasant or a merchant now and then with impunity, which may help explain why the average citizen still views government officials with such nervous awe.
A Todai honors man himself, Noda was a natural for MITI, which runs what is in many ways a covert operation. The head offices are in a nondescript, soot-covered building of tinted glass and limestone nearTokyo'sHibayaPark, guarded by armed, helmeted members ofJapan's National Police. Inside it's mostly open floors and lines of gray steel desks; no plush carpets and mahogany suites. MITI has twelve bureaus, each devoted to a major industrial sector. If its officials decideJapan's strategic interests would be served by a certain manufacturing group's cutting production, lowering prices, altering product lines, these "recommendations" are passed along. And it happens.
Noda began his career there by circulating through the different sections, "going around the track" as it's called, after which he proceeded to run the General Affairs office of various bureaus, by which time everybody had him picked for a mover, on the "elite course." Eventually he was promoted to section chief in the International Trade Bureau, next on to bureau chief, and finally at age forty-seven he made the top. Vice minister.
After he reached the pinnacle, he held the job for a mere five years, then routinely left. He had to go; early fifties and you're out. MITI is no country for old men. He moved on to head the Japan Development Bank, JDB, where he financed various high-tech start-up industries. Finally he retired and went out on his own.
Unlike most other retired government officials, however, he didn't accept any of the lucrative private offers he received, the suddenly "vacant" spot on a conglomerate's board of directors. No, he had his own smoldering vision. In a dazzling and successful departure from usual Japanese convention, he
founded Nippon, Inc., an adjunct toJapan's major financial players, with headquarters in the commercial center ofKyoto. His new organization immediately became a financial fixture in the new postindustrial, high-techJapan, and now, five years later, Nippon, Inc. was a thriving force in the management of capital. These days even the new generation at MITI routinely called him up for "consensus."
For Matsuo Noda now, everything was in place; he was at last ready to pursue a lifelong dream. He'd never forgotten the end of the war, that last day onOkinawawhen Ushijima's 32nd Army was a dazed remnant. He'd been in the cave above Mabuni when the general radioed his farewell to Imperial Headquarters, then severed his own spinal cord. Matsuo Noda, with anguish he could still remember, had burned the regimental flag and told those remaining to scatter, to become guerrillas—repeating Ushijima's last command to "fight to the last for the eternal cause of loyalty to the emperor." Noda had declared that their struggle would continue on for a hundred years if need be.
He had overestimated the difficulty. The plan now poised had required less than fifty.
As usual for a work-at-home Saturday (just another business day inJapan), he was wrapping up loose ends from the week, finishing reports, signing off on audits. Two printers were running, since he preferred to work with hard copy, and he was reviewing the list of outstanding loans NI was in charge of monitoring, checking for any early signs of trouble. Had any credit ratings slipped? If a receiving corporation was publicly traded, had its stock faltered? What was the overview: securities, un-amortized discounts on bonds, cash on hand? Next he paged through the weekly updates from the Small Business Finance Corp., the National Finance Corp., the Shoko Chukin Bank, various credit associations and savings banks. It was all on hisKyotoinformation base, pulled off the new fiber-optic network that linkedJapan's financial centers.
He was about to ring down for fresh tea when a priority override flashed on the screen for his eyes only. This meant a coded message that could only be unscrambled using a special module in the computer. TheKyotooffice knew he was on line, but they hadn't wanted to route the information directly.
Highly irregular.
He punched in the code, called up the receiving routine, and waited for the message.
There had been a call from ship-to-shore phone, the communications line linking him directly with Dr. Shozo Takahashi, director-in-charge of his top secret "project" in theInland Sea. The director was requesting that Noda-sama contact him immediately via scrambler. Top security. He felt his pulse begin to race as he digested the news.
It had been so easy. Almost too easy.
He sat perfectly still for that timeless, historic moment, gazing at the photograph of Akira Mori. A promise kept, from long, long ago. Four decades now, and he had never forgotten what he had said he would do for her.
He called down for tea, waited till it had been delivered, then punched on the phone and switched it to the security mode.
But even on the scrambler, Takahashi began circumspectly. As the esteemed Noda-sama was aware, their "project" had, over its three years, contended with great difficulties and many disappointments. They were working at the very limits of undersea technology. As Noda-sama also knew, he went on, their early attempts at seismic vertical profiling had been a complete failure. Takahashi took personal responsibility for that. Next they had changed strategy and utilized state-of-the-art microwave radar, hoping that minuscule changes in density along the bottom might indicate what they sought. That too, Takahashi apologized, had been unproductive from the start as Noda-sama had been informed, and he, Takahashi, took full blame for the failure.
Noda cut in at that point, impatient and wanting to circumvent the litany of apologies. Why was Takahashi calling?
The director paused dramatically, then declared he wished to inform the august Noda-sama that their latest approach, the use of a new digital magnetometer, had at last borne fruit. Only this morning they had detected and brought up an "item." In the treacherous straits east-northeast ofShikoku. It was a water-tight gold case embossed with what appeared to be a sixteen-leaf chrysanthemum orkiku. The imperial insignia.
Other confirming inscriptions? Noda nervously reached out and clicked off the humming computer.
Yes, the formal script across one end appeared to be no later than tenth century. Although they dared not open the gold case for fear of damaging its contents, at this moment preliminary analytical procedures were underway and the early results, including a makeshift attempt at shipboard X-ray crystallography, suggested that the steel inside, which clearly showed traces of copper alloy, contained less than a hundredth of one percent of iron oxide. In short, it was possible the "item" might be perfectly preserved.
It was theirs, Takahashi said, in that breathy, clipped language inferiors use to signify great importance and great deference. It was his extreme honor to announce to the esteemed Noda-sama that the most important archeological find in the history ofJapannow belonged to Nippon, Inc., and they—
"Chigau," Noda cut him off, in the curt tone expected of superiors. Incorrect: it belonged to its rightful owner and would now be returned.
And furthermore, he added, Nippon, Inc. had just ceased to exist. Since the name for ancientJapanwas Dai Nippon, "Great Japan," as of this moment Nippon, Inc. had just become Dai Nippon, International. A complete reorganization would begin immediately.
Finally he ordered a total blackout. Radios silenced. No shore leave for crew or scientists.
He clicked off the phone and repressing a tremble, descended the stairs.
And there on the garden veranda, using a new brush and perfumedsumiink from his rare collection, Matsuo Noda composed a very elaborate letter, long swirls of black down a perfect sheet of thick, flowered paper hundreds of years old. It was then sealed in a silver case and hand delivered by special messenger to a fortress in, the center ofTokyo.
Five days later its recipient read it before a nationally televised press conference, andJapanexploded.