"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 from Japan. And while the Department of
Defense is pouring billions into research on semiconductors that will
withstand nuclear radiation, Japan is 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 that
_meishi_ card 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 in Kyoto starting 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 in Tokyo, 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 was Alice, dropping down the
rabbit hole. A fortnight later she was dining with the Emperor of
Japan.