to an underling and switched back to his ancient dialect. Now, though,
his speech was being "translated" across the bottom of the screen into
modern Japanese.
He declared that since the Imperial Household, through the loyal
services of Dai Nippon, International, had had restored to it that
which it always possessed, namely the sword, he was pleased to honor
the firm by allowing it to construct a new museum to house the sacred
symbol at a site just outside Ise, home of the official shrine of the
Sun Goddess. On his authority, ground-breaking for the museum would
begin immediately. However, until such time as it was constructed and
consecrated, the Imperial Household would make the sacred relic
available under heavy guard for viewing by the Japanese people in a
temporary showplace located at the Meiji Shrine in Tokyo. . . .
By now shops had begun closing and the corridor outside was in tumult.
An excited young clerk from the flower stall next door burst through
the door and, bowing to everybody, lavished bouquets on all the girls.
From the streets above came a cacophony of sirens.
But it still wasn't over. The most crucial part of all, totally missed
by the Western news force, was yet to come. After His Majesty was bowed
away from the microphone, another official stepped forward to elaborate
on the Emperor's remarks (probably because His Majesty would not deign
to mention anything so crass as money). As reward for restoring the
sword to His Majesty, he said, Dai Nippon would be allowed to serve as
trustee of an official, honorary investment instrument, to be known as
the Eight-Hundred-Year Fund. Acting for His Majesty, DNI would direct
those monies into endeavors "commensurate with the nobility and ancient
lineage of the Japanese people, as symbolized by the sword." Then a
telephone number flashed across the bottom of the screen. The current
subscription would be closed after eight hundred billion yen were
pledged. The president of Dai Nippon had asked His Majesty for the
honor of contributing the first billion yen personally. Finally, in a
quick aside, he added that interest paid by the fund would of course be
tax-free, as was normally the case for savings accounts in Japan.
After a few closing formalities, interspersed with a photo session of
the Emperor and the president of Dai Nippon, the historic occasion
ended with a reverential shot of His Majesty being escorted to his
limo.
Who was that silver-haired executive, Tarn wondered. The man was
audacious, and a genius. He'd just turned the Imperial Household into
an accomplice in some kind of nationwide collection, using the Emperor
for his own ends much the way shoguns of old had done.
But she sensed he'd touched a nerve that went very deep. A fund in
honor of the Emperor (that's already how everybody around her in the
shop was describing it), something in which to take pride, not just a
numbered savings account at the post office. Suddenly the girls and
their Japanese customers were all talking money. Here was something
they could do to show their regard for His Majesty.
A line was already forming at the phone. The way she heard sums being
pledged, she calculated Dai Nippon would garner five million yen, more
than thirty thousand dollars, right there among the shampoos and
curlers. The typical Japanese, she recalled, banked over a quarter of
his or her disposable income. Little wonder most of them had at least a
year's salary in savings. At this rate Dai Nippon's "Imperial Fund"
would be over the top by nightfall.
That evening NHK newscasts claimed it had been fully subscribed in the
first fifty-six minutes. After all, eight hundred billion yen was only
about six billion dollars, scarcely more than loose change to a people
saving tens of millions every day. It was, in fact, merely the
beginning. The next day more "Eight-Hundred-Year" funds were opened, by
popular demand. Soon the pension funds started to feel the heat, and a
lot of institutions began calling up. Yen flowed in a great river. All
those homeless Japanese billions knocking around the world had at last
found a guiding ideal. Some rumors even claimed the Emperor himself was
actually going to manage the money.
Tam couldn't wait to get outside and see firsthand what was going on.
This was something Allan could never in his wildest dreams have
predicted. As soon as she could get her hair dry she headed out; the
girls didn't even bother to charge.
Tokyo, twelve million strong, was in the streets. Even in normal times
the city could be overwhelming, but now . . . It was in pandemonium, an
advanced state of shock. As she struggled through the crowds a lot of
men were waving sake flasks, already gleefully smashed. The sidewalks
had become one vast _matsuri_, festival.
Something else, too. She found herself feeling a little uncomfortable.
There were glares, and then as she passed a withered old man running a
noodle stand, she heard him mutter "_Gaijin_." What did it mean?
What it "meant," she reflected with alarm, was obvious. The world had
just become a brand-new ball game. Japan's long-silent Emperor had once
more spoken to his people, just as he had at the end of the War. Back
then he had broken two thousand years of silence to inform his
battered, starving subjects "the war situation has developed not
necessarily to Japan's advantage." This time around he had confirmed
Japan's long Imperial heritage. The "meaning" was clear as day.
This wasn't a new direction. This was just getting back on track. Even
though the Emperor had been humiliated and secularized after the Great
War against the threatening _gaijin_, his people still thought of
themselves as a single, pure family. For a time they merely had no
focus for that identity. Now they had it again.
Well, she thought, why not? National pride. Not so long ago we
Americans had the Soviets telling us we were second best, so we blew a
few billion in tax money to plant a man on the moon and straighten them
out. The space Super Bowl. Why should Japan be any different? For years
now they've heard half the world claim they're just a bunch of hard-
driving merchants with a bank-account soul, when they knew in their
hearts it wasn't true. Now here's the proof, straight from the Sun
Goddess. Time to get crazy awhile.
In the middle of all the bedlam and horns and sirens in the street, she
yearned for somebody to talk with, somebody levelheaded enough to put
this frightening turnaround into some kind of perspective. That's when
she thought of Ken.
Of course! He was Westernized; he took the longer view. Why hadn't she
thought of him right away?
So off she went for a quick surprise visit with Kenji Asano at the
Institute for New Generation Computer Technology, research headquarters
for the Fifth Generation Systems Project. He and his staff would
probably be in a holiday mood, just like everybody else. Maybe he'd
loosen his tie and give her a little off-the-record rundown of what
this was all about.
She knew the Institute operated out of the twenty-first floor of a
downtown Tokyo skyscraper. She'd been there before. She still had the
address, and the subways were clicking along right on time, though the
fare machines were off now in celebration. Half an hour later she was
there. She pushed her way through the milling lobby and grabbed an
elevator.
As she rode, watching the lights tick off the floors, she found herself
wondering again what Ken was really up to. And what had happened to Dr.
Yoshida? However, it was hard to think about something as boring as
MITI and American defense vulnerability when people were whooping it up
and passing around paper cups of sake right there on the elevator.
Well, don't jump to conclusions. This paranoia of Allan's is probably
just some grotesque misreading. Dr. Yoshida got promoted, and Ken's
merely filling in for a while till the Institute can recruit a new
director from some university. The work here's too important for
politics. Intelligent computers are Japan's lifeline--the "steam engine"
of the next century.
How would Ken react to her just showing up? After all, Kyoto was two
years ago. He'd claimed to be a widower, but was that merely conference
fast talk?
Best thing is just to play it straight, she told herself. Strictly
business. Let the rest fall out in time.
As she stepped off the elevator, she was relieved to see that the
offices were still open. Well, she thought, my first finding is that
Ken Asano runs this place with an iron hand, just the way Yoshida did.
Total dedication. Through floor-to-ceiling glass doors she could see
the receptionist at the desk, now excitedly chatting on the phone. Tam
waved, and the smiling woman immediately buzzed her through. Just like
that. No different from the last time.
Doesn't look to be any MITI conspiracy here, she thought. What exactly
had made Allan so worried?
She bowed and handed over her meishi, her business card.
"_Asano-san, onegai shimasu_."