Bushido Incident by Betty Anne Crawford

Author:Betty Anne Crawford [Crawford, Betty Anne]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Sci Fi & Fantasy
Publisher: DAW Books, Inc.
Published: 1992-07-01T23:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER

SEVEN

Historian Pak stepped out on the heliport and brushed at his formal attire. He should have packed and flown in more comfortable clothing, but he hated luggage of any sort and, since he was being airlifted to the limo pool and driven to Mr. Matsuda’s private residence by limo, the best he could get out of the deal was minimal haulage. He told himself it hardly mattered if he looked a bit wrinkled. His great age would help him get away with it. People would think he was eccentric. Although he told himself he wasn’t as old as that yet, and if he ever managed to attain an age of that magnitude, one would hope he would have acquired some wisdom along the way. Historian Pak seemed to be getting it backward. The older he got, the more ignorant he felt.

The heliride was vigorous and windy. Historian Pak was glad enough to reach the limo. The chauffeur opened the door and took his bags. Historian Pak climbed inside and rested his head for a moment against the buttery leather seat.

He was lonely. The driver was a quarter of a city block away from him. Children could have played a rousing game of racketball in the back of the stretch limo. He turned to the window and thought longingly of his garden, misty and haunted this morning, the mist streaming down from the mountain at four-thirty before it settled into the valley like a whispered prayer. The trees had been still, their yellow, red, orange, and bronze leaves mixing, their glorious vibrancy smudged by the mist which softened the colors, and the whole punctuated by wet black tree trunks and branches.

The ride through the Tokyo streets was jammed with floatcars, limousines being used only for extremely formal or state occasions. The Ginza was packed with twentieth century vintage neon and people striving to relieve others of all their disposable income. Although Historian Pak had been looking forward to being in the city once again, he found that his interest had deserted him. He could not even be bothered to crane his neck to take in the activity on the street. Perhaps he was getting old. If it weren’t for his personal hidden agenda, he wouldn’t be attending Mr. Matsuda’s soiree at all. Affairs of this sort were all identical. Only the seasons and faces changed. Mr. Matsuda required his presence to balance the guest list and to prove to his critics that he was a man of fine cultural understanding. Men of cultural understanding had the good of the people at heart and could be trusted. They could be trusted to believe at worst that people were a natural resource which could be turned to this or that. Mr. Matsuda counted upon Historian Pak’s presence to disprove the truth: that Mr. Matsuda was someone not greatly bothered by the larger meaning of things or life.

Historian Pak was marching in obedient attendance on the man responsible for murdering both of his sons. The fact that one was still alive meant nothing.

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