It was a funny thing. Until not so long ago, the Midori Society had often taken up issues like How to Find a Good Man-a "good man" meaning one who was as wealthy as possible (if only to keep things from getting messy later on), and presentable, and who'd take you to fashionable restaurants and clubs and hotels and make you the envy of all your friends. The original six members had always shared their romantic close encounters and near misses. Guess what happened to me! I was walking down the street today and a gentleman in a Bentley pulled up to the curb and spoke to me Guess what happened to me! I was walking down the street today and a gentleman in a Bentley pulled up to the curb and spoke to me, or The other day this younger man in my office who's the idol of all the younger women suddenly came up to me and started talking about something that had nothing to do with work, and I'm afraid I got a little fl.u.s.tered, but The other day this younger man in my office who's the idol of all the younger women suddenly came up to me and started talking about something that had nothing to do with work, and I'm afraid I got a little fl.u.s.tered, but...There had always been plenty of stories, but in the end none of them had ever gotten anywhere in these little adventures. In those days, Suzuki Midori was thinking, it must have been as if they had the words STARVED FOR A MAN stamped on their foreheads. The funny thing was that as soon as you stop needing men, they suddenly started finding you desirable.

Some hours later, Tomiyama Midori looked up at the wall clock and said, "Shouldn't Hemii be back by now?" It was three-thirty a.m., and the windows of Suzuki Midori's living room were white with condensation. The muggy rainy season, the brutal sun of midsummer, and the hot days of early autumn were all far behind them now. It was mid-November, the time of year when a girl's fancy turns to warm sweaters and hot soups and bonfires. "She must be awfully cold, out there all night like that." The three of them sat back to drink their tea and espresso while they waited. As it turned out, the news Henmi Midori would bring would be well worth the wait.

It was a little after four when they heard a taxi stop outside. Takeuchi Midori jumped up and went to the window. "It's Hemii," she said, and the three of them went to the the front door to greet her. She looked cold and exhausted, but her first words were a breathless, "We've got 'em!" The other three insisted she come in and drink something hot before delivering her report. Green tea? Coffee? Tea with milk?

"The thing is, we can't attack them at the apartment they gather at, right?" Henmi Midori said after pouring some whiskey into her coffee, stirring, taking a swallow, and p.r.o.nouncing it good. "You can only use the rocket launcher if you have twenty meters of clear s.p.a.ce behind you-otherwise you'll blow yourself up with the backblast. So I watched the apartment tonight, just like I did last Sat.u.r.day, but last Sat.u.r.day, like I told you, they all got into a big Toyota van type of thing and drove off somewhere and I couldn't follow them because I didn't have a car. So tonight I parked my Accord nearby, and at about midnight these guys-'guys' doesn't seem like the right word, but this creepy group that makes you wonder how five such weird-looking characters ever found each other-they got into the van and drove off again. Well, where do you think they went? They headed straight for Izu and stopped at a place on the sh.o.r.e above Atami. And what do you think they did there? Get this. They put on a big karaoke show, just for themselves, in the middle of the night, in a lonely cove with a big concrete breakwater...."

II.

"A CONCRETE BREAKWATER!" CONCRETE BREAKWATER!"

Suzuki Midori inadvertently launched three tiny flecks of spittle as she echoed Henmi Midori's words at many times the volume. She s.n.a.t.c.hed the bottle of whiskey from the table, fumbled with it, splashed some whiskey into her cup, and drank it down straight. Takeuchi Midori and Tomiyama Midori followed suit, making it like a scene from an old western movie. Takeuchi Midori was the first to speak. Her breath was hot and whiskey-scented.

"That means we can kill them all at once...."

Three more weeks went by. In the n.o.bue-Ishihara group, spirits were on the decline. Enthusiasm had reached its apex the night Yano reported his execution by Tokarev of Iwata Midori, and the energy of the group had been on a slow slide down ever since. The gradual advent of cold weather had played a part as well, but their last Karaoke Blast on the beach had been a listless and dismal affair, and though tonight they were gathering for the first time in three weeks, each was in his own world, eating or drinking vacantly from his own private stash. No one had brought much. n.o.bue had taken his last few cans of beer from the fridge and set them at his end of the table; Ishihara laid out the two jars of One Cup Sake he'd bought at a vending machine somewhere; Kato plopped down a bottle of domestic wine, a sticker reading more weeks went by. In the n.o.bue-Ishihara group, spirits were on the decline. Enthusiasm had reached its apex the night Yano reported his execution by Tokarev of Iwata Midori, and the energy of the group had been on a slow slide down ever since. The gradual advent of cold weather had played a part as well, but their last Karaoke Blast on the beach had been a listless and dismal affair, and though tonight they were gathering for the first time in three weeks, each was in his own world, eating or drinking vacantly from his own private stash. No one had brought much. n.o.bue had taken his last few cans of beer from the fridge and set them at his end of the table; Ishihara laid out the two jars of One Cup Sake he'd bought at a vending machine somewhere; Kato plopped down a bottle of domestic wine, a sticker reading 800 800 still attached; and Yano pulled out a miniature bottle of Early Times. Each of them was now consuming his own contribution, but that left Sugiyama, who'd brought nothing, in a state of lonesome despair that expressed itself plainly enough on his drooping face, the skin of which wouldn't have looked out of place on a dried fish. n.o.bue, sitting right across from Sugiyama with five cans of beer before him, didn't even notice that the latter was sending him and everyone else anguished still attached; and Yano pulled out a miniature bottle of Early Times. Each of them was now consuming his own contribution, but that left Sugiyama, who'd brought nothing, in a state of lonesome despair that expressed itself plainly enough on his drooping face, the skin of which wouldn't have looked out of place on a dried fish. n.o.bue, sitting right across from Sugiyama with five cans of beer before him, didn't even notice that the latter was sending him and everyone else anguished what-about-me? what-about-me? looks as they drank their One Cup Sake and domestic wine and mini-bourbon, and of course it never occurred to n.o.bue to ask Sugiyama if he'd like a beer. The skin of Sugiyama's face flushed salmon-pink with anger, and he glared fiercely at n.o.bue for a good three minutes but was unable to detect any glint of comprehension in the other's eyes. He thought about kicking the table over and storming out but quickly remembered that there was nothing to do back at his one-room, six-mat apartment, where provisions amounted to a sake bottle with about a millimeter of liquid remaining, two eggs he'd bought the previous month, a jar of barley tea he'd brewed during the summer that now supported a floating colony of white mold, and a torn package of instant yaki-soba. He stood up, still wearing the same woebegone expression and nodding and grumbling inscrutably, "What a nightmare-America out of Somalia!" as he made his way around to where n.o.bue sat. "Right, n.o.bu-chin?" he said. n.o.bue looked up at him blankly and said, "What?" And Sugiyama, with all the speed of a c.o.c.kroach disappearing behind a cupboard, s.n.a.t.c.hed one of the cans of beer. Before n.o.bue's startled "Hey!" even escaped his lips, Sugiyama had ripped open the pop-top and was noisily gulping the contents. "Mm-hm, that's right, that's right, that's right," he muttered, ambling back to his seat as if nothing had happened. looks as they drank their One Cup Sake and domestic wine and mini-bourbon, and of course it never occurred to n.o.bue to ask Sugiyama if he'd like a beer. The skin of Sugiyama's face flushed salmon-pink with anger, and he glared fiercely at n.o.bue for a good three minutes but was unable to detect any glint of comprehension in the other's eyes. He thought about kicking the table over and storming out but quickly remembered that there was nothing to do back at his one-room, six-mat apartment, where provisions amounted to a sake bottle with about a millimeter of liquid remaining, two eggs he'd bought the previous month, a jar of barley tea he'd brewed during the summer that now supported a floating colony of white mold, and a torn package of instant yaki-soba. He stood up, still wearing the same woebegone expression and nodding and grumbling inscrutably, "What a nightmare-America out of Somalia!" as he made his way around to where n.o.bue sat. "Right, n.o.bu-chin?" he said. n.o.bue looked up at him blankly and said, "What?" And Sugiyama, with all the speed of a c.o.c.kroach disappearing behind a cupboard, s.n.a.t.c.hed one of the cans of beer. Before n.o.bue's startled "Hey!" even escaped his lips, Sugiyama had ripped open the pop-top and was noisily gulping the contents. "Mm-hm, that's right, that's right, that's right," he muttered, ambling back to his seat as if nothing had happened.

No one was putting any thought into the question of why the general energy level was so low, but it didn't help that snacks were also in short supply. n.o.bue had extracted from the fridge a long, vacuum-sealed, fish-meat sausage with the legend MARUHA written vertically down the length of the wrapper, an item that hangs in convenience stores like a relic of the nineteenth century, but it never occurred to him to slice it up into little pucks and hand them around. Instead, he squeezed a tip-of-the-pinky-sized dollop of mayonnaise onto one end and laughed for no apparent reason-Ah, ha ha ha ha ha!-before biting off about two centimeters, peering at the toothmarks in the new end of the sausage and laughing again, then carefully adding another dollop of mayonnaise and repeating the sequence. Ishihara had apparently arrived hungry: along with his One Cup Sake, he'd brought three croquettes in convenience-store packaging-a styrofoam tray sealed with industrial-strength plastic wrap. n.o.bue hadn't set out any chopsticks or sauce, however, and the obvious fact that one couldn't eat croquettes without chopsticks or sauce somehow failed to penetrate Ishihara's enervated brain. He just sat there playing with the unopened package, making little dents in the taut bubble of plastic wrap with his index finger. Normally even this level of mindless diversion would have triggered audible risibility, but tonight, what with his empty stomach and overall lack of vitality, he hadn't so much as chuckled. It was extremely unusual for someone of Ishihara's psychological makeup to go any length of time without laughing. Not even being beaten half to death could keep him from erupting with meaningless laughter-and this is no mere conjecture. Late one night some three years before, he'd been walking through Shinjuku's Central Park, drunk, and had jumped up on a park bench and begun singing j.a.panese pop songs at the top of his lungs. When he ignored the repeated cries of "Quiet!" and "Shaddup!" issuing from the darkness on all sides, three middle-aged homeless men approached, dragged him down, pounded him to a pulp, and then, with tears of rage streaming down their cheeks, made a sincere attempt to strangle the life out of him. Homicides of just this sort are not uncommon in places like Shinjuku and Shibuya, but Ishihara survived. Symptoms of cyanosis had already begun to appear on his face, in all their blue and purple glory, when he'd suddenly started laughing so uncontrollably that his startled attackers backed off. n.o.bue, on first hearing this story, had expressed amazement that anyone could manage to laugh at a time like that. "I don't know why, but it was really funny," Ishihara had said, and laughed again at the recollection. "There was this flood of light and sound that was like from a different world, and it cracked me up, and I figured it would be a waste not to laugh, because if you laugh you feel better even if you don't have any reason to. But mainly I just didn't want to miss a good opportunity."

Kato was eating grapes, of all things, with his wine. The store he'd bought the wine at had been hosting a promotional campaign for the vineyards of Yamanashi Prefecture, and when he paid for the bottle a strikingly unattractive young woman dressed in indigo work pants, like a farm girl from the past, had presented him with a complimentary bunch of fat purple grapes. Eating grapes with wine struck even Kato as odd. "It's a natural match, I guess," he mumbled to himself, "like corn and bourbon, or soba noodles and buckwheat gin-except those sound good good." Yano was drinking the most authentic beverage-that mini-bottle of Early Times-but was on much less solid ground when it came to munchies. He had to make do with the eight salted beans he'd discovered in the pocket of his vinyl windbreaker, a predicament reminiscent of that of j.a.panese soldiers in the last days of the Pacific War. Yano thought of himself as possessing a mathematical mind, and he had removed his octagonal Casio wrist.w.a.tch and was staring at the digital numbers. When exactly three and a half minutes had gone by he would make a high-pitched Beep! Beep! with his voice and pop a bean into his mouth, rolling it around on his tongue for precisely a minute and a half as he contemplated the salty taste, then biting into it and chewing slowly, grinding the bean into a fine mush before swallowing. At the moment of biting down, his face would relax into a smile of genuine bliss. Sugiyama was even worse off. He had nothing at all to eat. He gazed in turn at the fish-meat sausage, the grapes, the croquettes, and the salted beans and ranked them in order of desirability: croquettes, sausage, beans. He considered grapes more appropriate for dessert, an opinion he voiced in a mumbling undertone, interspersed with remarks calling for the withdrawal of American forces from Somalia, but the sad fact remained that he had nothing at all to nibble on. with his voice and pop a bean into his mouth, rolling it around on his tongue for precisely a minute and a half as he contemplated the salty taste, then biting into it and chewing slowly, grinding the bean into a fine mush before swallowing. At the moment of biting down, his face would relax into a smile of genuine bliss. Sugiyama was even worse off. He had nothing at all to eat. He gazed in turn at the fish-meat sausage, the grapes, the croquettes, and the salted beans and ranked them in order of desirability: croquettes, sausage, beans. He considered grapes more appropriate for dessert, an opinion he voiced in a mumbling undertone, interspersed with remarks calling for the withdrawal of American forces from Somalia, but the sad fact remained that he had nothing at all to nibble on.

None of the five thought to wonder about the cause of their malaise, much less to encourage the others or try to raise everyone's spirit. The obvious fact that the party might come to life if they pooled their money to buy a large jug of sake or a small keg of beer or a bottle of cheap bourbon for all to share, had not occurred to any of them. While none of these young men were from particularly deprived backgrounds, neither were they familiar with the concept of going out of their way to help others. They lacked the imaginative powers necessary to intuit what others might want or need, having had it impressed upon them since kindergarten that such powers were nothing but a hindrance to survival. Growing up, none of them had possessed any conceivable potential for becoming popular, and none had had even a single experience of being encouraged by anyone else. When one goes through childhood without ever receiving encouragement, one loses the ability to give it, or even to recognize it when it's offered.

Sugiyama was down to his last swig of beer, and though the poignant image of what would become of him after it was gone hadn't even formed in his head yet, he knew he felt terribly alone. His mournful eyes wandered to the window across the room, and then, suddenly, he was on his feet. "Whoa!" he woofed, abandoning the can on the table and making it to the windowsill in what amounted to a properly executed triple-jump. Knowing what lay beyond that window, the other four were close on his heels, taking their drinks and eats with them, and now all five were cheek to cheek at the window, their noses all but pressing against the gla.s.s. Through the lace curtain of the window of the apartment across the parking lot, they could make out a familiar silhouette. It was impossible to tell for sure if the woman with the unbelievable body was completely nude. She might have been wearing underclothes or a body suit or leotard, but she definitely wasn't in a skirt or blouse or trousers or robe or kimono or pajamas. "Whoa" was the only word any of them could come up with to express what they were feeling. Faintly the sound of music with an insistent beat reached their ears, and now they realized that the woman with the unbelievable body was dancing. It wasn't a frenetic, aerobic-or disco-style of dance, but a sensual affair that involved such movements as whirling in a slow circle with outspread arms, and as they drank in her languidly pirouetting silhouette, with its incredibly long legs, proud, pointed b.r.e.a.s.t.s, and firm, round b.u.t.tocks, n.o.bue and the others crossed beyond admiration and l.u.s.t to an overpowering sense of awe. They were aware of the desire to bow and sc.r.a.pe and lift their hands toward heaven like savages deifying a graven image. Yano actually scooted to one side, got down on his knees, and began to pray.

His prayer was in the form of a song-Nishida Sachiko's cla.s.sic "After the Acacia Rain."

III.

Like Messiah Messiah or or Requiem Requiem, the song swelled to include the others' voices as well. The five of them lost all sense of time, muttering, "Whoa...whoa," in the intervals between lines of the lyric as they watched the woman with the unbelievable body dance. They had sung five choruses when the silhouette slid off the curtain and disappeared into some other part of the apartment-presumably the shower room. But the five maintained their prayerlike positions. In the s.p.a.ce of about ten minutes, everyone had undergone a complete spiritual renewal.

"That was awesome awesome," Kato said with a sigh when they'd returned to the table. "Hey, O-Sugi, have a beer," n.o.bue barked, and handed Sugiyama another can. Ishihara chomped hungrily into his croquettes but neglected to remove them from the packaging first. Styrofoam-or perhaps plastic wrap-got caught in his throat, and as his face turned blue he began laughing and spraying croquette crumbs. This long-awaited laughter from Ishihara sealed the collective mood-shift, and Yano tossed all three remaining salted beans in his mouth at once, clapped his hands, and shouted, "Everyone! May I have your attention, please!" He supervised an impromptu sc.r.a.ping-together of capital, and the party-as-usual began.

When Yano and Kato suddenly appeared at the top of the metal staircase on the old wood-frame, two-story apartment building and came clattering down, Henmi Midori, who'd just relieved Suzuki Midori on stakeout, tensed up. Thinking the enemy was on the move, she immediately pressed the SEND b.u.t.ton on her mobile phone. Tomiyama Midori and Takeuchi Midori were already stationed near the deserted cove above Atami, but Suzuki Midori had parked her car at a family restaurant about a hundred meters up the street from n.o.bue's and was inside drinking a cappuccino. She had taken only three sips when her beeper went off. Her throat instantly went cotton-dry, but the cappuccino was still too hot to gulp down. Reminding herself that she mustn't let on to the other customers or the waitresses how nervous she was, she stood up and strolled woodenly toward the public phone near the entrance. In fact, no one was paying any attention to her whatsoever, but as she slowly approached the green telephone, she was internally rehearsing her role: Yano and Kato suddenly appeared at the top of the metal staircase on the old wood-frame, two-story apartment building and came clattering down, Henmi Midori, who'd just relieved Suzuki Midori on stakeout, tensed up. Thinking the enemy was on the move, she immediately pressed the SEND b.u.t.ton on her mobile phone. Tomiyama Midori and Takeuchi Midori were already stationed near the deserted cove above Atami, but Suzuki Midori had parked her car at a family restaurant about a hundred meters up the street from n.o.bue's and was inside drinking a cappuccino. She had taken only three sips when her beeper went off. Her throat instantly went cotton-dry, but the cappuccino was still too hot to gulp down. Reminding herself that she mustn't let on to the other customers or the waitresses how nervous she was, she stood up and strolled woodenly toward the public phone near the entrance. In fact, no one was paying any attention to her whatsoever, but as she slowly approached the green telephone, she was internally rehearsing her role: I'm a naughty suburban housewife, and I'm about to arrange a rendezvous with my secret lover... I'm a naughty suburban housewife, and I'm about to arrange a rendezvous with my secret lover....

"Hi, sweetie. It's me. Any news?"

Sorry. Looks like I jumped the gun.

"Oh...so you're still at the office?"

Yes. I thought everyone was leaving, but it was only a couple of them going on some sort of errand. I'm afraid I'm still stuck here.

"I'll be waiting, darling."

Suzuki Midori went back to her seat and thirstily swallowed half of the now-lukewarm cappuccino.

Henmi Midori had come to understand, over the past few weeks, just how difficult it is to perform surveillance on a building. Nothing looks more unnatural in contemporary suburban Tokyo than loitering on the street at night, no matter who you are or how you're dressed. She had given a great deal of thought as to how one could best blend into the scenery, however, and had shared her ideas in the study groups. Perhaps best of all would be to bring an infant or a small child or an elderly person with you. No one would be suspicious if you were with someone who required care and a.s.sistance-unless it was the middle of the night, maybe. But a dog was the perfect accessory at any time of day or night. Henmi Midori had once staked out n.o.bue's apartment in the company of a friend's Shih Tzu-an adorable, s.h.a.ggy little thing. What with cleaning up after the Shih Tzu using the reversed plastic bag technique and having college girls stop to pet the beast and squeal "Kawaii!" she had begun almost to feel like an actual resident of the neighborhood. She often wore a jogging suit and carried a sports drink. Tonight she was dressed casually in sweater and sneakers and jeans, dangling a shopping bag, and keenly alive to the fact that the later it got, the more unnatural it looked for her to be there.

Yano and Kato returned bearing plastic bags from both the convenience store and the liquor shop and bounded up the metal stairs. This neighborhood was right on the border between the shopping and residential districts. With the twenty-four-hour convenience store just down the street, people came and went at all hours, but after midnight, when the liquor shop and the video rental shop on either side of the convenience store closed, the street would grow dark and quiet. Once the last train on the Keio Line had gone, pa.s.sersby would be few and far between.

About ten minutes before the video shop would close its shutters and call it a night, a drunk approached Henmi Midori and asked for directions. He had climbed unsteadily out of a taxi and shouted after it as it drove away-"a.s.shole!"-then staggered toward Henmi Midori and said, "Excuse me, is Block Two of Section Two around here?" She couldn't get a clear sense of the man's age from his face or clothing-he might have been considerably younger than herself, or considerably older-and she wondered anxiously if he wasn't a plainclothes policeman putting on a drunk act.

"I'm just waiting for a friend who lives in that apartment building there, so I'm afraid I don't know this area well, but, let's see.... I wonder if it isn't straight up this street? I know Block Six is over that way, and this is Block Seven-you see the sign on that telephone pole? So..."

That's right, that's exactly right, the man said in a defeated voice.

"I'm going back to my house. Not really a house, it's an apartment. I'm alone right now. Been alone for three months. Sachiko said the reason she was leaving was because I didn't get that post in Singapore, but sure enough it turns out she had another man. Some guy who lives a real flashy lifestyle, they tell me, drives a Jaguar and everything, but, you know, about six months ago, this bottle of baby oil came tumbling out of her handbag, and I picked it up and said, 'What's this?' and she said she uses it to keep her skin from getting too dry, but I bet she was actually using it to do nasty things with this flashy man of hers. Exactly what kinds of nasty things, I couldn't tell you, but maybe rubbing it here and there, or using it to make things slide easier, and so forth. Er, forgive me. I already knew where Block Two was, but I asked you anyway because I wanted to have, you know, a normal conversation. Just a regular conversation. After the Singapore thing fell through, all Sachiko and I ever did was argue. And with women in bars it's just, 'Come on, let's go to a hotel!' 'No way!'-like that. I tried ordering in one of those, you know, erotic ma.s.sages, but it was fifteen thousand yen an hour, so forget about normal conversation. But you, you very kindly tried to help, and I really appreciate that, I really really appreciate it. But, listen, I have a favor to ask you...."

Even after he'd gone on and on like this, Henmi Midori still had no clue as to the man's age. It wasn't that it was too dark to see his face; it was just that there was nothing in his features or voice-or anything else about him-that suggested the energy of a living being. He was like a ghost drifting between death and birth, and you got the sense that if you reached out to touch his raincoat your hand might go right through him, as if he were made of thin air.

"Don't hurt anybody, okay?" the man said. "I don't mean me, I mean I hope you won't hurt anyone anyone. It's not good to hurt people. Definitely not a good thing."

"I understand," Henmi Midori said, and the man said, "Thank you, thank you," any number of times as he staggered off. She watched him until he was well down the road and then muttered, "Idiot." What do you know about being hurt? What do you know about being hurt? she thought. she thought. What about people who've been murdered? What about people who've been murdered? Ever since the death of Iwata Midori, Henmi Midori had made a practice just before going to sleep or just after waking up, not of masturbating, as she had previously done every other day or so, but of pinching the flesh of her own cheeks or lips, hard. The bullet had made a fist-sized hole in Iwata Midori's face, and there wasn't much the mortician could do to fix that for the wake. The open casket had been horrible to behold. Ever since the death of Iwata Midori, Henmi Midori had made a practice just before going to sleep or just after waking up, not of masturbating, as she had previously done every other day or so, but of pinching the flesh of her own cheeks or lips, hard. The bullet had made a fist-sized hole in Iwata Midori's face, and there wasn't much the mortician could do to fix that for the wake. The open casket had been horrible to behold. Poor Wataa! It must have hurt so bad! Poor Wataa! It must have hurt so bad! Even now, Henmi Midori's eyes would fill with tears each time this thought occurred to her. Just pinching your own face really hurt-what if a hot piece of lead chewed a big, ragged hole in it? What if something like that happened to a member of your family, right before your eyes? The mere thought was like a fire in Henmi Midori's inner workings. It nauseated her just trying to imagine how she would feel if her own father or mother or son or daughter had a hole blasted in their face or chest and died crying out in agony. She had always thought of people who did terrible things to other people as a completely different species of human being, but... Even now, Henmi Midori's eyes would fill with tears each time this thought occurred to her. Just pinching your own face really hurt-what if a hot piece of lead chewed a big, ragged hole in it? What if something like that happened to a member of your family, right before your eyes? The mere thought was like a fire in Henmi Midori's inner workings. It nauseated her just trying to imagine how she would feel if her own father or mother or son or daughter had a hole blasted in their face or chest and died crying out in agony. She had always thought of people who did terrible things to other people as a completely different species of human being, but...

A lot of noise was now coming from the apartment she was watching. She could hear the dirtbags' laughter from here. It sounded as if they were playing rock-paper-scissors. Over the weeks of surveillance, Henmi Midori had come to know all their faces. Even putting aside what they'd done to Wataa, there was something repulsive and unpardonable about those faces. What sort of upbringing could have resulted in features like that? She often thought how good it would feel to slaughter them all, along with all their parents and brothers and sisters, in the cruelest way imaginable.

One of them came down the metal staircase, mumbling something under his breath. He got in the step van and started the engine. Henmi Midori pressed the SEND b.u.t.ton on her phone again.

"Everyone's leaving the office, darling. Hurry up and come get me."

8.

Love Me to the Bone

I.

The rock-paper-scissors contest ended with Yano taking first place, followed by Kato, Sugiyama, n.o.bue, and Ishihara, in that order. n.o.bue and Ishihara loaded the costumes and equipment in the HiAce, and everyone climbed aboard. Ishihara drove. "I don't get it, I just don't get it," he kept muttering in a singsongy sort of way as he steered. He'd never, ever, come in dead last before, and therefore it was the first time he'd ever had to drive. The rock-paper-scissors compet.i.tion wasn't a tournament but rather a showdown: all players at once. The contestants shouted, jumped up and down, laughed hysterically, rolled on the floor, knocked their heads against walls, went into spasms in every limb, and occasionally even vomited from overexcitement. The peculiar thing was that these frenetic performances actually seemed to affect the outcome. Things like statistical probabilities and psychic foresight were useless with a group like this; the deciding factor seemed to have more to do with concentration. Like the Yoruba or Herero or other warlike West African tribes performing rituals prior to battle, they would tense their entire bodies, jump about feverishly, bug out their eyes, and screech or roar at the top of their lungs, and for some reason the one who succeeded in most intimidating the others in this way always seemed to win. Ishihara was usually able to completely shred his opponents' jan-ken-pon rhythm. When the count began he would take on the aspect of a Tarahumara shaman with a bellyful of peyote, or a cabaret hostess who's shot up too much speed, or a Siamese cat with hot pepper stuffed up its a.s.s. No one was able to pierce his concentration barrier and force him to stick to the proper rhythm. Instead, they'd lose their own rhythm laughing nervously in response to his sudden, explosive, and utterly unhinged cackling. And yet tonight, for the first time ever, Ishihara had been defeated in round one. Not only was he forbidden to partic.i.p.ate in the performance; he wasn't even permitted to drink. His job was simply to drive them to the location, help set up the lights and video cameras and sound system, wait soberly until the performance was over, and then drive them all back to n.o.bue's. rock-paper-scissors contest ended with Yano taking first place, followed by Kato, Sugiyama, n.o.bue, and Ishihara, in that order. n.o.bue and Ishihara loaded the costumes and equipment in the HiAce, and everyone climbed aboard. Ishihara drove. "I don't get it, I just don't get it," he kept muttering in a singsongy sort of way as he steered. He'd never, ever, come in dead last before, and therefore it was the first time he'd ever had to drive. The rock-paper-scissors compet.i.tion wasn't a tournament but rather a showdown: all players at once. The contestants shouted, jumped up and down, laughed hysterically, rolled on the floor, knocked their heads against walls, went into spasms in every limb, and occasionally even vomited from overexcitement. The peculiar thing was that these frenetic performances actually seemed to affect the outcome. Things like statistical probabilities and psychic foresight were useless with a group like this; the deciding factor seemed to have more to do with concentration. Like the Yoruba or Herero or other warlike West African tribes performing rituals prior to battle, they would tense their entire bodies, jump about feverishly, bug out their eyes, and screech or roar at the top of their lungs, and for some reason the one who succeeded in most intimidating the others in this way always seemed to win. Ishihara was usually able to completely shred his opponents' jan-ken-pon rhythm. When the count began he would take on the aspect of a Tarahumara shaman with a bellyful of peyote, or a cabaret hostess who's shot up too much speed, or a Siamese cat with hot pepper stuffed up its a.s.s. No one was able to pierce his concentration barrier and force him to stick to the proper rhythm. Instead, they'd lose their own rhythm laughing nervously in response to his sudden, explosive, and utterly unhinged cackling. And yet tonight, for the first time ever, Ishihara had been defeated in round one. Not only was he forbidden to partic.i.p.ate in the performance; he wasn't even permitted to drink. His job was simply to drive them to the location, help set up the lights and video cameras and sound system, wait soberly until the performance was over, and then drive them all back to n.o.bue's.

He knew it wasn't that he'd lacked his normal vigor tonight. He'd led the others in the count while performing a series of so-called Erotic Calisthenics, which he claimed to have learned from an article in a s.e.x rag and which involved pumping his limbs, twisting his body, and rolling his neck-simultaneously and at astonishing speeds-while laughing so explosively that it seemed as if the skin might peel off his face. At "pon" he threw down paper. n.o.bue too had paper-and both of them were eliminated, Yano and Sugiyama and Kato showing scissors. In the playoff with n.o.bue for last place, Ishihara changed tactics and performed a certain physical ceremony that he believed to be an esoteric form of yoga. While producing a dolphinish, ultra-high-frequency squeal from somewhere deep in his throat, he used both hands to scratch himself feverishly from crotch to scalp while shuffling his feet like Muhammad Ali-a tactic that usually resulted in his opponent suddenly deciding that there were more important things in life than rock-paper-scissors. n.o.bue, faced with Ishihara performing his ceremony and shrieking, "Not when I do YOGAYOGAYO-GAAAAAAAAAH!" had already admitted defeat to himself as he backed away and meekly held out scissors. Ishihara, scratching at his crotch and chest with his left hand, certain of victory and caterwauling his war cry, came up once again with paper. He stood there for some time, stunned and staring blankly at his open palm. Then he turned and trudged outside to warm up the van. His face was smiling, his eyes glittered in the late autumn moonlight, and he emitted a flickering aura that might have triggered seizures in an impartial but sensitive child, and yet he was strangely depressed. I just don't I just don't get get it it, he kept muttering.

By the time they reached Fuchu Avenue, the party was in full swing in the rear of the van. Kato, testing his sea legs in the swaying and rocking vehicle, was selecting the costumes for the evening. Yano, beside himself at having taken first place for the first time in some eight months, was smiling and babbling to himself.

"I can't believe it! To think that I-I-will sing lead vocal.... I haven't achieved anything like this since grade school, when I did an imitation of Tony Tani singing "Abacus Cha-cha-cha" at the school talent show, and they called me back for an encore, gave me a standing ovation and everything, and..."

n.o.bue tried to interrupt to ask Yano what song he wanted to sing tonight, but he couldn't get through, so Kato selected a song instead. "Yano-rin, Yano-rin, 'Love Me to the Bone' is okay with you, right?" Kato shook him by the shoulder, but Yano just smiled to himself and went on with the story no one else was listening to.

"The thing is, I was level one with the abacus, and there was this a.s.shole in my cla.s.s named Nakayama, and I challenged him with his electronic calculator, and I won, I beat him. But the thing about this Nakayama, when he was fourteen, for some reason, even though he wasn't sick or anything but I guess just because his hair was a little thin, he started wearing a toupee. I guess it was his parents' idea, but one time during an earthquake drill it slipped off and everybody found out he wore a rug, and he went ballistic, started hitting and kicking everybody. That's the sort of a.s.shole he was, but of course the toupee incident was way after I beat his calculator with my abacus, but..." The story was of no interest whatsoever to anyone, but there seemed no indication that it would ever end.

Sugiyama had come in third, which meant he was one of the backup singers, so he was warming up his voice, going, AAAAHHHHH AAAAHHHHH, between slugs of booze, which he was urging upon the others as well. Yano and Kato had bought several two-liter aluminum "kegs" of beer and a large bottle of Suntory White whiskey at Goro-chan, the corner liquor shop, and they were shunting the bottle and kegs around as if they were rugby b.a.l.l.s. In short order they were all s.h.i.tfaced. Kato selected, from the nearly twenty costumes they'd pooled their money to buy, a suit of the sort worn by enka enka singers in cheesy cabarets-blue satin with faux-gold-foil lapels, a matching shirt, and a "b.u.t.terfly" bow tie. He changed into the suit, though doing so while drunk in a moving vehicle was bound to cause the nausea of which he promptly and cheerfully complained. When he was finished dressing himself he undressed Yano, even as the latter obliviously continued his tale of the abacus, and then, as if changing the clothes on a mannequin or a Barbie doll, poured him into a leather bondage suit criss-crossed with zippers. The bottom of the leather suit was a miniskirt, and the straps on top had two metallic red roses attached at nipple level. It fit the emaciated Yano like a dream, and Sugiyama and Kato lifted their voices in a raucous cheer that was visible as a fine, beery mist. The abacus tale rolled on even as Kato slicked back Yano's hair, applied lipstick to his lips, and packed him into black fishnet stockings and high heels. Sugiyama, meanwhile, was rehearsing the night's song in a sequined rayon kimono, but he had tied the obi too tight and suddenly regurgitated. Yano slipped on the vomit in his high heels and fell to the floor as Sugiyama, never missing a beat, belted out the final words to "Love me to the Bone" and then shouted for Ishihara to play the tape again. As they entered the Tomei Expressway, Ishihara was singing along with the others but, partially because he hadn't had any alcohol since leaving n.o.bue's apartment, he just couldn't shake an odd, nagging feeling that something was wrong. By the time they reached the Odawara-Atsugi Road, the usual chaos and confusion in the rear of the van had attained new levels of dementia, and even the normally rather calm and collected Kato was standing with his head out the side window, fluids oozing from his eyes and nose and ears as he sang, between spasms of projectile vomiting: "To the bone, to the bone, want you to love me to the bone!" singers in cheesy cabarets-blue satin with faux-gold-foil lapels, a matching shirt, and a "b.u.t.terfly" bow tie. He changed into the suit, though doing so while drunk in a moving vehicle was bound to cause the nausea of which he promptly and cheerfully complained. When he was finished dressing himself he undressed Yano, even as the latter obliviously continued his tale of the abacus, and then, as if changing the clothes on a mannequin or a Barbie doll, poured him into a leather bondage suit criss-crossed with zippers. The bottom of the leather suit was a miniskirt, and the straps on top had two metallic red roses attached at nipple level. It fit the emaciated Yano like a dream, and Sugiyama and Kato lifted their voices in a raucous cheer that was visible as a fine, beery mist. The abacus tale rolled on even as Kato slicked back Yano's hair, applied lipstick to his lips, and packed him into black fishnet stockings and high heels. Sugiyama, meanwhile, was rehearsing the night's song in a sequined rayon kimono, but he had tied the obi too tight and suddenly regurgitated. Yano slipped on the vomit in his high heels and fell to the floor as Sugiyama, never missing a beat, belted out the final words to "Love me to the Bone" and then shouted for Ishihara to play the tape again. As they entered the Tomei Expressway, Ishihara was singing along with the others but, partially because he hadn't had any alcohol since leaving n.o.bue's apartment, he just couldn't shake an odd, nagging feeling that something was wrong. By the time they reached the Odawara-Atsugi Road, the usual chaos and confusion in the rear of the van had attained new levels of dementia, and even the normally rather calm and collected Kato was standing with his head out the side window, fluids oozing from his eyes and nose and ears as he sang, between spasms of projectile vomiting: "To the bone, to the bone, want you to love me to the bone!"

Watching Yano and Sugiyama and Kato guzzling the beer and whiskey and singing refrain after refrain, n.o.bue couldn't help but smile. The three of them, usually relatively subdued, were in incredibly high spirits tonight. There was vomit all over the floor of the van, yes, but-h.e.l.l, at least they were having fun. Savoring the cold air coming in through the window, n.o.bue decided to have a smoke and climbed into the pa.s.senger seat next to Ishihara.

"What's the matter, Ishi-kun?" he asked as he lit his cigarette. "I mean, I know you lost at rock-paper-scissors and everything, but I've never seen you so quiet. Anything wrong?"

Ishihara's eyes were extravagantly bloodshot. Unaccustomed to driving, he always kept his eyes open as wide as they would go when behind the wheel.

"Kato and Yano and Sugiyama are totally out of their minds," n.o.bue went on, rolling down the pa.s.senger-side window. "There's hardly any whiskey or beer left back there. It's, like, the first time those three have ever really let go like this."

"n.o.bu-chin," Ishihara said, his eyes still protruding abnormally. "I don't know. I've got a bad feeling about this...."

Ishihara parked at their spot by the seash.o.r.e, some ten kilometers short of Atami. It was down a narrow, inconspicuous road that branched off from the Manazuru Highway and ended at an enormous concrete breakwater. Yano and Kato and Sugiyama had piled drunkenly out of the van and were standing unsteadily on the beach with microphones in their fists, shouting "Hurry up!" while Ishihara and n.o.bue struggled with the karaoke machine, lights, and video cameras. n.o.bue switched on the van's interior lamp to give Ishihara some light to work by, then ran out to the beach. None of them noticed the four middle-aged women hiding behind a gigantic concrete tetrapod a mere twenty meters away. parked at their spot by the seash.o.r.e, some ten kilometers short of Atami. It was down a narrow, inconspicuous road that branched off from the Manazuru Highway and ended at an enormous concrete breakwater. Yano and Kato and Sugiyama had piled drunkenly out of the van and were standing unsteadily on the beach with microphones in their fists, shouting "Hurry up!" while Ishihara and n.o.bue struggled with the karaoke machine, lights, and video cameras. n.o.bue switched on the van's interior lamp to give Ishihara some light to work by, then ran out to the beach. None of them noticed the four middle-aged women hiding behind a gigantic concrete tetrapod a mere twenty meters away.

II.

The small beach lay in a horseshoe cove beyond the curving concrete breakwater. The breakwater was about three meters high, and the narrow, winding road that led to it was bordered on either side by thick groves of pine and other trees. No one would be able to see them from the road or from up or down the coast, even after they'd turned on the lights. Only from the sea could they have been spotted, but few fishing boats are out late on Sat.u.r.day nights in Atami Bay. Nor was this cove the sort of place any tourists or locals would ever visit for sightseeing or romantic walks. The random jumble of giant concrete wave-dissipating tetrapods, like mutant versions of children's jacks, marred the scenery; an ambient smell of sewage hung over the beach, which was approximately the size of a basketball court and consisted more of rocks than sand; and rusted jumbles of steel-the discarded engines of fishing boats, perhaps, or trucks-added a cold, metallic vibe to the already desolate and forbidding atmosphere. small beach lay in a horseshoe cove beyond the curving concrete breakwater. The breakwater was about three meters high, and the narrow, winding road that led to it was bordered on either side by thick groves of pine and other trees. No one would be able to see them from the road or from up or down the coast, even after they'd turned on the lights. Only from the sea could they have been spotted, but few fishing boats are out late on Sat.u.r.day nights in Atami Bay. Nor was this cove the sort of place any tourists or locals would ever visit for sightseeing or romantic walks. The random jumble of giant concrete wave-dissipating tetrapods, like mutant versions of children's jacks, marred the scenery; an ambient smell of sewage hung over the beach, which was approximately the size of a basketball court and consisted more of rocks than sand; and rusted jumbles of steel-the discarded engines of fishing boats, perhaps, or trucks-added a cold, metallic vibe to the already desolate and forbidding atmosphere.

Some two years earlier, Yano, finding himself with absolutely nothing to do on a Sunday afternoon, had sat in his apartment listening over and over again to a recording of house-style noise music until he became convinced that he was literally on the verge of losing his mind. Hoping to avoid a psychotic break, he'd called on Kato and dragged him out for a long bus journey that involved any number of transfers and ended at the seash.o.r.e, along which they were walking silently when they'd stumbled upon this cove. It didn't occur to them at the time that it might be a good place for Karaoke Blasts (this being before the advent of the ritual), but Kato discovered at one end of the beach a pair of discarded, blood-drenched panties and later reported this discovery to n.o.bue. Things had progressed from there. "The penetrator always returns to the scene of the crime," n.o.bue had declared, and each Sat.u.r.day for the next ten weeks the entire group had come here to stake out this beach. On the tenth trip, Yano had said, "It might not've been a virgin getting her cherry popped, you know. There's no proof that those panties didn't belong to some fifty-year-old Oba-san who forgot her tampons, right?" No sooner had this seed of doubt been vocalized than everyone awoke as if from a dream. They suddenly saw that it was perhaps overly optimistic to conclude from no more evidence than a single pair of muddy, bloodstained panties that they would soon be in a position to witness the rape of an angelic but ultimately lascivious nymphet of the sort who populate adult videos. Nonetheless, it seemed a waste to abandon this spot they'd visited each week for two and a half months, so Ishihara had proposed that the cove be designated their permanent multipurpose special event s.p.a.ce, and so it had remained ever since.

In the past, the winners of the top four places in the rock-paper-scissors showdown had always been granted the right to sing, but since Sugioka's death that number had been reduced to three. The division of responsibilities was clearly defined, and staff and cast never changed places in the course of a given night. Ishihara would therefore be stuck inside the van, along with the noisy portable generator, which was strapped down in the rear to keep the racket it made from interfering with the performances. Two cords extended from the generator through a narrow opening in the window and out to the beach, where they were connected to two video cameras, one secured to a tripod for the master shot of everyone on stage and one handheld by n.o.bue, who was to move around taking close-ups of each singer. The cameras were portable Sony 3CCD VX1s, the microphones cordless Sennheiser SY3s, and the speakers BOSE 501s. There was also a portable DAT deck and a simple mixing board in the van, the operation of which was up to Ishihara.

"Ishi-kun, please hurry!" Yano was shivering in his skimpy bondage gear. "Luckily I'm drunk, but it's f.u.c.kin' cold cold in this costume!" The three singers were facing the sea, waving their dead mikes impatiently and muttering, in this costume!" The three singers were facing the sea, waving their dead mikes impatiently and muttering, One, two, one, two! Test, test! One, two, one, two! Test, test! Unfortunately, Ishihara had always been hopeless with mechanisms of any sort. In middle school, when the Walkman first came out, a cla.s.smate of his had tricked him into inserting the earbuds in his nostrils. It wasn't a big surprise that he couldn't get the sound working now. Unfortunately, Ishihara had always been hopeless with mechanisms of any sort. In middle school, when the Walkman first came out, a cla.s.smate of his had tricked him into inserting the earbuds in his nostrils. It wasn't a big surprise that he couldn't get the sound working now.

"If we wait for Ishihara to get it right, we'll be here till dawn," Sugiyama whined.

"All right, all right," said n.o.bue. "I'll go see what's holding him up." He set the camera on the tetrapod behind the three singers and headed back to the HiAce.

"I wish they'd gather together in one group," said Suzuki Midori. The rocket launcher rested on her shoulder. wish they'd gather together in one group," said Suzuki Midori. The rocket launcher rested on her shoulder.

"One of them always stays in the van, to play engineer," Henmi Midori said, peering through her Zeiss binoculars, All four Midoris were repulsed by the costumes. Is this what j.a.pan struggled through its whole postwar history to achieve? Is this what j.a.pan struggled through its whole postwar history to achieve? Takeuchi Midori was asking herself. Takeuchi Midori was asking herself. Grown men in their mid-twenties, dressed like perverts, whooping and cackling like morons and singing karaoke out in the middle of nowhere? Grown men in their mid-twenties, dressed like perverts, whooping and cackling like morons and singing karaoke out in the middle of nowhere? The thought literally nauseated her. The thought literally nauseated her. In this lonesome place, with the smell of sewage and oil spill and rotten fish all around, wearing things not even the tackiest provincial comedian would put on.... Especially that little skinny one in the middle-what's with the leather miniskirt, for heaven's sake? And the one with the gla.s.ses and sequined kimono, drinking beer straight from a two-liter keg and howling-what would his mother say if she could see this? In this lonesome place, with the smell of sewage and oil spill and rotten fish all around, wearing things not even the tackiest provincial comedian would put on.... Especially that little skinny one in the middle-what's with the leather miniskirt, for heaven's sake? And the one with the gla.s.ses and sequined kimono, drinking beer straight from a two-liter keg and howling-what would his mother say if she could see this?

The moon cast a rippling silver ribbon over the surface of the sea.

The Midoris were wearing ski gloves to prevent their hands from getting too cold to operate the rocket launcher properly. They all had their hair tied back and wore black woolen ski masks that hid their faces, long-sleeved shirts and black sweaters under black waterproof windbreakers, and black trousers and hiking boots. Their breath made little white clouds, and they were all crouching down, breathing into their gloves so as not to give themselves away.

The speakers came on with a buzzing growl, and an amplified voice said: "Okay...okay, okay."

"Well, here goes." Suzuki Midori took off her gloves and, just as Sakaguchi had taught her and as she had subsequently practiced tens if not hundreds of times, opened the rear cover on the M72-A2 LAW, removed the carrying sling, and extended the inner tube.

"Don't forget," Henmi Midori whispered, "you have to aim at the tetrapod behind them. If you hit one of them directly, it won't work."

"I know know," said Suzuki Midori, pursing her lips and focusing all her concentration on the front sight. She aimed at the tetrapod just behind the three sleazeb.a.l.l.s in their demented outfits. The others crouched on either side of her to avoid the backblast, and Henmi Midori and Takeuchi Midori helped support the extended inner tube.

"Oh, G.o.d...I'm getting wet," murmured Tomiyama Midori.

Suzuki Midori hissed at her to snap out of it. "You've got your knife ready, right? Be prepared to use it on any survivors."

Just as the intro to "Love Me to the Bone" started up, with its vulgar tenor sax, Suzuki Midori unlocked the safety and pushed the trigger.

Six fins sprang out from the rear of the sixty-six-millimeter HEAT rocket as it departed, and you could clearly see the warhead spinning as it zoomed toward the tetrapod. The backblast illuminated the air behind the Midoris with a brilliant ashen glow. Hearing the strange but deeply resonant pa-SHOOP pa-SHOOP sound and noticing the burst of light, the three dirtbags stopped singing and turned to look. In the next instant the warhead contacted the tetrapod and exploded with a deafening blast and an enormous ball of orange fire. sound and noticing the burst of light, the three dirtbags stopped singing and turned to look. In the next instant the warhead contacted the tetrapod and exploded with a deafening blast and an enormous ball of orange fire.

What the h.e.l.l is that? Yano wondered as the spinning warhead traced a smoking arc toward them. He was thinking it looked like a rocket ship in some old movie with c.r.a.ppy special effects, when he found himself enveloped in blinding light and earsplitting sound. He was slammed to the rocky beach like a wet rag doll. Sugiyama was looking up at the video camera n.o.bue had left on the tetrapod when the explosion blew it to bits, and he opened his mouth to say the h.e.l.l is that? Yano wondered as the spinning warhead traced a smoking arc toward them. He was thinking it looked like a rocket ship in some old movie with c.r.a.ppy special effects, when he found himself enveloped in blinding light and earsplitting sound. He was slammed to the rocky beach like a wet rag doll. Sugiyama was looking up at the video camera n.o.bue had left on the tetrapod when the explosion blew it to bits, and he opened his mouth to say Whoa! Whoa! but of course had no time to do so. The rayon of his kimono burst into crackling flames, along with the sequins, as he lifted some two meters off the ground. Kato's first thought was that n.o.bue and Ishihara had prepared a special fireworks display. It was typical of Ishihara to overdo it like this, he thought, and he was about to start laughing when a fist-sized chunk of concrete from the tetrapod came along at a hundred meters per second and shaved off his lower jaw-flesh, bones, teeth, and all-even as he too began an ascent that would peak at an impressive three meters. The end result was a trio of disarticulated bodies that looked as if sharks had been snacking on them, with jagged chunks ripped from their arms and stomachs and necks-to say nothing of the fragments of tetrapod embedded in various parts of their flesh. In the twinkling of an eye their bodies had come to resemble b.l.o.o.d.y rags-rather like the discarded panties they'd once found on this very beach. All three of them were dead, of course. but of course had no time to do so. The rayon of his kimono burst into crackling flames, along with the sequins, as he lifted some two meters off the ground. Kato's first thought was that n.o.bue and Ishihara had prepared a special fireworks display. It was typical of Ishihara to overdo it like this, he thought, and he was about to start laughing when a fist-sized chunk of concrete from the tetrapod came along at a hundred meters per second and shaved off his lower jaw-flesh, bones, teeth, and all-even as he too began an ascent that would peak at an impressive three meters. The end result was a trio of disarticulated bodies that looked as if sharks had been snacking on them, with jagged chunks ripped from their arms and stomachs and necks-to say nothing of the fragments of tetrapod embedded in various parts of their flesh. In the twinkling of an eye their bodies had come to resemble b.l.o.o.d.y rags-rather like the discarded panties they'd once found on this very beach. All three of them were dead, of course.

At the moment of the explosion, n.o.bue had been stepping out of the HiAce to return to the beach and Ishihara had been in the rear, fiddling with the dials on the mixing console. The blast caused the entire van to shake and teeter, and both of them were knocked off their feet. n.o.bue face-planted on the ground outside, and Ishihara's head slammed against a corner of the generator. But the HiAce remained upright and more or less intact, and it had shielded them from the blast and the tetrapod fragments. Blood was gushing from a gash in Ishihara's forehead and flowing down his face, however, and this threw him into a panic. In reaction to the intense burst of light and the overpowering noise, his brain was frantically spinning its wheels, and he was about to try forcing an idiotic laugh in a bid to gain a grip, when n.o.bue jumped back inside the battered van and shouted: "They're coming after us with knives!"

III.