The Samurai Strategy

by Thomas Hoover

  CHAPTER THREE

  Some people will swear life runs on coincidence. Is it true? If so,here's one for the history books. It's the tale of an old flame. Beforemy ex-wife Joanna, before my later ill-starred adventure with DonnaAusten. The lady's name was Tamara Richardson, and she was a professorat New York University. When I knew her, though, she was merely anassistant prof with a shiny new Ph.D. At any rate, she was fresh out ofColumbia's graduate school and very much starting out. I was too. BestI can remember, we met shopping for green groceries at Balducci's, justup Sixth Avenue from my place, and we saw each other a few times. Ithad to be at least fifteen years (how time flies) since our briefepisode.

  Tam Richardson, however, was not easy to forget. There was a kind ofunder-the-surface intensity about the woman that seemed always close tothe ignition point. When you were around her, you were always worriedsomebody might accidentally light a match. However, she had no shortageof men in her life, and eventually we each went our own way. Ships thatpassed in the night. I never expected to hear of her again.

  Things didn't quite work out that way, however. She started gettingfamous, as a thorn in the side of America's lackadaisical corporatemanagement. Somewhere along the line, Tam Richardson had taken it uponherself to single-handedly kick some overpaid ass in America's plushboardrooms, and she wasn't trying to win any popularity contests doingit. She was the kid in the story who pointed out the emperor had on nopants, while everybody else was claiming his tux was a great fit. Guessyou can't fire somebody in academia merely for saying what everybodyknows to be true but doesn't have the guts to verbalize.

  Then about a year ago, I noticed a full-length profile of her

  in an airline magazine spread about "America's New Achievers." Noescaping her. Between the lines, I got the definite impression shehadn't really changed all that much over the years. She was around fiveseven, high cheekbones, dark hair that looked like it could use abrush, and eyes that made you think twice about giving her a lot ofbullshit. Reminded me of, say, the young Glenda Jackson with a heavyspike of Debra Winger. For my money, though, she was just about idealin the female department. Trim bottom, nice little twist in her stride,just enough cleavage to make you wonder. She didn't go out of her wayto advertise, but you figured the goods were on board. My recollectionin a nutshell? Tam Richardson was a better than average looker, damnedsmart, and she knew no fear. None.

  There was something about her, though, that always left peoplepuzzling. Where'd she come from? American, sure, but no way could shehave been corn-fed Midwest like her surname. The answer was, she had aslightly more exotic, and probably painful, history than most of us.Maybe that was part of the reason she always seemed to be a loner,never went along with the crowd. The one time she'd tried that, ithadn't worked. I got to know her well enough to hear a bit of thestory, but I'd sort of repressed the details.

  Maybe I'd do well to come clean and admit I still thought about Tamfrom time to time. What's more, I gleaned from the magazine piece thatshe still lived right around the corner. Made me think briefly aboutgiving her a call, get together for a drink, the old days, etc. But Ifinally decided I'd had enough high-spirited women for a while. Time tomellow down. Why go looking for lightning in a bottle?

  She'd always liked three things: good-looking men, telling the high andmighty unpleasant truths, and interior design. Consequently it was nogreat surprise that the magazine devoted a photo spread to her ramblingsix-room apartment. The place was in one of those NYU-owned buildingson the west side of Washington Square Park, and it was definitely aknockout. She'd played off the old classic interior, a generouslyproportioned thirties layout, turning it into an environment thatblended technology and design. Not for Tam, though, the utilitarian"high-tech" look so trendy a few years back; no ugly "state of the art"machines. It was eclectic--modernism here, deco there.

  Take her library-office. I smiled when I noticed that next to thelatest IBM PC was a "streamlined" Raymond Loewy- designed calculator,pure thirties. Same old Tam. On the other hand, just to keep it allfrom getting too serious, she also had a collection of kitschy salt andpepper shakers scattered among the books--a dog peeing against ahydrant, a naked babe with spicy boobs . . . she told the writer it washer "tribute to America."

  The place was everything she was, a potpourri of the world, a mishmashof styles, and she clearly loved it. I probably missed a good half ofthe insider gags, this outrage up against that one, but I must say shebrought it off with appreciable _elan_. Truthfully the place was aperfect reflection of the Tam I remembered--a woman who did her ownthing.

  She was now, so it said, a full professor at the university.Undoubtedly she deserved it. She was also director of their new Centerfor Applied Technology, which she'd founded. When the interviewer askedher which department the Center was under, she'd apparently shruggedand said "certain people" at the university wanted to bring it in underthe School of Business. But the Center had outside funding, was doingvital work, and she was darn well going to stay independent.

  Whoops. That ballsy crack, although perfectly in character, meant shewas now giving the back of her hand to university politics. Mouthingoff in a national publication about some departmental power play is noway to endear yourself to college deans. It lays bare all their pettyempire-building. Didn't seem to worry her, though; just like in the olddays, she said exactly what she was thinking and let the chips tumble.

  Her major occupation in recent years, as anybody who reads the op-edpages around the country knows, was to shame American executives intogetting off their duffs, to make them start diverting some of theirexecutive perks into the serious problem of getting this countrycompetitive again. She had plenty of ideas where the corporate-jetmoney could be better invested. Over the years she'd knocked out half adozen books on technology and the American workplace--office automation,computer-aided design in engineering, robots and computer-integratedmanufacturing, that kind of thing. Tam Richardson still believedAmerica could whip the world, but it would take more than speeches andflag waving. Her latest expose of America's corporate fat cats, whichactually got a sidebar in the story, claimed they'd better startcutting their million-dollar salaries and putting the money intocreating American jobs, or we'd all soon end up fetching coffee for thenew Pacific Rim dynamos and buying our goodies at East Asia's companystore.

  Only she didn't bother to say it that nicely. Worse than that, the bookactually supplied a long list of America's more notoriously overpaidCEOs. I suspect there were a lot of corporate contributors to theuniversity who'd just as soon seen her muzzled. Good luck, Tam.

  Now the coincidence. The Saturday following my Friday night episodewith the inscrutable president of Nippon, Inc., an event occurred thatwould soon bring Tam Richardson back into my life. Random luck? Fate?Anybody's guess. As it turned out, however, while I was on the phoneleaving messages at country clubs for the building's attorneys, a merefive blocks away from my place Dr. Tamara Richardson was putting thefinal touches on preparations for an evening dinner party--destined tothrow us together again only weeks later.

  The dinner was supposed to be strictly social, to celebrate thebeginning of her sabbatical--academic talk for a year off with three-quarters pay. There were a few dinner debts to square away, so thetiming was perfect. She had several articles lined up; she'd finallyaxed a stormy year-long affair with a colleague in Economics namedDavid Mason; and she was scheduled to begin a book on intelligentrobots. She was trying not to think too much about academic politicsand the real possibility her department chairman might consign her tosome kind of academic hyperspace, there to teach freshmen for the restof her tenured days.

  By mid-afternoon she was down to the last-minute refinements on theevening's plans. Since the overnight rain had purged the soot from theair, she was feeling great. She put on a new Vangelis CD, worked a fewmodern-dance moves into her routine as she cleared the loose books outof the living room, and continued trying to convince herself thatbreaking off with Dave Mason had been a smart mo
ve. After a while,though, she wasn't humming anymore, just thinking. Okay, it had onlybeen a week, but why had she invited him to come to the dinner? Just tobe a good sport?

  The thing about it was, they'd actually had a more or less

  unspoken understanding not to inquire too closely into each other'soccasional little diversions. They were both adults, right? This time,however, Dave had pushed it too far. He'd finally broken the rules,bringing one of his admiring grad students up to the apartment--herapartment. She bumped into them coming down in the elevator, and thisone was a prize--stage makeup, bleached hair, the works.

  Out of bounds. She'd nailed him right there in her marble lobby: youwant to bang some Queens debutante, you'd better not be doing it here.This place is my home. She then told him to pack. The apartment washers, and she wanted all signs of him out by Monday.

  Then she'd invited him back for the dinner. Why? Could Humpty-Dumpty beput back together again? Crack eggs, make an omelet . . . she halfsmiled at the odd way your mind connects absurdities when you're alittle overworked. . . .

  That was when the phone rang.

  Was it Dave, dropping out at the last minute to prove he could stillpiss her off, one more time? She headed for the kitchen, so she couldat least chop some veggies while they argued for half an hour on thephone.

  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 inhis staccato tones that he'd just stepped off a JAL flight fresh fromsome conference in Tokyo. 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'tknow 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 hadprobably heard of vaguely. Any freshman in computer science could tellyou he was one of the unofficial founders of the field known asartificial intelligence, now usually shortened to "AI." As it happened,she had convinced him the previous spring that they ought tocollaborate on a book about the growing use of smart robots in theworkplace, but for some reason his input had never made it past thetalking stage. She'd decided just to go ahead on her own with thewriting.

  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. Allanhad plenty of respectability with the establishment.

  He was probably the closest friend she had, her mentor almost. Theywent back to a Denver conference fifteen years agp, when he'd stood upin a session and challenged the conclusion of the very first paper sheever gave, though he'd come in midway through. Even then he had been apowerhouse in Washington, chairing one of the technical committees thatreviewed federal grant applications submitted by universityresearchers. The inside talk on campuses was: love him or hate him, butthink twice before you cross the opinionated bastard.

  She was so mad she didn't care. She had sidled up to him at the coffeebreak and introduced herself, saying what an honor it was to meet ascholar so highly regarded, a man whose reputation was so wellestablished. He nodded in absent acknowledgment, sipped at hisStyrofoam cup, and stared over her shoulder. She then proceeded toadvise the celebrated Allan Stern that he'd missed the whole thrust ofher 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'ssheltered existence, so astonished him he apologized on the spot. Byweek'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 wasno exception. The doorman downstairs announced him at eight sharp. Whenshe met him at the elevator, her first impression was he looked atrifle worn down. America's foremost futurist was gaunt, as always, buthis trademark shock of white hair streamed over a lined face that wasmore than usually haggard. His hard eyes, which could bore throughscrew-off Congressional staffers like a pair of Black & Decker drills,were actually bloodshot. In short, the man looked awful. Then sheremembered he'd just come in on the 747 directly from Narita. Into theteeth of the latest baggage-handlers' slowdown at Kennedy. Give thepoor 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. Veryout of character.

  About then everybody else started coming up, reasonably on time sinceTam was known far and wide to hate the concept of "fashionably late."Also, she was a great cook. Bottles of bargain wine with the pricesscraped off collected on the table in the foyer, and coats amassed inthe second bedroom. Given that everybody knew everybody, it was mostlyelbow patches and open collars. Only the women had bothered to dress.Simpson from Computer Science, whose wife worked in Admissions; GailWallace from Business, whose pudgy, skirt- chasing husband had guidedtwo companies into bankruptcy; Alice and Herman Knight, who both taughtin Economics (she was dean of the undergraduate college) and publishedas a team; Kabir Ali from Mathematics and his browbeaten little Iranianwife Shirin who seemed frightened of the world--and her husband. OnlyDave 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 onwhich they were being pressured to serve. Around a quarter to nine Davefinally appeared, sandy curls askew to let her know where he'd been.She didn't even bother offering him a drink, just announced thateverything was ready so let's adjourn to the dining room.

  There're two kinds of dinners: ones that follow the rules, and onesthat break them all. Tarn's were the latter. This time it would be realtallow candles and everybody's wine, including her own. Somehow hercraziness always seemed to click; they inevitably came back for more.This time she'd decided to pay an offhand tribute to autumn andAmerican cuisine. Cheddar cheese soup, marinated Ottomanelli's quailbroiled with fresh sage, sweet potato fritters and baby peas, homemadecorn bread, and then, as a change of pace (keep 'em off balance), anendive salad spiked with coriander. Dessert was an apple- walnutcasserole, washed down with pots of McNulty's dark Haitian coffee. Atthe end she produced an ancient cognac you could inhale forever. Byeleven-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 everybodyback into the living room. In the park below the weather was perfect,and marijuana sales were in overdrive. A couple of joints also appearedaround the room, accompanied by withering glares from Allan. Then,while Ed Wallace was chatting up Shirin and everybody else was drinkingand smoking, Allan picked up his cognac and motioned her in thedirection 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 herabout what he'd just seen, and not seen, in Tokyo.

  "Loved dinner." He settled into a leather chair, the one next to herlong bookcase, and drained his snifter. "I was afraid I was turninginto a fish over there." He laughed, but only briefly. Social hour wasover. "Tam, I wanted to ask you if you could maybe help me out withsomething."

  "What do you have in mind?"

  "Well, you know I've always thought I was on top of what Tokyo isdoing, but now I'm not so sure anymore. I'm afraid things are startingto get away from me."

  "Such as?"

  "Okay. Now, it's no secret I've been to Japan a lot. I've got my shareof friends over there, people I respect and admire very much. But thistrip started to get very strange. It's as though I'm suddenly anoutsider. Just another _gaijin_. I'm puzzled, and I wonder if maybe Iought to be worried."

  _Gaijin_. That sounds familiar, she thought. But it wasn't somethingthat usually both
ered Allan. She brushed her brown hair back out of hereyes 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 thenext generation of computer technology. "

  This was supposed to be news? Come on, Allan. Everybody knew. It wasthe talk of the industry. Japan's goal was computer logic capable ofreplicating human thought processes, a monumental, maybe impossible,undertaking.

  "Allan, don't you remember we discussed doing a chapter on it in therobotics book? And if you--"

  "Tamara, bear with me. You also know very well that project is Japan'sattempt to leapfrog American technology. Added together with all theirR&D on chip technology. In my opinion, by the way, our response isdefinitely too little, too late. More and more we're having to buyessential components for missile guidance systems from Japan. TheDepartment of Defense is already nervous, but not nervous enough. Wemay have dug our own grave. And now I think our worst fears may beabout to come true. Something funny seems to be happening, only I'm notsure 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 lastweek."

  "Go on." She heard somebody in the living room put on one of her oldBeatles albums--still the middle-ager's idea of hip.

  "Well, as always, I scheduled a stop at the Fifth Generation lab to getup to speed on how their effort's doing. But all of a sudden it seemsI'm too darned famous to be bothered with the shirtsleeve stuff. Itried to get in there for three days running. It was always thehonorable Stern-san this and the celebrated Stern-san that and you mustmeet the head of every damned ministry and we have to set up thisformal dinner and blah, blah, blah."

  "Allan, you're the Grand Old Man these days." She laughed. "Get used toit."

  "Wash out your mouth, Tamara Richardson. I'm not grand and I'm mostdecidedly not old." He sniffed. "No, it's as if they were very politelycutting me out. Okay, they didn't exactly say the project was off-limits now or anything, but there never seemed to be a convenient timeto drop by the lab."

  "Who knows? Maybe they just didn't want some American partisan pokingabout the place anymore."

  "Could be. But why? I'm scarcely a spy for DOD, or the CIA. They know Ionly do pure science. Okay, maybe I'm old- fashioned, but Dr. Yoshidaat least has always claimed to respect me for that. I used to spendhours with him going over his work there and vice versa. We swappedideas all the time.

  Now all of a sudden there's this smokescreen." He paused, sipped at hisbrandy, 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 FifthGeneration lab yourself, check around a bit. See if you can find outwhat's cooking."

  "Go to Tokyo?"

  "I realize it's a lot to ask, but who else can I turn to? Tam, you'rethe only person I know who could pull this off. You know thetechnology, and they respect you. Also, you understand the language.Maybe you can cut through all the politeness and the translated PR. Ifyou'd like a little per diem, I'll see if I can't shake loose the moneyfrom somewhere."

  "Allan, really, don't you think you're maybe going overboard just alittle. What if Dr. Yoshida was just tied up? The last time I visitedthe lab, he showed me everything, completely open."

  "Ho, ho." He set down his brandy, and his eyes hardened. "I stillhaven't told you the clincher. There's some new guy in charge now."

  "That's hard to believe. Yoshida practically invented the FifthGeneration Project. He's the director--"

  "That's just it. Kaput. All of a sudden he's not around anymore. Theysaid he's now 'technical adviser.' But you know what that really means.Removed. _Sayonara_. Promoted upstairs or downstairs or some damnthing. 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.' Thenew director is some bureaucrat by the name of Asano. I spent a littletime with the man, and I can testify he's a smoothie. Lots of piousgeneralities about 'technical cooperation.' But I got the distinctfeeling he didn't want to talk details with me. Actually, I wondered ifmaybe 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 usedto be a flunky with some government bureau

  over there. But now he's just been put in charge of the FifthGeneration 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 thanrun the lab. The "government bureau" he worked for was none other thanMITI, the Ministry of International Trade and Industry. In fact, atlast count he was Deputy Minister for Research and Planning, a top-ranked executive slot. Could this mean that Japan's ambitiousartificial intelligence effort was being moved in on by MITI, theirindustrial war room?

  "Allan, I'll tell you the truth. You may not have heard, but I'm in afight now at the university. I expect to win, but I've got a lot on mymind. Notes for the book. I can't just suddenly--"

  "Tam, I need your help. Look, maybe they've had some new breakthroughthat none of us ever imagined." He paused. "Just between us, I lifted astrange MITI memo I found lying around an office when Asana took me onan escorted tour up to the labs at Tsukuba Science City."

  She looked at him. "Was it classified?"

  "How would I know? There was something about it. My sixth sense told meit was a document nobody was supposed to see. When I get back toStanford, I plan to have a postdoc over in Physics make me a quicktranslation."

  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. "Nothingto bore you with at the moment. But if you can find out anything, we'llwrite it up as a report I can circulate around the Hill. This could beimportant, believe me. Already Cray has started having to buy criticalchips for its supercomputers from Japan. And while the Department ofDefense is pouring billions into research on semiconductors that willwithstand nuclear radiation, Japan is forging ahead on speed andminiaturization--what really counts. I think they could be about to haveus 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 ofyears ago at that Kyoto University symposium on

  Third World industrialization. He spent a lot of time trying to pick mybrain about our specialized silicon-chip manufacturing here. But hewasn't the slightest bit interested in artificial intelligence."

  "Well, prepare yourself for a surprise. He's plenty interested now. Andknowledgeable. But still, it's not like the Japanese to do somethinglike 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 theimplications. Was MITI setting up some new high-tech industrialassault? If the Fifth Generation had been taken over by Kenji and hisplanners . . . "Allan, let me think about this for a couple of days."

  "Don't think too long. I'm convinced somebody over there is suddenly ina very big hurry. I need to find out the real story. Am I just startingto go nuts in my old age? . . . Well, make that my prime." He graspedher hand for emphasis. "And you really should make it a point to seethis Asano fellow. If you already know him from somewhere, I'd saythat'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 panelmembers of a session he chaired to a late-night tour of the endlesstiny bars in Kyoto's Gion district. She remembered all the steamingsake and being ignored by flustered bar girls who were pretending thatanother woman wasn't around. They had no idea what to do about a memberof their own sex there in their sanctuary of male flattery. Kenapparently 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 seeminglyreserved 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 andbankers automatically bowed to the floor.

  A lot of sake later, after the other panel members had piled into a cabfor their hotel, she decided to show Kenji Asano a few things aboutwomen he wouldn't learn from giggling bar girls. She'd always heardthat 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 fieldresearch on the topic. After her own experience with Ken, though, shewasn't so sure. Still, it had been a passing thing. The next morningshe awoke in her own room in the Kyoto International and half tried totell herself it hadn't really happened--just a dream, a chimera of thesultry Kyoto night, brought on by all those quaint little side streetsand red paper lanterns.

  The truth was she still thought about him from time to time. He was atalented lover, she certainly recalled that part well enough, and hewas a charmer. In fact, she could use a little of that charm right thisminute.

  What she didn't admire was the organization he worked for: the infamousMITI. Behind a smokescreen of "fair trade" rhetoric, MITI's intentionsclearly were to extinguish systematically Japan's world competition,industry by industry. And so far they were batting a thousand. They'dnever once failed to knock off a designated "target." What was next?Had MITI finally concluded that, down the road, intelligent computerscould 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 backinto the living room, just in time to see the Simpsons out. Everybodyelse followed except for Dave, now perched by the windows and glaringout into the dark. She decided to ignore him as she walked over, openedone a crack, and looked down. In the park below, commerce was taperingoff 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 thekids in the playground down there. What to do? The damned shadows weregrowing longer by the minute. Maybe Dave wasn't so bad. Trouble was, heneeded 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 outDave, now slouched in the big chair by the lamp, his eyes closed. Helooked 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 thedoor, poured herself another cognac, and plopped down in the livingroom to think.

  All right, Allan. You've got a deal. Could be you're on to something. Iseem to remember there's a conference in Kyoto starting week after nexton supercomputers. Kenji Asano will probably show. Good time to catchhim 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 bestrictly off-the-record. She wrapped up some loose ends, called a fewpeople she knew in Tokyo, lined up half a dozen interviews that mightbe 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 therabbit hole. A fortnight later she was dining with the Emperor ofJapan.