“Well, great! It’s settled, then,” said Yuki with a sheepish look as he withdrew the hand that Onodera had grasped firmly a moment before. Then a broad, happy grin split his features. “The two of us are going to be together again.” Suddenly he seemed to recall something: “Say, do you know some girl named Reiko, I think? She’s been at the office looking for you.”
3
Onodera heard the news of the Hachijojima eruption submerged at a depth of 6,000 feet at a spot in the ocean about thirty miles northwest of Torishima. The message came by phone from the Yoshino at the surface, and because of noise he had difficulty understanding it. He was able to hear that the eruption had already claimed many victims among the island’s population of 12,000. And even as he received the message from the Yoshino 6,000 feet above, he felt a shock strike the Kermadic. The ascent that followed was a hazardous one, and when the derrick from the Yoshino had finally secured the Kermadic, Onodera saw that the surface of the sea was covered with pumice stone.
“Koshu blew, they say,” said one of the deck crew. “Some fishing boats got damaged a little. Imagine something like that erupting!”
“It looks as though we ought to get out of here as quick as we can,” said Onodera, wiping off his face with a towel. “Something’s stirring down there.”
“As soon as the recovery’s finished, we’re leaving,” said the crewman.
Onodera was in the communication room drinking a cup of coffee when, the Kermadic secured, the Yoshino got under way, this time on a different course. Sailing northeast, it cut through the waves at full steam, leaving the dangerous sea area behind it.
“What’s the Hachijo situation?” the technician who had been down with Onodera asked a radioman.
“They say that the Mount Nishi eruption killed two hundred people. And because they’re afraid of a still bigger eruption, Defense Force and private ships both are being sent there to take the people off.”
“The whole population?”
“Yes. It’ll amount to twelve thousand in all. The whole island. They can’t carry a thing with them. There are signs of eruptions on the other Izu Islands, too, and I understand that the people are being evacuated to Shizuoka.”
“A Sea Defense Force anti-submarine patrol plane has landed in our area,” said another operator. “It’s going to take off right away. Then it’s going to land beside us and pick up the data we’ve gathered, they say. They want us to guide them.”
The communication officer sent a message to the bridge, and the captain instructed the radar room. The plane was soon picked up on the radar screen, and the communication room directed it to the Yoshino’s position.
“Mr. Onodera,” said the operator in contact with the plane, “there’s someone named Kataoka on the patrol plane. He says that he wants you to go back with them.”
“Kataoka?” said Onodera, who was about to step out of the communication room.
Two or three crewmen ran past the door outside. Overhead the sound of motors was drawing closer. When Onodera stepped out upon the deck, the wind had grown stronger and the waves were covered with whitecaps. The four-motored flying boat began to make its descent extremely close to the ship.
Wearing a raincoat against the spray from the rough sea, Onodera got into a motor-driven rubber boat. It dipped so on the crossing that he had to cling to it to keep from being thrown out. He was covered with sweat by the time he climbed up into the plane. Once the documents had been transferred in a waterproof bag, the PS-1 began its takeoff run immediately. To Onodera it seemed as though it did no more than skip through two or three waves before the noise of the sea striking its hull was heard no more. Before he realized it, they were circling above the Yoshino.
On his way to the front of the plane along a rather narrow passageway packed with equipment, Onodera passed the radio room. There he saw Kataoka looking over the shoulder of a crewman. When he tapped him on the shoulder, Kataoka turned.
“Oh, hello,” he said, nothing more, and then he went back to peering at the instruments the crewman was manning.
“That’s what it is, all right,” the crewman muttered. “A big sub. In the four-thousand-ton class . . . probably bigger.”
“If it’s four thousand tons, it has to be a nuclear submarine,” said Kataoka, his voice dry and harsh. “It’s following the Yoshino, I suppose. At 850 yards . . . very close.”
“A submarine? Couldn’t it be the Uzushio?” Onodera asked. “It’s working with Plan D now, isn’t it?”
“The Uzushio? It’s by the Izu Peninsula now,” said Kataoka. “Besides, it’s too small. It’s no more than 1,850 tons.”
“I wonder what he’s up to,” said the crewman, twisting his head. “Is he spying on us?”
“He might be. It would be good to let the Yoshino know. Tell them it would be best to use only passive sonar and not tip their hand to the sub,” said Kataoka.
“It looks as though there are a lot of countries interested in what we’re doing,” Onodera muttered.
“Off to port—volcanic smoke!” cried a voice over the speaker.
They rushed to the observation window. Blown by a strong west wind, clusters of white cloud seemed to dot the dark blue surface of the sea below. Farther ahead, like the genie of the lamp in the Arabian Nights, dark brown volcanic smoke poured up from a small spot in the sea and then swelled into a spreading cloud which climbed steadily higher into the sky until it had soared into a great column towering over even the cumulus clouds. The patrol plane was at 15,000 feet, and even here the air seemed to tremble slightly at each explosion that echoed from below. When Onodera peered intently downward, he could see red flame flickering in the midst of the smoke. Ash and pumice stone rained down, lashing the sea on the east side of the volcano, as though a curtain of gauze were hung there. And in the midst of the swelling column of swirling brown smoke darted flashes of lightning. Small tidal waves slowly spread outward in concentric circles.
“Is that Smith Reef?” asked Onodera.
“No. Aogashima,” answered Kataoka. “Today’s the second big eruption. And with that, almost the whole island went.”
“Were there people on it?”
“About 270, I guess. Almost all of them died, they say. Some of them might have escaped in fishing boats, but it’s not certain.”
“What? They just let everybody die like that?”
“There were almost no ships in the area. According to the report of a passenger plane, the first eruption came just ten minutes after the island sent a message by wireless saying that there were signs of volcanic activity,” Kataoka explained, not a trace of emotion in his voice. “Unlike Jogashima, Aogashima is very much out of the way.”
How often was this to recur in time to come? Onodera wondered, feeling a chill gathering in his stomach. But on a scale thousands of times, millions of times as great as that of Aogashima.
“The entire Fuji volcanic belt is spouting fire,” said Kataoka, frowning and indicating the sea below with his chin. “There’ve been chain eruptions there before now, but never to this degree. Oh-oh! Look—over there’s the smoke from Hachijo.”
The plane continued to climb, tipping its huge wings. Beyond the tip of the right one, more volcanic smoke was rising. And to the north of Jogashima there was still more.
“And over there?” asked Onodera, feeling his voice catch in his throat.
“Miyakejima. About two hours ago a series of eruptions began, running from Akabakyo to Oyama. The birds knew it. This year they didn’t come back, apparently.”
“I see,” said Onodera softly, his tone as flat as Kataoka’s now.
The PS-1 had reached an altitude of 25,000 feet and was still climbing. As they went farther north, the clouds began to thin out and the sea to glow with the clear beauty that it showed in winter in this latitude. The Izu Islands, stretching from north to south, lay scattered upon a dark blue ocean, filling Onodera’s field of vision from the observation window from one end to another. From each
of the five islands a plume of black smoke rose high up into the clear sky. Caught by the west wind, the murky columns trailed off to the east. It was as though a line of great battleships was steaming grandly toward the north.
But the smoke was not from gallant warships. The column of islands had been shattered by a terrible destructive force thrusting its way upward from beneath the sea. Thrashing about in its death throes, it was on the verge of going under.
Onodera instinctively shut his eyes. And when he opened them again, clouds had covered the ill-omened scene, and in front of him was Mount Fuji rising like a white phantom against the dark blue of the sky.
“Niigata—in the Tomiyama region—an earthquake,” the speaker announced. “Medium intensity, its magnitude 7.0. Its epicenter forty miles north of Niigata. Depth thirty miles. A survey ship reported unusual elevation of the Yamato Rise.”
“Now it’s the Japan Sea coast, eh?” muttered Kataoka, glancing up at the speaker. “We’re getting hit from both sides.”
In the parlor of a villa belonging to a certain high government official, located in a suburb of Canberra called Red Hill, the Prime Minister of Australia had been sitting plunged in silence for nearly five minutes. His hairy hands, fingers linked, were thrust beneath his chin. The February heat was oppressive. And since the two other men present, the owner of the villa and a small, dark man, were also silent, the hum of a large air conditioner filled the room.
The Prime Minister began to tap his fingertips together, as though working to control something surging up within him. Then, like a huge tree being uprooted—he was more than six feet tall—he rose energetically from the low armchair in which he had been sitting. He linked his arms behind him and, keeping his eyes on the floor, walked slowly across the room. Then, hooking his thumbs behind the lapels of his coat, he turned toward his small-statured guest.
“Your story, Mr. Nozaki, is something to make the mind boggle. And the problem involved is a frightful one.”
The Japanese was short and thin, and his hair was nearly white. The fine wrinkles in his face and at the corners of his eyes gave him a tranquil look. His eyes were extraordinarily bright. He had obtained a secret interview with the Prime Minister by going through the man who was their host. There were less than a handful of people in the entire Commonwealth who knew that the Prime Minister would never refuse a request from this particular official. The Prime Minister had no idea how Nozaki knew of this nor why this old man had been so anxious to see him.
“As I imagine you’re well aware, the population of Australia has grown by nearly a million in the past ten years. It is now more than twelve million,” said the Prime Minister, beginning to move across the carpet again.
“I realize that,” said the old man, nodding, his bright eyes revealing nothing. “During the same period Japan experienced a population increase of some eight million. The total now stands at 110 million.”
“Roughly ten times ours,” said the Prime Minister, frowning.
“And in terms of population density, the rate is two hundred times that of your country.”
“But you realize, of course, that more than seventy percent of that is barren desert.”
The Prime Minister gathered his thoughts as he looked at the window. There was one topic that he now had no way of avoiding. A reddish moon had begun to rise in a dark blue sky, in which some trace of sunset lingered.
“Japan,” the Prime Minister muttered as though to himself. “I have worked to make this continent a land open to the world, a land of promise. My father and my grandfather, however, were men who championed a ‘White Australia,’ ” said the Prime Minister almost in a whisper as he took a cigar from his pocket and sniffed it. “At the beginning of this century, there was a gold rush in the North. Chinese laborers came pouring into the country. I don’t think that my father and grandfather were outright racists by any means. Just consider the circumstances. Australia was a continent with nothing but kangaroos and aborigines, a continent to which criminals were banished. The whites shipped here raised sheep and cattle in the well-nigh unlimited open spaces, and bit by bit they developed areas in which a man could live decently. Now, these unruly and unsettled Chinese laborers were not the sort to fit into this kind of world. And this uneasy situation was aggravated still further by the Oriental-exclusion movement, which was then at its height throughout the world. Thus came about the immigration restrictions and a certain measure of tragedy.”
The Prime Minister smiled wryly. He felt somewhat vexed toward this old man, Nozaki, who, almost without saying anything at all, had steered the conversation in this direction.
“So, then,” said the Prime Minister, finally putting a match to his cigar, “what is the extent of what you wish?”
“The first stage, a million people,” said the old man calmly. “For the future, should it be possible, we would like you to be kind enough to accept some five million.”
The Prime Minister was silent for a long time. He inhaled to draw the match flame into the tip of his cigar. Five million people? That would be forty-five percent of the population of Australia. Australia would become more than one-third Oriental!
“A million—that’s about nine percent of our population,” said the Prime Minister, blowing out a huge cloud of smoke. “And that would be in ... a two-year period?”
“Perhaps it might have to be quicker.” For the first time a trace of something that might have been anxiety appeared on the old man’s face. “If possible, we would like to begin bringing in the first contingent before the year is out—a hundred thousand, say. The idea would be a settlement in an undeveloped section of the interior.”
“That could present some problems,” said the official, breaking silence. “Without some adroit maneuvering, there’d be no getting Parliament to approve something like a settlement. Our country, you see, is very much attached to setting its own pace.”
“Wait a moment—perhaps we can carry it out,” said the Prime Minister, abruptly taking the cigar from his mouth as though something had occurred to him. “There’s the North-South railroad.”
“Ah, yes,” said the official. “There are still no firm plans for the section from Tea Tree to Newcastle Waters, are there? It would be a matter of opening that up to international bidding, and then having Japan take it with far and away the most favorable bid.”
“There remains the possibility that whatever we do will be too late,” said the old man. “What would you say to this, gentlemen? Japan will provide credit backing at the most favorable terms possible, and Australia will see to the rapid implementation of the plan. We shall, of course, bring our own equipment.
We shall put our technical skill in railroad construction at your service without reserve. We only ask that you obtain without delay—say, within the next six months—the approval of your Parliament.”
“But if we go at it too hastily, if you give us conditions that are too favorable, might not that stir some suspicion in this country?” said the official.
“Perhaps we can provide a reason. Because of the recent series of earthquakes, the Japanese government is carrying on a full-scale inspection of the Super Express network, and, consequently, work on the new Super Express line has been virtually halted. And so, in order to put to profitable use what had been set aside for that project, we offer it to Australia. And we shall, of course, pursue like negotiations with Africa, South America, and so forth.”
It’s something worth doing, thought the Prime Minister. There was no doubt that the enterprise would be a profitable one. There would come a vast influx of energetic, earnest, and well-educated workers with varied technical skills, of equipment of the most advanced kind, and of capital goods. And then it would happen that the country to which payment was to be made would be wiped from the face of the earth. . . . But the Prime Minister’s mind was far from at ease. What sort of shadow would be cast upon the future of his country?
“Still and all, a hundred thousand people at o
ne stroke might be too much of a strain,” said the Prime Minister, shaking his head. “And then a settlement of a million... Well, what I mean, there are pertinent laws in the context of all humanity. What of the United Nations? Of course, I suppose you have already become active in that regard.”
“We have had three confidential meetings with the Secretary General. We have begun to approach the various nations who are permanent members of the Council. However, the truth is that the United Nations simply does not wield power enough to cope with a matter of this sort. Right at the moment, we are conducting secret negotiations of our own with the American President, with South America, and with several countries in Africa. Beyond a doubt, our aspirations are self-centered, of course. What I must do—rather, what my country must do is to come to you, to come to all the nations of the world, to go down on our knees and make an earnest plea that you come to our aid. On the brink of disaster, the people of my country are pleading through me that, somehow, their lives may be spared.”
The old man’s tone had become fervent. It seemed as though at any instant his emotions might burst through the barrier he had set. Perhaps he might cry out, shed tears, actually fall to his knees, grasp the Prime Minister’s legs, and beg in heart-rending fashion.
In fact, however, he sat on his chair, his knees neatly aligned, his hands resting upon them. There was even something like a smile upon his tranquil face. But those eyes of his were shining with a more earnest brightness than before, a fire kindled by the tragic intensity of his plea.
What incredible self-discipline, thought the Prime Minister. How few men there are today with control of this kind! The quality that characterized the whole peculiar race—at least, those of it whom the Prime Minister had had personal relations with—was this incredibly strong self-discipline which held all emotion in check behind the famous “inscrutable smile.” And might not this be a drawback in international society, this unwillingness to cry out with an earnest plea? This eschewing of emotion?
Japan Sinks Page 13
