The car behind him tooted. The line inched forward. He chucked the cigarette, started the engine, and drove off.
The next thing Eleanor knew was the car shuddering to a halt. She peered out, trying to rub what felt like hot sand from her eyes.
“This isn’t the lab.” They were parked near an overhead railway line. As if in confirmation, a train with an orange stripe rattled past, drowning out Ishihara’s answer. That was the Loop line, which ran through many of the last undeveloped areas in Osaka.
Ishihara was getting out of the car. “I’m hungry, aren’t you?” He slammed the door. The automatic closing mechanism booped in protest.
She got out of the car to face him over the hood. “I told you, I need to get back to Tomita. If you won’t drive me, I’ll call a taxi.”
“It’s half-six,” he said firmly. “I’m knackered. You’re knackered. Let’s have a decent meal, and I’ll get you to your lab by eight.”
Damn the man, he was right. She could feel fatigue dragging her down like a lead cape. If she didn’t eat before she got to the lab, she’d be too busy later. The budget committee meeting wasn’t until 2:00 P.M. She’d still have time for last-minute details.
A cool breeze stirred the still air. At this time of the day it was almost pleasant. Some of the little shops under the rails were already open. Shoe shops, dress material shops, knife-sharpeners and key-turners, pawnshops, secondhand bookshops, family-owned noodle stands; all tolerating the constant vibration and noise of the trains for the sake of the cheap rent. On the other side of the street a man in shorts and undershirt swept dust from the entrance to his blue tent.
Ishihara crossed the narrow street and pushed aside a hanging cloth that said BAR HEY! He had to bend to avoid banging his head on the lintel.
“Irrasshei!” called a deep, sleepy voice. The man behind the counter was shorter than Eleanor, but made up for it in width, like a deeply tanned wall. He tossed Ishihara a hot towel and wiped his own face with another.
“I’m not open for another twelve hours, you know. Next time you drop in unexpectedly, do it at night.” Then his eyes widened as he caught sight of Eleanor.
“This is unexpected, Detective. Never seen you with a beautiful woman before.” He gave a gap-toothed grin. “Never seen you with a woman before.”
Eleanor bobbed her head to cover her embarrassment and squeezed in beside Ishihara at a tiny table beside the counter stools. The shop contained only the counter, five stools, and the one table. Plus working space for one behind the counter. Every centimeter of space from low ceiling to floor was used, with racks of bottles and utensils lining the wall behind the counter.
The owner placed a hot towel in front of Eleanor. She buried her face in it with a barely suppressed groan of pleasure and rubbed away the memories of the night before.
“What’ve you got for breakfast?” said Ishihara.
The owner disappeared behind the counter for a moment. “Rice.” He popped up again. “Soup. I can fry you an egg, do you some pickles and a seaweed salad.” He looked at Eleanor uncertainly, as though she might order French champagne.
“That’s fine,” she said, and he relaxed.
Along the walls vertical wooden slats carried menu items in neat calligraphy. She hadn’t been in a small bar like this since her student days. Most of the downtown bars nowadays were automated. You pushed the buttons and let it scan your cash card, then picked the food up from the appropriate slot.
“Your Japanese is good.” The owner placed cups of steaming green tea and bowls of pickles and salad for each of them on the table. His observation didn’t carry the typical undertones of surprise and faint censure, so she was disappointed when he added, “Better than mine, in fact.”
She hated that phrase, first for its patent impossibility and second because there was no polite response except a deprecating negative.
“I’m Motoki, by the way,” he added. “Taira Motoki. That’s why the bar’s named Hey.” He looked at her slyly to see if she’d get the pun. She did, after a minute or two. The character for Taira could also be pronounced “hei.”
Ishihara drank his tea in surly silence. That suited her. When the rice, soup, and eggs came, they both ate in silence, too. The soup was thick and salty, the eggs rich, and the seaweed—sweet, salty, and vinegary at the same time—slid down her throat easily. Wonderful, wonderful food. The world began to slide back into perspective.
Ishihara pushed his chair back all the ten centimeters it could move and lit a cigarette. The only sound was the low hum of a wall fan and the muted babble of voices from the television above the counter. And the regular roar of trains nearly overhead. Eleanor couldn’t stop herself from yawning hugely. God, she was tired.
“So, why robots?” Ishihara tilted his head back and blew smoke at the ceiling.
She turned the soy container round and round as she tried to remember one of her formula answers.
“I can see why you’d want to make something like that welder,” he went on. “The one at the factory. It’s useful. Does the dirty and dangerous work for us. But you make those walking robots, don’t you. The ones that are supposed to look like humans. What use are they?”
First Akita, now Ishihara. Why couldn’t they leave her alone?
“I started in industrial robotics. That’s why they called me out to Kawanishi. I started researching humanoid robots because … because they’re like us, I guess. They learn.”
“Learn what? What’s your robot going to do when it grows up?”
Eleanor had a brief vision of a taller Sam in a business suit, its camera eyes bulging as it sat at a desk. She smiled. Ishihara stared at her.
“What’s so funny?”
She caught Motoki grinning as he sloshed dishes around in the sink behind the counter.
“Nothing. Just the way you said ‘grow up.’”
Ishihara waited for an answer. His questions surprised her—she’d been prepared for the usual curiosity about her personal life, but not philosophy.
“I suppose once a humanoid robot is developed,” she said slowly, “its role will be companion for humans beings.”
“Or slaves?”
“That’s very cynical.”
“Comes with my job.” He stubbed out his cigarette and slurped the remainder of his tea.
“But development of humanoid robots on a commercial scale is still decades ahead.” And may never happen at all, she thought gloomily, if companies like Tomita decide it’s not worthwhile. “I do it… because I enjoy the process of research, rather than anticipate the result.”
He cocked his head at her. “Like the physicists who developed the theory of the atomic bomb. They were only enjoying the research, I bet.”
Motoki stopped washing dishes.
Eleanor’s cheeks went cold with anger. “That’s an unfair comparison. My robots aren’t destructive. And if you follow that line of thought, we’d have no scientific progress at all.”
Ishihara leaned back in his chair again, seemingly amused. “I’m just interested in why you do your job. What does your husband think about all this?” He waved his hand at the bar. “Working all night.”
“He knows it’s my job.” Eleanor apologized internally to Masao. He hated her staying late at work. “What does your wife think about you staying late?”
“I’m divorced,” he said shortly.
That answered her question. “Children?” she inquired, as people always did in Japan.
“No.” His flat tone didn’t change, but some emotion tightened his cheeks briefly. He stood up abruptly and squeezed past the table.
“Don’t step on my futon,” Motoki called after him as he disappeared through a bamboo curtain at the back of the shop. Motoki began to clear their empty plates from the table.
“It was very nice,” said Eleanor inadequately.
“Don’t mind Ishihara-san, you know.” He paused in loading their teacups onto a tray. “He’s an okay bloke under all that grouc
hiness. He’ll stand by you if he thinks you’re all right. He did by me.”
“In what way?”
He paused before continuing. She got the impression it was a painful memory.
“Years ago I got into trouble with some moneylenders and Ishihara helped me out. First time I realized there are such things as straight cops.”
Eleanor hadn’t considered the alternative to “straight cops.”
Ishihara returned, wiping his hands on a crumpled handkerchief. “Let’s go. I’ve got another case to get back to.”
She was struck by the way his expression tightened and his stoop straightened as he said that. It struck her that for all Ishihara’s criticism of her overwork, they were very much alike.
Masao called her that evening as she and her team tidied up the lab after the demonstration. He seldom called her at work, and she stared at the screen in surprise.
“Are you nearly done?” A vertical line of worry scored between his brows. He was calling from their kitchen. She could see dirty dishes stacked on the bench top, something he’d normally never tolerate.
“I’m about to leave. I left a message earlier this afternoon…”
“That’s okay.” He waved his hand to dismiss that problem, and she realized it wasn’t worry about her. “I got a call from Kazu. Something’s come up. Can you meet me at their place?”
“Tonight?” Her head spun at the thought. All she wanted to do was crawl into her futon in her nice, cool Betta.
“It’s urgent.” His normally ruddy face looked quite sallow. “I’ll see you there.” The screen went blank before she had a chance to say good-bye. Completely unlike Masao. What could be wrong at the Tanakas’?
“McGuire-san.”
She spun her chair. Division Manager Izumi stood beside her desk. He glanced around at the now-deserted lab. The clutter on the benches had been ordered somewhat, and Sam and the service bot stood recharging side by side, an unmatched pair.
“The committee did not sound positive,” he said.
“No.” They’d sat in her lab in their dark suits like a row of carrion crows waiting to peck the project apart.
Izumi looked at her over his glasses with his deceptively gentle gaze. “I do not think they will recommend that funding for this project be renewed.”
“No.” Even though Sam had performed perfectly, as if it knew what was at stake. “What am I supposed to do now?” she said bitterly. “Design smart toilet seats for Bettas?”
Izumi didn’t even blink, and she felt guilty for venting her frustration on him. He’d invested as much in the project as anyone. She leaned forward. “Tell me, Chief. Do you personally believe we should cut basic research to fund immediately profitable applications?”
She didn’t really expect him to answer. But she hoped he would. If she couldn’t get honesty from Izumi, whom she’d known for fifteen years …
Izumi aligned the bottom edge of a wayward file with the edge of the desk.
“What I believe doesn’t matter. McGuire-san, you must understand that this company can no longer afford the luxury of research that brings no results for decades. We will be lucky if we survive with any research facilities intact at all.”
“Survive what?”
He looked at her directly this time. “Everything is changing. First it was the end of lifetime employment, then the rise of contractors, then the offshore outsourcing of products. Now the Seikai reforms are pushing us all back inside. Soon we’ll be as isolated as we were in the Edo period. Or as the U.S. is today.”
He smiled at Eleanor’s expression. She looked down, embarrassed at being caught staring at him with her mouth open. She’d rarely heard him talk so forcefully about anything.
“My apologies, McGuire-san. I speak metaphorically. You have heard of the Merger Scheme?”
“Ye-es.” Something to do with encouraging intrafield cooperation among large companies, for the sake of Betta construction. Build a better Betta rang the appalling jingle. A Betta life for all.
“I predict that Tomita, as we know it, will cease to exist in about five years.” He sighed. “You did not hear me say this, by the way.”
She nodded. He might be wrong, of course. And if he wasn’t, where did that leave her? She’d almost prefer making parts in the Tanaka family business to designing Betta (ha-ha) toilet seats.
“A restructure plan is under way.” He said the words too precisely, which meant that he disapproved. “I suggest we develop some aspect of this project into a new proposal that takes advantage of the change. Perhaps we could concentrate on the perambulatory balance mechanism. Or perhaps the sensory processing. I believe we have a unique record in this area.”
That was a good idea. They could use as much as possible from the Sam project to start a new one. Possibilities for a new proposal crowded her mind. And … she sat frozen in excitement. The sensory processing could be greatly enhanced if what Akita had hinted in his e-mails was true. He had found a reliable way to transfer sensory feedback into the neural net. She’d have to meet him and find out more.
“McGuire-san?”
“I beg your pardon. I was thinking.”
“The lab is tidy,” he said kindly. “I suggest you go home and get some rest. We’ll discuss it in the morning.”
“I’ll do that. Good night.”
“Good night.” Izumi’s gray head disappeared down the corridor.
Eleanor opened her e-mail. Better to contact Akita immediately, before the tension of the past few days caught up with her. He hadn’t replied to her previous e-mail.
Sender: E. McGuire
Subject: Discussion
Akita-san
Please excuse my previous e-mail. I have been under some pressure lately and perhaps did not consider your query in the spirit in which it was offered.
That should smooth any ruffled feelings.
I would very much like to discuss with you your research on sensory input for synthetic neural networks with a possible prospect of collaboration in this field. Can you call me please? My private number is 993654110 if you need to reach me out of business hours.
Looking forward to hearing from you.
Eleanor McGuire
To get to the Tanaka house she had to catch three trains, one of which was the Loop line she’d seen that morning with Ishihara. It seemed such a long time ago. Every time her eyes drooped shut on the train, an image of Nakamura’s crumpled body flashed in front of her, and she jerked awake.
The rattling train, the grimy stations, the heat outside, the crowded alleys and neon-encrusted buildings around the stations transported her back in time to her early days at the company, before they moved to the Betta. Without the energy to feel uncomfortable, she drifted blankly through the crowds, ignoring the stares and comments.
“Ellie, over here.” Masao was waiting for her at the exit. He peered at her face in concern mixed with exasperation. “You haven’t slept, have you.” He took her arm and steered her past waiting taxis and the blaring music and lights of a pachinko parlor, away from the station and through the ill-lit streets. The heat sink of concrete and asphalt swallowed them.
“What’s wrong?” she said, as soon as the pachinko music was behind them.
“It’s Mari-chan. They can’t find her.”
“Has she gone off somewhere with her friends?”
“Not with any of the friends we can find.”
Eleanor forced her aching head to think back to Sunday. “She got a phone call on Sunday afternoon. I had the impression it was from a boyfriend. Could she have gone away with him?”
“It’s not that simple.” Masao stopped in the white streetlight near the old milk factory, where Kazu had failed in his bid to escape Grandpa’s control.
“The police called. They think she might be part of a religious group.”
“What kind of a religious group?”
“Some postmillennial cult called the Silver Angels. I looked it up in the university database while I
was waiting for you. All the database says is ‘possibly apocryphal group classified in the neo-Buddhist area.’”
“Surely Mari’s not that stupid.”
He shook his head. “Kazu said two girls from Mari’s school have been killed. The police think it might be something to do with the group.”
“Killed? How?” Sharp pangs of worry began to penetrate the fatigue-sodden sponge of her mind. Over the past couple of decades, ever since the Soum cases of the nineties and early twenty-first century and the Happy Universe disaster of 2004, everyone in Japan knew what happened to people who ran afoul of the cults.
“The police won’t tell exactly, although they did say it was probably an accident. I’ll look up more information on these people,” he continued. “It’s possible they’re not a real cult. Sometimes the police get the wrong idea. Or they want the group to be a cult so they can quote the Religious Protection laws against them.”
“What does that mean?”
“If the courts recognize the group as a cult, the police can use a much wider range of search and interrogation powers than if it was, say, a group of kids getting together to play weird games.”
Eleanor hoped it was the latter. “Let’s go. Mari might be home already.”
They hurried on through the hot streets.
Mari was not home.
“Her phone is disconnected, she’s not answering mail.” Yoshiko twisted her plump hands around a wiping cloth. Her eyes were red and swollen. “Kazu went to her apartment. The landlady told him Mari moved out months ago. Why didn’t she tell us if she was in trouble?”
“Yoshiko-san, calm down.” Grandpa folded his arms magisterially on the other side of the kitchen table. “I’m sure it’s all a mistake.”
He didn’t explain how it could be a mistake, not if Mari had moved out long ago. Eleanor hoped Mari had merely moved into a boyfriend’s flat and wanted some time free of her family.
Less Than Human Page 12
