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by its user produced one kind of current through the neural net, a “wrong” decision another kind of current. In this way the computer actually learned the functions required of it and how to best perform them without having to be configured for different software interfaces.
    “Though it looks as if Ricoh will be the first to market with a neural-net computer,” Nicholas said, “I’m convinced Chi will be far more advanced and will gain us market share very quickly after its introduction.”
    The early-morning meeting ended. Nangi rose, took up his walking stick, and went down the hall to his office.
    Nicholas spent the next hour and forty-five minutes calling his manufacturing managers in Bangkok, Singapore, Saigon, Kuala Lumpur, Indonesia, and Guangzhou, in southeastern China. It should have taken less than half the time, but the phone systems in such places were maddeningly inefficient, and he had to accustom himself to busy signals, being cut off in midsentence, and dialing one number and reaching an altogether different one. But these calls to what had once been remote, unvisited backwashes were becoming increasingly important.
    At last the arduous task of dealing with third-world telephone communication was done. He glanced at the time, then set about making a pot of green tea.
    He had just taken up the whisk when his private line rang. He put the heavy iron kettle down, stared at the phone. Too early in the morning for this line to be ringing, he thought. He picked up the receiver with a distinct sense of foreboding.
    “Moshi-moshi.’’
    “Mr. Linnear? Nicholas Linnear?” said an unfamiliar voice in his ear.
    “Who is calling?”
    “I represent Mikio Okami. Does the name mean anything to you?”
    Nicholas could feel his heartbeat, strong and heavy, in his throat. He fought to control his breathing. “How did you get this number?”
    “Mikio Okami extends his personal greetings,” the voice said. “Okami-san takes care of everything.” There was a brief pause, during which Nicholas was certain he could hear the other person breathing softly. “Okami-san wishes to—”
    Nicholas said, “Here is a phone number.” He reeled off eight digits. “Use it in ten minutes.”
    He took the first sixty seconds after replacing the phone to regain complete control of his breathing. Then he did five minutes of zazen. But even the meditation could not stop his mind from racing backward in time.
    Before Nicholas’s father had died, he told him that Mikio Okami was a friend of his—a very special friend. The Colonel had told Nicholas that he owed Okami his life, that if Okami should contact Nicholas, the situation would be such that Okami had no other recourse but to ask for Nicholas’s help.
    Now, after all these years, the call had come.
    Nicholas went out of his office, down the still-deserted corridor to the bank of elevators. The chairman’s elevator was waiting for him, patient as a loyal servant, but he wondered as he pressed the button for the mezzanine level where it was taking him this time.
    Nicholas and Nangi had decided to buy the mezzanine space in the Shinjuku Suiryu Building late last year, after an unconscionably overpriced French restaurant went bust. Since then, they had gutted the vast three-story space, installed their own interior walls, and begun work on an opulent nightclub called Indigo.
    The smells of lath and plaster, varnish, paint, and heated flex greeted Nicholas as he stepped off the elevator. The foreman recognized him at once, bowed, and handed him a hard hat, which Nicholas wordlessly put on. He went straight to a wall phone. He had only thirty seconds to wait before it rang.
    “Yes?”
    “Mr. Linnear.”
    “Speaking.”
    “Ah.” There was a great deal of emotion in that one brief exclamation. “I understand it is safe now to speak. I am gratified that we have connected so quickly.”
    Nicholas was gazing into a space composed of a series of curled-edged platforms large