The Fifth Profession

expected more. Never assume that because a stranger addresses you in his native language he doesn't understand your own.” Taro glared.

Savage's face burned. “I apologize. I was foolish and rude.”

“And more important, careless,” Taro said. “Unprofessional. I was about to compliment whoever trained you. Now…”

“Blame the student, not the teacher,” Savage said. With distress, he remembered Graham's corpse behind the steering wheel of his Cadillac, acrid exhaust fumes filling his garage, while he drove for all eternity. “The fault is mine. Nothing excuses my behavior. I beg your forgiveness, Taro-sensei.

The old man's glare persisted, then slowly dimmed. “Perhaps you redeem yourself… You learned from your instructor to admit mistakes.”

“In this case,” Savage said, “with regard to information about your country, my instructor was Akira. But again blame the student, not the teacher. He warned me to be careful not to give offense. I'll try harder to behave like a Japanese.”

“By all means,” Taro said. “Try. But success will elude your grasp. No outsider, no gaijin, can ever truly understand… and hence behave like… a Japanese.”

“I don't discourage easily.”

Taro's wrinkled lips tightened, possibly in a smile. He addressed Akira in Japanese.

Akira replied.

Taro turned to Savage. “I'm told you're a serious man. What we call ‘sincere,’ a word that should not be confused to mean your strange Western custom of pretending that your public thoughts and private thoughts are identical.” The old man debated. “I may have been hasty. Your offense is forgiven. I invite you to accept my humble hospitality. Perhaps you and your principal would care to enjoy some tea.”

“Yes, very much,” Savage said. “Fear has a habit of making my mouth dry.” He gestured toward Taro's sword and did his best to make his eyes crinkle, trying to sound respectful, humble, and ironic all at once.

“Hai” Taro inflected the word so it seemed a laugh. “Please”-he bowed-”come.”

As Taro led Savage, Rachel, and Akira toward the swordsmen at the rear of the dojo, the old man motioned subtly with his hand. Instantly, in unison, the hooded figures sheathed their blades. The combined slippery sound, the high-pitched metallic ssss of polished steel against steel, again made Savage's skin prickle.

“Taro-sensei, a question,” Savage said. “I'm troubled. But please understand, I mean no offense in asking.”

“You have my permission,” the old man said.

“When we entered, after you recognized that we weren't enemies…” Savage hesitated. “I can understand why you wanted to test us. You needed to know how we'd react when apparently threatened, to determine if you could depend on us. Outsiders. Gaijin. But even so…” Savage frowned. “There was no guarantee I wouldn't panic. Suppose I'd lost my nerve and started shooting, even though I didn't have an escape plan and hence would have wasted ammunition that I might have needed later. Many of these men would have died.”

“Your question is wise,” Taro said. “But the test had controls.”

“Oh? In what way? I'm sure these men are superbly Skilled, their swords unbelievably fast, but not as fast as a bullet.”

“If you'd raised your weapon…”

Taro didn't need to complete his sentence. As Savage approached the rear of the dojo, he saw two men concealed behind the row of swordsmen…

And each man held a tautly strung bamboo bow, a fiercely barbed arrow strung, ready at any instant to be fired.

Yes, Savage thought. If I'd seemed about to shoot, I'd never have had a chance to pull the trigger.

In a rush, another question insisted, but he forced himself not to ask. Cold sweat trickled down his back. Would the archers have shot to disable his gun arm?

Or to kill?

10

“Taro-sensei's building is self-sufficient,” Akira explained.

They sat, cross-legged, on cushions at a low cypress table. The small room had latticed paper-thin walls with exquisite pen-and-ink drawings hanging upon them. It reminded Savage of Akira's home.

In an obvious display of deference, Taro dismissed a servant and poured tea into small, thin, beautifully painted ceramic cups, each depicting a colorful scene from nature (a waterfall, a blossoming cherry tree) with a minimum of brush strokes.

Akira continued explaining. “The fifth floor, of course, is the dojo. On the other floors, there are dormitories, a shrine, a library, a cooking and eating area, a shooting range… everything that Taro-sensei's students need to attempt to perfect their spirits, minds, and bodies, to make them as one.”

Akira paused to pick up his cup, placing his left hand under it, using his right hand to support the cup on one side. He sipped the tea and savored it. “Perfect, Tam-sensei.”

Savage watched Akira carefully and imitated the way he gripped the cup. Prior to their leaving America, Akira had explained the protocol of the tea ceremony. Its sanctified tradition dated as far back as the fourteenth century. Influenced by Zen Buddhism, the ritualistic sharing of tea was intended to produce a condition of purity, tranquillity, and harmony known in Japanese as wabi. When strictly performed, the ceremony took several hours and incorporated a minimum of three locations and servings, accompanied by various foods. The tea-master prepared each serving, adding tea to hot water and whipping it with a bamboo whisk. Conversation was limited to gentle, soothing topics. The participants felt freed from time and the turmoil of the outside world.

On this occasion, the ceremony had been starkly abbreviated. Of necessity. But respect for the ritual still applied. Noting the solemnity of Akira and his sensei, Savage quelled his urgent questions and raised the gleaming cup to his lips, inhaling the fragrance of the steaming tea, sipping the clear, delicately flavored liquid. “My spirit feels comforted, Taro sensei.” Savage bowed.

“This quenches the thirst in my soul,” Rachel added. “Arigato, Taro- sensei.”

Taro chuckled. “My not-inadequate student”-he indicated Akira-”taught you well.”

Akira's brown face became tinged with a blushing red. He lowered his eyes in humility.

“It's rare to meet a civilized gaijin.” Taro smiled and lowered his cup. “Akira mentioned a library in this building. Most sensei would never allow their students to read. Thought interferes with action. Words contaminate reflex. But ignorance is itself an enemy. Facts can be a weapon. I would never permit my students to read works of fantasy. Novels”-he gestured with disparagement-“though poetry is another matter, and I encourage my students to expand their spirits by composing haiku and studying such classic examples as those by the incomparable Matsuo Basho. But books of information are mostly what my students read. History, in particular that of Japan and America. Manuals of weaponry, both ancient and modern. The principles of locks, intrusion detectors, electronic surveillance equipment, and various other tools of their craft. Also languages. I require each of my students to be skilled in three, apart from Japanese. And one of those languages must be English.”

Savage glanced surreptitiously at Akira, at last understanding how his counterpart had acquired so impressive a fluency in English. But why the emphasis on English? Savage wondered. Because English was pervasive throughout the world? Or because of America 's victory in World War Two? Why did Akira's expression become more melancholy as Taro emphasized that his students had to be expert in America 's history and language?

Taro stopped talking and sipped his tea.