When the medical workers returned, Ino asked one of them where Phobos was in relation to Mars. The worker, a middle-aged woman who reminded Ino of his mother’s younger sister, said she did not know. She offered to ask Mr. Shigemura, a manager in technology development who maintained frequent communication with Mars’ surface.
Mr. Ino thanked the worker for her assistance.
Mr. Shigemura arrived at Mr. Ino’s bedside shortly. They exchanged greetings and Mr. Ino repeated his inquiry. Based on information provided by Mr. Shigemura, Mr. Ino realized that he would be able to reach Nirgal Vallis by radio very shortly. He enlisted Mr. Shigemura’s assistance in gaining access to a Phobos-Mars radio link.
This, Mr. Ino realized, was itself a risky business. If Manager Matsuda or Deputy Manager Sumiyoshi knew that he was in direct communication with Mr. Matsuzaki at Nirgal, they might well suspect that he was onto them, and take drastic action against him. This was their base, operated by their staff. Ino was on his own.
He sensed in Shigemura a trustworthy and moral character, and decided to run the risk of trusting him. He asked Shigemura to keep confidential the fact that he was providing assistance to Ino. Shigemura agreed.
When the link was completed, Ino, speaking still from his sick bed, asked to speak with Mr. Matsuzaki.
Misfortune!
Ino learned that Mt. Matsuzaki was not at Nirgal Vallis. He had traveled by surface vehicle to attend a planning meeting with Shin Kisaburo, his counterpart at Tithonius Chasma in the Marineris region. Ino knew of Kisaburo, although he had never met him.
He requested Mr. Matsuzaki’s office to patch the call through to Mr. Matsuzaki in Tithonius. He did not wish to terminate the call and place another; further, he was uncertain of being able to reach Tithonius directly at this time, and he did not want to let precious hours pass before he reached Mr. Matsuzaki.
The call was completed, although the extra link added static and reduced the quality of the signal. Still, he was able to understand Matsuzaki, and to make himself understood.
Mr. Matsuzaki asked if all was well, and what progress he was making in the Inada investigation.
Ino’s thoughts flew like bolts of lightning. Matsuzaki’s question meant that Matsuda had not communicated with him, despite his statement that he intended to do so. Ino feared that this call might be monitored by Matsuda or Sumiyoshi. He dared not speak openly, yet he wanted desperately to let Matsuzaki know the situation on Phobos.
He switched from standard Japanese to the dialect of northern Hokkaido, emphasizing the peculiar pronunciation and local idioms as much as possible. He could not be certain, but he knew that it was highly likely that no one else on Phobos could understand the northern Hokkaido dialect. He was fairly sure that his conversation with Mr. Matsuzaki would be incomprehensible to anyone on Phobos who overheard.
As succinctly as possible, Ino told Mr. Matsuzaki his experiences since arriving on Phobos. He included not only the attack upon himself and his narrow brush with death, but also his discovery of the secret laboratory in the Russian station, the presence there of the miniature Face and the computer, and the grisly find of Miss Inada’s body in the Stickney crater.
To Ino’s chagrin, Mr. Matsuzaki showed less interest in Ino’s investigation of Miss Inada’s disappearance and his own near brush with death than in his discovery of the laboratory in the Russian station and the miniature Face and computer that Ino had found there. He insisted on the most detailed description of the Face. He seemed bitterly disappointed by Ino’s having lost the Face and the computer records that presumably related to it. He was most pleased with the information that Ino had made visual records of the Face, and that the recorder in his tool kit had not been lost.
Even as the conversation took place, Ino experienced a moment of panic. Where was his tool kit? It was on a shelf beneath his bed! Mr. Matsuzaki instructed Ino to safeguard the record of the Face at all cost.
Ino asked Mr. Matsuzaki what course he was to follow, and particularly what insight Mr. Matsuzaki could offer with regard to the miniature Face.
Taking care to speak in as obscure a fashion as possible, Mr. Matsuzaki told Ino what had been discovered at Cydonia.
Laser X-ray photography had been applied to the Face and a hollow chamber had been located deep within the rock. High-definition laser X-rays had determined that the chamber was filled with miniature replicas of the Face.
What could this possibly mean? Ino asked.
Mr. Matsuzaki said that he did not know. No one was certain. He and Mr. Kisaburo were discussing the problem, with advice from the technicians who had made the discovery. Several theories had been offered:
That the Face was not really a representation of the head of a humanoid being, but was in fact a fossilized whole body of a creature that only coincidentally resembled a human face…. In this case, the miniature Heads were nothing less than the unborn young—hinin!
That the Face was a cultural artifact, left behind by ancient Martians, with the miniature Faces a form of data redundancy designed to transmit the same message as the great Face.... In this case, perhaps the theory of ancient Martian immigrants to Earth was correct.
That the Face was a message from aliens, not Martians, but “third party” hinin, intended to be received by Martians but instead found by Earth-based explorers long after the extinction of the Martians.... In this case, the miniature Heads might be redundant data records—or might contain additional data of incalculable importance.
That the Face was a record created by long-forgotten travelers from Earth.... The old and laughingly discredited notion of “ancient astronauts” was thus revived, but with the twist that the astronauts were members of a terrestrial civilization that rose to the heights of space travel, then fell to such a depth that its very existence was forgotten by later generations.
There were other notions, but all turned out to be variations on those four.
Ino was affected by the obvious excitement of Matsuzaki’s narrative, but he was torn by anxiety over his own situation. He asked, “What is the source of the Face that I found in the Russian space station?”
Mr. Matsuzaki said, “We must recover the Face at all costs. If we study its composition, we should be able to learn at least whether it originated on Mars or on Phobos.”
“But why was the secret laboratory created in the Russian station? And why was Miss Inada killed?”
A long groan escaped Mr. Matsuzaki. Across the thousands of kilometers of vacuum, Ino could feel it. He shuddered. Mr. Matsuzaki said, “The finds have been kept secret as much as possible, but word must surely have got back to Earth. Yashi gurentai are involved.”
“Gangsters! Collectors!”
“Yes! You know that great art collectors have coveted rarities in all ages. Paintings, sculptures, manuscripts have been the subject of theft by gumi and machi-yakko for centuries. Think of what some kuromako sitting in his mansion in Tokyo would give for that miniature Face. I believe you have uncovered the most dangerous and far-flung smuggling ring of all time. They are out to steal that Face for a kuromako and sell it to him for a fortune—or present it to him as a token of fealty!”
Ino felt cold. His body shook and his hands quivered. “What do I do?”
Mr. Matsuzaki said, “I will send assistance to you, but in the meantime you must deal with the situation yourself.”
“You have no further instructions?” Ino was appalled. He felt betrayed, abandoned.
“Have you met Mrs. Itagaki?”
“Briefly.”
“I have known her for many years. Before she was married, we—but never mind that. I would trust her in any circumstance. Talk with her. Use my name.”
The conversation ended.
The spacesuit Ino had worn during his outing had been removed, surely to be examined and tested before being returned to service. His own clothing, torn and blood-soaked, had been removed. Ino had no idea where it had been taken, but he was able to dress in the simple
blouse, trousers, and sandals that most of the station personnel used.
To his amazement no one interfered with him as he dressed in an outfit removed from a storage cabinet. Before he was able to leave sick bay he was confronted with the looming presence of Eiji Sumiyoshi.
For a moment Sumiyoshi glared at Ino in silence.
Ino sat back on the edge of his bed.
Sumiyoshi was carrying a lidded work-box with him. It gave him the look of a busy bureaucrat, hustling from task to task with files of important work, stopping to pay a brief duty-call on an injured person. He placed the work-box on the floor beside Ino’s bed, then seated himself in a visitor’s chair.
Ino hardly knew what to say to the deputy manager. Should he confront him, accuse him? Sumiyoshi towered over Ino; with his massive frame and thick muscles, he could overpower Ino in a moment. But even beyond personal confrontation, Ino was relatively powerless; Sumiyoshi was the second in command of the entire station, could call for assistance at any moment.
Mr. Matsuzaki had said that he was sending help. But what help? And how quickly?
Sumiyoshi might not know how much Ino had learned, how much he had deduced. And if Sumiyoshi attacked Ino, even had him killed, he must know that there would be a further investigation at Mr. Matsuzaki’s insistence.
“How are you feeling?” Sumiyoshi growled.
The banal question coming on the heels of the ominous silence caused Ino to laugh. He thought quickly, decided that Sumiyoshi had chosen to play a game of bland innocence. He of the flower cards!
“My back pains me, but not so badly that I cannot bear it.”
“What happened?”
“I fell into Stickney crater. I felt a pain in my back. I don’t know what it was—maybe a micrometeorite.”
“And it knocked you into the crater?”
“I was lucky. I might have died.”
Sumiyoshi nodded gravely. “Such incidents are incredibly rare. You’ll rate a footnote in some history book someday. And what happened after you tumbled into the crater?”
Ino smiled modestly. “It was a struggle, but I managed to climb back out and return here. They’ve been very kind to me, taken excellent care of me.” Two could play the game of the bland.
Another growl from Sumiyoshi. “We’re proud of our staff. I understand that you had a chat with Mr. Matsuzaki. When you speak with him next, please tender respects of Mr. Matsuda and myself.”
“I will do so, rest assured.”
Sumiyoshi said, “By the way, what did you and Mr. Matsuzaki discuss?”
A dangerous moment.
“My work. May I inquire: how did you know of this conversation?”
“Was it secret?”
“No. Do you monitor all Phobos-Mars communications?”
Sumiyoshi reached to shake hands with Ino, ignoring the question.
Stalemate.
Even as their hands remained clasped, Sumiyoshi said, “What will you do now? Return to Nirgal Vallis to recuperate?”
“Your thoughtfulness is appreciated. But I am well enough to resume my duties. That is my intention.”
Sumiyoshi nodded. “Dangerous work. You’re lucky to be alive now. Take care, Ino.”
Ino shot a look at Sumiyoshi’s right hand before the handclasp was broken. No joint was missing from any finger. He tried to catch a glimpse of Sumiyoshi’s left hand, but it was concealed as Sumiyoshi reached for the work-box he had carried into the sick-bay. He fumbled with the work-box for a moment, then rose to his feet. Ino could still not see Sumiyoshi’s left hand.
As soon as Sumiyoshi had departed, Ino climbed from his bed. He crouched on the floor beside his bed and reached for his tool kit.
Gone!
Ino gritted his teeth and sucked air in anguish and self-despair. The work-box! How obvious! And Ino, like a gyangu or a kabuki-mono—a stupid gangster or a madman—had permitted himself to be distracted by Sumiyoshi’s conversation. He had been eager to see if the deputy manager had ever engaged in yubitsume—the symbolic pledge of loyalty to an oyabun by cutting off and presenting him with a joint of his own finger. He had learned nothing, and he had let Sumiyoshi get away with his tool kit.
The kit that contained his recorders, that contained all his records of the illicit laboratory in the Russian station and the miniature Face that he had found there.
He moaned and trudged from the sick-bay. He sought out a directory of the research station. He was amazed that no one paid attention to him. He expected word to have spread of his presence, and of his experiences on Phobos. But the workers went about their business, ignoring the stranger in their midst.
At length he found the laboratory presided over by Mrs. Itagaki. He was surprised to find that it was neither large nor impressively furnished. A few workers sat at lab benches, working on samples of bedrock and regolith. Phobos was unlike Mars, where eons of geological activity had created a thin layer of true soil—for all that it was apparently sterile. On Phobos there was only the bedrock, and regolith of pebbles and dust that coated the little moon.
Mrs. Itagaki greeted Mr. Ino. She was pleased to have him visit her laboratory, she told him. She offered to show him around, to explain her work to him.
Ino said, “Mr. Toshimitsu Matsuzaki offers his respects and his greetings.”
Mrs. Itagaki ducked her head and covered her mouth with one hand, holding the posture for the briefest instant. Then she lowered her hand and raised her face once again, her expression unreadable.
To Ino it was as if he had seen a flash of a world lost in time, a Japan courtly and mannered. In this world Mrs. Itagaki would blush and retire shyly to women’s quarters while Ino and other men carried out their business, attended perhaps by silent, efficient women who would tend to their comforts and needs without intruding upon their serious conversation.
The modern Mrs. Itagaki said, “Please return my best wishes to Mr. Matsuzaki.” She paused. “Now, how may I assist you?”
“You know why I am here,” Ino said.
“Yes.”
“Miss Inada was murdered.”
“So Mr. Toshikawa says.”
“No. It is a fact.” Ino fixed Mrs. Itagaki with his eyes. “I will tell you everything that I know. This place is secure?”
Mrs. Itagaki rose and led him into a small room, hardly larger than a cabinet. A large machine was slowly grinding a bin of rocks into powder. “For analysis,” Mrs. Itagaki said. “Also, no one can overhear. What do you know?”
“I found Miss Inada’s body.” He told her his story, from his arrival on Phobos to the removal of his tool kit by Mr. Sumiyoshi.
When he mentioned the miniature Face, Mrs. Itagaki gasped. She seemed eager to question him about it, but Ino continued his narrative. When he told of losing the miniature, she appeared disappointed, and when he described his discovery of Miss Inada’s body, tears appeared in Mrs. Itagaki’s eyes.
Mrs. Itagaki regained her composure, then nodded. “I knew she was dead. My heart told me as much. She was like a daughter. Now she is a victim.”
“Tell me about her work, please. It is my job to find the killer. I think I know that, although his behavior is also explainable in an innocent manner. One learns, in my business, that a personally dislikable person, or one whose behavior in other matters is improper, is not necessarily the perpetrator of the crime one is investigating.”
“Who?”
“Tell me about Miss Inada’s work.”
“Ours is a frustrating field, Mr. Ino. We are like the radio searchers who strive endlessly to receive signals from distant hinin. They seek evidence of alien life on the planets of remote stars—or living in the depths of space. We seek contact with beings long dead, long disappeared from the worlds.”
Her expression was that of a pilgrim who had lost faith that she would ever reach her goal, yet continued to travel and search in her hopeless cause, having nothing other to live for. Ino thought of the balanced principles of giri and ninjo, duty and compa
ssion. His duty demanded that he, too, continue to pursue his goal, whatever the odds against achieving it. And compassion…compassion for Miss Inada was displaced, useless. Compassion for Mrs. Itagaki—that, he felt.
He waited for Mrs. Itagaki to continue.
“You know that Mars once had volcanoes and great flowing rivers, features to dwarf their counterparts on Earth, even though Earth is so much larger a planet. The heat, the energy, the flowing waters, should have brought forth life. Yet we find no signs of life.”
“The Face.”
“Always we return to that.”
Could he share with her what Mr. Matsuzaki had told him, of the laser X-ray examination of the Face, of the discovery of the chamber within and the miniature Faces it contained? He withheld the information.
“Is it not evidence of life?” he asked instead.
“Two experts will give you three opinions,” Mrs. Itagaki replied. “I don’t know.”
“But the miniature that was in the Russian station....”
“Yes.” Mrs. Itagaki smiled: the pilgrim whose faith had been restored. “The miniature. It is convincing proof.”
“Where did it come from? Why is it not mentioned anywhere, in any literature, in any reports?”
“Mr. Ino, I never knew of it until you told me.”
“But—Miss Inada—the laboratory—”
“I knew she was up to something. Some project that she didn’t tell me about. I was waiting for her to speak. I knew there must be a good reason, I knew that she would tell me when she had something to tell. I was eager to know, but I respected her wishes, also.”
The grinding machine roared and sputtered. Mrs. Itagaki made an adjustment to it, and the machine resumed its steady roaring.
“Mrs. Itagaki, now that you know of the miniature Face—what is its meaning? You are the expert. I am a mere assistant to Mr. Matsuzaki. He sends me out, I gather a few facts, and report back to him. But you are a leading scientist. What is the little Face?”
“I wish I could examine it. Or see Miss Inada’s files—the files in the computer. Even your own records would be helpful.”
“What is lost is lost.”
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