“Hiroshi!” I exclaimed.

  “Do not sneer. He may be aikido, not judo, but he taught me to extend my own ki through my voice.”

  My mystery was solved; now I knew where Diago had studied. Of course. Hiroshi would have been the one to put ki into his kiai! But I could not dwell on that now. “Diago, that was a snort of recognition, not of disparagement! I know Hiroshi! But ki can’t get me off a murder rap! And it can’t bring me back my girl, or undo Jim’s betrayal.”

  “It can make you able to live with these things, though, as I have lived with racism and American justice. Go see the great teacher! And take me with you; I cannot get out alone, and I need healing too.”

  Suddenly I found it easier to understand his position. I had reacted against attack, and killed in the process, and fled the law. So had he. I was no better than he.

  “Dato claimed he struck me with his delayed-action deathblow,” I said. “Do you know anything about that?”

  “The blow itself I never learned. But Hiroshi—”

  “Yes.” The notion was growing on me. It was the sort of thing Hiroshi should know about. Takao might have been familiar with the delayed deathblow. Too bad I had never thought to ask him. But Takao was dead, so it was time to seek the man with the ki. There was joy in that thought.

  I placed a call to Nicaragua. There was no direct line, and it had to go by radio telephone, but there was not actually much problem. I reached Vicente Pedro’s mayordomo. That had to do; I left a message that I was on the same judo team with Diago and needed some fast training in Japan before the event. I knew Pedro would get the real message, for anyone linked with Diago was in bad trouble with the law.

  Then I gritted my teeth and phoned Jim. No answer. I felt black rage, knowing whom he was with. To do something, I went to the door to check for my mail.

  Jim stood there. He must have been trying to get up nerve to knock. I stared at him, but couldn’t bring myself to speak my mind.

  Diago came to my rescue. “You will have to run Mr. Striker’s dojo for a time,” he told Jim.

  Jim looked blank. I had some notion what had brought him here. It was either his conscience, or the afternoon headline. But what could I say?

  “Mr. Striker will be away,” Diago explained.

  “I know,” Jim said. “I—”

  The phone rang. I went to answer it, fearing the worst. I still wasn’t sure I had come out of my nightmares, and nothing seemed completely real.

  “Striker, he’ll be at my airstrip at six,” Johnson Drummond said abruptly. “My office is making out papers for Japan for you and Blake and Diago. Be ready to board.”

  “Wait!” I cried. “Only two are going!” But he had hung up. Appalling efficiency.

  “You know what to do,” Diago told Jim.

  “No,” Jim said, agitated.

  I had not yet spoken to Jim, and he had not spoken directly to me. Diago was filling the vacuum, both ways. Ridiculous situation, but the vision of the bare figures on the tatami last night tied my tongue.

  “You cannot run the dojo?” Diago demanded, businesslike now that he had an immediate function.

  “I—I want to come along. With you.”

  Still I couldn’t speak. How had Drummond anticipated this? Obviously he had known about Jim and Thera.

  “To Japan?” Diago asked. “Don’t you have business enough here?”

  “If I stay here, there will be questions,” Jim said. “I’m not good at lying.”

  “When you are good enough at other things,” Diago said meaningfully, “you had better be good at lying!”

  I realized that Jim was in the same situation as I had been with Pedro. He was sorry, but he couldn’t say so. Probably he hadn’t even known Thera was involved with me, until too late. Now he just stood there, mute, miserable.

  Diago threw up his hands. “You wish to travel with murderers— why not!”

  “You’re not murderers!” Jim said. “And I—I’m not . . .” Which seemed to equate it nicely. Was it nightmare, or comedy?

  *

  Pedro’s private plane landed at the Drummond Industries private strip on schedule. Neither Drummond nor his daughter showed, fortunately; a lawyer-type drove up with our papers just as the plane arrived. The three of us bundled on, and the vehicle took off again immediately.

  “My uncle is piloting himself,” a voice said as we settled hastily into seats. “We are proceeding to Managua, then to Japan. Is there anything you need?”

  “Amalita!” I exclaimed. She looked fuller, more mature, though less than a month had passed since the tournament. But it was not her young beauty—more buxom than Thera’s—that I saw, so much as the image of a kris. This girl, directly or indirectly, was capable of murder without qualm.

  Jim looked at Amalita with immediate interest. I wondered whether I should warn him. But the devil in me kept my tongue still. Let him find out for himself.

  CHAPTER 11

  HOKKAIDO

  The city of Sapporo has a million people, but the interior of the great Japanese island of Hokkaido was rugged indeed. We drove through large uninhabited forests, but finally had to leave the car in the foothills of a mountain range.

  Makato grunted something as he studied the trackless snowy waste, and I needed no translation to know what he was thinking. Who would have expected to find the two of us together in the wilderness, so soon after our death match? I had been amazed to discover him at Hiroshi’s dojo, training like any novice. But it made sense, once I worked it out. Makato had recognized the ki that had defeated him. Hiroshi, despite his broken arm, had wrought his miracle regardless, protecting me in a fashion Takao never could have done. The cause of Pedro’s vengeance had been lost from the moment Hiroshi stood beside Takao that night, sharing his vow. Makato could never have hurt Hiroshi had the 0-Sensei chosen to extend his ki in combat. Makato, recognizing a superior force, had decided to make it his own.

  Now we were on a private quest to solve the problem of Dato’s deathblow. Hiroshi, at his dojo, had performed a remarkable demonstration. He had set up a concrete tile, placed a soft pillow on it, and a second tile on top of the pillow. Then he had patted the upper tile gently with his hands in a peculiar and building rhythm, and suddenly the bottom tile had cracked across. Not the top, not the one touched, but the one protected by the pillow.

  We all gaped. “How—?”

  “The vibrations,” he explained. “I establish a pattern, a harmonic reinforcement, that increases until the object at the focus is sundered. A similar process can be started in any object, even a living one, and arranged so that there may be a considerable delay before the proper harmonics manifest.”

  “A delayed deathstrike!” I exclaimed. “But Dato didn’t pat on me that way. He hit me, once. Could that have started the vibrations?”

  “Not under such conditions. You are fortunate.”

  “Fortunate? Why? He said he had—”

  “Because there is no cure for the pattern I have demonstrated. Once it is started, only its natural culmination can end it.”

  “Oh. Yes. But still—”

  “He must have used a cruder technique. A gradual nerve-damage attack, or a strike on a vein such that an embolism is formed, a clot of blood, that travels through the system until it reaches a critical point.”

  “Such as the heart!” I exclaimed. “That would account for all the cases in my area. That should be curable.”

  “Unfortunately it is very difficult to locate a small embolism, or to anticipate its progress through the body,” he said. “Exercise would facilitate its motion, but I doubt a doctor could abate it, short of open-heart surgery at the instant of crisis.”

  “Uh-uh!” I said. “I can’t afford to hang around a hospital for months just waiting for—”

  “Then I think you must see my O-Sensei, Fu Antos.”

  Makato passed the map along to me. We seemed to be on course. We had many miles to travel on foot, but at least we knew where we were going.

  We climbed. It was slow, because we were not sure of the way despite the map, which was not detailed. There is a big difference between knowing a precise path in trackless wilderness and knowing to the nearest few miles.

  This was central Hokkaido, near Daisetsuzan National Park, whose environs encompassed one peak of seven and a half thousand feet and others not far short of that. Not exactly Everest, but quite sufficient challenge for the duffers we were, particularly in winter. Climbing is a different kind of exercise from level running, and I knew there would be specialized stiffnesses in my muscles tomorrow.

  Pedro was worse off. He had nor been walking long, and despite his program of exercise the muscles had not had time to redevelop completely. How could he manage a heavy pack? But he was proud, and sensitive on this point, so that it was awkward to lighten his load.

  Pedro stumbled, and had to sit down in the snow before he fell. Jim leaned over him. “You okay, sir?”

  “Of course!” Pedro snapped.

  Jim didn’t seem to notice the tone. “Hey, look at that snowman!”

  Down the slope was a snow-covered shrub that did resemble a child’s creation. “Take care,” I said. “The abominable snowman is following us.”

  “I’ll knock his block off!” Jim said, making a snowball. “I’m the best pitcher this side of the Mississippi!”

  “Insufferable Yankee arrogance,” Pedro muttered.

  “Oh yeah?” Jim said. “Bet I can score on that head before you can!”

  Oh-oh! Jim’s usual lack of discretion was operating again. He had already aggravated Pedro by paying undue attention to Amalita, though she had given him a chili shoulder. But still there was that in me that held me back.

  “Shall we establish a small wager on that?” Pedro said, not smiling.

  Jim glanced insolently at him. “Wouldn’t be fair. I know I’ll beat you, but it’s not right to bet you money when I couldn’t pay in case I did lose.”

  “I’ll loan you enough!” Pedro said, fashioning a snowball himself.

  Worse and worse. If only Jim would learn to stay out of sensitive situations!

  “No, I—” Jim paused. “Hey, we don’t need money! I’ll bet you my pack to yours for the next mile that I can beat you!”

  Pedro was perplexed. “What would I want with your pack? Your things don’t fit me, and your abominable American food—”

  “To carry,” Jim explained. “I win, you have to carry yours and mine. And vice versa. Those are real stakes, that’ll make you sweat no matter how much loot you have in the bank.”

  This was too much! “Jim, leave him alone!” I said. “Can’t you see—”

  “Keep out, Striker!” Pedro cried furiously. I had muffed it, only antagonizing him further.

  “Chicken?” Jim inquired.

  Pedro’s face was red with rage. He stood up, hefting his snowball. “Throw, gringo!”

  Jim smiled confidently. “Sucker,” he said, and hurled.

  His ball, thrown too hard, overshot the mark.

  Now Pedro threw, using a sidearm motion. His aim was low, but he struck the base of the bush, knocking down some snow.

  Diago chuckled. “Counts!” he said.

  “Sure wasn’t dead center,” Jim grumbled. “Lucky shot, too. Wouldn’t happen again.”

  Pedro smiled with all his teeth. “Then you shall have a chance to earn it back, youngster. Throw again.”

  “Okay!” Jim made another snowball, sighted carefully, and threw. This time his aim was true, and he struck the edge of the mound.

  Pedro, almost nonchalantly, flipped his second. It struck just inside Jim’s.

  “Closer, again!” Diago said, grinning.

  Jim glowered. “Okay, that’s two. Double or nothing, this time!”

  “Very well,” Pedro agreed.

  They fired off another round apiece. Jim clipped the other side; Pedro scored dead center.

  “Hey!” Jim cried, suddenly realizing. “The shrunken! The throwing knife! You’ve had practice.”

  “Shuriken,” Pedro corrected him. “You should have thought of that before you challenged me. Care for another try?”

  Jim shook his head. “I’m four miles in the hole now, and I’ll never beat you! I’d better quit before I’m stuck for the duration!”

  “The professional always defeats the amateur,” Pedro said smugly. “I would not have wagered had I not been certain of success.”

  Jim picked up the second pack and held it in his arms. “Man! I see how you made your money!”

  Pedro nodded, and we resumed the climb. Diago winked at me, and then I realized what Jim had done. He had relieved Pedro of his load, with honor. But he was lucky Pedro hadn’t caught on to the ruse.

  Pedro fell back to walk beside me. “That young man has a future,” he murmured. Then I knew he hadn’t been fooled, either.

  *

  We came across a small stream, and there was a black Asian bear, there for water or fish. I was surprised, supposing the creature would be hibernating in this cold, but apparently hibernation is a variable among bears.

  Pedro brought out his shuriken and let fly immediately. “Hey!” I protested. “That bear’s harmless; he’ll run at the sight of us.”

  Too late. The little dagger had already winged the animal, and a wounded bear is not at all the same customer as an untouched one.

  The bear stood on its hind legs, pawing at its face. It roared, showing a mouthful of saliva-moist teeth. I saw that the shuriken had actually scored in its eye. I was revolted at this senseless brutality.

  It ripped the blade out so violently that its eye socket became a mass of blood and torn flesh. It howled in pain. Then it charged.

  The bear had appeared to be not large, but now it loomed much more massive than a man, with sleek muscles under the black fur, and gaping jaws.

  Pedro threw again, and the blade sliced into the creature’s snout. The bear’s fury only intensified. It rose again on two feet.

  I stood helplessly. Then something swished by my ear. Makato had thrown his cleaver and it scored in the middle of the bear’s chest.

  It took the animal time to die, but after that it never had a chance. Jim hit it right over the gaping eye-socket with a hard ice-ball. Diago threw two knives that caught it in the stomach, ripping it open so that the guts began to spill. The men started carving it into bear steaks before it even stopped shuddering.

  I said nothing. Why was it necessary that an innocent creature be bloodily slaughtered—in the middle of the quest for my life? How could I condemn these men who were helping me—yet how could I thank them?

  At dusk we reached a primitive native village. The houses were frameworks of wood roofed with grass or bark; it was hard to tell under the snow. Each had an entry shed with a low doorway.

  “Ainu,” Makato said, and that needed no translation either. I had heard of the Ainu: aboriginal white men amid the Oriental hinterland, separate in culture from the Japanese. They were supposed to have lived in northern Japan for something like seven thousand years, and once were spread much more extensively. Had the Caucasians once dominated all Asia, before losing out to the Mongoloids there? No one could say for certain, but here were the Ainu, with their distinct physique, language and culture.

  A man emerged from one hut and approached us. He was about sixty, with a large white mustache and beard. As he came near I saw that his skin was almost as pale as mine, his eyes were round with prominent brows, dark brown, and the lobes of his ears were long. No Japanese, certainly. Trim the whiskers and put him in a Western suit, and he could have walked the streets of my hometown without being distinguished from any other citizen.

  He spoke Japanese, greeting us. Diago translated. “He greets us, inquiring our business.”

  Makato was already answering, and I knew he was explaining that we were warriors from many lands, looking for the castle of Fu Antos. It occurred to me that Pedro and I would be in trouble without Diago’s linguistic services, for we did not speak Japanese and Makato did not speak English. So it wasn’t just Pedro’s money and my mission that made this group functional.

  The Ainu representative frowned. “Evil men,” Diago translated. “We know of no Fu Antos, but there are fierce warriors, brutal killers, in the mountain yonder. Do you come as friends of these?”

  Makato looked at us. “Those must be the ninjas!” Pedro said. “Fascinating!”

  The ninjas: those fabulous warriors of old whose exploits enhanced Japanese folklore for centuries. “And deadly,” I reminded him. “It’s one thing to admire their exploits from the viewpoint and safety of distance and time. But in the flesh it may be quite another.”

  “Yes, indeed,” he agreed, looking eager. Jim wasn’t the only impetuous fool on this mission.

  “Tell him we may have to fight the ninjas,” I said to Diago.

  Actually, I doubted the presence of legitimate ninjas here. Their fortunes, like those of the Ainu, had faded as Japan modernized, perhaps in part because they eschewed the use of modern weapons like guns. Theirs had been a rigorous existence, and few of today’s luxury-softened citizens had the gumption for the lifetime devotion to privation and combat that was required for the true ninja. So while I had no doubt there was danger out here, I was more alert to conventional forms. Storm, avalanche, wild animals, or modern bandits whose presence might terrorize the backward Ainu.

  But Hiroshi had told us that this was where the man he called O-Sensei dwelt: Fu Antos, ancient mystic. The man who could help me—if he would. And if we could reach him despite possible ninja resistance.

  The Ainu, understanding that we were not of the ninju number, smiled and invited us to stay the night. Gratefully, we accepted

  Our party of five was too large for a single family to entertain, so we agreed to split up. Makato, who seemed to know something about the Ainu, assured us that they could be trusted, and I was glad to accept his judgment. Thus I soon found myself in the chisei, the traditional Ainu house, with a family of four with whom I could not speak. These people had learned Japanese—quite different from their own language—but knew nothing of English. The single family room had a packed-dirt floor and open fire pit, but was surprisingly comfortable.