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drily.
    A police official drew Minamoto Kantaro aside for a moment. Amaya took the opportunity to whisper to Duncan, “Might he commit seppuku, Duncan?”
    “Only if his daimyo commands it.”
    “Perhaps he should. You might have been killed. You very nearly were.”
    “Ritual suicide is not commonly practiced on Thalassa, Anya.”
    “I knew men of some societies did such things on the home-world,” she said. “I wondered if all men carried their foolish traditions into space with them.” Amaya tended to make harsh judgments on males. It was part of her feminist upbringing.
    Before more could be said, the mayor rejoined them and said, “Where there is one ninja there are sometimes more, Kr-san. We will go to the Shogun’s garden now. A tilt-rotor is waiting for us on the ryokan roof.” He turned to an aide and said, “Find that body. I want what is left of it.”
     
    The ten-meter tilt-rotor was handsomely--but austerely--equipped. Duncan could discern nothing to set it apart from the aircraft that had carried him and Anya Amaya from the spaceport, yet it was one of the squadron reserved for the personal use of the Shogun and his staff. Each of the dozen seats was fitted with an impressive console containing the controls for outside video-imagers, cellular com devices, and other services not immediately apparent.
    Kantaro-san had spent the first five minutes of the flight with the pilots. He now returned to attend to the comfort of his guests. Duncan found the way in which he dealt with the incident of the ninja in Yedo fascinating. Clearly, he was upset. The incident, as severe as it had been, had implications for the young samurai that Duncan found difficult to grasp. Yet if he were ever to prevail upon the colonists of Yamato to do what no colonists had ever done--seek out a threat and offer battle--he would have to interpret the complexities of the system of duties and obligations that governed life in the Tau Ceti System.
    Kantaro-san, an opulent figure in brocaded silk hakama and kimono, still managed to look like a warrior, Duncan noted. Glory ’s crash course on Yamato and its people emphasized that Yamatan society mimicked that of feudal Japan. There was an antique cast to life on Yamato that suggested a psychological return to ancient Japan--the Japan unified after the Battle of Sekigahara. The Minamoto Tokugawa Ieyasu established his clan hegemony that foggy day in 1603 and for 264 years nothing had changed until Japan was opened under the guns of an American naval squadron.
    Clearly the Minamotos of Planet Yamato had resolved to do at least as well as their ancestor, Ieyasu. To descend, as Glory had, on such a society bearing a call to war was not going to attract friends. The ninja’s attack was practical proof of that.
    When the mayor had settled himself in his seat and turned it to face the syndics, Duncan asked, “May I ask some questions, Kantaro-san?”
    The Yamatan’s face was round, unlined. His heavy lids with their pronounced epicanthic folds shielded eyes black as fuligin. Standing, Duncan would tower over the Mayor of Yedo, as would Anya. Yet Minamoto Kantaro was a figure of power. Duncan, descendant of Gael fishermen living on a world of rock and sea, understood that Kantaro-san’s presence was the result of forty generations of selective breeding. Glory ’s database contained descriptions of the almost fanatic lengths to which Yamatans went to ensure the purity of the gene pool of their Great Houses.
    Kantaro regarded Duncan distantly. Duncan had already noted the tendency of Yamatan eyes to empty when one asked inopportune questions. “About the ninja?”
    “And other things.”
    “Ah.” Kantaro-san steepled his supple fingers and looked out the window of the tilt-rotor. “It is the tonno’s place, not mine, to exchange ideas directly with you.”
    Duncan noted the use of the Japanese word for “lord.” Every nuance held meaning when dealing with people as complex as the