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clipper to Shanghai?”
    Ernest
scratched the iron-gray stubble on his angular chin. Ht still felt unsettled,
working with civilians. His father had been a naval commander before him, and
his grandfather had been a friend of Teddy Roosevelt, back in his Rough Rider
days. Ernest could only think of life as a battle plan, and he mentally graded
the people he had to deal with as admirals, fellow officers, or idiots. Each
day presented its difficulties like a fleet of hostile ships, and each
difficulty could only be overcome by classic naval tactics. He even walked his
three retrievers, John, Paul, and Jones, in line formation.
    Only Nancy
Shiranuka knew all about those moments when he disembarked (inside his mind)
from his self-imposed regime of naval discipline. Those
moments when he sought, perversely and desperately, the consolation of
girl-children, and extraordinary sexual techniques. He called those
moments his “shore leave.”
    “We need some
up-to-date intelligence,” he said. “Can’t Yoshikazu find out what’s happening?”
    “He’s going to
try, Commander. But right now the whole area is crawling with police.”
    Ernest crushed
out his cigarette. “Dammit, I should have entrusted this one to somebody with
experience.’’ He added, with expressive contempt: “Yoshikazu. The nearest
Yoshikazu’s been to Tokyo is the Japanese take-out on Sunset and Fairfax.’’
    “I trust him,”
said Nancy, pointedly. “I believe it’s better if we simply wait.’’
    Ernest looked
at her with a testy expression, and then nodded. “All right. We’ll give him an hour. If he doesn’t report in by then, we’ll go take a look
for ourselves. Meanwhile, let’s keep the television going. They might have a
news bulletin.”
    Nancy gave a
sarcastic salute. “Aye, aye, Commander. Anything you
say.”
    The old
commander ignored her. “Why don’t you have Kimo fix some breakfast? I’m getting
damned hungry. Have him fix some of that dashimaki tamago.”
    Nancy paused
for a moment, a slight smile on her face. Then she picked up a small square
silver bell from the telephone table and tinkled it. After a while, a young Japanese in a white shirt, white jeans, and a white
headband came into the room and stood, waiting.
    ‘The commander
has a taste for your eggs this morning, Kemo,” said Nancy.
    Kemo looked
across at the commander, and gave a brief, correct nod of his head. If anyone
had nodded to him like that in the Navy, the commander would have had him up on
a charge of dumb insolence. But Ernest turned irritably away, parted the
slatted bamboo blinds with two fingers, and glared out at the trees of Alta
Loma Road until Kemo had gone back to his kitchen.
    Nancy asked,
“What are you thinking about?”
    He cleared his
throat. “I was just wondering, for the six hundredth time, whether this whole
damned carnival is ever going to work.”
    “You’re not
paid to wonder. You’re paid to make it work.”
    “Correction,”
said Ernest. “I’m paid to make my pan of it work. I can’t be responsible for
the rest of this ragbag collection of Oriental hoodlums.’’
    Nancy gave a
high, tittering laugh. “Sometimes you’re so fierce. You’re just like Gary Grant
in Destination Tokyo.”
    “You like that
movie?” asked Ernest, surprised.
    “It’s one of my
favorites. I like especially the scene where the Japanese pilot parachutes into
the water and stabs to death the American seaman who is trying to pull him
out.”
    “You would,”
growled Ernest. “But I never saw anyone, Jap or American, anything but
eternally grateful to be hauled out of the drink. Maybe it just appealed to
your cruel sense of humor.”
    “I thought you
enjoyed my cruel sense of humor.”
    “Hmh? Well, there’s a time and a place for everything.’’
    Nancy came toward
him, raising her arms. The silk sash of her robe slipped apart, revealing her
naked body. She was slim and pale, the color of Japanese provincial pottery,
and her