Rama 3 – The Garden of Rama by Clarke, Arthur C.

Kenji stopped as two small pieces of broiled fish, delicate and beautiful and sitting on a bed of variegated leaves, were placed upon the table. Mr. Watanabe picked up a piece of fish with his chopsticks. “Oishii desu,” he commented, without glancing at his son.

Kenji reached for his piece of fish. The discussion of the convicts in Lowell Colony had apparently ended. Kenji looked behind his father, where he could see the lovely garden for which the restaurant was so famous. A tiny stream dropped down polished steps and ran beside a half dozen exquisite dwarf trees. The seat facing the garden was always the position of honor for a traditional Japanese meal. Mr. Watanabe had insisted that Kenji should have the garden view during this last dinner.

“You were not able to attract any Chinese colonists?” his father asked after they had finished the fish.

Kenji shook his head. “Only a few from Singapore and Malaysia. Both the Chinese and Brazilian governments forbade their citizens to apply. The Brazilian decision was

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expected—their South American empire is virtually at war with the COG—but we had hoped that the Chinese might soften their stand. I guess a hundred years of isolation doesn’t die that easily.”

“You can’t really blame them,” Mr. Watanabe commented. “Their nation suffered terribly during the Great Chaos. All the foreign capital disappeared overnight and their economy immediately collapsed.”

“We did manage to recruit a few black Africans, maybe a hundred altogether, and a handful of Arabs. But most of the colonists are from the countries that contribute significantly to the ISA. That’s probably to be expected.”

Kenji became suddenly embarrassed. The entire conversation since they had entered the restaurant had been about him and his activities. During the next few courses Kenji asked his father questions about his work at International Robotics. Mr. Watanabe, who was now the chief operating officer of the corporation, always glowed with pride when he talked about “his” company. It was the world’s largest manufacturer of robots for the factory and the office. The annual sales of IR, as it was always called, placed it among the top fifty manufacturers in the world.

“I’ll be sixty-two next year,” Mr. Watanabe said, the many cups of sake making him unusually talkative, “and I had thought that I might retire. But Nakamura says that would be a mistake. He says that the company still needs me. …”

Before the fruit arrived, Kenji and his father were again discussing the coming Martian expedition. Kenji explained mat Nai and most of the other Asian colonists who were traveling on either the Pinta or the Nina were already at the Japanese training site in southern Kyushu. He would join his wife there as soon as he left Kyoto and, after ten more days of training, they and the rest of the passengers on the Pinta would be transported to a LEO (low Earth orbit) space station, where they would undergo a week of weightlessness training. The final leg of their near-Earth journey would be a ride aboard a space tug from LEO to the geosynchronous space station at GEO-4, where the Pinta was currently being assembled while undergoing its final checks and being outfitted for the long trip to Mars.

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The younger waitress brought them two glasses of cognac. “That wife of yours is really a magnificent creature,” Mr. Watanabe said, taking a small sip of the liqueur. “I have always thought that the Thai women were the most beautiful in the world.”

“She’s also beautiful inside,” Kenji hastily added, suddenly missing his new bride, “And she is quite intelligent as well.”

“Her English is excellent,” Mr. Watanabe remarked. “But your mother says her Japanese is awful.”

Kenji bristled. “Nai tried to speak Japanese—which, incidentally, she has never studied—because Mother refused to speak English. It was deliberately done to make Nai feel ill at ease—”

Kenji caught himself. His remarks defending Nai were not appropriate for the occasion.

“Gomen nasai,” he said to his father.

Mr. Watanabe took a long drink from his cognac. “Well, Kenji,” he said, “this is the last time we will be alone together for at least five years. I have very much enjoyed our dinner and our conversation.” He paused. “There is, however, one more item that I want to discuss with you.”

Kenji shifted his position (he was no longer used to sitting cross-legged on the floor for four hours at a time) and sat up straight, trying to clear his mind. He could tell from his father’s tone that the “one more item” was a serious one.

“My interest in the criminals in your Lowell Colony is not just idle curiosity,” Mr. Watanabe began. He paused to gather his thoughts before continuing. “Nakamura-san came into my office late last week, at the end of the business day, and told me that his son’s second application for Lowell Colony had also been denied. He asked me if I would talk to you about looking into the matter.”

The comment hit Kenji like a thunderbolt. He had never even been told that his boyhood rival had applied for Lowell Colony. Now here was his father—

“I have not been involved in the process of selecting the convict colonists,” Kenji replied slowly. “That’s an entirely different division in the project.”

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Mr. Watanabe did not say anything for several seconds. “Our connections tell us,” he eventually continued, after finishing his cognac, “that the only real opposition to the application is coming from a psychiatrist, a Dr. Ridgemore from New Zealand, who has the opinion, despite Toshio’s excellent record during his detention period, that Naka-mura’s son still does not recognize that he did anything wrong. … I believe that you were personally responsible for recruiting Dr. Ridgemore for the Lowell Colony team.”

Kenji was staggered. This was no idle request his father was making. He had done extensive background research. But why? Kenji wondered. Why is he so interested?

“Nakamura-san is a brilliant engineer/’ Mr. Watanabe said. “He has personally been responsible for many of the products that have established us as leaders in our field. But his laboratory has not been very innovative lately. In fact, its productivity began to drop around the time of his son’s arrest and conviction.”

Mr. Watanabe leaned toward Kenji, resting his elbows on the table. “Nakamura-san has lost his self-confidence. He and his wife must visit Toshio in that detention apartment once a month. It is a constant reminder to Nakamura of how his family has been disgraced. If the son could go to Mars, then perhaps—”

Kenji understood too well what his father was asking. Emotions that had long been suppressed threatened to erupt. Kenji was angry and confused. He was going to tell his father that his request was “improper” when the elder Watanabe spoke again.

“It has been equally hard on Keiko and the little girl. Aiko is almost seven now. Every other weekend they dutifully ride the train to Ashiya. …”

Try as he might, Kenji could not prevent the tears from forming in the comers of his eyes. The picture of Keiko, broken and dejected, leading her daughter inside the restricted area for the biweekly visit with her father, was more than he could bear.

“I talked to Keiko myself last week,” his father added, “at Nakamura-san’s request. She was very despondent. But she seemed to perk up when I told her that I was going to ask you to intercede on her husband’s behalf.”

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Kenji took a deep breath and gazed at his father’s emotionless face. He knew what he was going to do. He knew also that it was indeed “improper”—not wrong, just improper. But it made no sense to agonize over a decision that was a foregone conclusion.

Kenji finished his cognac. “Tell Nakamura-san that I will call Dr. Ridgemore tomorrow,” he said.

What if his intuition was wrong? Then I will have wasted an hour, ninety minutes at the most, Kenji thought as he excused himself from the family gathering with his sister Fumiko and her daughters and ran out into the street. He turned immediately toward the hills. It was about an hour before sunset. She’ll be there, he said to himself. This will be my only chance to say good-bye.

Kenji went first to the small Anraku-Ji temple. He walked inside the hondo, expecting to find Keiko in her favorite spot, in front of the side wooden altar commemorating two twelfth century Buddhist nuns, formerly members of the court harem, who had committed suicide when Emperor Go-Toba had ordered them to repudiate the teachings of St. Honen. Keiko was not there. Nor was she outside where the two women were buried, just at the edge of the bamboo forest. Kenji began to think that he had been mistaken. Keiko has not come, he thought. She feels that she has lost too much face.