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For the next two days, with the assistance of the staff, which truly is completely at our service, we test and retest square-acre areas of the land. Our industrious Japanese assistants use power shovels and front-end loaders to extract half-ton units of deeply buried land. Margo establishes anexamination laboratory in the largest available Quonset hut. Because of the equipment we’ve sent ahead, she has managed to create a level of excellence that would be celebrated in any industrial pharmaceutical lab or university science hall.

But Margo and her new team fail to come up with any discoveries of their own. They concentrate on the red pebbles, all of which resolutely fail to change color inside the laboratory. Ultimately, the lab scientists tag them as common gravel. But, of course, that defies logic. They just can’t be ordinary, but… what the hell are they?

Meanwhile, while Margo, Burbank, and I all appreciate the devotion and skill of our Japanese colleagues, it becomes clear that many of them are suffering from some form of PTSD. At least half of them will sporadically stop working and begin sobbing uncontrollably. The weeping seems to be strangely contagious. Work on any given site will end abruptly because the power-drive operator turns off his engine, bows his head, and begins shaking with tears. Within thirty seconds, scientists and dirt diggers and medical assistants join in the crying. We urge everyone to relax, take time out, rest. But we have no pill to give them, no mind-control ability to share.

So we face our frustrating jobs.

No hints. No clues. No progress.

Dr. DaSilva texts:I send my complete understanding for your problems. I am not surprised at your lack of advancement. Toughest challenge I’ve ever encountered. Keep at it. Should I join you?

I know Dr. DaSilva means to help, and that Burbank and Margo are here with me, but… no, no, no. That’s not how Lamont Cranston rolls. I will do this. I will do it successfully. And I will do it myself.

CHAPTER 45

I FEEL COMPELLED to report to Acting President Myoki that we have made very little progress in identifying the source of the devastation to the Kyoto University campus. The look on his face clearly registers grave disappointment.

He says, “But, Honorable Mr. Cranston, we were so very much expecting success from you.”

The most awkward silence possible follows. No doubt he’s thinking that Dr. DaSilva’s ringing endorsement has proven false.

What he doesn’t know is that I’m afraid our lack of success may predict even more tragedy. With Kyoto and Harvard already demolished or devastated, what’s next? Who’s next? Oxford? The Sorbonne? Stanford? And what of the medical chaos in Australia? Is there, as we suspect, a connection between the earthly destruction and the virus poised to ravage the world?

Myoki, his eyes wet with tears, speaks softly.

“Tomorrow morning at dawn is the Shinto-Buddhist memorial service for Dr. Wellington Nakashima, former chairperson of our university science departments. Dr. Nakashima and his wife were both victims lost in the disaster. My hope was that we might have an answer to protect the living. I was hoping to announce a breakthrough as an honor to Dr. and Mrs. Nakashima, as well as the thousands of other faculty and students who are dead. But we will pray. No matter what, we will pray.”

Talk about making a guy feel lousy. Both Margo and I bow our heads. Then I tell Mr. Myoki that we will work through the night but that it is unlikely we will uncover anything.

Mr. Myoki says our devotion is praiseworthy, but that Margo, Burbank, and I should rest to renew our hearts and minds.

“Tomorrow you should direct yourselves to the memory of the dead,” he says. He turns away for a moment. I am certain that it is because he does not want us to see him weeping.

He turns back and adds, “Please honor my direction. My own heart tells me that you long to work, but my lips tell you that rest and prayer are what we all need.”

Our arms and legs and backs are aching. Our minds are tormented by our fruitless endeavors. But we obey Myoki’s advice.

We go to our Quonset hut. We try to sleep. We cannot. Margo and I discuss whether we should use our mindpower to approach sleep, to control it, to fall deeply into rest, but we quickly agree that such an exertion for personal comfort would be selfish. Our powers are best saved for the demanding work ahead of us.

We nap. We wake. We nap some more. We wake again.

As the early morning sun begins to brighten our room, Margo has a suggestion.

“The memorial service should be starting just about now,” she says. “We should go.”

CHAPTER 46

FOUR GUARDS STAND at the double hut where the service for Dr. Wellington Nakashima and his late wife is about to begin. Because all of them have been working on our exploratory teams, they recognize us and bow slightly as we enter. We bow in return and join the fifty or so people who are already inside.

The room is beautiful, peaceful. I might call it holy. A sad celebration with a thousand white chrysanthemums and a hundred sticks of incense burning on the far side. Men and women bow to one another. Men wear black business suits; widows are dressed in black kimonos. So many of the mourners clutch prayer beads.

Margo and I join the line of people waiting to sign the large gold memorial book to honor the dead. As we step closer to the table where the book is resting, we see a handsome young Japanese man. He speaks and bows to each person who approaches.

“I think that’s Dr. Nakashima’s son, Jason. I’ve seen photographs of him on the internet,” Margo whispers.

Then it is our turn to sign the document of mourning. Immediately the welcoming smile that greeted other guests disappears from his face. Because he does not bow to us, Margo and I bow to him. He does not return the gesture. Instead he yells—loud and angry.

“Your presence for mourning has not been requested!” he shouts. His words are loud, and his English pronunciation is impeccable.