Hiroshi took Route 78 west, walked across the Brooklyn Bridge, and went north on Broadway. He admired the glittering signs and imperative traffic. How like Japan!
People stared at him, for it was a bitterly cold October afternoon, with a cutting wind swooping down the street, and he wore only his light shirt, dark skirt, and open wooden sandals. But the ki was about him, making him impervious.
After three hours of walking, he turned into an alley. In America, he remembered, men did not relieve themselves on the public streets. It was always best to honor the foibles of the natives. Garbage cans overflowed, broken glass littered the path, and a stench rose from puddles of greasy water. This was a dark canyon between tall buildings. The alley was restful after the continuous blare and flash of the main street. And—his ki awareness guided him this way.
A large black man jumped out from the shadow of a doorway. His hands closed about Hiroshi's thin neck.
The little teacher calmly reached up and grasped the mugger's two thumbs, one in each hand. Very gently he turned his hands outward, carrying the thumbs along and breaking the choke. The mugger swore fiercely and fought, but the pressure was inexorable. In a moment the two thumbs broke.
The man screamed, but Hiroshi extended his ki again and made the hands go numb. "Violence is unfortunate," he murmured regretfully. "It is an insufficient response to the prior wrongs done you and your people. Go to the police; they will treat your injury and confine you until your drug addiction is gone. Do not accept the first probationary position you are offered, or the second, for they will lead you into inadvertent temptations. The third will seem intolerable, a thing of no pride, but that is the one you must take. In three years we shall meet again, in better circumstances."
He walked on down the alley, the mugger staring after him. Hiroshi's students sometimes came to him by devious routes, but he had not before recruited in a New York alley.
At dusk an hour later he reached the southern fringe of Central Park. He entered it through the "Artist's Gate," passing under the gaze of Simon Bolivar, to whom he made a little bow of greeting. Inside he turned right, admiring the trimmed hedges near the path like any other tourist. Despite the cold, there were some blue and pink flowers. The lights were coming on in the buildings adjacent to the park, giving the effect of a Chinese Wall of immense proportion surrounding this lush valley, with illuminated mountains beyond. There was not a prettier spot this instant in all Japan, he thought appreciatively.
Now he came to the Pond, where great flocks of birds abounded. He was thirsty after his hours of travel, so stopped to drink of its water. There was no refreshment available to man to match that of water after thirst!
A policeman riding a horse saw him. "Don't drink from that, mister!" the officer bawled, alarmed. "It's polluted!"
Hiroshi stood up and made a bow. "I thank you for your gracious warning. But there is no danger."
The policeman looked at him a moment. "Hey—don't I know you from somewhere?"
Hiroshi spread his hands. "I am a visitor to your fair city." The officer shook his head as if trying to nail an elusive memory, then decided this was a harmless nut. He rode on, his beautiful horse snorting in the chill.
Hiroshi had been aware of the toxicity of the water. But his ki protected him, neutralizing the adverse bacteria and pollutants. He would not suffer.
He continued on around the Pond, then north, not hurrying.
He passed the small zoo, now closed for the night, and came to the Mall. He inclined his head to the bust of each famous man beside it, politely. He came at last to the Lake, skirting it to reach the Ramble, a wooded hill to the north. The night was now advanced, and few people remained in the park. The aimless, hidden paths of the Ramble were forbidding in the heavy shadows, but he walked quickly into the thick of it, following his ki.
There was a feminine scream near at hand. Hiroshi stepped toward it, unsurprised. Two white men were holding a struggling black girl under a lamp. They wrestled her down as Hiroshi approached, one sitting astride her head and pinning her arms while the other pried at her legs.
"Please free the girl and depart in peace," Hiroshi said.
The man on her head looked up at Hiroshi, startled, then contemptuous. "Get outa here you little queer before we do the same to you!"
"I regret I must insist," Hiroshi said. "The young lady does not wish to participate."
The other man got his hands on her panties and pulled them down. The girl twisted her body desperately, and the top man slapped her hard across the face. "Don't give me no trouble, nig—"
Hiroshi had drawn alongside, extending his ki. He seized the hair of the speaking man and turned the head upward. The rapist's mouth opened involuntarily. Hiroshi delivered a knuckle blow to the nerve center between the ear and the upper hinge of the jaw. The man screamed in agony and fell away.
The other man jumped up, drawing a knife from a leg sheath. He was naked below his flapping shirt, but that hardly inhibited him. He lunged, the knife held low, going for the gut.
Hiroshi's left hand moved like the head of a striking snake, sweeping the knife-arm outwards. His right hand, dangling open and loose, whipped against the man's exposed anatomy. It was a devastating strike that knotted the rapist into a ball of agony. It would be a long time before he recovered either the ability or the will to rape again.
The girl scrambled up, wide-eyed. Hiroshi bowed, unruffled. "I regret I employed excessive violence in the presence of a lady. I shall have to meditate upon that flaw in my nature. But I trust you are well?"
She looked at his sandals, his skirt, and his oriental countenance. She was terrified. "Please—let me go!"
Hiroshi extended his ki once more. "I am Hiroshi, humble teacher of aikido, a system of meditation and self defense. This is my practice costume, the dogi. I heard your distress and came to help. I do not mean to alarm you; as you can see, I am an old man and quite harmless."
That last seemed laughable. Hiroshi was sixty, but hardly harmless. The leading specialists of the world's leading martial arts—karate, judo, wrestling, kung-fu and others—had encountered the little sensei in past decades and departed with thorough-going respect for his physical and mental prowess. Aikido was no mean discipline, and he was the leading practitioner of his time.
Nevertheless, what he said was true. He was a man of peace, and considered himself primarily a teacher. When force was required, he employed it, but only as a necessary resort, and then with genuine regret.
The girl had no way of knowing this. But his ki reached out, pacifying her, and her fear abated. "I—I'm sorry," she said. "I was driving across the park on the transverse road, and my motor quit. I—these men offered to help, but before I knew it—"
"We shall go to your car," Hiroshi said. "Perhaps it is feeling better now."
It did not occur to her to argue. They walked north toward the road. "I had to deliver some important papers, and my apartment was just across the park," she said, her tension making her speak rapidly. "They were for tomorrow's session—I work at the UN—I just don't know what happened to my car—it wasn't out of gas. You're Japanese, aren't you?"
"I am." Her car was just past one of the underpass tunnels employed to keep transverse traffic clear of the park proper. "It just stopped," she repeated. "And wouldn't start. I ran down the battery trying to—"
Hiroshi put his hand on the hood. He extended his ki, seeking rapport with the needs of the motor. "Please try once more," he said.
"I told you—the battery's dead!" But she tried the starter. Some power had regenerated during her absence. The motor struggled over, once, twice—and caught.
"It's running!" she cried unnecessarily.
The sound of horse's hooves approached. The mounted policeman came up. "Lady, don't park here!" he cried. "The park's dangerous at night—don't you know that?"
She began to laugh, hysterically. Hiroshi walked around the car and put his hand on hers, and she calmed. "It's all right,
officer!" she said. "It stalled, but he fixed it somehow. And—"
"Merely coincidence," Hiroshi said. "I know nothing of motors."
The policeman squinted down at him. "You again! If you're molesting this woman—"
"No, no!" she cried. "He's my friend! Let me give you a ride, Mr. Hiroshi!"
"I am most grateful," Hiroshi said. "But this is not the favor I require from you. Please go your way."
"Get moving, lady!" the officer brayed.
She drove off.
The policeman stared at him. "Hiroshi, she called you. I know that name! Thought I placed you! Aikido!"
Hiroshi bowed. "It is of no importance."
The man jumped down from his horse. "I'm taking you into the station! Come along now—"
Hiroshi's motion was so slight as to seem insignificant, but it was the policeman's arm that ended in the submission lock, not the little teacher's.
"Hey—do that again!" the man exclaimed as Hiroshi released him. "Slow motion!"
He reached for Hiroshi's arm again, slowly, and the sensei made his move again, slowly. "You must use your opponent's ki against him," Hiroshi explained. "Then he defeats himself."
"You are him! That's what I wanted to know! I saw your picture in the book when I studied the comealongs. The top man since the founder died! But we have so many kooks around here, I just had to check. How come you're in New York?"
"I have minor business here," Hiroshi said. "I am glad you have profited from my book."
"Hey, the chief'll want to meet you! You're just about the toughest fighter in the world, aren't you?"
"The mental discipline is far more important than the physical, and the peaceful solution is always best."
"Not around here it isn't!" the officer said jovially. "These muggers and perverts—oh, you mean the ki. Well, I never did understand about that, much. But I heard you can do things with your mind, like telepathy. That right?"
"I do no more than you could do, with proper training," Hiroshi said. "Ki is inherent in everyone. I regret I can not visit your chief at this time."
"Okay," the policeman said regretfully, remounting. "I sure won't try to tell you what do do! But watch yourself around the park, will you? It's a rough beat!"
Hiroshi bowed. "I shall do so, sir."
The man trotted off with a friendly wave. Hiroshi walked south along the pleasant paths.
He came again to the little zoo, and climbed over its wall. Inside was a large plaster whale with a wide-open mouth. Goldfish swam in a glass aquarium inside it. He climbed in and curled up on the whale's tongue, sheltered from the bitterly cold wind, and relaxed.
I am hanging over a pit of wild tigers, he thought. Only the rope about my waist sustains my weight. A beaver is gnawing on that rope. I see some wild berries growing on the fringe of the pit, just within reach. I pick one as the last strand parts...
His eyes closed and he felt warm all over as he drifted to sleep. How sweet it tastes!
The sweet taste of the berry remained in his mouth as he woke. Dawn was near; attendants would be arriving soon. He climbed out of the whale, turned to make a formal bow to it, then climbed nimbly out of the zoo.
He was hungry, despite the berry. He had not eaten since leaving the airplane. But his business was now too urgent to permit further loss of time, and fasting was good for the spirit. He drank again from the Pond and proceeded on out of the park, south on Fifth Avenue, admiring the glittering stores, then east on 42nd Street.
First he saw the massive Secretariat Building, with its phenomenal expanse of glass. Then he saw the wide plaza and the row of flags of all the member nations; Japan's was the most beautiful.
He entered the General Assembly Building's main lobby, locating the Information Desk.
There was the girl he had saved from a fate worse than rape. "Mr. Hiroshi!" she exclaimed, her dark face lighting. Then her mouth tightened, for she did not want her employers to know about the park incident.
"If it is not too much to ask," Hiroshi said, inclining his head politely, "I should like to attend the General Assembly meeting."
"No trouble at all, Mr. Hiroshi!" she said, flustered. "We have regular tours!"
"I do not wish the visitor's tour. I must attend with the delegates."
"You don't understand, Mr. Hiroshi!" she protested. "No visitors are allowed on the assembly floor during a business session. You would have to have a special pass." She paused. "Or is that what you mean?"
Hiroshi nodded. "It is necessary."
She bit her lip. "After what you did look, I—please don't tell anyone! I wouldn't do this for anyone else in the world, but—here's a pass for the guest of a delegate. I'm sure this one won't be used today. I'd lose my job if—"
"This is most kind of you," Hiroshi said, accepting.
He entered the main assembly hall with the delegates, his pass clearing the way past the guard. It was like an amphitheater inside, with many rows of chairs. He peered up at the huge, tall dome admiringly. "What a magnificent dojo!" he murmured, thinking of his own small practice hall.
He made his way to the Cuban delegation. "Please," he said to the delegate in Spanish. "May I speak to the exile?" The man faced him, displeased. "There is no Cuban traitor here, señor! Only true Revolutionaries. And I do not believe I know you."
"I must apologize for the misunderstanding," Hiroshi said humbly. "I thought perhaps the man entered as your guest."
"No guest! If someone is using my pass—"
Hiroshi laid down his guest pass. The delegate's face became grim. "This is mine! Who—?"
"I fear he means mischief. Would you be so kind as to contact your office and ascertain—?"
"I shall certainly check it out!" the man said angrily, picking up the pass. "This should never have been issued!"
Now Hiroshi moved to the Japanese delegation and took a seat. The delegate looked at him and did a doubletake. "Are you not Hiroshi, the aikido sensei?" he asked in Japanese. "What brings you here?"
"This is not readily explained."
The man frowned. "Sensei, I have the utmost respect for your motives. But you can not remain here. This is the United Nations, and an important session is about to begin. If you will go to my office in the Secretariat Building, I will speak to you as soon as I can."
Hiroshi only smiled—and remained. Seeing that he would not be moved, the delegate put the best face on it and let him be. The President of the General Assembly called the meeting to order.
A wild-haired man barged in, pursued by two guards. He charged toward the Speaker's rostrum. Suddenly he stopped, whirled about, and gestured at the guards. "Killers!" he cried in high-pitched Spanish. "Shoot! You can't touch me!"
Both guards drew their guns and fired. The noise was deafening. But the bullets went up into the dome—shot after shot, until the guns were empty.
Then there was silence. Astonishment and dismay showed on the faces of the two guards, and in the assembly.
The Speaker was furious. "What is the meaning of this?" he cried in French. Hiroshi heard the English translation in his earpiece.
"Shut up!" the intruder cried, still in Spanish.
More guards rushed in. "Remove this man!" the Speaker said.
It was obvious that neither he nor the intruder understood the other, but their tones made their meanings clear.
One of the first two guards hurled his pistol at the Speaker. The missile missed, crashing into the glass-enclosed floor where the press and translators worked with such force that it cracked the unbreakable glass. Spiderwebs ran in all directions from the center of impact.
The intruder climbed to the Speaker's rostrum. "Shut up, all of you!" he cried again. "I am Mario Garcia! I am a slan, a clear, and the true President of Free Cuba, and now you all listen to me!"
The delegates, shocked, listened to their earpieces, hearing his words in one of the five official languages. But many did not get the word, because the strike at the translators' booth had brough
t a number of the translators to their feet, gaping. The six reinforcement police stood unmoving, while the President and his staff quietly cleared out. Only the news-hungry television camera crew kept operating, broadcasting it all.
"I am the only sane man in the world!" Garcia cried into the mike. He was a tall, thin, nervous young man with very light hair and reddish white skin, almost albino. His eyes were blue and seemed weak, not tracking properly, though he was not wearing glasses. "I am the only one fit to rule, so you'll have to make me King of the world!"
No one answered. Everyone seemed to be waiting for someone else's initiative, with many shaking their heads in bewilderment. Even the English translation was out of commission now; but that made no difference to Hiroshi. He watched the wild young man closely, studying his every move.
"I am a Doctor of Scientology!" Garcia cried. "And a black belt in judo! And founder of the SLF! Now elect me King of the world—or I'll destroy you along with the Communists!"
Still no one replied, and the guards remained strangely inactive. There was an increasing murmur among the delegates. Hiroshi rose and walked toward the Cuban delegation.
"See, I'll show you!" Garcia said, gesturing with both his arms. "I control metal. I have telekinesis! I have telepathy! I am a slan! You are powerless against me!"
The Cuban delegate spied Hiroshi and gestured him close. "Señor, you were right!" he whispered, tapping his scribbled notes. "I called my office, and we have a file on this madman. His mother was a santera, that espiritismo cult. His mind became unhinged when his family lost its ill-gained fortune, and he became a traitor to his country and left Cuba. How did you know he was here?"
"The ki led me," Hiroshi said, not quibbling about definitions. To the Castro government of Cuba, anti-communist was interchangeable with traitor. "Please—more information?"
"You can do something?" The delegate paused, alarmed, as the remaining guards fired a volley into the dome. "The madman I comprehend; he is mad! But what is the matter with guards?"
"It is necessary first to understand Garcia," Hiroshi said gently.