Dugan-Kabashima looked up at her, pleasantly enough. He seemed to think himself observed, because he did not allow himself the faintest trace of the Dugan expressions. He was pure Kabashima — pleasant but formal, hospitable but dry, calculating but ruinously self-revealing. It took a blink for Sarah to realize that Kabashima was Dugan.
"Don't take me too seriously," said Dugan in his assumed voice.
Sarah looked up, startled.
"I appreciate your being concerned for me. You have shown your friendship. But a man who moves as I do can leave no hostages to fortune. I cannot be a man and hold this job. Therefore I must be all job. The only life I ever have is the life I live in these roles." With sad drollery he mocked his own role of Mr. Kabashima and thickened his Japanese-accented English, "Rike ziss. Sank so much for having runch wiss me, nice American miss!" When he smiled at her, there was rue behind the smile.
"But I—" Sarah stopped. This was no time for elaborate man-and-woman chess-moves which might permit a man and woman to approach one another in a formal pantomime of daring advance and sweeping retreat. She was talking to a man who was about to catwalk the brim of death, preying upon vast and poisonous Atomsk. Dugan had already faded halfway out of sight into the shabby Mr. Kabashima; he might soon fade into complete strangeness, into distance, into extinction. Yet she would not, could not tell him, "I love you." That was too much.
People don't say "I love you" to grinning Japanese confidence men. What do people say?
With one of the bravest gestures of her life she reached out and took his arm, seizing it firmly. "I do take you seriously… Michael. And you must come back. For my sake."
The Kabashima face remained impassive, alert, courteous, remote as though paned behind ice; Dugan remained incredibly far away, behind the blind mask of his Japanese wraith.
Then his voice, and his voice alone, became Dugan:
"Don't say it!" he rasped in a rapid whisper. "Not another word of it! It'll hurt you, hurt you, Sarah. And I don't want you hurt. A man who's half Aleutian and half Irish can't have a personal life. I found that out when I was in high school." Old bitterness echoed in his words.
She started to protest, but he silenced her with a prohibitive Japanese gesture so odd that it seemed almost Masonic.
His thin hissed whisper went on. "In a week I'll be up in a plane. You know where I'll hit. Over yonder. Near Them. And who do you think I will be? Dugan? Kabashima? Anybody you or I ever heard of? No. Some new man, risen out of that place, proper to that land. Could I think of you while I slip from this person to that, become young or old, white or Asiatic? What's there to me if I dare stop long enough to be me? Do you think that I dare be myself?"
"But, Michael…"
He looked steadily and expressionlessly at her; for a moment she thought he might break down, become real and human and warm and talk back to her. But the tragic whisper went on:
"I found out. I had quartermaster duty once, for almost two years in Arkansas. The work was good and the place was fine. But I was not. I hated myself more than any American ever hated any Japanese. There was no place in the world for me. It might be their sunshine, but it wasn't mine, nor my air, nor my moon that shone at night. It belonged to them." All of a sudden his face lit up with an unearthly grin—
"So you see, my dear. I'm them. Mr. Kabashima today. Perhaps Mr. Smith or Comrade Ivanov tomorrow, or simple Farmer Wang. How can you think of them, my dear? They will appear, dissolve, reappear. I'm not the Michael you called me. I am Missterr Kabashima, sank you too much! Drink a toast to Michael, my dear, and to the walking nobody of two weeks hence!"
She lifted her teacup. Most of her portion of eel had become cold, though Dugan-Kabashima had devoured his share. Silently she toasted him, thinking the words but not saying them:
To your selves, my dear. To Atomsk. To my Dugan, if he lives.
VI. THE ART OF SELF-ENTRAPMENT
Ten days later, the Manchurian highway was dusty and forlorn. Guerrillas challenged Dugan.
"My name is An," said Dugan in bad Chinese, "and I am an unfortunate Soviet soldier."
The Chinese Communist guerrilla leader kept his Luger pointing straight at Dugan's abdomen.
"Prove it. Show me your papers."
"That is why I am unfortunate. I have lost my papers."
The chieftain was a sharp cookie, a tough rustic. His type appeared in all nations: the local man who had no education but much wit. When revolution stirred a country, this species floated right up to the top. Dugan realized that he would have to be careful.
"When the Great Red Army of Great Soviet Union withdrew from this area, I was left behind." He gestured. The sweep of his arm took in the Chinese village, the irrigation ditch along the good Japanese-built Manchurian road, the power-line pylons in the background.
"How left behind?" asked the leader.
"Left behind because of drunkenness. I was not conscious of myself."
"Then," said the Chinese, "you are a bad soldier. You are a bad Communist."
"You are a much better Communist than I," said Dugan cheerfully, "and I would be glad to learn from you. Give me a rifle and I will show you whether I like capitalists, imperialists, or landlords."
The Chinese kept to the point. "Come into the village. If you are a spy, I will shoot you. If you are a deserter, I will turn you over to our Russian friends and your own people will punish you. It is not decent to be so cheerful. Why do you laugh?"
"Comrade," said Dugan, "I am no Russian."
"But you told me you were a Soviet soldier." The Chinese looked puzzled.
"Do I look like one?" Dugan crinkled his eyelids together to make himself look more Asiatic. He let a rumble of irresponsible mirth come up from his belly to his throat.
"You look like no Russian to me," the Chinese conceded. "Of what place are you? Why did you say you were a glorious Soviet soldier?"
"But it is true. I am a Soviet soldier, but no Russian. Haven't you heard the telling, comrade, about the many nationalities of the Soviet Union?"
"Have heard."
"I am a Uighur."
"Never heard of them. Come along to the village."
The four other peasants fell into line. Dugan noted that their Japanese rifles were new and in good condition. Their cartridge belts showed little wear. They were dressed in the nondescript jackets and pajamalike pants of the Chinese peasantry. Their only uniform consisted of a white armband with a red star and the characters, "Democratic Self-Development Brigade," crudely stamped in ink. And their shoes, which were Japanese Army issue, and good.
Dugan walked beside the leader. Thus far, things were going well. Not as perfectly as he might wish, but well enough for him to be satisfied.
After leaving Sarah, he had spent six more days in Tokyo. Two in the hospital. Two more were spent in conversation with a nuclear scientist and an engineer.
Through the interviews, Dugan wore a mask. These men were too conspicuous to be trusted. Tokyo was full of Soviet agents and if the scientist or engineer had seen his un-American face, there might have been talking. As it was, they heard Dugan mimic the ripe Irish voice of his uncle Ed. The rest of their lives, they would suspect that some mick had been hiding behind the black mask. Their information, reduced to its crass essentials, was fairly simple. Dugan refused unnecessary information on the ground he might be drugged or tortured. He asked only what he should look for.
His last two days in Tokyo were spent in getting his equipment shipshape. Part of the equipment was in a matchbox in his pocket. Part was sewed into his Chinese cord-soled shoes.