The Ark Sakura Read Online Free Page B

against invaders from outside, the apparatus was capable of inflicting fatal injury; but for communal living to succeed, minimum standards of order had to be preserved. Certainly I had no plan or desire to throw my weight around as captain, but then again, it wouldn’t do to turn the ark into a great coffin.
    I couldn’t keep putting off the decision. Unless I compromised somewhere, plainly I would find myself battling windmills forever. One or two people could never run a ship that size; my plans called ultimately for a crew of 385. Unless I wanted to see the ship superannuated before ever weighing anchor, I had better make up my mind to take the insect dealer on board.
    The lady directly across the way (whose stall boasted a collection of thousands of different matchbooks and matchboxes, candy wrappers and whatnot) had begun packing in a hurry. Apparently annoyed by the failure of her goods to sell, she was ripping off the tarpaulin and stuffing it into her valise without even taking time to remove the thumbtacks. It was no wonder her sales were poor; the eupcaccia was eccentric in its way, but her merchandise was just too idiosyncratic. She herself, though past middle age, wore yellow sunglasses with a smart-looking kimono, for an effect somehow out of keeping with the surroundings. To make matters worse, at the bottom of her sign were the pathetic words “Mementoes of My Departed Husband,” which could only serve to put off potential customers. Perhaps the insect dealer had been right: expecting too much was indeed a sin.
    The man selling a water cannon (not water pistol) at the stall on my immediate right was seated chin in hands by a peculiar machine placed directly on the floor. A tape recording recited his spiel for him while he looked resentfully up at the sky. The clouds were higher than before; now a wisp swirled fitfully by at about the speed of a helicopter. It looked as if the rain would hold off awhile longer, but no one was likely to buy a water cannon in any case. Besides, the price was too high. No sane person would part with ten million yen unless either there was solid reason to believe the price would rise further or the item was of enormous practical value. From listening to the tape, I deduced that he had based the figure solely on the number of days it had taken him to make the thing. A former employee of the Japan National Railways, he had utilized the principle of the steam locomotive. He had evidently applied for a patent, but to my layman’s way of thinking it seemed hardly likely that steam pressure could have an explosive force comparable to gunpowder. If it was a low-noise, nonpolluting, short-distance projectile he wanted, elastic could easily do the job. I didn’t think much of the design, either: an unsightly bulging coal stove, and rising out of it, a stubby cannon. It looked exactly like the male genitalia. Good for a laugh maybe, but certainly nothing I’d pay even one hundred yen for.
    These people were obviously genuine amateurs, just as advertised. Their offerings roused one’s curiosity, but ultimately left one disappointed. All I could discern around me was out-and-out greed, and total lack of concern for psychology. Personally, I didn’t mind a little wool over my eyes as long as the result was sufficiently entertaining. That was where the eupcaccia shone: now there was the unmistakable touch of the professional.
    A man appeared in the corner of the aisle and stopped lightly, birdlike. In the heat, as sultry as a noodle-shop kitchen, he cut a conspicuous figure in his suit coat. Even without seeing the badge on his lapel, I knew instantly that this was the same security guard who had falsely accused me over at the rest area. Had he come to stir up some new storm? I didn’t want to be hassled. With the stall cleared of merchandise, he might well stop to ask questions. I took out the remaining two tickets and placed them side by side on the counter. The plain wood surface of