"Very little. I could hardly ask any of them if they have laid themselves open to blackmail." He passed a hand over his lined face. "It is terrible. I found myself looking at all of them with suspicious eyes and dreading every workday. Then, just when I was becoming completely distracted, I thought of you. I have known these men too long to see them with unbiased eyes. You, as an outsider, may have a clearer vision."

"But I can hardly start hanging about the university asking aimless questions."

"No, no! But there is a way. Of course you may not be able to take off the time, but we have an opening for an assistant professor of law. The incumbent, poor fellow, died three months ago, and the position has not been filled. The best part is that you would be my associate and we could meet on a regular basis without arousing suspicion. Could you take a short leave of absence and become a visiting lecturer? You would be paid, of course."

The image of his office at the ministry with its stack of bone-dry dossiers, and of the sour face of his superior, Minister Soga, flashed before Akitada's inward eye. Here was escape from the hateful archives, and an escape which promised the added incentive of a tantalizing puzzle. "Yes," he said, "provided the minister approves it."

Hirata's tired face lit up. "I think I can almost guarantee it. Oh, my dear boy, I cannot tell you how relieved I am. I was at my wits' end. If we can stop the blackmail, the university may limp along for another few generations."

Akitada gave his old friend and mentor a searching look. "You know," he said hesitantly, "that I cannot agree to suppress evidence of a crime."

Hirata looked startled. "Oh, surely . . . yes, I see what you mean. No, of course not. You are quite right. That is awkward. Still, it is better to take action to stop it. You must do as you see fit. I certainly don't know what is going on."

A brief silence fell. Akitada wondered if the professor had perhaps agreed too quickly. And had there not been the slightest emphasis on the word "know"? Finally Akitada said with a slight chuckle, "Well, I shall certainly do my best, but I am afraid that I shall be a very poor teacher. You must send me only your dullest students or our scheme will quickly come to ruin."

Hirata cheered up. "Not at all, dear boy!" he cried heartily. "You were my best student and have since acquired more practical knowledge of official duties than I have ever possessed."

There was a soft scratching at the sliding door to the corridor.

"Father?" Tamako's soft voice was a welcome interruption. "Your dinner is ready. Will you come to the main hall?"

"Of course. Right away. We are quite finished reminiscing," Hirata called. They heard her footsteps receding.

"May I inform your daughter of this matter, sir, or will you?" Akitada inquired.

Hirata paused in the process of rising and straightening his robe. "Why? I would rather not involve her," he said doubtfully.

"She is so concerned about you that the truth will be a great relief to her," Akitada persisted.

They walked out into the corridor together. "You have always been very fond of my child, haven't you?" Hirata asked inconsequentially.

"Yes. Of course."

"Very well. We shall tell her together over dinner."

Two

The Imperial University

A week later Akitada entered, as one of its teachers, the grounds of the august university in which he had received his own education.

The imperial university, or daigaku, covered four city blocks just south of the greater imperial palace, or daidairi. Its main gate was on Mibu Road and directly across from the Shinsenen, the Divine Spring Garden, a large park where the emperor and his nobles often held summer parties.

On this sunny morning of the Blossoming Month, Akitada stood just inside this gate, looking at the familiar walls and gates, the tiled roofs of lecture halls, libraries and dormitories lying peacefully under a placid sky and swaying pine trees, and was seized by a familiar panic. Like an adult son who will never quite lose a feeling of inadequacy around a parent, Akitada was once again in the grip of that atmosphere of stem authority and intellectual superiority which had awed him as a youngster.

He forced down the lump of adolescent panic and took in subtle signs of neglect. Weeds were growing against walls which needed patching where pieces of whitewashed mud had fallen off, revealing the timbers, rubble, and woven branches which supported them; the dirt road was pitted and marred by puddles; and from the curved roofs of the halls and gates large sections of tile were missing.

A group of chattering students, nine or ten young men, all in their late teens and wearing the mandatory dark cotton robes, passed him, falling abruptly silent as they approached. Giving him nervous looks, they turned into the courtyard of the administration hall and took off running.

Not everything had changed, Akitada thought with a smile. The students were still up to their usual pranks.

He could not blame them. It promised to be a beautiful day, much better spent on a lark than in a musty classroom. The sky was pale blue silk and the dark green pines and pale-leafed willows rose against it like delicate embroidery. In the courtyard nearest him, a cuckoo suddenly burst into its characteristic ho-to-to.

Akitada had come early, because he wanted some time to look around and perhaps meet some of his new colleagues. Walking through the small gate into the courtyard of the Temple of Confucius, Akitada decided it was appropriate for him to pay his respects to the patron saint of education. Besides, it was here that Professor Hirata had discovered the blackmail note.

Coming into the temple hall from the sunlight, Akitada was surprised by its gloom, but his eyes soon adjusted and he could make out the life-sized wooden statues. The great master Confucius occupied the center of a dais, with his fellow sages lined up on either side. Akitada bowed deeply before "Master Kung," as Seimei called him, and asked for inspiration in his new duties.

His teaching assignment, though a mere cover for snooping, was taking on daunting proportions. Akitada did not think that he could fool bright youngsters with a less than professional effort. He had considered backing out, but in the balance the dusty archives at the ministry held more terror than the probing questions of students.

Somewhere a door closed. He looked around but saw no one. The statue of the sage looked at him through heavy-lidded eyes, his hand stroking a long beard. One needed age to become wise. Who was he to pass himself off as a teacher? Such fraud was no part of the Confucian philosophy.

He reminded himself of the ministerial archives. To his surprise there had not been the slightest problem getting a temporary leave from his duties at the ministry. His Excellency, the Minister of Justice, had stared at him coldly and informed him that his presence was needed more urgently at the university than in his present sphere. Soga had somehow managed to convey that they could manage without Akitada on a permanent basis.

Sighing deeply, Akitada bowed to the master again, apologetically, and then walked through the hall to the small anteroom under the eaves. Here were the pegs where the professors had hung their formal robes for the rites. A door connected the room to the temple hall, and another door opposite led to the outside. Akitada opened the latter and looked out into the main courtyard. Shrubbery surrounding a stand of pines hid this entrance from general view. Anyone could have entered or left without being seen.