“It depends on how you look at it,” Komatsu said. “There are times when a submitted manuscript is rewritten, on advice of the editor—”

Buzzcut put his hand up to cut him off. “There’s nothing dishonest about the author revising parts of the novel based on the editor’s advice. You’re right. But having a third party rewrite the work is unscrupulous. Not only that, but forming a phony company to distribute royalties—I don’t know how this would be interpreted from a legal standpoint, but morally speaking these actions would be roundly condemned. It’s inexcusable. Newspapers and magazines would have a field day over it, and your company’s reputation would suffer. I’m sure you understand this very well, Mr. Komatsu. We know all the facts, and have incontrovertible proof we can reveal to the world. So it’s best not to try to talk your way out of it. It’s a waste of time, for both of us.”

Komatsu nodded.

“If it did come to that, obviously you would have to resign from the company. Plus, you know that you would be blackballed from the field. There would be no place left for you in publishing. For legitimate work, at least.”

“I imagine not,” Komatsu said.

“But at this point only a limited number of people know the truth,” Buzzcut said. “You, Eriko Fukada, Professor Ebisuno, and Tengo Kawana, who rewrote the book. And just a handful of others.”

Komatsu chose his words carefully. “According to our working hypothesis, this handful of others would be members of Sakigake.”

Buzzcut nodded, barely. “Yes. According to our hypothesis, that would be the case.”

Buzzcut paused, allowing the hypothesis to sink in. And then he went on.

“And if that hypothesis is indeed true, then they can do whatever they want to you. They can keep you here as their guest of honor for as long as they like. No problem at all. Or, if they wanted to shorten the length of your stay, there are any number of other choices they can make—including ones that would be unpleasant for both sides. Either way, they have the power and the means. I believe you already have a pretty good grasp of that.”

“I think I do,” Komatsu replied.

“Good,” Buzzcut said.

Buzzcut raised a finger, and Ponytail left the room. He soon returned with a phone. He plugged it into a jack on the wall and handed the phone to Komatsu. Buzzcut directed him to call his company.

“You have had a terrible cold and a fever and have been in bed for a few days. It doesn’t look like you’ll be able to come in to work for a while. Tell them that and then hang up.”

Komatsu asked for one of his colleagues, briefly explained what he had to say, and hung up without responding to his questions. Buzzcut nodded and Ponytail unplugged the phone from the jack and took the phone and left the room. Buzzcut intently studied the back of his hands, then turned to Komatsu. There was a faint tinge of kindness in his voice.

“That’s it for today,” he said. “We’ll talk again another day. Until then, please consider carefully what we have discussed.”

The two of them left, and Komatsu spent the next ten days in silence, in that room. Three times a day the masked young man would bring in the mediocre meals. After the fourth day, Komatsu was given a change of clothes—a cotton pajama-like top and bottom—but until the very end, they didn’t let him take a shower. The most he could do was wash his face in the tiny sink attached to the toilet. His sense of time’s passage grew more uncertain.

Komatsu thought that he had been taken to the cult’s headquarters in Yamanashi. He had seen it on TV. It was deep in the mountains, surrounded by a tall fence, like some independent realm. Escape, or finding help, was out of the question. If they did end up killing him (which must be what they had meant by an unpleasant choice), his body would never be found. He had never felt death so real, or so close.

Ten days after he had made that forced call to his company (most likely ten days, though he wouldn’t bet on it), the same duo made another appearance. Buzzcut seemed thinner than before, which made his cheekbones all the more prominent. His cold eyes were now bloodshot. As before, he sat down on the folding chair he had brought, across the table from Komatsu. He didn’t say a word for a long time. He simply stared at Komatsu with his red eyes.

Ponytail looked the same. Again he stood, ramrod straight, in front of the door, his emotionless eyes fixed on an imaginary point in space. They were again dressed in black trousers and white shirts, most likely a sort of uniform.

“Let’s pick up where we left off last time,” Buzzcut finally said. “We were saying that we can do whatever we like with you.”

Komatsu nodded. “Including choices that wouldn’t be pleasant for either side.”

“You really do have a great memory,” Buzzcut said. “You are correct. An unpleasant outcome is looming.”

Komatsu was silent. Buzzcut went on.

“In theory, that is. Practically speaking, they would much prefer not to make an extreme choice. If you were suddenly to disappear now, Mr. Komatsu, that would lead to unwanted complications. Just like it did when Eriko Fukada disappeared. There aren’t many people who would be sad if you were gone, but you’re a respected editor, prominent in your field. And I’m sure that if you fall behind in your alimony payments, your wife will have something to say about it. For them, this would not be a very favorable development.”

Komatsu gave a dry cough and swallowed.

“They’re not criticizing you personally, or trying to punish you. They understand that in publishing Air Chrysalis you weren’t intending to attack a specific religious organization. At first you didn’t even know the connection between the novel and that organization. You perpetrated this fraud for fun and out of ambition. And money became a factor, too, as things developed. It’s very hard for a mere company employee to pay alimony and child support, isn’t it? And you brought Tengo Kawana—an aspiring novelist and cram school instructor who didn’t know anything about the circumstances—into the mix. The plan itself was smart, but your choice of the novel and the writer? Not so much. And things got more complicated than you imagined. You were like ordinary citizens who had wandered across the front lines and stepped into a minefield. You can’t go forward, and can’t go back. Am I correct in this, Mr. Komatsu?”

“That might sum it up, I suppose,” Komatsu replied.

“There still seem to be some things you don’t entirely understand,” Buzzcut said, his eyes narrowing a fraction. “If you did, you wouldn’t pretend that this has nothing to do with you. Let’s make things crystal clear. You are, frankly, in the middle of a minefield.”

Komatsu silently nodded.

Buzzcut closed his eyes, and ten seconds later opened them. “This situation has put you in a bind, but understand that it has created some real problems for them as well.”

Komatsu took the plunge and spoke. “Do you mind if I ask you a question?”

“If it’s something I can answer.”

“By publishing Air Chrysalis we created a little trouble for the religious organization. Is that what you’re saying?”

“More than a little trouble,” Buzzcut said. He grimaced slightly. “The voice no longer speaks to them. Do you have any idea what that means?”

“No,” Komatsu croaked, his voice dry.

“Fine. I can’t explain any more to you than that. And it’s better for you not to know. The voice no longer speaks to them. That’s all I can tell you now.” Buzzcut paused. “And this unhappy turn of events was brought about by the publication of Air Chrysalis.”

Komatsu posed a question. “And did Eriko Fukada and Professor Ebisuno expect that by making Air Chrysalis public, they would bring about this unhappy turn of events?”