Sometime after midnight Onodera was at the wheel of a small hovercraft skimming over the surface of Sagami Bay. It be longed to the Abe family, and on board were all the guests who wished to get back to Tokyo at once.
Situated 150 feet above sea level, Reiko’s villa had suffered little, but since the electricity had been knocked out and the road below blocked by a landslide, everyone had been in a state of high excitement.
On Sagami Bay, ashes were fluttering softly down from the sky, and the falling rain, lit by the probing beams of the hover craft, seemed to merge with the surface of the sea. As the vessel skimmed over the water at a speed of forty miles an hour, Onodera’s eyes strayed now and then from the bright radar-scope to the distant view of Mount Amagi, where the night sky glowed red. A strange, indefinable foreboding rose up within Onodera like a dark, sinister tide. Somehow this foreboding seemed linked to what he had seen on the floor of the Japan Trench—down there, 24,000 feet below the surface of the sea, where the pressure squeezed the hull of his submarine at the rate of one ton per square inch—linked to what he had seen there, that massive, indescribable writhing.
“Onodera...” As they were rounding Aburatsubo, somebody called to him from the rear cabin. “It’s a call for you from Tokyo. Person to person.”
Though he heard, Onodera did not respond at once, still in the grip of the cold dread that was gnawing at him.
“Hello, hello . . .”
He knew he had heard that arrogant voice before.
“This is Onodera,” he said.
“This is Tadokoro. I’ve been looking for you. What does Amagi look like?”
“The eruption is still going on,” answered Onodera, glancing out the rain-streaked window. “Mihara, too. A lot of smoke is coming from it.”
“I heard from your general manager that you have the records of the undersea survey you made in Sagami Bay two weeks ago.”
“Yes. I was going over them at home before turning them over to the survey section.”
“Is there anything in the records about any depth changes in the deepest section of the bay?”
Onodera caught his breath sharply.
“There is,” he answered. “But since the previous surveys were not that accurate, all I could do was compare my previous impressions with what I saw and make an estimate. There seemed to be a lot of changes from a year and a half before. But that’s based upon things as I remember them.”
“Onodera, how soon can you get to Tokyo?” Tadokoro’s tone was imperious as usual. “I know you must be tired, but I want those records of yours just as soon as possible. Fm at my laboratory, in Hongo. Where do you live?”
“In Aoyama, sir.” He looked at his watch. It was 1:45 A.M. “At the earliest, I can probably be there by dawn. Where in Hongo?”
“Two Chome. When you get to the neighborhood, phone me.”
“This data, sir, will bear on the earthquake?”
“The earthquake?” Tadokoro’s voice became impatient. “There’s something far more important at issue than the earth quake.” There was a pause. “Or so it seems, at any rate. . . .”
Onodera seemed to lose Tadokoro’s voice. “Hello, hello . . . ” he said, fearing that they had been cut off.
“I’m still here. Onodera, I don’t know exactly what we ought to do.” Tadokoro’s voice had abruptly changed, startlingly so. It had become a voice heavy with weary disappointment. “Maybe it’s just a bad dream. But it’s gotten hold of me, and I can’t do anything about it. Fm obsessed. But, at any rate, please do what you can.”
“I understand, sir,” answered Onodera.