The emergency topic taken up at the regular meeting of the Cabinet on July 27 was the Izu Earthquake. The director general of the Prime Minister’s Office gave a brief report on the damage done, which was expected to amount to hundreds of billions.
“The eruptions, the earthquake—in neither case was there any sort of forecast or warning, was there?” the Prime Minister quietly observed. He had just returned from abroad and looked as though he was still suffering from the rigors of travel. “For some time now we’ve been putting a good amount from the budget into earthquake forecasting, and so one would expect that some research is under way.”
“Well,” said the director of the Technological Agency, the youngest member of the Cabinet, “according to what the scientists tell me, leaving aside the matter of volcanoes, it will take five or even ten more years before we reach the stage where we can predict earthquakes. It seems that now we can’t even say for sure why an earthquake occurs.”
“I suppose the construction of the new Super Express line is going to be held up because of all this,” said the Minister of Trade and Industry.
“The president of National Railways was raising a fuss even before,” said the bent old man who was Minister of Transportation. “The matter of earthquakes be as it may, the area selected for the right-of-way has turned out, time after time, to be land that provides but treacherous footing. I understand the firms involved are clamoring about having to raise their estimates. Both the National Railways and the private lines are going to be very much in the red this year.”
“Prescinding from the floods during the rainy season, because of these earthquakes, this is the third time this year that we’ve applied the Disaster Relief Act,” said the Minister of Finance with a sour expression. “At this rate, we’re going to have to have a supplementary budget.”
“It looks as though from now on we’re going to have to set aside a larger portion each year for damages from earthquakes and other natural catastrophes,” said the Minister of Construction as he wiped off his glasses.
A silence came over the room. The words of the Minister of Construction stirred a vague sense of foreboding in the heart of each member of the Cabinet. Small as Japan was, she was laden with plan upon plan—construction plans, regional plans, municipal plans, plans for the reorganization of industrial areas. This year, however . . . Within the space of the first four months of the calendar year, the vague, somber shadow of something heretofore unknown had begun to fall across all of these plans. On the face of it, it seemed merely a matter of the perennial conflict with nature having become somewhat intensified, but once the data had been viewed in perspective, one sensed that something like a still faint mosaic was beginning to emerge, something sinister, its outline still no more than a pale shadow.
“The problem is the panic that could arise,” the Prime Minister began and then stopped. He dropped his eyes to a teacup on the table. Sunlight from the window fell upon the now cold liquid within. Tiny circles of waves were forming, one after another, on its bright surface. “I’ll be damned! How long are these earthquakes going to go on? Let’s face it, gentlemen— we’ve had more earthquakes lately than ever before. Now are they going to keep on increasing? or what? If we knew, we could provide for them in the budget.”
“Suppose we hear what the scientists have to say,” said the Minister of Health and Welfare. “I, for one, would be interested in that.”
“A good idea,” said the Prime Minister, looking toward the director general of the Cabinet. “Let’s find out how much these earthquake specialists know. But, as always, let’s be circumspect about it. It wouldn’t do at all for reporters to raise a howl. Let’s get a few of them together and hear them out.”
At that moment the room began to rock back and forth. Dust fell from the ceiling, flecks dancing in the sunlight. There was a brief pause, and then a much stronger tremor took hold. The floor shook violently. The earth itself began to groan, and the walls and uprights creaked and swayed. Tea spilled from the cups on the table.
“This is really a big one,” someone murmured.
Then, just when the Cabinet members had risen from their chairs, their expressions tense, the vibrations stopped abruptly. The tea left in the cups was still trembling. The water in the flower vase still splashed back and forth with a noisy gurgle. Two or three acoustic tiles fell with a clatter from the ceiling.
“That was something!” said the Minister of Health and Welfare with a sigh.
There were wry smiles of relief as everyone began to talk a bit too loudly. Unnoticed in the uproar was a distant boom. A few moments afterward there was a knock at the door of the meeting room, and a secretary entered. He spoke into the ear of the director general, who nodded and turned to the others.
“Gentlemen, Mount Asama has just erupted.”
When the earthquake struck, Onodera felt it through the ragged couch on which he lay on the second floor of Professor Tadokoro’s private laboratory in Hongo. Such was his state of mind that he stared up at the swaying, soot-covered fluorescent light above his head as though he were dreaming. He vaguely heard the crack of a windowpane, the snap of something giving way inside the sofa. Finally he came to enough to wonder where he was. By the time he got up from the couch, the quake had stopped. He gave a wide yawn, and as he did so, he heard the clatter of footsteps on the stairs.
“Is there a fire?” he asked a young man running down the corridor.
“No. It looks like Asama’s erupted.”
Professor Tadokoro appeared in the corridor, wearing a wrinkled laboratory coat. When he came into the room, Onodera noticed that his eyes were bloodshot and he seemed completely worn out.
“Asama, uh?” said Tadokoro, his voice hoarse. “It’s not worth bothering about.”
“But, Professor,” Onodera protested, “the whole world seems to be blowing up.”
“Let it blow up,” said Tadokoro, stifling a yawn.
“Well, sir,” said Onodera, glancing at his watch, “I’m afraid I’ll have to be going now. I took too long a nap.”
“Onodera,” said Tadokoro, hit by an onset of yawning, “could we talk just a bit downstairs?”
“Talk, Professor?” said Onodera, stopping in the doorway. “What do you want to talk about, sir?”
“Let’s go downstairs,” said Tadokoro. He shouted to his young assistants, who were still talking excitedly: “Hey, down there! Instead of doing all that chattering, get a report on the Asama eruption.”
“Let me make a phone call, and I’ll be right down,” said Onodera.
When he had finished his call, Onodera went down to the basement.
The heart of Professor Tadokoro’s private laboratory was a snug air-conditioned room with walls of double thickness. It housed a miniature LSI computer, and spread around it in disordered fashion were a desk, an open file, a locker, a drawing board, an old-fashioned dictaphone, and a variety of other instruments. The cool air of the silent room felt pleasant against Onodera’s skin.
Professor Tadokoro was sitting in a chair in the corner, his chin propped up by his elbow, his mouth moving as though he was mumbling something. When Onodera walked over to him, he raised his bloodshot eyes and looked at him searchingly, as though he were seeing a stranger.
“Oh! It’s you,” said Tadokoro. “Now, let’s see . . . Oh, yes. There was a call from Yukinaga just now.”
“Professor Yukinaga?”
“His house is close by here. How about having lunch with us? I’ll have something delivered.” As he spoke, Tadokoro picked up the telephone.