Another magnetic linear-drive cargo ship arrived. A fifty-thousand-ton freighter. An elliptical hole opened at the bottom of the tower. A gangplank—that looked from a distance like it was made out of shiny aluminum foil—connected to the ship’s hold.
With a mind-mesmerizing guidance system leading them, the cargo was taken inside the tower. Watching the procession, the short-sleeved old man behind the counter sighed.
“That ship’s from Africa. Elephants, giraffes, rhinoceroses, zebras, lions, water buffaloes—it’s Noah’s freaking ark.”
“Wasn’t that other ship from Paris’s Fine Arts Foundation? Those crates must be filled with masterpieces. What kind of a house is that?” The man’s wife mused, gazing with enchanted eyes at one of their two customers. “Who in the world could be living there?”
That customer had sat down at the back of the small ramen shop and ordered a roasted pork ramen. Had ordered, but she couldn’t say now whether or not he’d eaten it. She was sure she’d watched him sucking up the yellow noodles, but when faced with the incongruity of this particular customer and an ordinary Chinese rice bowl, she couldn’t say for sure.
It was as if a brilliant artist had imbued his final portrait with the talent and experience accumulated over a lifetime—the smooth curve drawn by the eyebrows and the bridge of the nose—black eyes like a crystal clear winter’s night—lips that would kindle in women and men alike the desire to taste them.
Even his shadow falling on the ground beside him was more beautiful than any real woman. Except that this beauty was not the work of God, but something the devil made. The haunting light glittering at the back of his eyes said as much. The cruel smile reflected now and then on the screen of a monitor said as much.
Knowing this man’s occupation, who wouldn’t have gaped in disbelief and immediately think of a madman doing unspeakable things to the dead?
“A refill, Doctor Mephisto?” the wife asked in a throaty voice.
“I’m good,” he answered curtly.
But those cool words alone were enough to make almost any woman in the universe swoon.
“What do you think, Doctor?” The ramen shop proprietor asked, oblivious to his wife’s emotional state. “What’s with that building? Three days ago it appears in Chuo Park twenty yards above the ground. And then taking shipments of whatever nonstop, day and night. No matter how big a house, isn’t it all a bit too much? There must be another thirty of those fifty-thousand-ton cargo ships waiting to dock.”
Even if he had noticed, he was unlikely to say anything to this particular man. For this was Shinjuku’s very own Doctor Mephisto. Also known as the Demon Physician. When his slender hand wielded a scalpel, the most malignant disease in the world didn’t stand a chance.
“This may sound funny to you,” the proprietor continued. “But it makes sense to me. See, the ward sold the land and air rights for the legs holding that thing up. The guy in charge at the time is dead, but the contract’s there on the computer. So that’s that. The way I look at it, they hauled it here in a single night. There’s no way they built something like that there, even if designing stuff like that on a computer is a piece of cake. Guaranteed that thing’s gonna cause one helluva shit-storm sooner than later.”
Mephisto didn’t express any objections to the proprietor’s opinions.
Three days before, the large structure had suddenly appeared in the air above Chuo Park. Ward officials insisted on an on-site inspection and made contact via wireless.
Needless to say, three minutes after its appearance was reported, the park was surrounded by antiaircraft weapon systems, starting with armored police helicopters and large caliber laser cannons.
Strangely enough, in short order a response was received over normal frequencies and the tense situation was defused.
According to the ward government, the presumed owner of the building quickly responded to demands to identify himself and provide an explanation for the appearance. He was a resident of the ward who had constructed his home following all of the lawful procedures. The contract could be found on file in the ward’s computers. According to the contract, because a name was not required at the time, it would not be provided now.
The amazed ward officials examined the computers and confirmed that the absolute and unfettered rights to the land on which the four columns sat and the air twenty yards up—the space from the ground to the bottom of the structure enclosed by the four legs—had been, in the government’s name, sold.
The paperwork was all in order. Nobody in the ward government had been given any reason to think otherwise. Even the money stipulated in the contract had been transferred to the ward accounts on the stated day.
Of course, the next question was who had signed off on the deal. Based on the name and date on the contract, the person in charge was sought out, but he had died in the meantime.
This alone did not settle the matter and the investigation continued even now. As it turned out, the contract had been drawn up in the first decade of the twenty-first century, specifically on the thirteenth of September, the same day as the abominable Devil Quake. Nobody would have imagined that a contract would have been formally concluded on that fateful day.
Every metaphorical i was dotted and t crossed. The intent of the document was in force.
And so the siege around the structure was lifted, and the rest of the day was spent rooting through the legal nooks and crannies in the Building Standards Act.
As a result, the effects on the surrounding environment—the amount of sunlight, the psychological impact, the “sense of oppression” — were judged to not be a problem. In terms of the sunlight, it was confirmed that the contours of the building changed according to the rotation of the earth, ensuring that the shadows did not fall on any “reserved” areas.
The existence of the building and the owner’s residency in the ward was formally recognized.
Within an hour of this notification, the cargo ships started arriving. The number of ships filling the blue sky from all around and their contents dumbfounded the spectators.
The onslaught of shipping continued without a break, now in its second day. The proprietor’s misgivings were understandable.