He lived by the sword and had little respect for words, nor did he know that many an unhappy culprit has been impaled on a sentence. He liked not the idea of wasting rice when so many of his own people, back in Japan, were starving; true it was only the peasant whose stomachs were being gnawed constantly by hunger. The Bushido and the war lords were well fed. The Emperor feasted well in his golden prison and wondered what evil was abroad in the land. But he was too weak to lift his hand to stem it if he had wanted to. Nishikori was more than half-tempted to destroy this vile doctor who had flaunted his power and insulted the Bushido, now that his use was at an end. But suppose the pills did not work, suppose the doctor had anticipated just such treachery and acted accordingly. What good would be a dead Shen Fu? Better keep him alive so that he could be tortured fittingly in the Japanese manner if the pills failed. But there was another factor also to be considered. The doctor, living, might be a safeguard for him if sickness or distress flittered about his person. With a sigh, Nishikori reluctantly agreed to put out the tubs of rice, reluctance that was seasoned with fear. He shuddered to think of what might happen if all the hungry were fed. Famine was the best Ally Japan had, next to disease. What a pity it was that the plague germs dropped from airplanes, in carefully prepared cotton batting, had not caused the anticipated havoc. Asia for the Asiatics but for the Chinese bubonic plague—the Imperial Japanese "New Order."
During the next few days, General Nishikori was much pleased with the effects of the drug. A few of his men had experimented. They had stayed under water for over an hour. The experiment had been conducted at West Lake not far from The New Hotel where Mr. Nishikori was living in luxurious quarters. So long did his men remain below water, he imagined they had been drowned and was about to return to his hotel for tiffin when they re-appeared, laughing and jabbering excitedly. The only casualty was that one of them had lost his glasses. The general was overjoyed. Now he was indeed the leader of an army of supermen, but there was one oddity that was of little importance. He himself, scarcely aware of his own actions, plunged into the lake, all clothed as he was, and swam about, all forgetful of the war and of the officers that were waiting to have tiffin with him at the hotel. When at last he came out of the lake he was jubilant though his uniform was a sorry spectacle and he looked as bedraggled as the lowliest soldier. But what matter, his head was in the clouds. Now indeed would he be a conqueror and his fame would go down in history among the greatest warriors the world has ever known. Perhaps it would be better to kill Shen Fu after all so that no other person might learn this amazing secret.
Back at the hotel, after he had bathed and put on dry clothes, he swallowed two more pills before joining the officers who were waiting for him. The doctor had said that one pellet was sufficient; sufficient, perhaps, for a private soldier but he was a noble general, a member of the Bushido and his father had been an aristocrat with special privileges.
Late that evening, when he had been able to shake off the leech-like petty officers, he returned to West Lake, cast off his clothes and plunged into the cool refreshing water. His throat had felt parched. Though the day had been cool, he had suffered intensely. There must have been much humidity in the air. Another thing that troubled him was that red marks had appeared on either side of his throat just below the ears, odd straight marks, half as long as his thumb. They looked like old knife wounds that had only recently healed.
