people could stand up to the silent pressure of that implacable

camera lens. Akiro knew full well that they’d do it to him and he’d

only wind up fumbling for words and looking foolish, or simply

standing there and looking uncomfortable, which would be just as

bad.

Moments later there was a knock at his office door and Morio

Suzuki entered. Suzuki was deputy commissioner of public affairs

for the Bureau, which was a fancy way of saying that he was a P.

R. man. He was not an adept. He was a civil servant. He was

young, in his early thirties, good-looking, and extremely personable.

He looked great on camera and he was not uncomfortable around

reporters. He spoke easily, fielding awkward questions smoothly

and glibly. He was also politically very deft, with good connections

through his family. He would, someday, have an outstanding future

in politics. Right now, he was paying his dues, but he was not

impatient and resentful, as a lot of wealthy, well-connected young

men in his position might have been. Akiro, who understood the

political infrastructure far better than he could function within it,

had marked him from the start as a highly capable and responsible

young man.

“You wanted to see me?”

“Yes. Please sit down, Morio.”

Morio took the indicated chair, sitting erect and in an attentive

posture.

“I’ve got a problem, Morio.”

“The press downstairs?”

“Oh, you know already.”

“You want me to talk to them?”

“I would be grateful if you would. You handle that sort of thing so

much better than I do.”

“Do I give them the standard line or do you want me to actually

tell them something?”

Akiro smiled. “I’m not sure how much you could tell them that

they don’t already know, or else they wouldn’t be here.”