Hikonojo Ohashi, Francine's opposite number with the Japanese-Korean and Sino-Tibetan team, already sat at his place on the other side of the table. The Japanese psychologist was grasping, pen fashion, a thin pointed brush, making notes in ideographic shorthand.
Francine closed the door.
Ohashi spoke without looking up: "We're early."
He was a trim, neat little man: flat features, smooth cheeks, and even curve of chin, remote dark eyes behind the inevitable thick lenses of the Oriental scholar.
Francine tossed her briefcase onto the table, and pulled out a chair opposite Ohashi. She wiped away the grit with a handkerchief before sitting down. The ever present dirt, the monotonous landscape, her own frustration—all combined to hold her on the edge of anger. She recognized the feeling and its source, stifled a wry smile.
"No, Hiko," she said. "I think we're late. It's later than we think."
"Much later when you put it that way," said Ohashi. His Princeton accent came out low, modulated like a musical instrument under the control of a master.
"Now we're going to be banal," she said. Immediately, she regretted the sharpness of her tone, forced a smile to her lips.
"They gave us no deadline," said Ohashi. "That is one thing anyway." He twirled his brush across an inkstone.
"Something's in the air," she said. "I can feel it."