He looked steadily and expressionlessly at her; for a moment she thought he might break down, become real and human and warm and talk back to her. But the tragic whisper went on:
"I found out. I had quartermaster duty once, for almost two years in Arkansas. The work was good and the place was fine. But I was not. I hated myself more than any American ever hated any Japanese. There was no place in the world for me. It might be their sunshine, but it wasn't mine, nor my air, nor my moon that shone at night. It belonged to them." All of a sudden his face lit up with an unearthly grin—
"So you see, my dear. I'm them. Mr. Kabashima today. Perhaps Mr. Smith or Comrade Ivanov tomorrow, or simple Farmer Wang. How can you think of them, my dear? They will appear, dissolve, reappear. I'm not the Michael you called me. I am Missterr Kabashima, sank you too much! Drink a toast to Michael, my dear, and to the walking nobody of two weeks hence!"
She lifted her teacup. Most of her portion of eel had become cold, though Dugan-Kabashima had devoured his share. Silently she toasted him, thinking the words but not saying them:
To your selves, my dear. To Atomsk. To my Dugan, if he lives.
VI. THE ART OF SELF-ENTRAPMENT
Ten days later, the Manchurian highway was dusty and forlorn. Guerrillas challenged Dugan.
"My name is An," said Dugan in bad Chinese, "and I am an unfortunate Soviet soldier."
The Chinese Communist guerrilla leader kept his Luger pointing straight at Dugan's abdomen.
"Prove it. Show me your papers."