“‘How did he get loose?’ the lieutenant whispered. I shook my head. Collins drew his service revolver — since that time in Broadcasting House when he’d placed me under arrest he always wore one— and pointed it at the man. ‘Hands up,’ he commanded. The scientist appeared not to have heard and Collins walked closer. ‘I said hands up.’ Still the fellow did not acknowledge us. ‘Hands up and stop crying.’ At last the Japanese turned to Collins. He seemed very tired. He raised his arms wearily.
“‘What are you doing here?’ Collins demanded. The Japanese just stared at him. He looked like someone in touch with something really important who was suddenly forced to deal with the ordinary. I was glad I wasn’t the lieutenant and didn’t have to ask the questions. ‘Come on, fellow. You don’t have to speak our language to get our meaning,’ Collins said. He waved the pistol at him. He shook it in his face. ‘Move out smartly … I said move!’ The man merely looked away from Collins again and stared across the room at a large painting of a dodo bird. He rubbed his eyes. ‘And you can cut out that sniffling,’ Collins said firmly. ‘We’re not barbarians. We’re American soldiers and you’re a prisoner of war, subject to rights granted you under the Geneva conventions. You’re our first prisoner and we aren’t exactly sure of what those rights include. We’ll have to look them up, but anyway we’re not going to hurt you. You have to come along with us, though.’
“‘I am not afraid,’ the Japanese said calmly. ‘And I will go with you. But first, can you please give me one moment alone in here? As you can see, this is the last gallery. Obviously I have no means of escape.’
“I must confess something. I was very excited at the prospect of taking a prisoner. ‘Don’t do it, Lieutenant — it’s a trick,’ I said.
“The man looked at me contemptuously. ‘Please, Lieutenant,’ the Japanese said, ‘you can see that there is no escape.’ He patted his pockets and opened his palms. ‘I am unarmed.’
“‘How come you talk such good English?’ I asked threateningly. He seemed disappointed in me. I didn’t blame him; I felt my sergeant’s stripes sear themselves into my arm.
“‘I am a scientist,’ he explained coolly, looking at the lieutenant. ‘English is the official language of ornithology.’
“‘Hmph.’
“‘Please, Lieutenant, I will go with you now. My meditations’—he looked at me—‘are over.’
“He rose, his eyes downcast, his body just visibly stiffening as we went by each of the paintings. In the gallery showing the environments of the dodo birds he would not look up, and once, when his hand accidentally brushed against one of the glass cases, he jumped back as if flung. ‘Pretty odd behavior for a so-called scientist, wouldn’t you say, Lieutenant?’ I whispered in Collins’s ear, regretting my style even as I spoke. My stripes lashed me, driving me to feats of clown and squire.
“Once outside the museum the Japanese seemed more comfortable. We took him back to the garrison and let ourselves into the guardhouse.
“‘How did you escape?’ the lieutenant asked our prisoner.
“‘I didn’t. I was abandoned. They forgot about me.’
“‘What were you doing at the museum?’
“‘I’m an ornithologist.’
“‘You’re the one who discovered the dodo.’
“‘No. I identified him.’
“I was still smarting from all the things I’d said up to now. ‘Listen, Lieutenant,’ I whispered, ‘I think there’s more going on here than we appreciate yet. Give me a few minutes alone with him.’
“‘Why? What good would that do?’
“‘I think I know some ways of getting him to talk.’
“‘He’s a prisoner of war, Sergeant.’
“‘Yes sir, but our buddies are out there. I think this gook knows more than he lets on.’ The scientist rolled his eyes.
“‘Many hundreds of years ago—’ he said.
“’Talk,’ I hissed.
“‘Many hundreds of years ago, during the dynasty of the Emperor Shobuta—’ the man said.
“‘That’s it,’ I said lamely, ‘keep talking.’
“‘ … there suddenly appeared in Japan, on the island of Shikoku — your Indian word “Chicago” derives from this — a single specimen of the genus Raphidae Didus, what you call dodos. How it got there is unknown, for Japan — this was in the thirteenth century, three centuries before the discovery of Mauritius — was an insular nation which had no dealings with the rest of the world. The bird was flightless. Ceramics from the era show that its wing development was even less than the Mauritian representations. Naturally, the bird was a curiosity. The curator of the Shikoku Zoo — we are not barbarians either, Lieutenant; Shikoku had a zoo long before one was ever dreamed of in Europe — did not know how to classify it and was inclined to put it with the animals rather than in the aviary.
“‘Now at this time Japan was plagued by warlords. One in particular, Zamue, a Shikokuan, was a threat to the emperor himself, a man of mild manners and ways whose paths were peace. Zamue, in contrast, was a fierce samurai who, in the course of events, had left a trail of bloody victories from the island of Yezo in the north to Kyushu in the south.
“‘Now it came to pass — you have this idiom in your country? — it came to pass that a court counselor, one Ryusho Mali, recognized the need to instill courage in our emperor, and when he heard about the strange wingless bird that had alighted in Shikoku he sent for it in order to examine it for its qualities as an omen. He had expected something like a peacock, perhaps, or a cassowary — both rare in Japan but not unheard of — or even a parrot, but when he saw the specimen he was extremely disappointed. How could so foolish-looking a bird bode well for the state? Nevertheless, setting aside his prejudices, he proceeded to examine it closely. Perhaps it enjoyed some of the properties of the parrot and could be made to mimic human speech. Ryusho Mali recalled how a predecessor of his had once done something notable for his country through an ordinary crow, and so he closeted himself with the bird and examined it. He tried to train it to say “courage,” thinking that perhaps the hard k sound might be natural to it, but, alas, he quickly discovered that the bird had no voice at all. It was mute as a turtle. He wondered if something cheering might not be done with the feathers, but there was little inspiration to be had from the lusterless black and dingy yellow with which the bird was covered. In the end, Ryusho Mali put the bird away from him, commanding that it be sent back to the zoo in Shikoku to be stared at by the multitudes for the pointless novelty it was.
“‘The Emperor Shobuta — whose very name means compassion— was himself an animal fancier, no hunter but a lover of beasts. Perhaps he saw that they had qualities which he himself lacked. It is often the way. We have an expression: “The grass is always greener on the other side of the fence.” At any rate, it is well known that fish and birds are the most fascinating animals to man for that the one can live in the sea and the other in the air. Be that as it may, it was Shobuta who had decreed that there be a 200—for the two hundred distinct animal types; the z in the word “zoo” is a corruption of the 2—and every day he would visit there, consoling himself with the mysteries of creation.