Critical mass [antikvár]

PROLOGUE HIROSHIMA AUGUST 6, 1945 The electric lights dangling from the hospital ward ceiling paled to nothingness in the morning sun streaming through the tall windows. A man dressed in what appeared to be a uniform, but without any insignia of rank or unit, stopped at the swinging doors and forced himself to look back. The hospital was nearly full just now, and all but two of the beds in this ward were occupied. An old man sat, head bowed, beside the last bed on the right. He held the hand of the dying old woman beneath the covers. The man in the uniform looked at them, he suspected for the last time, then turned. A floor nurse seated at the desk smiled consolingly, but she said nothing. There was no shame or dishonor in dying well. And the old woman in the last bed on the right was accomplishing her dying in an orderly, quiet, dignified fashion. She was well respected in the Red Cross Hospital because of it. Isawa Nakamura pushed through the swinging doors and walked out into the corridor where he hesitated a few moments longer. The windows looked downtown, toward the prominent dome of the Industrial Promotion Hall. It was a little after eight, and he was still early for his appointment. No use, this morning, being early. He would gain face by arriving one or two minutes late. Life was for the living. The dead were not to be forgotten,