"Good afternoon, Herr Schmitt," I said to the old man behind the counter. — Glad to see you again.
Jernot Schmitt was the owner of a small-looking gun shop in northeast Tokyo. This store, apart from the German owner, differed from the others by a small shooting gallery in the basement and, of course, by the simply amazing selection of weapons presented. There was a lot, if not everything, here. The family of old Schmitt had been engaged in the sale of weapons for more than a century, and even without being aristocrats, their family was quite well-known and respected in certain circles. This representative of this family, in contrast to his cousin nephew, was engaged in retail sales, specializing in various rarities and novelties. He got to Japan in the Second World War, sent by his father to an allied country in order to expand sales markets. But, unlike his relatives in other countries, he never returned home. This, of course, does not mean that he has not been home at all since then, but his main place of residence is here.
— Ah, young Sakurai. It's been a long time, young man. It's been... four months now. Yes, I haven't heard my native speech for four months," the old man greeted me with a smile. For inexplicable reasons, the old man treated me warmly, almost like a grandson, almost from the first time we met.
—You'll have to excuse me, Herr Schmitt," I made an apologetic face, "business, one might say, has buried me under its weight. Here," I handed him a small package, "as an apology. The real "Dento no aji", straight from the plantations of the Akechi clan. To me, as you know, that tea, that coffee ... so I got it especially for you.
The old man was a real fan of tea, so he appreciated this hundred—gram bag, which is quite difficult to get, and extremely difficult for a non-aristocrat.
"Amazing," he said, carefully taking the bag from me. — I'm amazed at your connections, young man.
— Yes, just lucky. My neighbors, as it turned out, are still smart types.
— And they just gave you such a rarity? — he asked, thoughtfully looking around for where to put the tea. And, apparently deciding that it was not worth keeping such a jewel in the visitors' room, he barked: — Momoji!
"Koyama," I shrugged. — They have this tea... I don't even know... I saw a two-liter jar.
— Koyama? He froze for a moment. — Ahem. For these — yes, it is quite possible.
Throwing the boy who finally came out to stand behind the counter, Herr Schmitt headed inside the premises, inviting me with him. He never let go of the tea bag.
While he went to the kitchen to make tea, I was sitting in his... the definition of "office" is closest to this room, although a couple of sofas, tables and parts of disassembled weapons scattered around the room hint at other designations. Taking a catalog of weapons from his desk and sitting down on one of the sofas, I provided myself with something to do while waiting for the old man. The catalog, by the way, was rare, it was produced in very small editions specifically for arms dealers — under the patronage of the Schmitt family, by the way, and mostly, anyway, for themselves. I myself had a couple of publications in the club, honestly begged from an old German. In the catalog, in addition to the TTX of the weapon itself and price charts relative to different countries, there was a lot of interesting, although not immediately realized information. For example, at what temperature misfires ACTUALLY begin in a particular product. Or an uncritical degree of contamination, or a comparison of bullet ballistics and recoil. Ergonomics, various tests, even a mini-history of the creation and life of a particular product. In short, an awesome thing. For understanding people, of course.
The German who returned with a tray, squinting at me, put it on a table standing in the middle of the room, while pushing aside parts of a half-disassembled Bulgarian PP Shipka, a poor, to be honest, submachine gun.
— Isn't this a new edition? I asked, slightly lifting the catalog.
— The last one. I got it just the other day," he shook his head from side to side. — I ordered a couple of pieces on purpose, as I felt that you would come.
"Cool," I said, flipping through a couple more pages. And quite unexpectedly for himself he asked: — I'm sure your family can easily get a coat of arms. — and, already looking up at the old man: — Why did it happen that he is not there?
— Ahem. You've started asking interesting questions, young man," he said, picking up a saucer with a cup and sitting down on the second sofa. — The thing is, — he continued after five minutes, — that aristocrats have a very good memory. And the Schmitt family once had a coat of arms.
I don't like it.
"If it's unpleasant for you to talk about it, then it's better not to," I said, hoping for something completely different.
"Well, two hundred years have passed," he answered me, taking a sip of tea. — There was a coat of arms, and then it was gone. One of my ancestors sold a gun to the wrong person, and it became known. For which my family was expelled from the clan with the deprivation of the coat of arms. If we were a free family then, I don't care, but so… However, the head of the clan had every right to do so, both technically and morally.
Oh, my, it smelled like shit. I'm, like, twice exiled. Although no, once, but that doesn't make it any easier for me. Yoshkin's cat, quenched, they say, curiosity. Putting aside the catalog, he reached for his cup. Hmm, but nothing so, not bad.
— So, once exiled and deprived of a coat of arms, it is problematic to get a new one?
— If we had immediately dissociated ourselves from the then head of the family, who was guilty of everything, then no. Well, we would have watched for a couple of decades how we would survive the deprivation of the coat of arms and the title of the head of the family, or rather, the family, well, we would have lived for another five years. But the former head turned out to be a flint-man, held the reins of power, and after his death ... everything became meaningless. I don't know what he was counting on, but what happened happened.
Thank you, Lord, for my paranoia and for not throwing away my parents' letter. It turns out that the receipt of the coat of arms by me is postponed indefinitely. And yes, it turns out my parents aren't such bastards. Having been expelled from the clan and deprived of the coat of arms, they immediately abandoned me so that their child would have a chance in the future. But, damn it, why the fuck did you have to put that damn letter in the sleeve of your jacket? On a weekend, damn, day! Assholes. Here, probably, knowledgeable people wondered what the Sakurais were up to, they left themselves, but they did not give up the child. How would the whole thing be now... damn. I'll have to take another surname after coming of age. Ehma! Okay, let's break through. Now we need to say something, otherwise the pause has dragged on.
— It turns out that he has let your whole family down for many centuries?
— It turns out so, — he shook his head affirmatively. — It was you then, and now, seppuku — and that's it. And here in Europe," he emphasized the last word with a bitter smile, "everyone is hungry first of all for personal power. If it weren't for the traditions that have developed over the millennia, it's scary to think what kind of massacre would be going on here, since they even manage to do that… That's why I don't like to stay at home for a long time, even though we don't belong to the aristocracy, but everything feels great anyway. And here you are... calmer. This is probably why a country with a minimum number of Virtuosos manages to remain one of the great powers. Well, anyway, let's not talk about sad things anymore, tell me better how you've been doing these four months.
— Oh, — I took another sip. — Oh-oh-oh.
— And most importantly, how informative, — said the old man.
— Heh. In fact, little has changed. I'm still steering the company. Although... I've been here for one evening and two receptions of high society, bought a Yamashita group, I'm getting ready for a war.
— War is bad, young man. And after a short pause: — When
you
have to participate in it.
— To you or your loved ones. Yes. But what can you do? Everyone tries to offend little Sakurai.
— Have you really come to terms with your small stature? Schmitt was obviously surprised for show.
— Old man, I've never been complacent about this.
— Yes, yes, of course. Sorry.
— Here's an old... grandfather. Why is everyone so sure that I care about my height? Okay, never mind," I sighed. "I don't suppose anything special happened to you either?"
"Even less than yours," the German chuckled. — I'm trading little by little. I sent my grandson to study at home. For a year. Let him feel the difference. I received a new catalog along with new products. By the way! Heh heh. You'll be interested to see it. Another attempt by my compatriots to ride plasma in hand weapons.
— Oh! Really, interesting.
— That's how we finish this miracle, and we'll go and watch.
We finished our tea in about fifteen minutes, during which I briefly and humorously told what had happened to me over the past month. The old man, by the way, was aware that I was doing some business with the criminal world, but he didn't know anything specifically. Why, he gave me a couple of tips himself. One in Tokyo itself, the other in Oyama, a city north of the capital. Although personally, as far as I know, he tries not to get involved in crime, but he does not disdain, if anything. Like most famous merchants, by the way.
We went, as it turned out, not to the warehouse, but immediately to the shooting range. A small, poor, but personal shooting gallery under the store. In a densely built-up quarter, this, I will tell you, is worth a lot. There were only two shooting positions, and we approached the right one, next to which there was something on the table. Obviously a gunshot, but somehow too futuristic.
"Is that what you wanted to show me?"
— Exactly. Henzel's bullet plasma rifle, aka PPVX-1, aka product 108. Eighty percent is made of ceramic plastic, the rifle part uses 7.62 caliber cartridges, the rate of fire is six hundred rounds per minute. A non-removable optical sight, a new LCU GC-2, it is possible to transfer data from a rifle to a helmet ... and so on and so forth. The main thing in this monster is the plasma part. A new supercharger, cooler and even a container for the plasma itself have been specially developed for it. As you know, the principle of charges is now widely used, there is also a single cartridge in which, in fact, the plasma is stored. In a "cold" form. However, you can talk about it for a long time, it's better to try it in action.