clustering ants. They seemed so close you could almost reach them with your hand. These were scabs who went back and forth to Factory No. 11—the factory that floated in the sea.
Handa’s stomach ached from hunger and there was a bitter taste in his mouth. A stuffy odour of grimy humans and of soy filled the room. It was crowded with strikers who had come in worn out from picketing. They were huddled together and were sleeping soundly under dirty blankets. Handa sidled over to the bin which held the rice balls.
“The fellows who came in last night from picketing ate them all,” said Oki, sensing Handa’s intentions, and without turning round he scratched away pleasantly at his flea-bites.
“Did they? I wonder if there’s any tea?”
“I think there is.”
Handa picked up an enamel tea-pot and raised the spout to his lips. The taste was more like rust than tea. His finger on the lid, he swallowed it down until the pot was drained.
As soon as the strike had been declared, twelve out of a total of thirteen factories came completely to a standstill. Only in No. 11, the largest and most up-to-date, did work continue. At first its employees had walked to work, but Handa and his men would waylay them and drag them into the ranks of the strikers. Those who refused they would beat up and then drive away. The company then started bringing blacklegs by boat from the neighbouring village to the factory pier, sending them back the same way in the evening. A gang
