Japanese rode bikes the way Los Angelenos drove cars. Anybody who lived too far from the train station to walk, and too close to take the bus, rode a bike. That added up to a lot of bikes.

Fortunately, since the only good proselyting was at the train stations, most missionaries lived close enough to the eki not to have to bother about bikes.

Gordon had never bothered about bikes, even when he lived at the old Odawara apartment and it took forty minutes to walk to church. He was indifferent with good reason, though. The "old-jidai" bikes were monstrous contraptions with steel-tube frames and skid brakes and fender racks big enough to carry a missionary's entire set of luggage.

"You can pedal down-hill and coast on the level," Gordon explained to Matlock, who had expressed some enthusiasm about using the bikes, "and count on the brakes to slow you down, but not to stop you in any kind of hurry."

Gordon had been trying to dispose of the bikes for some time. He left them under the stairs, in rather plain view, with only the fork-lock engaged. The fork lock was a pressed-metal gimmick that threw a bolt through the spokes of the front tire. To circumvent the bolt, all one had to do was twist the lock around on the fork. Not much of a deterrent. Consequently, the bikes were stolen about once a week by drunks stumbling home after the cabarets and bars closed down.

Getting the old-jidai bikes to remain stolen, however, was a bit more difficult. Attached to the cross-bar, just below the seat, was a large metal plate on which "Mormon Church" was painted in white block letters.

"Think of it this way," said Gordon. "Some guy is going haul home on one of these things, realize he's stolen church property, get all guilty, and then show up on our doorstep wanting to get baptized.

Not quite.

The local police quite efficiently retrieved the bikes every time they were stolen. They usually called up early in the morning and informed the missionaries of the location of the vehicles-often down the levy of a nearby river-even before the missionaries knew they were missing. But the bikes finally did disappear for good.

"Hosers must've finally got smashed up enough to get the crates right into the river," remarked Gordon, quite satisfied with himself.

And he was right about meeting people because of the bikes, after all.

"Are you the Americans whose junky bikes keep getting stolen?" a junior-high school kid asked Gordon one day after getting beat soundly at Space Invaders.

"Yup," said Gordon.

"My dad's a cop. He could get you some good bikes."

"How?" asked Matlock, who was watching them play.

"The police auction is this Sunday. I bet he'd let you pick out a couple before it started."

Thackeray and Matlock stopped by the police station Sunday morning before going to church. The boy's father was pleasant and understanding.

"You should have come by earlier," he said. "Those bikes you had were, well, not so good." Then he took them behind the station where several hundred bicycles were chained together in a long row that stretched around three wall of the compound. They picked out two ten speeds, each a bit rusty, but mechanically sound.

"You ought to see all the bikes they got there," Matlock told Gordon that afternoon. "I bet they'll have a lot left over even after the auction.

But he wasn't interested.

"You'd save a lot of time," Thackeray pointed out.

"It'd mess up my suit."

"That?"

"Besides, I've got enough time on my hands as is. Why should I want to save any?"

So Gordon never rode the bikes, but the very next Sunday he did come to appreciate them. It all started during the weekly meeting with the branch mission leader, when the phone rang in the branch president's office. Thackeray left the meeting to answer it.

"Moshi-moshi. Morumon kyokai de-gozaimasu."

"Good morning, Elder. This is President Atkinson."

"No kidding? No, I mean-"

"Is this Elder Thackeray?"

"What? Oh, yes. Good morning, President Atkinson."

"Is Elder Gordon there?"

"Yes. Just a moment. I'll go get him."

He put the phone down gingerly and hurried back to the room. "Hey, Gordon-" he motioned to him from the door.

"What's up?"

"It's the president. On the phone."

"Fetch! What for?"

"I don't know. But it didn't sound long-distance."

Gordon hurried off. Thackeray sat down next to his companion and began reviewing their investigator sheet. Gordon was back a moment later.

"What did he want?"

"He wants to see the apartment."

"What for?"

"'Cause he hasn't see it yet. We just got it a couple of months ago. Remember? Anyway, he's coming up here and then he wants us to show him where the place is."

"We can't do that."

"I know. But that's not all. He wants to attend church too."

"Why can't he see the apartment afterwards?"

"Because church doesn't start for another hour." Gordon said to Iwakawa Kyoudai, "Chotto shitsurei desu ga, the mission president just called. He's going to attend church today."

"Really?" Iwakawa was pleased.

Gordon said to Johnson and Matlock, in English, "You guys take the bikes and get down to the apartment and get the place cleaned up. Stay on the east side of the eki and go around the back."

Johnson and Matlock left at once. Gordon and Thackeray continued with their meeting until the mission president and his wife drove up to the church in their dark blue Honda. The interior of the car was hot, the vinyl seat covers were warm and sticky.

"We drove around for about twenty minutes and couldn't find your apartment," said the Pesident Atkinson

"Well, yeah, it's kind of hard to find," said Gordon. "It's around the corner on a kind of side street. Take the road past the west eki and the first right under the tracks."

The mission president's wife turned to them and said, cheerfully, "How are you elders doing now?"

"Oh, fine, ma'am."

"No health problems?" she asked, in a way that made them feel guilty for not having any.

"No, ma'am."

The president pulled up in front of the apartment building. Gordon and Thackeray got out and stomped noisily up the stairs. "It's number two here, sir." Thackeray went into the apartment, Gordon waited for the president and his wife.

Matlock was coming out of the bathroom. "Get everything? whispered Thackeray.

"I think so. Dishes are in the furo. I put the furo covers on."

"What about the tape players and Johnson's radio?"

"Under the futons."

"The JAL posters?"

"Tea boxes."

Thackeray hurried into Gordon's room. Gordon and the mission president and his wife walked in the kitchen. "Yes, this is a nice apartment," they were all saying.

"Johnson, what about the magazines?" Thackeray pointed at the formidable collection of Time and Asahi Weekly by Gordon's desk. Johnson hoisted up the stack of magazines, stepped out onto the balcony, and dropped them over the railing, nearly clobbering a couple of kids skipping rope on the sidewalk.

"You can see we have air-conditioning," said Gordon. "Our land-lady even wired up the phone for free."

"That's very nice."

Thackeray and Johnson smiled and agreed.

"Well, I think it's about time we got back to church," said the mission president, glancing at his watch. "We don't want to be late."

"Of course not," said Gordon. The mission president and his wife went back into the kitchen to put on their shoes. Gordon looked at Thackeray and sighed.