Aside from a deep fissure running up the concrete wall in the structure known as Building B, there is little evidence of the damage done by the 155 tons of high explosives that rained down from sixty-two B29 Superfortresses on what was then the Kawasaki Aircraft Company on January 19, 1945.

This is largely because that single raid, one of the most successful to date by the B29s, leveled almost the entire site. Today, "post-war" is the term which best describes the long rows of dirty-green workshops which now fill the factory grounds. Built largely of corrugated iron bolted to steel frames, a seemingly endless row of these bland structures borders each side of the former runway which, seen from the air, divides the facility neatly in half. Although the runway is now split lengthwise by a long fence and used as an informal test track, it is not hard to imagine the twin-engined Kawasaki Ki45 Toryu (Dragon Killers) taking off in their futile attempts to stop the "giant bulls" raining hell from the heavens. Then there is the nasty odor that permeates the air, that flavors your coffee and sticks to your clothes and hair like the stench of stale cigarette smoke. It is the smell of cutting oil on carbon steel, of red-hot billets of cast iron being slammed by 1,000-ton presses, of heli-arc welding and cutting torches, of sweaty work clothes and of a hundred different chemicals you know you shouldn't be breathing-it is the proud stink of a factory that helped build modern Japan.

Until that first visit, I hadn't been getting much work from Kawasaki. I'd written a few brochures, translated some technical documents and letters, but the work was mostly dribs and drabs. So, I was more than a little happy when Mr. Hirai, who was in charge of the Kawasaki account at their ad agency, asked me to come along on his next trip to Akashi, the coastal town on the Inland Sea just south of Kobe where the headquarters for Kawasaki Heavy Industries is located.

It is difficult to explain the sense of relief one feels stepping off the bullet train into the fresh ocean air of Akashi after a long stint in the oppressive atmosphere of Tokyo. In the short term-say, for a month or three-Tokyo can be one of the most invigorating cities in the world. But over the long term, the non-stop hecticity, the noise and the constant stress caused by too many people living too close together becomes increasingly enervating. Getting away from Tokyo feels almost as good as arriving there after a long absence.

The morning at Akashi is spent in product orientation meetings where the engineers introduce their latest creations. I interpret for the American and European distributors, and take the notes I will later need to write my share of the propaganda churned out by the ad agency. After lunch, Hirai gives me a brief tour of the factory, including a look inside Building B, the last pre-war building on the grounds. As we gaze at the cracked wall he tells me about the ghost.

The Japanese are great believers in ghosts, and I'm not at all surprised to find that it is widely believed that the spirit of a worker killed in the raid dwells in the building. Later in the day, when I mention to other employees about our visit there, the half-joking response is: "Did you see the ghost?" As the long day comes to an end, after too much talking and too many cups of bad coffee, I'm looking forward to getting back to the hotel. But just as Hirai and I are leaving we are politely ushered into a small room near the main entrance to the headquarters building. Furnished in the typically stolid style one finds in traditional Japanese companies, the heavy oak furniture, overstuffed leather chairs and faded photos of steamships on the wall give the room the feel of an older place in time.

The only hint that we are in the last years of the 20th Century are a few brightly painted motorcycle helmets sitting on a shelf. As we enter the room I can sense Hirai's nervousness suddenly kick into high gear. Even at his most relaxed he seems to suffer from whatever is the opposite of chronic fatigue syndrome. Now, he's really amping. When a pretty receptionist brings us glasses of chilled buckwheat tea, he nearly knocks the tray on the floor jumping up to say thank you. Clearly, something is making him more tense than usual. When I first met him, it was clear to me that Hirai took great pride in working on the Kawasaki account. For many years he had been a motorcycle journalist at a small magazine. Working for Kawasaki was a huge step up for him. He expressed his gratitude by working longer hours than anyone, often working on the weekends and holidays. Ironically, he was one of the rare motorcycle enthusiasts one finds in Japan's motorcycle ad agencies. And he had no inkling that, through no fault of his own, he was soon to lose the job that meant so much to him.

Wandering over to the row of helmets, I notice what seems to be signatures on them. "Kork Ballington" says the cursive script on one scratched up helmet. "Scott Russell" is on another and "Jeff Ward" on another still. A link with the present! Hirai tells me that this is the room where they signed all those riders to their contracts. Just as I am about to try on Russell's lid for size, the door suddenly opens and three men enter the room. Hirai leaps out of his chair, bows deeply and utters a long string of the obsequiously polite phrases known in Japanese as keigo, polite language. All three wear the same factory smocks as the other male employees, so the only way an outsider can discern their relative status within the company is by the degree of politeness others use when speaking with them. (A Japanese observer would also notice how easily and confidently they carried themselves.) When we exchange business cards I'm careful to use both hands when receiving their cards; and when giving mine, careful that the Japanese-language side of my card is face up and facing them.

The oldest of the three is gray-haired and heavyset and speaks hardly at all. He just sits there quietly like he's thinking of other things and lets the younger fellows do the talking. After the introductions and some light conversation about the weather and local foods, gray-hair turns to me and says: "So, Nick-san, what do you think of our factory? It's become rather run-down looking over the years and we're thinking about modernizing the place." Taken aback by the unexpected question, I can only blurt out: "I hope you don't. The sense of history here is wonderful. Besides, where would the ghost in Building B live if you did?"

Now, looking back on that meeting over a distance of some years, I have a hard time recalling what else we talked about, and I still don't understand what the purpose of it all was. But shortly after we returned to Tokyo I suddenly began to get a lot of work from Kawasaki.

Nick Voge lives in Southern California and doesn't answer e-mail.