THE CULT THAT WON'T DIE

First, there is Asahara - still a beacon of hope to thousands. "I'm grateful to my great guru Rev. Asahara," cultist Niimi Tomomitsu said at his murder trial earlier this year. His words of admiration ran in full on Aum's website, where there is no mention of the cult's crimes.

Millions of recruitment leaflets, with Asahara's face back on the cover, are again being distributed at train stations and on college campuses, and shoved through mail boxes. The cult's website uses cartoon stories of followers' experiences to woo the uninitiated. For ex-followers there are tips on using false names and diversionary tactics to re-join. Sometimes Aum sells itself as a yoga group or sponsors animation film festivals. Its house band, Perfect Emancipation, performs regularly. Invariably, the pamphlets come out.

The death doctrine has reappeared on the website and in leaflets - despite Asahara's vow to prohibit its dissemination. His doomsday preachings about the Armageddon are appearing again in the cult's magazines and on its website, where a follower recently wrote: "Devotion to the guru is all that counts."

"With their minds left in Asahara's control," Egawa says, "followers refuse to face the facts." Nor has there been much attempt by the government or society to help adherents come to terms with what happened. A few unofficial support groups sprang up, but there is only so much they can do. The apathy is fed by a national tendency to ignore the psychological impact of disasters. In the same way that Japanese didn't consider the post-traumatic stress of the Kobe earthquake in January 1995, so two months later they minimized the impact of the Aum gassings on the victims. Most could not care less about how Asahara's mind control still works on devotees after they leave Aum.

Without counseling, cultists cling to one another for support. A former Aum "construction ministry" official, Nakata Kiyohide, 51, runs an inn in the mountain resort of Gifu, north of Nagoya, where about two dozen young former Aum disciples continue their ascetic way of life. Released in 1995 after being convicted of attempted insurance fraud, Nakata left the cult the following year. Finding himself the subject of pointed fingers wherever he went, Nakata opened the inn with inherited money. No longer linked to Aum, the former cultists in Gifu remain objects of deep suspicion.

Meanwhile, nearly four years after the subway attack, some authorities are still wondering whether or not to ban Aum outright - not even a sure-fire solution to the problem because the cult could just go underground. For a while it looked as though the government might invoke anti-subversion laws to outlaw Aum. Hearings began, but they dragged on and, critics say, Aum had time to present itself as benign. In 1997, the panel concluded the cult was too weak to pose a threat. Aum began to rebuild.

The next shoe to drop is the reappearance on the scene of virtuoso Aum recruiter Joyu Fumihiro, 35. He is expected to be released late next year, after serving three years for perjury. Like Asahara's daughter, Joyu has been granted the cult's highest religious status. Eloquent, baby-faced and fluent in English, Joyu holds a degree in artificial intelligence and was a big hit with young women when the cult was making headlines in 1995.

Even if Asahara is convicted and sentenced to death, his power will likely live on. "My faith will not change," says follower Takeshita Ryuichi, who has decorated his tiny Tokyo flat with Asahara posters and built a shrine above his hi-fi. A window-washer, Takeshita, 31, visits an Aum training center nearly every night. "Remember," he says, "Jesus Christ was crucified as a criminal, according to the laws of the time."

Back in courtroom 104, the proceedings are over for the day. The guards put the handcuffs on Asahara and he shuffles out. The girls disappear into the crowd. Outside it's dusk. Soon it will be a new year, last of the millennium. A cold wind blows down the street. I pull my coat close and shiver.