“Next. Herr J. Goebbels. Suffered polio in youth. Originally Catholic. Brilliant orator, writer, flexible and fanatic mind, witty, urbane, cosmopolitan. Much active with ladies. Elegant. Educated. Highly capable. Does much work; almost frenzied managerial drive. Is said never to rest. Much-respected personage. Can be charming, but is said to have rabid streak unmatched by other Nazis. Ideological orientation suggesting medieval Jesuitic viewpoint exacerbated by post-Romantic Germanic nihilism. Considered sole authentic intellectual of the Partei. Had ambitions to be playwright in youth. Few friends. Not liked by subordinates, but nevertheless highly polished product of many best elements in European culture. Not self-gratification is underlying ambition, but power for its use purely. Organizational attitude in classic Prussian State sense.
“Herr R. Heydrich.”
The Foreign Office official paused, glanced up and around at them all. Then resumed.
“Much younger individual than above, who helped original Revolution in 1932. Career man with elite SS. Subordinate of H. Himmler, may have played role in Himmler’s not yet fully explained death in 1948. Officially eliminated other contestants within police apparatus such as A. Eichmann, W. Schellenberg, et al. This man said to be feared by many Partei people. Responsible for controlling Wehrmacht elements after close of hostilities in famous clash between police and army which led to reorganization of governmental apparatus, out of all this the NSDAP emerging victor. Supported M. Bormann throughout. Product of elite training and yet anterior to so-called SS Castle system. Said to be devoid of affective mentality in traditional sense. Enigmatic in terms of drive. Possibly may be said to have view of society which holds human struggle to be series of games; peculiar quasi-scientific detachment found also in certain technological circles. Not party to ideological disputes. Summation: can be called most modern in mentality; post-enlightenment type, dispensing with so-called necessary illusions such as belief in God, etc. Meaning of this so-called realistic mentality cannot be fathomed by social scientists in Tokyo, so this man must be considered a question mark. However, notice of resemblance to deterioration of affectivity in pathological schizophrenia should be made.”
Mr. Tagomi felt ill as he listened.
“Baldur von Schirach. Former head of Hitler Youth. Considered idealist. Personally attractive in appearance, but considered not highly experienced or competent. Sincere believer in goals of Partei. Took responsibility for draining Mediterranean and reclaiming of huge areas of farmland. Also mitigated vicious policies of racial extermination in Slavic lands in early ’fifties. Pled case directly to German people for remnant of Slavic peoples to exist on reservation-like closed regions in Heartland area. Called for end of certain forms of mercy killings and medical experimentation, but failed here.
“Doctor Seyss-Inquart. Former Austrian Nazi, now in charge of Reich colonial areas, responsible for colonial policies. Possibly most hated man in Reich territory. Said to have instigated most if not all repressive measures dealing with conquered peoples. Worked with Rosenberg for ideological victories of most alarming grandiose type, such as attempt to sterilize entire Russian population remaining after close of hostilities. No facts for certain on this, but considered to be one of several responsible for decision to make holocaust of African continent thus creating genocide conditions for Negro population. Possibly closest in temperament to original Fuhrer, A. Hitler.”
The Foreign Office spokesman ceased his dry, slow recitation.
Mr. Tagomi thought, I think I am going mad.
I have to get out of here; I am having an attack. My body is throwing up things or spurting them out—I am dying. He scrambled to his feet, pushed down the aisle past other chairs and people. He could hardly see. Get to lavatory. He ran up the aisle.
Several heads turned. Saw him. Humiliation. Sick at important meeting. Lost place. He ran on, through the open door held by embassy employee.
At once the panic ceased. His gaze ceased to swim; he saw objects once more. Stable floor, walls.
Attack of vertigo. Middle-ear malfunction, no doubt.
He thought, Diencephalon, ancient brainstem, acting up.
Some organic momentary breakdown.
Think along reassuring lines. Recall order of world. What to draw on? Religion? He thought, Now a gavotte perform sedately. Capital both, capital both, you’ve caught it nicely. This is the style of thing precisely. Small form of recognizable world, Gondoliers. G.&S. He shut his eyes, imagined the D’Oyly Carte Company as he had seen them on their tour after the war. The finite, finite world . . .
An embassy employee, at his elbow, saying, “Sir, can I give you assistance?”
Mr. Tagomi bowed, “I am recovered.”
The other’s face, calm, considerate. No derision. They are all laughing at me, possibly? Mr. Tagomi thought. Down underneath?
There is evil! It’s actual like cement.
I can’t believe it. I can’t stand it. Evil is not a view. He wandered about the lobby, hearing the traffic on Sutter Street, the Foreign Office spokesman addressing the meeting. All our religion is wrong. What’ll I do? he asked himself. He went to the front door of the embassy; an employee opened it, and Mr. Tagomi walked down the steps to the path. The parked cars. His own. Chauffeurs standing.
It’s an ingredient in us. In the world. Poured over us, filtering into our bodies, minds, hearts, into the pavement itself.
Why?
We’re blind moles. Creeping through the soil, feeling with our snoots. We know nothing. I perceived this . . . now I don’t know where to go. Screech with fear, only. Run away.
Pitiful.
Laugh at me, he thought as he saw the chauffeurs regarding him as he walked to his car. Forgot my briefcase. Left it back there, by my chair. All eyes on him as he nodded to his chauffeur. Door held open; he crept into his car.
Take me to the hospital, he thought. No, take me back to the office. “Nippon Times Building,” he said aloud. “Drive slowly.” He watched the city, the cars, stores, tall buildings, now, very modern. People. All the men and women, going on their separate businesses.
When he reached his office he instructed Mr. Ramsey to contact one of the other Trade Missions, the Non-Ferrous Ores Mission, and to request that their representative to the Foreign Office meeting contact him on his return.
Shortly before noon, the call came through.
“Possibly you noticed my distress at meeting,” Mr. Tagomi said into the phone. “It was no doubt palpable to all, especially my hasty flight.”
“I saw nothing,” the Non-Ferrous man said. “But after the meeting I did not see you and wondered what had become of you.”
“You are tactful,” Mr. Tagomi said bleakly.
“Not at all. I am sure everyone was too wrapped up in the Foreign Office lecture to pay heed to any other consideration. As to what occurred after your departure—did you stay through the rundown of aspirants in the power struggle? That comes first.”
“I heard to the part about Doctor Seyss-Inquart.”
“Following that, the speaker dilated on the economic situation over there. The Home Islands take the view that Germany’s scheme to reduce the populations of Europe and Northern Asia to the status of slaves—plus murdering all intellectuals, bourgeois elements, patriotic youth and what not—has been an economic catastrophe. Only the formidable technological achievements of German science and industry have saved them. Miracle weapons, so to speak.”
“Yes,” Mr. Tagomi said. Seated at his desk, holding the phone with one hand, he poured himself a cup of hot tea. “As did their miracle weapons V-one and V-two and their jet fighters in the war.”
“It is a sleight-of-hand business,” the Non-Ferrous Ores man said. “Mainly, their uses of atomic energy have kept things together. And the diversion of their circus-like rocket travel to Mars and Venus. He pointed out that for all their thrilling import, such traffic has yielded nothing of economic worth.”
“But they are dramatic,” Mr. Tagomi said.
“His prognosis was gloomy. He feels that most high-placed Nazis are refusing to face facts vis-à-vis their economic plight. By doing so, they accelerate the tendency toward greater tour de force adventures, less predictability, less stability in general. The cycle of manic enthusiasm, then fear, then Partei solutions of a desperate type—well, the point he got across was that all this tends to bring the most irresponsible and reckless aspirants to the top.”
Mr. Tagomi nodded.
“So we must presume that the worst, rather than the best, choice will be made. The sober and responsible elements will be defeated in the present clash.”
“Who did he say was the worst?” Mr. Tagomi said.
“R. Heydrich. Doctor Seyss-Inquart. H. Goring. In the Imperial Government’s opinion.”
“And the best?”
“Possibly B. von Schirach and Doctor Goebbels. But on that he was less explicit.”
“Anything more?”
“He told us that we must have faith in the Emperor and the Cabinet at this time more than ever. That we can look toward the Palace with confidence.”
“Was there a moment of respectful silence?”
“Yes.”
Mr. Tagomi thanked the Non-Ferrous Ores man and rang off.
As he sat drinking his tea, the intercom buzzed. Miss Ephreikian’s voice came: “Sir, you had wanted to send a message to the German consul.” A pause. “Did you wish to dictate it to me at this time?”
That is so, Mr. Tagomi realized. I had forgotten. “Come into the office,” he said.
Presently she entered, smiling at him hopefully. “You are feeling better, sir?”
“Yes. An injection of vitamins has helped.” He considered. “Recall to me. What is the German consul’s name?”
“I have that, sir. Freiherr Hugo Reiss.”
“Mein Herr,” Mr. Tagomi began. “Shocking news has arrived that your leader, Herr Martin Bormann, has succumbed. Tears rise to my eyes as I write these words. When I recall the bold deeds perpetrated by Herr Bormann in securing the salvation of the German people from her enemies both at home and abroad, as well as the soul-shaking measures of sternness meted out to the shirkers and traitors who would betray all mankind’s vision of the cosmos, into which now the blond-haired blue-eyed Nordic races have after aeons plunged in their—” He stopped. There was no way to finish. Miss Ephreikian stopped her tape recorder, waiting.
“These are great times,” he said.
“Should I record that, sir? Is that the message?” Uncertainly she started up her machine.
“I was addressing you,” Mr. Tagomi said.
She smiled.
“Play my utterances back,” Mr. Tagomi said.
The tape transport spun. Then he heard his voice, tiny and metallic, issuing from the two-inch speaker. “. . . perpetrated by Herr Bormann in securing the salvation . . .” He listened to the insectlike squeak as it rambled on. Cortical flappings and scrapings, he thought.
“I have the conclusion,” he said, when the transport ceased turning. “Determination to exhalt and immolate themselves and so obtain a niche in history from which no life form can cast them, no matter what may transpire.” He paused. “We are all insects,” he said to Miss Ephreikian. “Groping toward something terrible or divine. Do you not agree?” He bowed. Miss Ephreikian, seated with her tape recorder, made a slight bow back.
“Send that,” he told her. “Sign it, et cetera. Work the sentences, if you wish, so that they will mean something.” As she started from the office he added, “Or so that they mean nothing. Whichever you prefer.”
As she opened the office door she glanced at him curiously.
After she had left he began work on routine matters of the day. But almost at once Mr. Ramsey was on the intercom. “Sir, Mr. Baynes is calling.”
Good, Mr. Tagomi thought. Now we can begin important discussion. “Put him on,” he said, picking up the phone.
“Mr. Tagomi,” Mr. Baynes’ voice came.
“Good afternoon. Due to news of Chancellor Bormann’s death I was unexpectedly out of my office this morning. However—”
“Did Mr. Yatabe get in touch with you?”
“Not yet,” Mr. Tagomi said.
“Did you tell your staff to keep an eye open for him?” Mr. Baynes said. He sounded agitated.
“Yes,” Mr. Tagomi said. “They will usher him in directly he arrives.” He made a mental note to tell Mr. Ramsey; as yet he had not gotten around to it. Are we not to begin discussions, then, until the old gentleman puts in his appearance? He felt dismay. “Sir,” he began. “I am anxious to begin. Are you about to present your injection molds to us? Although we have been in confusion today—”
“There has been a change,” Mr. Baynes said. “We’ll wait for Mr. Yatabe. You’re sure he hasn’t arrived? I want you to give me your word that you’ll notify me as soon as he calls you. Please exert yourself, Mr. Tagomi.” Mr. Baynes’ voice sounded strained, jerky.
“I give you my word.” Now he, too, felt agitation. The Bormann death; that had caused the change. “Meanwhile,” he said rapidly, “I would enjoy your company, perhaps at lunch today. I not having had opportunity to have my lunch, yet.” Improvising, he continued. “Although we will wait on specifics, perhaps we could ruminate on general world conditions, in particular—”
“No,” Mr. Baynes said.
No? Mr. Tagomi thought. “Sir,” he said, “I am not well today. I had a grievous incident; it was my hope to confide it to you.”
“I’m sorry,” Mr. Baynes said. “I’ll ring you back later.” The phone clicked. He had abruptly hung up.
I offended him, Mr. Tagomi thought. He must have gathered correctly that I tardily failed to inform my staff about the old gentleman. But it is a trifle; he pressed the intercom button and said, “Mr. Ramsey, please come into my office.” I can correct that immediately. More is involved, he decided. The Bormann death has shaken him.
A trifle—and yet indicative of my foolish and feckless attitude. Mr. Tagomi felt guilt. This is not a good day. I should have consulted the oracle, discovered what Moment it is. I have drifted far from the Tao; that is obvious.
Which of the sixty-four hexagrams, he wondered, am I laboring under? Opening his desk drawer he brought out the I Ching and laid the two volumes on the desk. So much to ask the sages. So many questions inside me which I can barely articulate. . . .
When Mr. Ramsey entered the office, he had already obtained the hexagram. “Look, Mr. Ramsey.” He showed him the book.
The hexagram was Forty-seven. Oppression—Exhaustion.
“A bad omen, generally,” Mr. Ramsey said. “What is your question, sir? If I’m not offending you to ask.”
“I inquired as to the Moment,” Mr. Tagomi said. “The Moment for us all. No moving lines. A static hexagram.” He shut the book.
At three o’clock that afternoon, Frank Frink, still waiting with his business partner for Wyndam-Matson’s decision about the money, decided to consult the oracle. How are things going to turn out? he asked, and threw the coins.
The hexagram was Forty-seven. He obtained one moving line, Nine in the fifth place.
His nose and feet are cut off.
Oppression at the hands of the man with the purple
knee bands.
Joy comes softly.
It furthers one to make offerings and libations.
For a long time—at least half an hour—he studied the line and the material connected with it, trying to figure out what it might mean. The hexagram, and especially the moving line, disturbed him. At last he concluded reluctantly that the money would not be forthcoming.
“You rely on that thing too much,” Ed McCarthy said.
At four o’clock, a messenger from W-M Corporation appeared and handed Frink and McCarthy a manila envelope. When they opened it they found inside a certified check for two thousand dollars.
“So you were wrong,” McCarthy said.
Frink thought, Then the ora
cle must refer to some future consequence of this. That is the trouble; later on, when it has happened, you can look back and see exactly what it meant. But now—
“We can start setting up the shop,” McCarthy said.
“Today? Right now?” He felt weary.
“Why not? We’ve got our orders made out; all we have to do is stick them in the mail. The sooner the better. And the stuff we can get locally we’ll pick up ourselves.” Putting on his jacket. Ed moved to the door of Frink’s room.
They had talked Frink’s landlord into renting them the basement of the building. Now it was used for storage. Once the cartons were out, they could build their bench, put in wiring, lights, begin to mount their motors and belts. They had drawn up sketches, specifications, parts lists. So they had actually already begun.
We’re in business, Frank Frink realized. They had even agreed on a name.
EDFRANK CUSTOM JEWELERS
The Man in the High Castle Page 10
