The Man in the High Castle

by Philip K. Dick

  Mr. Tagomi bowed low.

  “General,” he said.

  “Where is the third party?” General Tedeki said.

  “On the double, he nears,” Mr. Tagomi said. “Informed by self at hotel room.” His mind utterly rattled, he retreated several steps in the bowing position, scarcely able to regain an erect posture.

  The general seated himself. Mr. Ramsey, no doubt still ignorant of the old man’s identity, assisted with the chair but showed no particular deference. Mr. Tagomi hesitantly took a chair facing.

  “We loiter,” the general said. “Regrettably but unavoidably.”

  “True,” Mr. Tagomi said.

  Ten minutes passed. Neither man spoke.

  “Excuse me, sir,” Mr. Ramsey said at last, fidgeting. “I will depart unless needed.”

  Mr. Tagomi nodded, and Mr. Ramsey departed.

  “Tea, General?” Mr. Tagomi said.

  “No, sir.”

  “Sir,” Mr. Tagomi said, “I admit to fear. I sense in this encounter something terrible.”

  The general inclined his head.

  “Mr. Baynes, whom I have met,” Mr. Tagomi said, “and entertained in my home, declares himself a Swede. Yet perusal persuades one that he is in fact a highly placed German of some sort. I say this because—”

  “Please continue.”

  “Thank you. General, his agitation regarding this meeting causes me to infer a connection with the political upheavals in the Reich.” Mr. Tagomi did not mention another fact: his awareness of the general’s failure to appear at the time anticipated.

  The general said, “Sir, now you are fishing. Not informing.” His gray eyes twinkled in fatherly manner. No malice, there.

  Mr. Tagomi accepted the rebuke. “Sir, is my presence in this meeting merely a formality to baffle the Nazi snoops?”

  “Naturally,” the general said, “we are interested in maintaining a certain fiction. Mr. Baynes is representative for Tor-Am industries of Stockholm, purely businessman. And I am Shinjiro Yatabe.”

  Mr. Tagomi thought, And I am Tagomi. That part is so.

  “No doubt the Nazis have scrutinized Mr. Baynes’ comings and goings,” the general said. He rested his hands on his knees, sitting bolt upright . . . as if, Mr. Tagomi thought, he were sniffing far-off beef tea odor. “But to demolish the fiction they must resort to legalities. That is the genuine purpose; not to deceive, but to require the formalities in case of exposure. You see for instance that to apprehend Mr. Baynes they must do more than merely shoot him down . . . which they could do, were he to travel as—well, travel without his verbal umbrella.”

  “I see,” Mr. Tagomi said. Sounds like a game, he decided. But they know the Nazi mentality. So I suppose it is of use.

  The desk intercom buzzed. Mr. Ramsey’s voice. “Sir, Mr. Baynes is here. Shall I send him on in?”

  “Yes!” Mr. Tagomi cried.

  The door opened and Mr. Baynes, sleekly dressed, his clothes all quite pressed and masterfully tailored, his features composed, appeared.

  General Tedeki rose to face him. Mr. Tagomi also rose. All three men bowed.

  “Sir,” Mr. Baynes said to the general, “I am Captain R. Wegener of the Reichs Naval Counter-intelligence. As understood, I represent no one but myself and certain private unnamed individuals, no departments or bureaus of the Reich Government of any sort.”

  The general said, “Herr Wegener, I understand that you in no way officially allege representation of any branch of the Reich Government. I am here as an unofficial private party who by virtue of former position with the Imperial Army can be said to have access to circles in Tokyo who desire to hear whatever you have to say.”

  Weird discourse, Mr. Tagomi thought. But not unpleasant. Certain near-musical quality to it. Refreshing relief, in fact.

  They sat down.

  “Without preamble,” Mr. Baynes said, “I would like to inform you and those you have access to that there is in advance stage in the Reich a program called Lowenzahn. Dandelion.”

  “Yes,” the general said, nodding as if he had heard this before; but, Mr. Tagomi thought, he seemed quite eager for Mr. Baynes to go on.

  “Dandelion,” Mr. Baynes said, “consists of an incident on the border between the Rocky Mountain States and the United States.”

  The general nodded, smiling slightly.

  “U.S. troops will be attacked and will retaliate by crossing the border and engaging the regular RMS troops stationed nearby. The U.S. troops have detailed maps showing Midwest army installations. This is step one. Step two consists of a declaration by Germany regarding the conflict. A volunteer detachment of Wehrmacht paratroopers will be sent to aid the U.S. However, this is further camouflage.”

  “Yes,” the general said, listening.

  “The basic purpose of Operation Dandelion,” Mr. Baynes said, “is an enormous nuclear attack on the Home Islands, without advance warning of any kind.” He was silent then.

  “With purpose of wiping out Royal Family, Home Defense Army, most of Imperial Navy, civil population, industries, resources,” General Tedeki said. “Leaving overseas possessions for absorption by the Reich.”

  Mr. Baynes said nothing.

  The general said, “What else?”

  Mr. Baynes seemed at a loss.

  “The date, sir,” the general said.

  “All changed,” Mr. Baynes said. “Due to the death of M. Bormann. At least, I presume. I am not in contact with the Abwehr now.”

  Presently the general said, “Go on, Herr Wegener.”

  “What we recommend is that the Japanese Government enter into the Reich’s domestic situation. Or at least, that was what I came here to recommend. Certain groups in the Reich favor Operation Dandelion; certain others do not. It was hoped that those opposing it could come to power upon the death of Chancellor Bormann.”

  “But while you were here,” the general said, “Herr Bormann died and the political situation took its own solution. Doctor Goebbels is now Reichs Chancellor. The upheaval is over.” He paused. “How does that faction view Operation Dandelion?’’

  Mr. Baynes said, “Doctor Goebbels is an advocate of Dandelion.”

  Unnoticed by them, Mr. Tagomi closed his eyes.

  “Who stands opposed?” General Tedeki asked.

  Mr. Baynes’ voice came to Mr. Tagomi. “SS General Heydrich.”

  “I am taken by surprise,” General Tedeki said. “I am dubious. Is this legitimate information or only a viewpoint which you and your colleagues hold?”

  Mr. Baynes said, “Administration of the East—that is, the area now held by Japan—would be by the Foreign Office. Rosenberg’s people, working directly with the Chancery. This was a bitterly disputed issue in many sessions between the principals last year. I have photostats of notes made. The police demanded authority but were turned down. They are to manage the space colonization, Mars, Luna, Venus. That’s to be their domain. Once this division of authority was settled, the police put all their weight behind the space program and against Dandelion.”

  “Rivalry,” General Tedeki said. “One group played against another. By the Leader. So he is never challenged.”

  “True,” Mr. Baynes said. “That is why I was sent here, to plead for your intervention. It would still be possible to intervene; the situation is still fluid. It will be months before Doctor Goebbels can consolidate his position. He will have to break the police, possibly have Heydrich and other top SS and SD leaders executed. Once that is done—”

  “We are to give support to the Sicherheitsdienst?” General Tedeki interrupted. “The most malignant portion of German society?”

  Mr. Baynes said, “That is right.”

  “The Emperor,” General Tedeki said, “would never tolerate that policy. He regards the Reichs elite corps, wherever the black uniform is worn, the death’s head, the Castle System—all, to him, is evil.”

  Evil, Mr. Tagomi thought. Yes, it is. Are we to assist it in gaining power, in order to save our
lives? Is that the paradox of our earthly situation?

  I cannot face this dilemma, Mr. Tagomi said to himself. That man should have to act in such moral ambiguity. There is no Way in this; all is muddled. All chaos of light and dark, shadow and substance.

  “The Wehrmacht,” Mr. Baynes said, “the military, is sole possessor in the Reich of the hydrogen bomb. Where the blackshirts have used it, they have done so only under Army supervision. The Chancery under Bormann never allowed any nuclear armament to go to the police. In Operation Dandelion, all will be carried out by OKW. The Army High Command.”

  “I am aware of that,” General Tedeki said.

  “The moral practices of the blackshirts exceed in ferocity that of the Wehrmacht. But their power is less. We should reflect solely on reality, on actual power. Not on ethical intentions.”

  “Yes, we must be realists,” Mr. Tagomi said aloud.

  Both Mr. Baynes and General Tedeki glanced at him.

  To Mr. Baynes the general said, “What specifically do you suggest? That we establish contact with the SD here in the Pacific States? Directly negotiate with—I do not know who is SD chief here. Some repellent character, I imagine.”

  “The local SD knows nothing,” Mr. Baynes said. “Their chief here, Bruno Kreuz vom Meere, is an old-time Partei hack. Ein Altparteigenosse. An imbecile. No one in Berlin would think of telling him anything; he merely carries out routine assignments.”

  “What, then?” The general sounded angry. “The consul, here, or the Reichs Ambassador in Tokyo?”

  This talk will fail, Mr. Tagomi thought. No matter what is at stake. We cannot enter the monstrous schizophrenic morass of Nazi internecine intrigue; our minds cannot adapt.

  “It must be handled delicately,” Mr. Baynes said. “Through a series of intermediaries. Someone close to Heydrich who is stationed outside of the Reich, in a neutral country. Or someone who travels back and forth between Tokyo and Berlin.”

  “Do you have someone in mind?”

  “The Italian Foreign Minister, Count Ciano. An intelligent, reliable, very brave man, completely devoted to international understanding. However—his contact with the SD apparatus is nonexistent. But he might work through someone else in Germany, economic interests such as the Krupps or through General Speidel or possibly even through Waffen-SS personages. The Waffen-SS is less fanatic, more in the mainstream of German society.”

  “Your establishment, the Abwehr—it would be futile to attempt to reach Heydrich through you.”

  “The blackshirts utterly revile us. They’ve been trying for twenty years to get Partei approval for liquidating us in toto.”

  “Aren’t you in excessive personal danger from them?” General Tedeki said. “They are active here on the Pacific Coast, I understand.”

  “Active but inept,” Mr. Baynes said. “The Foreign Office man, Reiss, is skillful, but opposed to the SD.” He shrugged.

  General Tedeki said, “I would like your photostats. To turn over to my government. Any material you have pertaining to these discussions in Germany. And—” He pondered. “Proof. Of objective nature.”

  “Certainly,” Mr. Baynes said. He reached into his coat and took out a flat silver cigarette case. “You will find each cigarette to be a hollow container for microfilm.” He passed the case to General Tedeki.

  “What about the case itself?” the general said, examining it. “It seems too valuable an object to give away.” He started to remove the cigarettes from it.

  Smiling, Mr. Baynes said, “The case, too.”

  “Thank you.” Also smiling, the general put the case away in his topcoat pocket.

  The desk intercom buzzed. Mr. Tagomi pressed the button.

  Mr. Ramsey’s voice came: “Sir, there is a group of SD men in the downstairs lobby; they are attempting to take over the building. The Times guards are scuffling with them.” In the distance, noise of a siren; outside the building from the street below Mr. Tagomi’s window. “Army MPs are on the way, plus San Francisco Kempeitai.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Ramsey,” Mr. Tagomi said. “You have done an honorable thing, to report placidly.” Mr. Baynes and General Tedeki were listening, both rigid. “Sirs,” Mr. Tagomi said to them, “we will no doubt kill the SD thugs before they reach this floor.” To Mr. Ramsey he said, “Turn off the power to the elevators.”

  “Yes, Mr. Tagomi.” Mr. Ramsey broke the connection.

  Mr. Tagomi said, “We will wait.” He opened his desk drawer and lifted out a teakwood box; unlocking it, he brought forth a perfectly preserved U.S. 1860 Civil War Colt .44, a treasured collector’s item. Taking out a box of loose powder, ball and cap ammunition, he began loading the revolver. Mr. Baynes and General Tedeki watched wide-eyed.

  “Part of personal collection,” Mr. Tagomi said. “Much fooled around in vainglorious swift-draw practicing and firing, in spare hours. Admit to compare favorably with other enthusiasts in contest-timing. But mature use heretofore delayed.” Holding the gun in correct fashion he pointed it at the office door. And sat waiting.

  At the bench in their basement workshop, Frank Frink sat at the arbor. He held a half-finished silver earring against the noisily turning cotton buff; bits of rouge spattered his glasses and blackened his nails and hands. The earring, shaped in a snail-shell spiral, became hot from friction, but Frink grimly bore down even more.

  “Don’t get it too shiny,” Ed McCarthy said. “Just hit the high spots; you can even leave the lows completely.”

  Frank Frink grunted.

  “There’s a better market for silver if it’s not polished up too much,” Ed said. “Silverwork should have that old look.”

  Market, Frink thought.

  They had sold nothing. Except for the consignment at American Artistic Handcrafts, no one had taken anything, and they had visited five retail shops in all.

  We’re not making any money, Frink said to himself. We’re making more and more jewelry and it’s just piling up around us.

  The screw-back of the earring caught in the wheel; the piece whipped out of Frink’s hands and flew to the polish shield, then fell to the floor. He shut off the motor.

  “Don’t let those pieces go,” McCarthy said, at the welding torch.

  “Christ, it’s the size of a pea. No way to get a grip.”

  “Well, pick it up anyhow.”

  The hell with the whole thing, Frink thought.

  “What’s the matter?” McCarthy said, seeing him make no move to fish up the earring.

  Frink said, “We’re pouring money in for nothing.”

  “We can’t sell what we haven’t made.”

  “We can’t sell anything,” Frink said. “Made or unmade.”

  “Five stores. Drop in the bucket.”

  “But the trend,” Frink said. “It’s enough to know.”

  “Don’t kid yourself.”

  Frink said, “I’m not kidding myself.”

  “Meaning what?”

  “Meaning it’s time to start looking for a market for scrap.”

  “All right,” McCarthy said, “quit, then.”

  “I have.”

  “I’ll go on by myself.” McCarthy lit the torch again.

  “How are we going to split the stuff?”

  “I don’t know. But we’ll find a way.”

  “Buy me out,” Frink said.

  “Hell no.”

  Frink computed. “Pay me six hundred dollars.”

  “No, you take half of everything.”

  “Half the motor?”

  They were both silent then.

  “Three more stores,” McCarthy said. “Then we’ll talk about it.” Lowering his mask he began brazing a section of brass rod into a cuff bracelet.

  Frank Frink stepped down from the bench. He located the snail-shell earring and replaced it in the carton of incomplete pieces. “I’m going outside for a smoke,” he said, and walked across the basement to the stairs.

  A moment later he stood outdoors on the sidewalk, a T’ien
-lai between his fingers.

  It’s all over, he said to himself. I don’t need the oracle to tell me; I recognize what the Moment is. The smell is there. Defeat.

  And it is hard really to say why. Maybe, theoretically, we could go on. Store to store, other cities. But—something is wrong. And all the effort and ingenuity won’t change it.

  I want to know why, he thought.

  But I never will.

  What should we have done? Made what instead?

  We bucked the moment. Bucked the Tao. Upstream, in the wrong direction. And now—dissolution. Decay.

  Yin has us. The light showed us its ass, went elsewhere.

  We can only knuckle under.

  While he stood there under the eaves of the building, taking quick drags on his marijuana cigarette and dully watching traffic go by, an ordinary-looking, middle-aged white man sauntered up to him.

  “Mr. Frink? Frank Frink?”

  “You got it,” Frink said.

  The man produced a folded document and identification. “I’m with the San Francisco Police Department. I’ve a warrant for your arrest.” He held Frink’s arm already; it had already been done.

  “For what?” Frink demanded.

  “Bunco. Mr. Childan, American Artistic Handcrafts.” The cop forcibly led Frink along the sidewalk; another plain-clothes cop joined them, one now on each side of Frink. They hustled him toward a parked unmarked Toyopet.

  This is what the time requires of us, Frink thought as he was dumped onto the car seat between the two cops. The door slammed shut; the car, driven by a third cop, this one in uniform, shot out into traffic. These are the sons-of-bitches we must submit to.

  “You got an attorney?” one of the cops asked him.

  “No,” he said.

  “They’ll give you a list of names at the station.”

  “Thanks,” Frink said.

  “What’d you do with the money?” one of the cops asked later on, as they were parking in the Kearny Street Police station garage.

  Frink said, “Spent it.”

  “All?”

  He did not answer.