The Man In The High Castle

It was slightly before noon when Mr. Tagomi reached the Nippon Times Building. From the main lobby he instructed a switchboard operator to connect him with Mr. Ramsey upstairs.

“Tagomi, here,” he said, when the connection was complete.

“Good morning, sir. I am relieved. Not seeing you, I apprehensively telephoned your home at ten o’clock, but your wife said you had left for unknown parts.”

Mr. Tagomi said, “Has the mess been cleared?”

“No sign remains.”

“Beyond dispute?”

“My word, sir.”

Satisfied, Mr. Tagomi hung up and went to take the elevator.

Upstairs, as he entered his office, he permitted himself a momentary search. Rim of his vision. No sign, as was promised. He felt relief. No one would know who hadn’t seen. Historicity bonded into nylon tile of floor.…

Mr. Ramsey met him inside. “Your courage is topic for panegyric down below at the Times,” he began. “An article depicting—” Making out Mr. Tagomi’s expression he broke off.

“Answer regarding pressing matters,” Mr. Tagomi said. “General Tedeki? That is, quondam Mr. Yatabe?”

“On carefully obscure flight back to Tokyo. Red herrings strewn hither and yon.” Mr. Ramsey crossed his fingers, symbolizing their hope.

“Please recount regarding Mr. Baynes.”

“I don’t know. During your absence he appeared briefly, even furtively, but did not talk.” Mr. Ramsey hesitated. “Possibly he returned to Germany.”

“Far better for him to go to the Home Islands,” Mr. Tagomi said, mostly to himself. In any case, it was with the old general that their concern, of important nature, lay. And it is beyond my scope, Mr. Tagomi thought. My self, my office; they made use of me here, which naturally was proper and good. I was their—what is it deemed? Their cover.

I am a mask, concealing the real. Behind me, hidden, actuality goes on, safe from prying eyes.

Odd, he thought. Vital sometimes to be merely cardboard front, like carton. Bit of satori there, if I could lay hold of it. Purpose in overall scheme of illusion, could we but fathom. Law of economy: nothing is waste. Even the unreal. What a sublimity in the process.

Miss Ephreikian appeared, her manner agitated. “Mr. Tagomi. The switchboard sent me.”

“Be cool, miss,” Mr. Tagomi said. The current of time urges us along, he thought.

“Sir, the German consul is here. He wants to speak to you.” She glanced from him to Mr. Ramsey and back, her face unnaturally pale. “They say he was here in the building earlier, too, but they knew you—”

Mr. Tagomi waved her silent. “Mr. Ramsey. Please recollect for me the consul’s name.”

“Freiherr Hugo Reiss, sir.”

“Now I recall.” Well, he thought, evidently Mr. Childan did me a favor after all. By declining to reaccept the gun.

Carrying his briefcase, he left his office and walked out into the corridor.

There stood a slightly built, well-dressed white. Close-cut orange hair, shiny black European leather Oxfords, erect posture. And effeminate ivory cigarette holder. No doubt he.

“Herr H. Reiss?” Mr. Tagomi said.

The German bowed.

“Has been fact,” Mr. Tagomi said, “that you and I have in times past conducted business by mail, phone, et cetera. But never until now saw face to face.”

“An honor,” Herr Reiss said, advancing toward him. “Even considering the irritatingly distressing circumstances.”

“I wonder,” Mr. Tagomi said.

The German raised an eyebrow.

“Excuse me,” Tagomi said “My cognition hazed over due to those indicated circumstances. Frailty of clay-made substance, one might conclude.”

“Awful,” Herr Reiss said. He shook his head. “When I first—”

Mr. Tagomi said, “Before you begin litany, let me speak.”

“Certainly.”

“I personally shot your two SD men,” Mr. Tagomi said.

“The San Francisco Police Department summoned me,” Herr Reiss said, blowing offensive-smelling cigarette smoke around them both. “For hours I’ve been down at the Kearny Street Station and at the morgue, and then I’ve been reading over the account your people gave to the investigating police inspectors. Absolutely dreadful, this, from start to finish.”

Mr. Tagomi said nothing.

“However,” Herr Reiss continued, “the contention that the hoodlums are connected with the Reich hasn’t been established. As far as I’m concerned the whole matter is insane. I’m sure you acted absolutely properly, Mr. Tagori.”

“Tagomi.”

“My hand,” the consul said, extending his hand. “Let’s shake a gentlemen’s agreement to drop this. It’s unworthy, especially in these critical times when any stupid publicity might inflame the mob mind, to the detriment of both our nations’ interests.”

“Guilt nonetheless is on my soul,” Mr Tagomi said. “Blood, Herr Reiss, can never be eradicated like ink.”

The consul seemed nonplused.

“I crave forgiveness,” Mr. Tagomi said. “You cannot give it to me, though. Possibly no one can. I intend to read famous diary by Massachusetts’ ancient divine, Goodman C. Mather. Deals, I am told, with guilt and hell-fire, et al.”

The consul smoked his cigarette rapidly, intently studying Mr. Tagomi.

“Allow me to notify you,” Mr. Tagomi said, “that your nation is about to descend into greater vileness than ever. You know the hexagram The Abyss? Speaking as a private person, not as representative of Japan officialdom, I declare: heart sick with horror. Bloodbath coming beyond all compare. Yet even now you strive for some slight egotistic gain or goal. Put one over on rival faction, the SD, eh? While you get Herr B. Kreuz vom Meere in hot water—” He could not go on. His chest had become constricted. Like childhood, he thought. Asthma when angry at the old lady. “I am suffering,” he told Herr Reiss, who had put out his cigarette now. “Of malady growing these long years but which entered virulent form the day I heard, helplessly, your leaders’ escapades recited. Anyhow, therapeutic possibility nil. For you, too, sir. In language of Goodman C. Mather, if properly recalled: Repent!”

The German consul said huskily, “Properly recalled.” He nodded, lit a new cigarette with trembling fingers.

From the office, Mr. Ramsey appeared. He carried a sheaf of forms and papers. To Mr. Tagomi, who stood silently trying to get an unconstricted breath, he said, “While he’s here. Routine matter having to do with his functionality.”

Reflexively, Mr. Tagomi took the forms held out. He glanced at them. Form 20-50. Request by Reich through representative in PSA, Consul Freiherr Hugo Reiss, for remand of felon now in custody of San Francisco Police Department. Jew named Frank Fink, citizen—according to Reichs law—of Germany, retroactive June, 1960. For protective custody under Reichs law, etc. He scanned it over once.

“Pen, sir,” Mr. Ramsey said. “That concludes business with German Government this date.” He eyed the consul with distaste as he held the pen to Mr. Tagomi.

“No,” Mr. Tagomi said. He returned the 20-50 form to Mr. Ramsey. Then he grabbed it back, scribbled on the bottom, Release. Ranking Trade Mission, S.F. authority. Vide Military Protocol 1947. Tagomi. He handed one carbon to the German consul, the others to Mr. Ramsey along with the original. “Good day, Herr Reiss.” He bowed.

The German consul bowed, too. He scarcely bothered to look at the paper.

“Please conduct future business through immediate machinery such as mail, telephone, cable,” Mr. Tagomi said. “Not personally.”

The consul said, “You’re holding me responsible for general conditions beyond my jurisdiction.”

“Chicken shit,” Mr. Tagomi said. “I say that to that.”

“This is not the way civilized individuals conduct business,” the consul said. “You’re making this all bitter and vindictive. Where it ought to be mere formality with no personality embroiled.” He threw his cigarette onto the corridor floor, then turned and strode off.

“Take foul stinking cigarette along,” Mr. Tagomi said weakly, but the consul had turned the corner. “Childish conduct by self,” Mr. Tagomi said to Mr. Ramsey. “You witnessed repellent childish conduct.” He made his way unsteadily back into his office. No breath at all, now. A pain flowed down his left arm, and at the same time a great open palm of hand flattened and squashed his ribs. Oof, he said. Before him, no carpet, but merely shower of sparks, rising, red.

Help, Mr. Ramsey, he said. But no sound. Please. He reached out, stumbled. Nothing to catch, even.

As he fell he clutched within his coat the silver triangle thing Mr. Childan had urged on him. Did not save me, he thought. Did not help. All that endeavor.

His body struck the floor. Hands and knees, gasping, the carpet at his nose. Mr. Ramsey now rushing about bleating. Keep equipoise, Mr. Tagomi thought.

“I’m having a small heart attack,” Mr. Tagomi managed to say.

Several persons were involved, now, transporting him to couch. “Be calm, sir,” one was telling him.

“Notify wife, please,” Mr. Tagomi said.

Presently he heard ambulance noises. Wailing from street. Plus much bustle. People coming and going. A blanket was put over him, up to his armpits. Tie removed. Collar loosened.

“Better now,” Mr. Tagomi said. He lay comfortably, not trying to stir. Career over anyhow, he decided. German consul no doubt raise row higher up. Complain about incivility. Right to so complain, perhaps. Anyhow, work done. As far as I can, my part. Rest up to Tokyo and factions in Germany. Struggle beyond me in any case.

I thought it was merely plastics, he thought. Important mold salesman. Oracle guessed and gave clue, but—

“Remove his shirt,” a voice stated. No doubt building’s physician. Highly authoritative tone; Mr. Tagomi smiled. Tone is everything.

Could this, Mr. Tagomi wondered, be the answer? Mystery of body organism, its own knowledge. Time to quit. Or time partially to quit. A purpose, which I must acquiesce to.

What had the oracle last said? To his query in the office as those two lay dying or dead. Sixty-one. Inner Truth. Pigs and fishes are least intelligent of all; hard to convince. It is I. The book means me. I will never fully understand; that is the nature of such creatures. Or is this Inner Truth now, this that is happening to me?

I will wait. I will see. Which it is.

Perhaps it is both.