Philip Dick - The Man in the High Castle

The salesman had finished. His entire selection of jewelry lay arranged on the black velvet on the surface of the counter.

Going leisurely over, Robert Childan lit a Land-O-Smiles and stood rocking back and forth on his heels, humming beneath his breath. The salesman stood silently. Neither spoke.

At last Childan reached out and pointed at a pin. “I like that.”

The salesman said in a rapid voice, “That’s a good one. You won’t find any wire brush scratches. All rouge-finished. And it won’t tarnish. We have a plastic lacquer sprayed on them that’ll last for years. It’s the best industrial lacquer available.”

Childan nodded slightly.

“What we’ve done here,” the salesman said, “is to adapt tried and proven industrial techniques to jewelry making. As far as I know, nobody has ever done it before. No molds. All metal to metal. Welding and brazing.” He paused. “The backs are hand-soldered.”

Childan picked up two bracelets. Then a pin. Then another pin. He held them for a moment, then set them off to one side.

The salesman’s face twitched. Hope.

Examining the price tag on a necklace, Childan said, “Is this—”

“Retail. Your price is fifty percent of that. And you buy say around a hundred dollars or so, we give you an additional two percent.”

One by one Childan laid several more pieces aside. With each additional one, the salesman became more agitated; he talked faster and faster, finally repeating himself, even saying meaningless foolish things, all in an undertone and very urgently. He really thinks he’s going to sell, Childan knew. By his own expression he showed nothing; he went on with the game of picking pieces.

“That’s an especially good one,” the salesman was rambling on, as Childan fished out a large pendant and then ceased. “I think you got our best. All our best.” The man laughed.

“You really have good taste.” His eyes darted. He was adding in his mind what Childan had chosen. The total of the sale.

Childan said, “Our policy, with untried merchandise, has to be consignment.”

For a few seconds the salesman did not understand. He stopped his talking, but he stared without comprehension.

Childan smiled at him.

“Consignment,” the salesman echoed at last.

“Would you prefer not to leave it?” Childan said.

Stammering, the man finally said, “You mean I leave it and you pay me later on when—”

“You get two-thirds of the proceeds. When the pieces sell. That way you make much more. You have to wait, of course, but—” Childan shrugged. “It’s up to you. I can give it some window display, possibly. And if it moves, then possibly later on, in a month or so, with the next order—well, we might see our way clear to buy some outright.”

The salesman had now spent well over an hour showing his wares, Childan realized. And he had everything out. All his displays disarranged and dismantled. Another hour’s work to get it back ready to take somewhere else. There was silence. Neither man spoke.

“Those pieces you put to one side—” the salesman said in a low voice. “They’re the ones you want?”

“Yes. I’ll let you leave them all.” Childan strolled over to his office in the rear of the store. “I’ll write up a tag. So you’ll have a record of what you’ve left with me.” As he came back with his tag book he added, “You understand that when merchandise is left on a consignment basis the store doesn’t assume liability in case of theft or damage.” He had a little mimeographed release for the salesman to sign. The store would never have to account for the items left. When the unsold portion was returned, if some could not be located—they must have been stolen, Childan declared to himself. There’s always theft going on in stores. Especially small items like jewelry.

There was no way that Robert Childan could lose. He did not have to pay for this man’s jewelry; he had no investment in this kind of inventory. If any of it sold he made a profit, and if it did not, he simply returned it all—or as much as could be found—to the salesman at some vague later date.

Childan made out the tag, listing the items. He signed it and gave a copy to the salesman. “You can give me a call,” he said, “in a month or so. To find out how it’s been doing.”

Taking the jewelry which he wanted he went off to the back of the store, leaving the salesman to gather up his remaining stuff.

I didn”t think he’d go along with it, he thought. You never know. That’s why it’s always worth trying.

When he next looked up, he saw that the salesman was ready to leave. He had his wicker hamper under his arm and the counter was clear. The salesman was coming toward him, holding something out.

“Yes?” Childan said. He had been going over some correspondence.

“I want to leave our card.” The salesman put down an odd-looking little square of gray and red paper on Childan’s desk. “Edfrank Custom Jewelry. It has our address and phone number. In case you want to get in touch with us.”

Childan nodded, smiled silently, and returned to his work.

When next he paused and looked up the store was empty. The salesman had gone.

Putting a nickel into the wall dispenser, Childan obtained a cup of hot instant tea which he sipped contemplatively.

I wonder if it will sell, he wondered. Very unlikely. But it is well made. And one never sees anything like it. He examined one of the pins. Quite striking design. Certainly not amateurs.

I’ll change the tags. Mark them up a lot higher. Push the handmade angle. And the uniqueness. Custom originals. Small sculptures. Wear a work of art. Exclusive creation on your lapel or wrist.

And there was another notion circulating and growing in the back of Robert Childan’s mind. With these, there’s no problem of authenticity. And that problem may someday wreck the historic American artifacts industry. Not today or tomorrow—but after that, who knows.

Better not to have all irons in one fire. That visit by that Jewish crook; that might be the harbinger. If I quietly build up a stock of nonhistoric objects, contemporary work with no historicity either real or imagined, I might find I have the edge over the competition. And as long as it isn’t costing me anything.

Leaning back his chair so that it rested against the wall he sipped his tea and pondered.

The Moment changes. One must be ready to change with it. Or otherwise left high and dry. Adapt.

The rule of survival, he thought. Keep eye peeled regarding situation around you. Learn its demands. And meet them. Be there at the right time doing the right thing .

Be yinnish. The Oriental knows. The smart black yinnish eyes.

Suddenly he had a good idea; it made him sit upright instantly. Two birds, one stone. Ah. He hopped to his feet, excited. Carefully wrap best of jewelry pieces (removing tag, of course). Pin, pendant, or bracelet. Something nice, anyhow. Then—since have to leave shop, close up at two as it is—saunter over to Kasouras’ apartment building. Mr. Kasouras, Paul, will be at work. However, Mrs. Kasoura, Betty, will very likely be home .

Graft gift, this new original U.S. artwork. Compliments of myself personally, in order to obtain high-place reaction. This is how a new line is introduced. Isn’t it lovely? Whole selection back at store; drop in, etc. This one for you, Betty.

He trembled. Just she and I, midday in the apartment. Husband off at work. All on up and up, however; brilliant pretext.

Airtight!

Getting a small box plus wrapping paper and ribbon, Robert Childan began preparing a gift for Mrs. Kasoura. Dark, attractive woman, slender in her silk Oriental dress, high heels, and so on. Or maybe today blue cotton cooliestyle lounging pajamas, very light and comfortable and informal. Ah, he thought.