Philip Dick - The Man in the High Castle

Laughing, she said, “God, you’ve been talking a mile a minute.”

He shouted excitedly, “I’m explaining Fascist theory of action!”

She couldn’t answer; it was too funny.

But the man beside her did not think it was funny; he glowered at her, his face red. Veins in his forehead became distended and he began once more to shake. And again he passed his fingers clutchingly along his scalp, forward and back, not speaking, only staring at her.

“Don’t get sore at me,” she said.

For a moment she thought he was going to hit her; he drew his arm back… but then he grunted, reached and turned up the car radio.

They drove on. Band music from the radio, static. Once more she tried to concentrate on the book.

“You’re right,” Joe said after a long time.

“About what?”

“Two-bit empire. Clown for a leader. No wonder we got nothing out of the war.”

She patted his arm.

“Juliana, it’s all darkness,” Joe said. “Nothing is true or certain. Right?”

“Maybe so,” she said absently, continuing to try to read.

“Britain wins,” Joe said, indicating the book. “I save you the trouble. U.S. dwindles, Britain keeps needling and poking and expanding, keeps the initiative. So put it away.”

“I hope we have fun in Denver,” she said, closing the book. “You need to relax. I want you to.” If you don’t, she thought, you’re going to fly apart in a million pieces. Like a bursting spring. And what happens to me, then? How do I get back? And do I just leave you?

I want the good time you promised me, she thought. I don’t want to be cheated; I’ve been cheated too much in my life before, by too many people.

“We’ll have it,” Joe said. “Listen.” He studied her with a queer, introspective expression. “You take to that Grasshopper book so much; I wonder—do you suppose a man who writes a best seller, an author like that Abendsen, do people write letters to him? I bet lots of people praise his book by letters to him, maybe even visit.”

All at once she understood. “Joe—it’s only another hundred miles!”

His eyes shone; he smiled at her, happy again, no longer flushed or troubled.

“We could!” she said. “You drive so good—it’d be nothing to go on up there, would it?”

Slowly, Joe said, “Well, I doubt a famous man lets visitors drop in. Probably so many of them.”

“Why not try? Joe—” She grabbed his shoulder, squeezed him excitedly. “All he could do is send us away. Please .”

With great deliberation, Joe said, “When we’ve gone shopping and got new clothes, all spruced up… that’s important, to make a good impression. And maybe even rent a new car up in Cheyenne. Bet you can do that.”

“Yes,” she said. “And you need a haircut. And let me pick your clothes; please, Joe. I used to pick Frank’s clothes for him; a man can never buy his own clothes.”

“You got good taste in clothes,” Joe said, once more turning toward the road ahead, gazing out somberly. “In other ways, too. Better if you call him. Contact him.”

“I’ll get my hair done,” she said.

“Good.”

“I’m not scared at all to walk up and ring the bell,” Juliana said. “I mean, you live only once. Why should we be intimidated? He’s just a man like the rest of us. In fact, he probably would be pleased to know somebody drove so far just to tell him how much they liked his book. We can get an autograph on the book, on the inside where they do that. Isn’t that so? We better buy a new copy; this one is all stained. It wouldn’t look good.”

“Anything you want,” Joe said. “I’ll let you decide all the details; I know you can do it. Pretty girl always gets everyone; when he sees what a knockout you are he’ll open the door wide. But listen; no monkey business.”

“What do you mean?”

“You say we’re married. I don’t want you getting mixed up with him—you know. That would be dreadful. Wreck everyone’s existence; some reward for him to let visitors in, some irony. So watch it, Juliana.”

“You can argue with him,” Juliana said. “That part about Italy losing the war by betraying them; tell him what you told me.”

Joe nodded. “That’s so. We can discuss the whole subject.”

They drove swiftly on.

At seven o’clock the following morning, PSA reckoning, Mr. Nobusuke Tagomi rose from bed, started toward the bathroom, then changed his mind and went directly to the oracle.

Seated cross-legged on the floor of his living room he began manipulating the forty-nine yarrow stalks. He had a deep sense of the urgency of his questioning, and he worked at a feverish pace until at last he had the six lines before him.

Shock! Hexagram Fifty-one!

God appears in the sign of the Arousing. Thunder and lightning. Sounds—he involuntarily put his fingers up to cover his ears. Ha-ha! Ho-ho! Great burst that made him wince and blink. Lizard scurries and tiger roars, and out comes God Himself!

What does it mean? He peered about his living room. Arrival of—what? He hopped to his feet and stood panting, waiting.

Nothing. Heart pounding. Respiration and all somatic processes, including all manner of diencephalic-controlled autonomic responses to crisis: adrenalin, greater heartbeat, pulse rate, glands pouring, throat paralyzed, eyes staring, bowels loose, et al. Stomach queasy and sex instinct suppressed.

And yet, nothing to see; nothing for body to do. Run? All in preparation for panic flight. But where to and why? Mr. Tagomi asked himself. No clue. Therefore impossible. Dilemma of civilized man; body mobilized, but danger obscure.

He went to the bathroom and began lathering his face to shave.

The telephone rang.

“Shock,” he said aloud, putting down his razor. “Be prepared.” He walked rapidly from the bathroom, back into the living room. “I am prepared,” he said, and lifted the receiver. “Tagomi, here.” His voice squeaked and he cleared his throat.

A pause. And then a faint, dry, rustling voice, almost like old leaves far off, said, “Sir. This is Shinjiro Yatabe. I have arrived in San Francisco.”

“Greetings from the Ranking Trade Mission,” Mr. Tagomi said. “How glad I am. You are in good health and relaxed?”

“Yes, Mr. Tagomi. When may I meet you?”

“Quite soon. In half an hour.” Mr. Tagomi peered at the bedroom clock, trying to read it. “A third party: Mr. Baynes. I must contact him. Possibly delay, but—”

“Shall we say two hours, sir?” Mr. Yatabe said.

“Yes,” Mr. Tagomi said, bowing.

“At your office in the Nippon Times Building.”

Mr. Tagomi bowed once more.

Click. Mr. Yatabe had rung off.

Pleased Mr. Baynes, Mr. Tagomi thought. Delight on order of cat tossed piece of salmon, for instance fatty nice tail. He jiggled the hook, then dialed speedily the Adhirati Hotel.

“Ordeal concluded,” he said, when Mr. Baynes’ sleepy voice came on the wire.

At once the voice ceased to be sleepy. “He’s here?”

“My office,” Mr. Tagomi said. “Ten-twenty. Goodbye.” He hung up and ran back to the bathroom to finish shaving. No time for breakfast; have Mr. Ramsey scuttle about after office arrival completed. All three of us perhaps can indulge simultaneously—in his mind as he shaved he planned a fine breakfast for them all.

In his pajamas, Mr. Baynes stood at the phone, rubbing his forehead and thinking. A shame I broke down and made contact with that agent, he thought. If I had waited only one day more…

But probably no harm’s been done. Yet he was supposed to return to the department store today. Suppose I don’t show up? It may start a chain reaction; they’ll think I’ve been murdered or some such thing. An attempt will be made to trace me.