Philip Dick - The Man in the High Castle

“Sir,” Childan said, “allow me to show you what has come in. Are you free for a moment?”

Mr. Tagomi felt within him the old stirring. “Something of unusual interest?”

“Come, sir.” Childan led the way across the store; Mr. Tagomi followed.

Within a locked glass case, on trays of black velvet, lay small metal swirls, shapes that merely hinted rather than were. They gave Mr. Tagomi a queer feeling as he stooped to study.

“I show these ruthlessly to each of my customers,” Robert Childan said. “Sir, do you know what these are?”

“Jewelry, it appears,” Mr. Tagomi said, noticing a pin.

“These are American-made. Yes of course. But, sir. These are not the old.”

Mr. Tagomi glanced up.

“Sir, these are the new.” Robert Childan’s white, somewhat drab features were disturbed by passion. “This is the new life of my country, sir. The beginning in the form of tiny imperishable seeds. Of beauty.”

With due interest, Mr. Tagomi took time to examine in his own hands several of the pieces. Yes, there is something new which animates these, he decided. The Law of Tao is borne out, here; when yin lies everywhere, the first stirring of light is suddenly alive in the darkest depths… we are all familiar; we have seen it happen before, as I see it here now. And yet for me they are just scraps. I cannot become rapt, as Mr. R. Childan, here. Unfortunately, for both of us. But that is the case.

“Quite lovely,” he murmured, laying down the pieces. Mr. Childan said in a forceful voice, “Sir, it does not occur at once.”

“Pardon?”

“The new view in your heart.”

“You are converted,” Mr. Tagomi said. “I wish I could be. I am not.” He bowed.

“Another time,” Mr. Childan said, accompanying him to the entrance of the store; he made no move to display any alternative items, Mr. Tagomi noticed.

“Your certitude is in questionable taste,” Mr. Tagomi said. “It seems to press untowardly.”

Mr. Childan did not cringe. “Forgive me,” he said. “But I am correct. I sense accurately in these the contracted germ of the future.”

“So be it,” Mr. Tagomi said. “But your Anglo-Saxon fanaticism does not appeal to me.” Nonetheless, he felt a certain renewal of hope. His own hope, in himself, “Good day.” He bowed. “I will see you again one of these days. We can perhaps examine your prophecy.”

Mr. Childan bowed, saying nothing.

Carrying his briefcase, with the Colt .44 within, Mr. Tagomi departed. I go out as I came in, he reflected. Still seeking. Still without what I need if I am to return to the world.

What if I had bought one of those odd, indistinct items? Kept it, reexamined, contemplated… would I have subsequently, through it, found my way back? I doubt it.

Those are for him, not me.

And yet, even if one person finds his way… that means there is a Way. Even if I personally fail to reach it.

I envy him.

Turning, Mr. Tagomi started back toward the store. There in the doorway, stood Mr. Childan regarding him. He had not gone back in.

“Sir,” Mr. Tagomi said, “I will buy one of those, whichever you select. I have no faith, but I am currently grasping at straws.” He followed Mr. Childan through the store once more, to the glass case. “I do not believe. I will carry it about with me, looking at it at regular intervals. Once every other day, for instance. After two months if I do not see—”

“You may return it for full credit,” Mr. Childan said.

“Thank you,” Mr. Tagomi said. He felt better. Sometimes one must try anything, he decided. It is no disgrace. On the contrary, it is a sign of wisdom, of recognizing the situation.

“This will calm you,” Mr. Childan said. He laid out a single small silver triangle ornamented with hollow drops. Black beneath, bright and light-filled above.

“Thank you,” Mr. Tagomi said.

By pedecab Mr. Tagomi journeyed to Portsmouth Square, a little open park on the slope above Kearny Street overlooking the police station. He seated himself on a bench in the sun. Pigeons walked along the paved paths in search of food. On other benches shabby men read the newspaper or dozed. Here and there others lay on the grass, nearly asleep.

Bringing from his pocket the paper bag marked with the name of Mr. R. Childan’s store, Mr. Tagomi sat holding the paper bag with both hands, warming himself. Then he opened the bag and lifted out his new possession for inspection in solitude, here in this little grass and path park of old men.

He held the squiggle of silver. Reflection of the midday sun, like boxtop cereal trinket, sent-away acquired Jack Armstrong magnifying mirror. Or—he gazed down into it. Om as the Brahmins say. Shrunk spot in which all is captured. Both, at least in hint. The size, the shape. He continued to inspect dutifully.

Will it come, as Mr. R. Childan prophesied? Five minutes. Ten minutes. I sit as long as I can. Time, alas, will make us sell it short. What is it I hold, while there is still time?

Forgive me, Mr. Tagomi thought in the direction of the squiggle. Pressure on us always to rise and act. Regretfully, he began to put the thing away back in its bag. One final hopeful glance—he again scrutinized with all that he had. Like child, he told himself. Imitate the innocence and faith. On seashore, pressing randomly found shell to head. Hearing in its blabber the wisdom of the sea.

This, with eye replacing ear. Enter me and inform what has been done, what it means, why. Compression of understanding into one finite squiggle.

Asking too much, and so get nothing.

“Listen,” he said sotto voce to the squiggle. “Sales warranty promised much.”

If I shake it violently, like old recalcitrant watch. He did so, up and down. Or like dice in critical game. Awaken the diety inside. Peradventure he sleepeth. Or he is on a journey. Titillating heavy irony by Prophet Elijah. Or he is pursuing. Mr. Tagomi violently shook the silver squiggle up and down in his clenched fist once more. Call him louder. Again he scrutinized.

You little thing, you are empty, he thought.

Curse at it, he told himself. Frighten it.

“My patience is running out,” he said sotto voce .

And what then? Fling you in the gutter? Breathe on it, shake it, breathe on it. Win me the game.

He laughed. Addlepated involvement, here in warm sunlight. Spectacle to whoever comes along. Peeking about guiltily, now. But no one saw. Old men snoozing. Measure of relief, there.

Tried everything, he realized. Pleaded, contemplated, threatened, philosophized at length. What else can be done?

Could I but stay here. It is denied me. Opportunity will perhaps occur again. And yet, as W. S. Gilbert says, such an opportunity will not occur again. Is that so? I feel it to be so.

When I was a child I thought as a child. But now I have put away childish things. Now I must seek in other realms. I must keep after this object in new ways.

I must be scientific. Exhaust by logical analysis every entree. Systematically, in classic Aristotelian laboratory manner.

He put his finger in his right ear, to shut off traffic and all other distracting noises. Then he tightly held the silver triangle, shellwise, to his left ear.

No sound. No roar of simulated ocean, in actuality interior blood-motion noises—not even that.

Then what other sense might apprehend mystery? Hearing of no use, evidently. Mr. Tagomi shut his eyes and began fingering every bit of surface on the item. Not touch; his fingers told him nothing. Smell. He put the silver close to his nose and inhaled. Metallic faint odor, but it conveyed no meaning. Taste. Opening his mouth he sneaked the silver triangle within, popped it in like a cracker, but of course refrained from chewing. No meaning, only bitter hard cold thing.