The Man in the High Castle

by Philip K. Dick

  “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: adrenaline, 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. Good-bye.” 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.

  It doesn’t matter. Because he’s here. At last. The waiting is over.

  Mr. Baynes hurried to the bathroom and prepared to shave.

  I have no doubt that Mr. Tagomi will recognize him the moment he meets him, he decided. We can drop the “Mr. Yatabe” cover, now. In fact, we can drop all covers, all pretenses.

  As soon as he had shaved, Mr. Baynes hopped into the shower. As water roared around him he sang at the top of his lungs:

  “Wer reitet so spat,

  Durch Nacht und den Wind?

  Es ist der Vater

  Mit seinem Kind.”

  It is probably too late now for the SD to do anything, he thought. Even if they find out. So perhaps I can cease worrying; at least, the trivial worry. The finite, private worry about my own particular skin.

  But as to the rest—we can just begin.

  11

  FOR THE REICHS Consul in San Francisco, Freiherr Hugo Reiss, the first business of this particular day was unexpected and distressing. When he arrived at his office he found a visitor waiting already, a large, heavy-jawed, middle-aged man with pocked skin and disapproving scowl that drew his black, tangled eyebrows together. The man rose and made a Partei salute, at the same time murmuring, “Heil.”

  Reiss said, “Heil.” He groaned inwardly, but maintained a businesslike formal smile. “Herr Kreuz vom Meere. I am surprised. Won’t you come in?” He unlocked his inner office, wondering where his vice-consul was, and who had let the SD chief in. Anyhow, here the man was. There was nothing to be done.

  Following along after him, his hands in the pockets of his dark wool overcoat, Kreuz vom Meere said, “Listen, Freiherr. We located this Abwehr fellow. This Rudolf Wegener. He showed up at an old Abwehr drop we have under surveillance.” Kreuz vom Meere chuckled, showing enormous gold teeth. “And we trailed him back to his hotel.”

  “Fine,” Reiss said, noticing that his mail was on his desk. So Pferdehuf was around somewhere. No doubt he had left the office locked to keep the SD chief from a little informal snooping.

  “This is important,” Kreuz vom Meere said. “I notified Kaltenbrunner about it. Top priority. You’ll probably be getting word from Berlin any time now. Unless those Unratfressers back home get it all mixed up.” He seated himself on the consul’s desk, took a wad of folded paper from his coat pocket, unfolded the paper laboriously, his lips moving. “Cover name is Baynes. Posing as a Swedish industrialist or salesman or something connected with manufacturing. Received phone call this morning at eight-ten from Japanese official regarding appointment at ten-twenty in the Jap’s office. We’re presently trying to trace the call. Probably will have it traced in another half hour. They’ll notify me here.”

  “I see,” Reiss said.

  “Now, we may pick up this fellow,” Kreuz vom Meere continued. “If we do, we’ll naturally send him back to the Reich aboard the next Lufthansa plane. However, the Japs or Sacramento may protest and
try to block it. They’ll protest to you, if they do. In fact, they may bring enormous pressure to bear. And they’ll run a truckload of those Tokkoka toughs to the airport.”

  “You can’t keep them from finding out?”

  “Too late. He’s on his way to this appointment. We may have to pick him up right there on the spot. Run in, grab him, run out.”

  “I don’t like that,” Reiss said. “Suppose his appointment is with some extremely high-place Jap officials? There may be an Emperor’s personal representative in San Francisco, right now. I heard a rumor the other day—”

  Kreuz vom Meere interrupted. “It doesn’t matter. He’s a German national. Subject to Reichs law.”

  And we know what Reichs law is, Reiss thought.

  “I have a Kommando squad ready,” Kreuz vom Meere went on. “Five good men.” He chuckled. “They look like violinists. Nice ascetic faces. Soulful. Maybe like divinity students. They’ll get in. The Japs’ll think they’re a string quartet—”

  “Quintet,” Reiss said.

  “Yes. They’ll walk right up to the door—they’re dressed just right.” He surveyed the consul. “Pretty much as you are.”

  Thank you, Reiss thought.

  “Right in plain sight. Broad daylight. Up to this Wegener. Gather around him. Appear to be conferring. Message of importance.” Kreuz vom Meere droned on, while the consul began opening his mail. “No violence. Just, ‘Herr Wegener. Come with us, please. You understand.’ And between the vertebrae of his spine a little shaft. Pump. Upper ganglia paralyzed.”

  Reiss nodded.

  “Are you listening?”

  “Ganz bestimmt.”

  “Then out again. To the car. Back to my office. Japs make a lot of racket. But polite to the last.” Kreuz vom Meere lumbered from the desk to pantomime a Japanese bowing. “‘Most vulgar to deceive us, Herr Kreuz vom Meere. However, good-bye, Herr Wegener—’”

  “Baynes,” Reiss said. “Isn’t he using his cover name?”

  “Baynes. ‘So sorry to see you go. Plenty more talk maybe next time.’” The phone on Reiss’ desk rang, and Kreuz vom Meere ceased his prank. “That may be for me.” He started to answer it, but Reiss stepped to it and took it himself.

  “Reiss, here.”

  An unfamiliar voice said, “Consul, this is the Ausland Fernsprechamt at Nova Scotia. Transatlantic telephone call for you from Berlin, urgent.”

  “All right,” Reiss said.

  “Just a moment, Consul.” Faint static, crackles. Then another voice, a woman operator. “Kanzlei.”

  “Yes, this is Ausland Fernsprechamt at Nova Scotia. Call for the Reichs Consul H. Reiss, San Francisco; I have the consul on the line.”

  “Hold on.” A long pause, during which Reiss continued, with one hand, to inspect his mail. Kreuz vom Meere watched slackly. “Herr Konsul, sorry to take your time.” A man’s voice. The blood in Reiss’ veins instantly stopped its motion. Baritone, cultivated, rolling-out-smooth voice familiar to Reiss. ‘This is Doktor Goebbels.”

  “Yes, Kanzler.” Across from Reiss, Kreuz vom Meere slowly showed a smile. The slack jaw ceased to hang.

  “General Heydrich has just asked me to call you. There is an agent of the Abwehr there in San Francisco. His name is Rudolf Wegener. You are to cooperate fully with the police regarding him. There isn’t time to give you details. Simply put your office at their disposal. Ich danke Ihnen sehr dabei.”

  “I understand, Herr Kanzler,” Reiss said.

  “Good day, Konsul.” The Reichskanzler rang off.

  Kreuz vom Meere watched intently as Reiss hung up the phone. “Was I right?”

  Reiss shrugged. “No dispute, there.”

  “Write out an authorization for us to return this Wegener to Germany forcibly.”

  Picking up his pen, Reiss wrote out the authorization, signed it, handed it to the SD chief.

  “Thank you,” Kreuz vom Meere said. “Now, when the Jap authorities call you and complain—”

  “If they do.”

  Kreuz vom Meere eyed him. “They will. They’ll be here within fifteen minutes of the time we pick this Wegener up.” He had lost his joking, clowning manner.

  “No string quintet violinists,” Reiss said.

  Kreuz vom Meere did not answer. “We’ll have him sometime this morning, so be ready. You can tell the Japs that he’s a homosexual or a forger, or something like that. Wanted for a major crime back home. Don’t tell them he’s wanted for political crimes. You know they don’t recognize ninety percent of National Socialist law.”

  “I know that,” Reiss said. “I know what to do.” He felt irritable and put upon. Went over my head, he said to himself. As usual. Contacted the Chancery. The bastards.

  His hands were shaking. Call from Doctor Goebbels; did that do it? Awed by the mighty? Or is it resentment, feeling of being hemmed in . . . goddam these police, he thought. They get stronger all the time. They’ve got Goebbels working for them already; they’re running the Reich.

  But what can I do? What can anybody do?

  Resignedly he thought, Better cooperate. No time to be on the wrong side of this man; he can probably get whatever he wants back home, and that might include the dismissal of everybody hostile to him.

  “I can see,” he said aloud, “that you did not exaggerate the importance of this matter, Herr Polizeifuhrer. Obviously, the security of Germany herself hangs on your quick detection of this spy or traitor or whatever he is.” Inwardly, he cringed to hear his choice of words.

  However, Kreuz vom Meere looked pleased. ‘Thank you, Consul.”

  “You may have saved us all.”

  Gloomily Kreuz vom Meere said, “Well, we haven’t picked him up. Let’s wait for that. I wish that call would come.”

  “I’ll handle the Japanese,” Reiss said. “I’ve had a good deal of experience, as you know. Their complaints—”

  “Don’t ramble on,” Kreuz vom Meere interrupted. “I have to think.” Evidently the call from the Chancery had bothered him; he, too, felt under pressure now.

  Possibly this fellow will get away, and it will cost you your job. Consul Hugo Reiss thought. My job, your job—we both could find ourselves out on the street any time. No more security for you than for me.

  In fact, he thought, it might be worth seeing how a little foot-dragging here and there could possibly stall your activities, Herr Polizeifuhrer. Something negative that could never be pinned down. For instance, when the Japanese come in here to complain, I might manage to drop a hint as to the Lufthansa flight on which this fellow is to be dragged away . . . or barring that, needle them into a bit more outrage by, say, just the trace of a contemptuous smirk—suggesting that the Reich is amused by them, doesn’t take little yellow men seriously. It’s easy to sting them. And if they get angry enough, they might carry it directly to Goebbels.

  All sorts of possibilities. The SD can’t really get this fellow out of the PSA without my active cooperation. If I can only hit on precisely the right twist . . .

  I hate people who go over my head, Freiherr Reiss said to himself. It makes me too damn uncomfortable. It makes me so nervous that I can’t sleep, and when I can’t sleep I can’t do my job. So I owe it to Germany to correct this problem. I’d be a lot more comfortable at night and in the daytime, too, for that matter, if this low-class Bavarian thug were back home writing up reports in some obscure Gau police station.

  The trouble is, there’s not the time. While I’m trying to decide how to—

  The phone rang.

  This time Kreuz vom Meere reached out to take it and Consul Reiss did not bar the way. “Hello,” Kreuz vom Meere said into the receiver. A moment of silence as he listened.

  Already? Reiss thought.

  But the SD chief was holding out the phone. “For you.”

  Secretly relaxing with relief, Reiss took the phone.

  “It’s some schoolteacher,” Kreuz vom Meere said. “Wants to know if you can give them scenic posters of Austria for the
ir class.”

  Toward eleven o’clock in the morning, Robert Childan shut up his store and set off, on foot, for Mr. Paul Kasoura’s business office.

  Fortunately, Paul was not busy. He greeted Childan politely and offered him tea.

  “I will not bother you long,” Childan said after they had both begun sipping. Paul’s office, although small, was modern and simply furnished. On the wall one single superb print: Mokkei’s Tiger, a late-thirteenth-century masterpiece.

  “I’m always happy to see you, Robert,” Paul said, in a tone that held—Childan thought—perhaps a trace of aloofness.

  Or perhaps it was his imagination. Childan glanced cautiously over his teacup. The man certainly looked friendly. And yet—Childan sensed a change.

  “Your wife,” Childan said, “was disappointed by my crude gift. I possibly insulted. However, with something new and untried, as I explained to you when I grafted it to you, no proper or final evaluation can be made—at least not by someone in the purely business end. Certainly, you and Betty are in a better position to judge than I.”

  Paul said, “She was not disappointed, Robert. I did not give the piece of jewelry to her.” Reaching into his desk, he brought out the small white box. “It has not left this office.”

  He knows, Childan thought. Smart man. Never even told her. So that’s that. Now, Childan realized, let’s hope he’s not going to rave at me. Some kind of accusation about my trying to seduce his wife.

  He could ruin me, Childan said to himself. Carefully he continued sipping his tea, his face impassive.

  “Oh?” he said mildly. “Interesting.”

  Paul opened the box, brought out the pin and began inspecting it. He held it to the light, turned it over and around.

  “I took the liberty of showing this to a number of business acquaintances,” Paul said, “individuals who share my taste for American historic objects or for artifacts of general artistic, esthetic merit.” He eyed Robert Childan. “None of course had ever seen such as this before. As you explained, no such contemporary work hithertofore has been known. I think, too, you informed that you are sole representative.”