power to sway the real authorities, the Japanese. The LJC was pinoc run. He would be facing four
or five middle-aged plump white faces, on the order of Wyndam-Matson's. If he failed to get
justification there, he would make his way to one of the Import-Export Trade Missions which
operated out of Tokyo, and which had offices throughout California, Oregon, Washington, and the
parts of Nevada included in the Pacific States of America. But if he failed successfully to plead
there . . .
Plans roamed his mind as he lay in bed gazing up at the ancient light fixture in the ceiling. He
could for instance slip across into the Rocky Mountain States. But it was loosely banded to the
PSA, and might extradite him. What about the South? His body recoiled. Ugh. Not that. As a white
man he would have plenty of place, in fact more than he had here in the PSA. But . . . he did not
want that kind of place.
And, worse, the South had a cat's cradle of ties, economic, ideological, and god knew what, with
the Reich. And Frank Frink was a Jew.
His original name was Frank Fink. He had been born on the East Coast, in New York, and in
1941 he had been drafted into the Army of the United States of America, right after the collapse of
Russia. After the Japs had taken Hawaii he had been sent to the West Coast. When the war ended,
there he was, on the Japanese side of the settlement line. And here he was today, fifteen years later.
In 1947, on Capitulation Day, he had more or less gone berserk. Hating the Japs as he did, he had
vowed revenge; he had buried his Service weapons ten feet underground, in a basement, well-
wrapped and oiled, for the day he and his buddies arose. However, time was the great healer, a fact
he had not taken into account. When he thought of the idea now, the great blood bath, the purging
of the pinocs and their masters, he felt as if were reviewing one of those stained yearbooks from his
high school days, coming upon an account of his boyhood aspirations. Frank 'Goldfish' Fink is
going to be a paleontologist and vows to marry Norma Prout. Norma Prout was the class schones
Mädchen, and he really had vowed to marry her. That was all so goddam long ago, like listening to
Fred Allen or seeing a W. C. Fields movie. Since 1947 he had probably seen or talked to six
hundred thousand Japanese, and the desire to do violence to any or all of them had simply never
materialized, after the first few months. It just was not relevant any more.
But wait. There was one, a Mr. Omuro, who had bought control of a great area of rental property
in downtown San Francisco, and who for a time had been Frank's landlord. There was a bad apple,
he thought. A shark who had never made repairs, had partitioned rooms smaller and smaller, raised
rents . . . Omuro had gouged the poor, especially the nearly destitute jobless ex-servicemen during
the depression years of the early 'fifties. However, it had been one of the Japanese trade missions
which had cut off Omuro's head for his profiteering. And nowadays such a violation of the harsh,
rigid, but just Japanese civil law was unheard of. It was a credit to the incorruptibility of the Jap
occupation officials, especially those who had come in after the War Cabinet had fallen.
Recalling the rugged, stoic honesty of the Trade Missions, Frink felt reassured. Even Wyndam-
Matson would be waved off like a noisy fly. W-M Corporation owner or not. At least, so he hoped.
I guess I really have faith in this Co-Prosperity Pacific Alliance stuff, he said to himself. Strange.
Looking back to the early days . . . it had seemed such an obvious fake, then. Empty propaganda.
He rose from the bed and unsteadily made his way to the bathroom. While he washed and
shaved, he listened to the midday news on the radio.
'Let us not deride this effort,' the radio was saying as he momentarily shut off the hot water.
No, we won't, Frink thought bitterly. He knew which particular effort the radio had in mind. Yet,
there was after all something humorous about it, the picture of stolid, grumpy Germans walking
around on Mars, on the red sand where no humans had ever stepped before. Lathering his jowls,
Frink began a chanting satire to himself. Gott, Herr Kreisleiter. Ist dies vielleicht der Ort wo man
das Konzentrationslager bilden kann? Das Wetter ist so schon. Heiss, aben doch schon . . .
The radio said: 'Co-Prosperity Civilization must pause and consider whether in our quest to
provide a balanced equity of mutual duties and responsibilities coupled with remunerations . . .'
Typical jargon from the ruling hierarchy, Frink noted. '. . . we have not failed to perceive the future
arena in which the affairs of man will be acted out, be they Nordic, Japanese, Negroid . . .' On and
on it went.
As he dressed, he mulled with pleasure his satire. The weather is schon, so schon. But there is
nothing to breathe . . .
However, it was a fact; the Pacific had done nothing toward colonization of the planets. It was
involved — bogged down, rather — in South America. While the Germans were busy bustling
enormous robot construction systems across space, the Japs were still burning off the jungles in the
interior of Brazil, erecting eight-floor clay apartment houses for ex-headhunters. By the time the
Japs got their first spaceship off the ground the Germans would have the entire solar system sewed
up tight. Back in the quaint old history-book days, the Germans had missed out while the rest of
Europe put the final touches on their colonial empires. However, Frink reflected, they were not
going to be last this time; they had learned.
And then he thought about Africa, and the Nazi experiment there. And his blood stopped in his
veins, hesitated, at last went on.
That huge empty ruin.
The radio said: '. . . we must consider with pride however our emphasis on the fundamental
physical needs of peoples of all place, their subspiritual aspirations which must be . . .'
Frink shut the radio off. Then, calmer, he turned it back on.
Christ on the crapper, he thought. Africa. For the ghosts of dead tribes. Wiped out to make a land
of — what? Who knew? Maybe even the master architects in Berlin did not know. Bunch of
automatons, building and toiling away. Building? Grinding down. Ogres out of a paleontology
exhibit, at their task of making a cup from an enemy's skull, the whole family industriously
scooping out the contents — the raw brains — first, to eat. Then useful utensils of men's leg bones.
Thrifty, to think not only of eating the people you did not like, but eating them out of their own
skull. The first technicians! Prehistoric man in a sterile white lab coat in some Berlin university lab,
experimenting with uses to which other people's skull, skin, ears, fat could be put to. Ja, Herr
Doktor. A new use for the big toe; see, one can adapt the joint for a quick-acting cigarette lighter
mechanism. Now, if only Herr Krupp can produce it in quantity . . .
It horrified him, this thought: the ancient gigantic cannibal near-man flourishing now, ruling the
world once more. We spent a million years escaping him, Frink thought, and now he's back. And
not merely as the adversary . . . but as the master.
'. . . we can deplore,' the radio, the voice of the little yellow-bellies from Tokyo was saying. God,
Frink thought; and we called them monkeys, these civilized bandy-legged shrimps who would no
more set up gas ovens than they would melt their wives into sealing wax. '. . . and we have deplored
often in the past the dreadful waste of humans in this fanatical striving which sets the broader mass
of men wholly outside the legal community.' They, the Japs, were so strong on law. '. . . To quote a
Western saint familiar to all: 'What profit it a man if he gain the whole world but in this enterprise
lose his soul?'' The radio paused. Frink, tying his tie, also paused. It was the morning ablution.
I have to make my pact with them here, he realized. Black-listed or not; it'd be death for me if I
left Japanese-controlled land and showed up in the South or in Europe — anywhere in the Reich.
I'll have to come to terms with old Wyndam-Matson.
Seated on his bed, a cup of lukewarm tea beside him, Frink got down his copy of the I Ching.
From their leather tube he took the forty-nine yarrow stalks. He considered, until he had his
thoughts properly controlled and his questions worked out.
Aloud he said, 'How should I approach Wyndam-Matson in order to come to decent terms with
him?' He wrote the question down on the tablet, then began whipping the yarrow stalks from hand
to hand until he had the first line, the beginning. An eight. Half the sixty-four hexagrams eliminated
already. He divided the stalks and obtained the second line. Soon, being so expert, he had all six
lines; the hexagram lay before him, and he did not need to identify it by the chart. He could
recognize it as Hexagram Fifteen. Ch'ien. Modesty. Ah. The low will be raised up, the high brought
down, powerful families humbled; he did not have to refer to the text — he knew it by heart. A
good omen. The oracle was giving him favorable council.
And yet he was a bit disappointed. There was something fatuous about Hexagram Fifteen. Too
goody-goody. Naturally he should be modest. Perhaps there was an idea in it, however. After all,
he had no power over old W-M. He could not compel him to take him back. All he could do was
adopt the point of view of Hexagram Fifteen; this was that sort of moment, when one had to
petition, to hope, to await with faith. Heaven in its time would raise him up to his old job or
perhaps even to something better.
He had no lines to read, no nines or sixes; it was static. So he was through. It did not move into a
A new question, then. Setting himself, he said aloud, 'Will I ever see Juliana again?'
That was his wife. Or rather his ex-wife. Juliana had divorced him a year ago, and he had not
seen her in months; in fact he did not even know where she lived. Evidently she had left San
Francisco. Perhaps even the PSA. Either their mutual friends had not heard from her or they were
not telling him.
Busily he maneuvered the yarrow stalks, his eyes fixed on the tallies. How many times he had
asked about Juliana, one question or another? Here came the hexagram, brought forth by the
passive chance workings of the vegetable stalks. Random, and yet rooted in the moment in which
he lived, in which his life was bound up with all other lives and particles in the universe. The
necessary hexagram picturing in its pattern of broken and unbroken lines the situation. He, Juliana,
the factory on Gough Street, the Trade Missions that ruled, the exploration of the planets, the
billion chemical heaps in Africa that were now not even corpses, the aspirations of the thousands
around him in the shanty warrens of San Francisco, the mad creatures in Berlin with their calm
faces and manic plans — all connected in this moment of casting the yarrow stalks to select the
exact wisdom appropriate in a book begun in the thirtieth century B.C. A book created by the sages
of China over a period of five thousand years, winnowed, perfected, that superb cosmology — and
science — codified before Europe had even learned to do long division.
The hexagram. His heart dropped. Forty-four. Kou. Coming to Meet. Its sobering judgment. The
maiden is powerful. One should not marry such a maiden. Again he had gotten it in connection
Oy vey, he thought, settling back. So she was wrong for me; I know that. I didn't ask that. Why
does the oracle have to remind me? A bad fate for me, to have met her and been in love — be in
love — with her.
Juliana — the best-looking woman he had ever married. Soot-black eyebrows and hair; trace
amounts of Spanish blood distributed as pure color, even to her lips. Her rubbery, soundless walk;
she had worn saddle shoes left over from high school. In fact all her clothes had a dilapidated
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