'Didn't they have swell theater in those days? That's what I heard. Now it's the same as the movie
industry; it's all a cartel in Berlin. In the thirteen years I've been in New York not one good new
musical or play ever opened, only those — '
'Let me read,' Juliana said.
'And the same with the book business,' Joe said, unperturbed. 'It's all a cartel operating out of
Munich. All they do in New York is print; just big printing presses — but before the war, New
York was the center of the world's publishing industry, or so they say.'
Putting her fingers in her ears, she concentrated on the page open in her lap, shutting his voice
out. She had arrived at a section in The Grasshopper which described the fabulous television, and it
enthralled her; especially the part about the inexpensive little sets for backward people in Africa
. . . Only Yankee know-how and the mass-production system — Detroit, Chicago, Cleveland, the magic
names ! — could have done the trick, sent that ceaseless and almost witlessly noble flood of cheap one-
dollar (the China Dollar, the trade dollar) television kits to every village and backwater of the Orient. And
when the kit had been assembled by some gaunt, feverish-minded youth in the village, starved for a chance,
for that which the generous Americans held out to him, that tinny little instrument with its built-in power
supply no larger than a marble began to receive. And what did it receive? Crouching before the screen, the
youths of the village — and often the elders as well — saw words. Instructions. How to read, first. Then the
rest. How to dig a deeper well. Plow a deeper furrow. How to purify their water, heal their sick. Overhead,
the American artificial moon wheeled, distributing the signal, carrying it everywhere . . . to all the waiting,
avid masses of the East.
'Are you reading straight through?' Joe asked. 'Or skipping around in it?'
She said, 'This is wonderful; he has us sending food and education to all the Asiatics, millions of
'Welfare work on a worldwide scale,' Joe said.
'Yes. The New Deal under Tugwell; they raise the level of the masses — listen.' She read aloud
. . . What had China been? Yearning, one needful commingled entity looking toward the West, its great
democratic President, Chiang Kai-shek, who had led the Chinese people through the years of war, now into
the years of peace, into the Decade of Rebuilding. But for China it was not a rebuilding, for that almost
supernaturally vast flat land had never been built, lay still slumbering in the ancient dream. Arousing; yes,
the entity, the giant, had to partake at last of full consciousness, had to waken into the modern world with its
jet airplanes and atomic power, its autobahns and factories and medicines. And from whence would come
the crack of thunder which would rouse the giant? Chiang had known that, even during the struggle to defeat
Japan. It would come from the United States. And, by 1950, American technicians and engineers, teachers,
doctors, agronomists, swarming like some new life form into each province, each —
Interrupting, Joe said, 'You know what he's done, don't you? He's taken the best about Nazism,
the socialist part, the Todt Organization and the economic advances we got through Speer, and
who's he giving the credit to? The New Deal. And he's left out the bad part, the SS part, the racial
extermination and segregation. It's a utopia! You imagine if the Allies had won, the New Deal
would have been able to revive the economy and make those socialist welfare improvements, like
he says? Hell no; he's talking about a form of state syndicalism, the corporate state, like we
developed under the Duce. He's saying, You would have had all the good and none of — '
'Let me read,' she said fiercely.
He shrugged. But he did cease babbling. She read on at once, but to herself.
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. . . And these markets, the countless millions of China, set the factories in Detroit and Chicago to humming;
that vast mouth could never be filled, those people could not in a hundred years be given enough trucks or
bricks or steel ingots or clothing or typewriters or canned peas or clocks or radios or nose-drops. The
American workman, by 1960, had the highest standard of living in the world, and all due to what they
genteelly called 'the most favored nation' clause in every commercial transaction with the East. The U.S. no
longer occupied Japan, and she had never occupied China; and yet the fact could not be disputed: Canton
and Tokyo and Shanghai did not buy from the British; they bought American. And with each sale, the
workingman in Baltimore or Los Angeles or Atlanta saw a little more prosperity.
It seemed to the planners, the men of vision in the White House, that they had almost achieved their goal.
The exploring rocket ships would soon nose cautiously out into the void from a world that had at last seen an
end to its age-old griefs: hunger, plague, war, ignorance. In the British Empire, equal measures toward
social and economic progress had brought similar relief to the masses in India, Burma, Africa, the Middle
East. The factories of the Ruhr, Manchester, of the Saar, the oil of Baku, all flowed and interacted in intricate
but effective harmony; the populations of Europe basked in what appeared . . .
'I think they should be the rulers,' Juliana said, pausing. 'They always were the best. The British.'
Joe said nothing to that, although she waited. At last she went on reading.
. . . Realization of Napoleon's vision: rational homogeneity of the diverse ethnic strains which had squabbled
and balkanized Europe since the collapse of Rome. Vision, too, of Charlemagne: united Christendom, totally
at peace not only with itself but with the balance of the world. And yet — there still remained one annoying
The Malay States held a large Chinese population, mostly of the enterprising business class, and these
thrifty, industrious bourgeois saw in American administration of China a more equitable treatment of what
was called 'the native.' Under British rule, the darker races were excluded from the country clubs, the hotels,
the better restaurants; they found themselves, as in archaic times, confined to particular sections of the train
and bus and — perhaps worst of all — limited to their choice of residence within each city. These 'natives'
discerned, and noted in their table conversations and newspapers, that in the U.S .A. the color problem had
by 1950 been solved. Whites and Negroes lived and worked and ate shoulder by shoulder, even in the Deep
South; World War Two had ended discrimination. . .
'Is there trouble?' Juliana asked Joe.
He grunted, keeping his eyes on the road.
'Tell me what happens,' she said. 'I know! won't get to finish it; we'll be in Denver pretty soon.
Do America and Britain get into a war, and one emerges as ruler of the world?'
Presently Joe said, 'In some ways it's not a bad book. He works all the details out; the U.S. has
the Pacific, about like our East Asia Co-Prosperity Sphere. They divide Russia. It works for around
ten years. Then there's trouble — naturally.'
'Human nature.' Joe added, 'Nature of states. Suspicion, fear, greed. Churchill thinks the U.S.A.
is undermining British rule in South Asia by appealing to the large Chinese populations, who
naturally are pro-U.S.A., due to Chiang Kai-shek. The British start setting up' ' — he grinned at her
briefly — 'what are called 'detention preserves.' Concentration camps, in other words. For
thousands of maybe disloyal Chinese. They're accused of sabotage and propaganda. Churchill is so
'You mean he's still in power? Wouldn't he be around ninety?'
Joe said, 'That's where the British system has it over the American. Every eight years the U.S.
boots out its leaders, no matter how qualified — but Churchill just stays on. The U.S. doesn't have
any leadership like him, after Tugwell. Just nonentities. And the older he gets, the more autocratic
and rigid he gets — Churchill, I mean. Until by 1960, he's like some old warlord out of Central
Asia; nobody can cross him. He's been in power twenty years.'
'Good God,' she said, leafing through the last part of the book, searching for verification of what
Joe was saying.
'On that I agree,' Joe said. 'Churchill was the one good leader the British had during the war; if
they'd retained him they'd have been better off. I tell you; a state is no better than its leader.
Fuhrerprinzip — Principle of Leadership, like the Nazis say. They're right. Even this Abendsen has
to face that. Sure, the U.S.A. expands- economically after winning the war over Japan, because it's
got that huge market in Asia that it's wrested from the Japs. But that's not enough; that's got no
spirituality. Not that the British have. They're both plutocracies, rule by the rich. If they had won,
all they'd have thought about was making more money, that upper class. Abendsen, he's wrong;
there would be no social reform, no welfare public works plans — the Anglo-Saxon plutocrats
wouldn't have permitted it.'
Juliana thought, Spoken like a devout Fascist.
Evidently Joe perceived by her expression what she was thinking; he turned toward her, slowing
the car, one eye on her, one on the cars ahead. 'Listen, I'm not an intellectual — Fascism has no
need of that. What is wanted is the deed. Theory derives from action. What our corporate state
demands from us is comprehension of the social forces-of history. You see? I tell you; I know,
Juliana.' His tone was earnest, almost beseeching. 'Those old rotten money-run empires, Britain and
France and U.S.A., although the latter actually a sort of bastard sideshoot, not strictly empire, but
money-oriented even so. They had no soul, so naturally no future. No growth. Nazis a bunch of
street thugs; I agree. You agree? Right?'
She had to smile; his Italian mannerisms had overpowered him in his attempt to drive and make
his speech simultaneously.
'Abendsen talks like it's big issue as to whether U.S. or Britain ultimately wins out. Bull! Has no
merit, no history to it. Six of one, dozen of other. You ever read what the Duce wrote? Inspired.
Beautiful man. Beautiful writing. Explains the underlying actuality of every event. Real issue in
war was: old versus new. Money — that's why Nazis dragged Jewish question mistakenly into it —
versus communal mass spirit, what Nazis call Gemeinschaft — folkness. Like Soviet. Commune.
Right? Only, Communists sneaked in Pan-Slavic Peter the Great empire ambitions along with it,
made social reform means for imperial ambitions.'
Juliana thought, Like Mussolini did. Exactly.
'Nazi thuggery a tragedy,' Joe stuttered away as he passed a slow-moving truck. 'But change's
always harsh on the loser. Nothing new. Look at previous revolutions such as French. Or Cromwell
against Irish. Too much philosophy in Germanic temperament; too much theater, too. All those
rallies. You never find true Fascist talking, only doing — like me. Right?'
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
'You're right,' Joe said after a long time.
'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 tome, 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.
'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
'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
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.
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
But as to the rest — we can just begin.
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
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,' Kruez 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. Receivedphone 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.'
'Are you listening?'
'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 Kruez 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.
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.'
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