The Man in the High Castle

  “Sure,” Frink said, a little dazed.

  “I’ll see you after work tonight,” McCarthy said. “At my apartment. You come over around seven and have dinner with Jean and me—if you can stand the kids.”

  “Okay,” Frink said.

  McCarthy gave him a slap on the shoulder and went off.

  I’ve gone a long way, Frink said to himself. In the last ten minutes. But he did not feel apprehensive; he felt, now, excitement.

  It sure happened fast, he thought as he walked over to his bench and began collecting his tools. I guess that’s how those kinds of things happen. Opportunity, when it comes—

  All my life I’ve waited for this. When the oracle says “something must be achieved”—it means this. The time is truly great. What is the time, now? What is this moment? Six at the top in Hexagram Eleven changes everything to Twenty-six, Taming Power of the Great. Yin becomes yang; the line moves and a new Moment appears. And I was so off stride I didn’t even notice!

  I’ll bet that’s why I got that terrible line; that’s the only way Hexagram Eleven can change to Hexagram Twenty-six, by that moving Six at the top. So I shouldn’t get my ass in such an uproar.

  But, despite his excitement and optimism, he could not get the line completely out of his mind.

  However, he thought ironically, I’m making a damn good try; by seven tonight maybe I’ll have managed to forget it like it never happened.

  He thought, I sure hope so. Because this get-together with Ed is big. He’s got some surefire idea; I can tell. And I don’t intend to find myself left out.

  Right now I’m nothing, but if I can swing this, then maybe I can get Juliana back. I know what she wants—she deserves to be married to a man who matters, an important person in the community, not some meshuggener. Men used to be men, in the old days; before the war for instance. But all that’s gone now.

  No wonder she roams around from place to place, from man to man, seeking. And not even knowing what it is herself, what her biology needs. But I know, and through this big-time action with McCarthy—whatever it is—I’m going to achieve it for her.

  At lunchtime, Robert Childan closed up American Artistic Handcrafts Inc. Usually he crossed the street and ate at the coffee shop. In any case he stayed away no more than half an hour, and today he was gone only twenty minutes. Memory of his ordeal with Mr. Tagomi and the staff of the Trade Mission still kept his stomach upset.

  As he returned to his store he said to himself, Perhaps new policy of not making calls. Do all business within store.

  Two hours showing. Much too long. Almost four hours in all; too late to reopen store. An entire afternoon to sell one item, one Mickey Mouse watch; expensive treasure, but—he unlocked the store door, propped it open, went to hang up his coat in the rear.

  When he re-emerged he found that he had a customer. A white man. Well, he thought. Surprise.

  “Good day, sir,” Childan said, bowing slightly. Probably a pinoc. Slender, rather dark man. Well-dressed, fashionable. But not at ease. Slight shine of perspiration.

  “Good day,” the man murmured, moving around the store to inspect the displays. Then, all at once, he approached the counter. He reached into his coat, produced a small shiny leather cardcase, set down a multicolored, elaborately printed card.

  On the card, the Imperial emblem. And military insignia. The Navy. Admiral Harusha. Robert Childan examined it, impressed.

  “The admiral’s ship,” the customer explained, “lies in San Francisco Bay at this moment. The carrier Syokaku.”

  “Ah,” Childan said.

  “Admiral Harusha has never before visited the West Coast,” the customer explained. “He has many wishes while here, one of which is to pay personal visit to your famous store. All the time in the Home Islands he has heard of American Artistic Handcrafts Inc.”

  Childan bowed with delight.

  “However,” the man continued, “due to pressure of appointments, the admiral cannot pay personal visit to your esteemed store. But he has sent me; I am his gentleman.”

  “The admiral is a collector?” Childan said, his mind working at top speed.

  “He is a lover of the arts. He is a connoisseur. But not a collector. What he desires is for gift purposes; to wit: he wishes to present each officer of his ship a valuable historic artifact, a side arm of the epic American Civil War.” The man paused. “There are twelve officers in all.”

  To himself, Childan thought, Twelve Civil War side arms. Cost to buyer: almost ten thousand dollars. He trembled.

  “As is well known,” the man continued, “your shop sells such priceless antique artifacts from the pages of American history. Alas, all too rapidly vanishing into limbo of time.”

  Taking enormous care in his words—he could not afford to lose this, to make one single slip—Childan said, “Yes, it is true. Of all the stores in PSA, I possess finest stock imaginable of Civil War weapons. I will be happy to serve Admiral Harusha. Shall I gather superb collection of such and bring aboard the Syokaku? This afternoon, possibly?”

  The man said, “No, I shall inspect them here.”

  Twelve. Childan computed. He did not possess twelve—in fact, he had only three. But he could acquire twelve, if luck were with him, through various channels within the week. Air express from the East, for instance. And local wholesale contacts.

  “You, sir,” Childan said, “are knowledgeable in such weapons?”

  “Tolerably,” the man said. “I have a small collection of hand weapons, including tiny secret pistol made to look like domino, Circa 1840.”

  “Exquisite item,” Childan said, as he went to the locked safe to get several guns for Admiral Harusha’s gentleman’s inspection.

  When he returned, he found the man writing out a bank check. The man paused and said, “The admiral desires to pay in advance. A deposit of fifteen thousand PSA dollars.”

  The room swam before Childan’s eyes. But he managed to keep his voice level; he even made himself sound a trifle bored. “If you wish. It is not necessary; a mere formality of business.” Laying down a leather and felt box he said, “Here is exceptional Colt .44 of 1860.” He opened the box. “Black powder and ball. This issued to U.S. Army. Boys in blue carried these into for instance Second Bull Run.”

  For a considerable time the man examined the Colt .44. Then, lifting his eyes, he said calmly, “Sir, this is an imitation.”

  “Eh?” Childan said, not comprehending.

  “This piece is no older than six months. Sir, your offering is a fake. I am cast into gloom. But see. The wood here. Artificially aged by an acid chemical. What a shame.” He laid the gun down.

  Childan picked the gun up and stood holding it between his hands. He could think of nothing to say. Turning the gun over and over, he at last said, “It can’t be.”

  “An imitation of the authentic historic gun. Nothing more. I am afraid, sir, you have been deceived. Perhaps by some unscrupulous churl. You must report this to the San Francisco police.” The man bowed. “It grieves me. You may have other imitations, too, in your shop. Is it possible, sir, that you, the owner, dealer, in such items, cannot distinguish the forgeries from the real?”

  There was silence.

  Reaching down, the man picked up the half-completed check which he had been making out. He returned it to his pocket, put his pen away, and bowed. “It is a shame, sir, but I clearly cannot, alas, conduct my business with American Artistic Handcrafts Inc. after all. Admiral Harusha will be disappointed. Nevertheless, you can see my position.”

  Childan stared down at the gun.

  “Good day, sir,” the man said. “Please accept my humbly meant advice; hire some expert to scrutinize your acquisitions. Your reputation . . . I am sure you understand.”

  Childan mumbled, “Sir, if you could please—”

  “Be tranquil, sir. I will not mention this to anyone. I—shall tell the admiral that unfortunately your shop was closed today. After all—” The man paused at the door
way. “We are both, after all, white men.” Bowing once more, he departed.

  Alone, Childan stood holding the gun.

  It can’t be, he thought.

  But it must be. Good God in heaven. I am ruined. I have lost a fifteen-thousand-dollar sale. And my reputation, if this gets out. If that man, Admiral Harusha’s gentleman, is not discreet.

  I will kill myself, he decided. I have lost place. I cannot go on; that is a fact.

  On the other hand, perhaps that man erred.

  Perhaps he lied.

  He was sent by United States Historic Objects to destroy me. Or by West Coast Art Exclusives.

  Anyhow, one of my competitors.

  The gun is no doubt genuine.

  How can I find out? Childan racked his brains. Ah. I will have the gun analyzed at the University of California Penology Department. I know someone there, or at least I once did. This matter came up before once. Alleged nonauthenticity of ancient breechloader.

  In haste, he telephoned one of the city’s bonded messenger and delivery services, told them to send a man over at once. Then he wrapped the gun and wrote out a note to the University lab, telling them to make professional estimate of the gun’s age at once and inform him by phone. The delivery man arrived; Childan gave him the note and parcel, the address, and told him to go by helicopter. The man departed, and Childan began pacing about his store, waiting . . . waiting.

  At three o’clock the University called.

  “Mr. Childan,” the voice said, “you wanted this weapon tested for authenticity, this 1860 Army Model Colt .44.” A pause, while Childan gripped the phone with apprehension. “Here’s the lab report. It’s a reproduction cast from plastic molds except for the walnut. Serial numbers all wrong. The frame not casehardened by the cyanide process. Both brown and blue surfaces achieved by a modern quick-acting technique, the whole gun artificially aged, given a treatment to make it appear old and worn.”

  Childan said thickly, “The man who brought it to me for appraisal—”

  “Tell him he’s been taken,” the University technician said. “And very taken. It’s a good job. Done by a real pro. See, the authentic gun was given its—you know the blue-metal parts? Those were put in a box of leather strips, sealed, with cyanide gas, and heated. Too cumbersome, nowadays. But this was done in a fairly well-equipped shop. We detected particles of several polishing and finishing compounds, some quite unusual. Now we can’t prove this, but we know there’s a regular industry turning out these fakes. There must be. We’ve seen so many.”

  “No,” Childan said. “That is only a rumor. I can state that to you as absolute fact, sir.” His voice rose and broke screechingly. “And I am in a position to know. Why do you think I sent it to you? I could perceive its fakery, being qualified by years of training. Such as this is a rarity, an oddity. Actually a joke. A prank.” He broke off, panting. “Thank you for confirming my own observations. You will bill me. Thank you.” He rang off at once.

  Then, without pausing, he got out his records. He began tracing the gun. How had it come to him? From whom?

  It had come, he discovered, from one of the largest wholesale suppliers in San Francisco. Ray Calvin Associates, on Van Ness. At once he phoned them.

  “Let me talk to Mr. Calvin,” he said. His voice had now become a trifle steadier.

  Presently a gruff voice, very busy. “Yes.”

  “This is Bob Childan. At A.A.H. Inc. on Montgomery. Ray, I have a matter of delicacy. I wish to see you, private conference, sometime today in your office or et cetera. Believe me, sir. You had better heed my request.” Now, he discovered, he was bellowing into the phone.

  “Okay,” Ray Calvin said.

  “Tell no one. This is absolutely confidential.”

  “Four o’clock?”

  “Four it is,” Childan said. “At your office. Good day.” He slammed the receiver down so furiously that the entire phone fell from the counter to the floor; kneeling, he gathered it up and replaced it in its spot.

  There was half an hour ahead before he should start; he had all that time to pace, helpless, waiting. What to do? An idea. He phoned the San Francisco office of the Tokyo Herald, on Market Street.

  “Sirs,” he said, “please tell me if the carrier Syokaku is in the harbor, and if so, how long. I would appreciate this information from your estimable newspaper.”

  An agonizing wait. Then the girl was back.

  “According to our reference room, sir,” she said in a giggling voice, “the carrier Syokaku is at the bottom of the Philippine Sea. It was sunk by an American submarine in 1945. Any more questions we can help you with, sir?” Obviously they, at the newspaper office, appreciated the wild-goose variety of prank that had been played on him.

  He hung up. No carrier Syokaku for seventeen years. Probably no Admiral Harusha. The man had been an imposter. And yet—

  The man had been right. The Colt .44 was a fake.

  It did not make sense.

  Perhaps the man was a speculator; he had been trying to corner the market in Civil War period side arms. An expert. And he had recognized the fake; he was the professional of professionals.

  It would take a professional to know. Someone in the business. Not a mere collector.

  Childan felt a tiny measure of relief. Then few others would detect. Perhaps no one else. Secret safe.

  Let matter drop?

  He considered. No. Must investigate. First of all, get back investment; get reimbursement from Ray Calvin. And—must have all other artifacts in stock examined by University lab.

  But—suppose many of them are nonauthentic?

  Difficult matter.

  Only way is this, he decided. He felt grim, even desperate. Go to Ray Calvin. Confront him. Insist that he pursue matter back to source. Maybe he is innocent, too. Maybe not. In any case, tell him no more fakes or I will not buy through him ever again.

  He will have to absorb the loss, Childan decided. Not I. If he will not, then I will approach other retail dealers, tell them; ruin his reputation. Why should I be ruined alone? Pass it on to those responsible, hand hot potato back along line.

  But it must be done with utmost secrecy. Keep matter strictly between ourselves.

  5

  THE TELEPHONE CALL from Ray Calvin puzzled Wyndam-Matson. He could not make sense out of it, partly because of Calvin’s rapid manner of speech and partly because at the moment the call came—eleven-thirty in the evening—Wyndam-Matson was entertaining a lady visitor in his apartment at the Muromachi Hotel.

  Calvin said, “Look here, my friend, we’re sending back that whole last shipment from you people. And I’d send back stuff before that, but we’ve paid for everything except the last shipment. Your billing date May eighteenth.”

  Naturally, Wyndam-Matson wanted to know why.

  “They’re lousy fakes,” Calvin said.

  “But you knew that.” He was dumbfounded. “I mean, Ray, you’ve always been aware of the situation.” He glanced around; the girl was off somewhere, probably in the powder room.

  Calvin said, “I knew they were fakes. I’m not talking about that. I’m talking about the lousy part. Look, I’m really not concerned whether some gun you send us really was used in the Civil War or not; all I care about is that it’s a satisfactory Colt .44, item whatever-it-is in your catalog. It has to meet standards. Look, do you know who Robert Childan is?”

  “Yes.” He had a vague memory, although at the moment he could not quite pin the name down. Somebody important.

  “He was in here today. To my office. I’m calling from my office, not home; we’re still going over it. Anyhow, he came in and rattled off some long account. He was mad as hell. Really agitated. Well, evidently some big customer of his, some Jap admiral, came in or had his man come in. Childan talked about a twenty-thousand-dollar order, but that’s probably an exaggeration. Anyhow, what did happen—I have no cause to doubt this part—is that the Japanese came in, wanted to buy, took one look at one of those Colt
.44 items you people turn out, saw it to be a fake, put his money back in his pants pocket, and left. Now. What do you say?”

  There was nothing that Wyndam-Matson could think of to say. But he thought to himself instantly. It’s Frink and McCarthy. They said they’d do something, and this is it. But—he could not figure out what they had done; he could not make sense out of Calvin’s account.

  A kind of superstitious fright filled him. Those two—how could they doctor an item made last February? He had presumed they would go to the police or the newspapers, or even the pinoc government at Sac, and of course he had all those taken care of. Eerie. He did not know what to tell Calvin; he mumbled on for what seemed an endless time and at last managed to wind up the conversation and get off the phone.

  When he hung up he realized, with a start, that Rita had come out of the bedroom and had listened to the whole conversation; she had been pacing irritably back and forth, wearing only a black silk slip, her blond hair falling loosely over her bare, slightly freckled shoulders.

  “Tell the police,” she said.

  Well, he thought, it probably would be cheaper to offer them two thousand or so. They’d accept it; that was probably all they wanted. Little fellows like that thought small; to them it would seem like a lot. They’d put in their new business, lose it, be broke again inside a month.

  “No,” he said.

  “Why not? Blackmail’s a crime.”

  It was hard to explain to her. He was accustomed to paying people; it was part of the overhead, like the utilities. If the sum was small enough . . . but she did have a point. He mulled it over.

  I’ll give them two thousand, but I’ll also get in touch with that guy at the Civic Center I know, that police inspector. I’ll have them look into both Frink and McCarthy and see if there’s anything of use. So if they come back and try again—I’ll be able to handle them.

  For instance, he thought, somebody told me Frink’s a kike. Changed his nose and name. All I have to do is notify the German consul here. Routine business. He’ll request the Jap authorities for extradition. They’ll gas the bugger soon as they get him across the Demarcation Line. I think they’ve got one of those camps in New York, he thought. Those oven camps.