“No strategy on earth could have defeated Erwin Rommel,” Wyndam-Matson said. “And no events like this guy dreamed up, this town in Russia very heroically called ‘Stalingrad,’ no holding action could have done any more than delay the outcome; it couldn’t have changed it. Listen. I met Rommel. In New York, when I was there on business, in 1948.” Actually, he had only seen the Military Governor of the U.S.A. At a reception in the White House, and at a distance. “What a man. What dignity and bearing. So I know what I’m talking about,” he wound up.

“It was a dreadful thing,” Rita said, “when General Rommel was relieved of his post and that awful Lammers was appointed in his place. That’s when that murdering and those concentration camps really began.”

“They existed when Rommel was Military Governor.”

“But—” She gestured. “It wasn’t official. Maybe those SS hoodlums did those acts then… but he wasn’t like the rest of them; he was more like those old Prussians. He was harsh—”

“I’ll tell you who really did a good job in the U.S.A.,” Wyndam-Matson said, “who you can look to for the economic revival. Albert Speer. Not Rommel and not the Organization Todt. Speer was the best appointment the Partei made in North America; he got all those businesses and corporations and factories—everything!—going again, and on an efficient basis. I wish we had that out here—as it is, we’ve got five outfits competing in each field, and at terrific waste. There’s nothing more foolish than economic competition.”

Rita said, “I couldn’t live in those work camps, those dorms they have back East. A girl friend of mine; she lived there. They censored her mail—she couldn’t tell me about it until she moved back out here again. They had to get up at six-thirty in the morning to band music.”

“You’d get used to it. You’d have clean quarters, adequate food, recreation, medical care provided. What do you want? Egg in your beer?”

Through the cool night fog of San Francisco, his big German-made car moved quietly.

On the floor Mr. Tagomi sat, his legs folded beneath him. He held a handleless cup of oolong tea, into which he blew now and then as he smiled up at Mr. Baynes.

“You have a lovely place here,” Baynes said presently. “There is a peacefulness here on the Pacific Coast. It is completely different from—back there.” He did not specify.

“ ‘God speaks to man in the sign of the Arousing.’ “ Mr. Tagomi murmured.

“Pardon?”

“The oracle. I’m sorry. Fleece-seeking cortical response.”

Woolgathering, Baynes thought. That’s the idiom he means. To himself he smiled.

“We are absurd,” Mr. Tagomi said, “because we live by a five-thousand-year-old book. We set it questions as if it were alive. It is alive. As is the Christian Bible; many books are actually alive. Not in metaphoric fashion. Spirit animates it. Do you see?” He inspected Mr. Baynes’ face for his reaction.

Carefully phrasing his words, Baynes said, “I just don’t know enough about religion. It’s out of my field. I prefer to stick to subjects I have some competence in.” As a matter of fact, he was not certain what Mr. Tagomi was talking about. I must be tired, Mr. Baynes thought. There has been, since I got here this evening, a sort of… gnomish quality about everything. A smaller-than-life quality, with a dash of the droll. What is this five-thousand-year-old book? The Mickey Mouse watch, Mr. Tagomi himself, the fragile cup in Mr. Tagomi’s hand… and, on the wall facing Mr. Baynes, an enormous buffalo head, ugly and menacing.

“What is that head?” he asked suddenly.

“That,” Mr. Tagomi said, “is nothing less than creature which sustained the aboriginal in bygone days.”

“I see.”

“Shall I demonstrate art of buffalo slaying?” Mr. Tagomi put his cup down on the table and rose to his feet. Here in his own home in the evening he wore a silk robe, slippers, and white cravat. “Here am I aboard iron horse.” He squatted in the air. “Across lap, trusty Winchester rifle 1866 issue from my collection.” He glanced inquiringly at Mr. Baynes. “You are travel-stained, sir.”

“Afraid so,” Baynes said. “It is all a little overwhelming for me. A lot of business worries.” And other worries, he thought. His head ached. He wondered if the fine I. G. Farben analgesics were available here on the Pacific Coast; he had become accustomed to them for his sinus headaches.

“We must all have faith in something,” Mr. Tagomi said. “We cannot know the answers. We cannot see ahead, on our own.”

Mr. Baynes nodded.

“My wife may have something for your head,” Mr. Tagomi said, seeing him remove his glasses and rub his forehead. “Eye muscles causing pain. Pardon me.” Bowing, he left the room.

What I need is sleep, Baynes thought. A night’s rest. Or is it that I’m not facing the situation? Shrinking, because it is hard.

When Mr. Tagomi returned—carrying a glass of water and some sort of pill—Mr. Baynes said, “I really am going to have to say good night and get to my hotel room. But I want to find out something first. We can discuss it further tomorrow, if that’s convenient with you. Have you been told about a third party who is to join us in our discussions?”

Mr. Tagomi’s face registered surprise for an instant; then the surprise vanished and he assumed a careless expression. “There was nothing said to that effect. However—it is interesting, of course.”

“From the Home Islands.”

“Ah,” Mr. Tagomi said. And this time the surprise did not appear at all. It was totally controlled.

“An elderly retired businessman,” Mr. Baynes said. “Who is journeying by ship. He has been on his way for two weeks, now. He has a prejudice against air travel.”

“The quaint elderly,” Mr. Tagomi said.

“His interests keep him informed as to the Home Islands markets. He will be able to give us information, and he was coming to San Francisco for a vacation in any case. It is not terribly important. But it will make our talks more accurate.”

“Yes,” Mr. Tagomi said. “He can correct errors regarding home market. I have been away two years.”

“Did you want to give me that pill?”

Starting, Mr. Tagomi glanced down, saw that he still held the pill and water. “Excuse me. This is powerful. Called zaracaine. Manufactured by drug firm in District of China.” As he held his palm out, he added, “Non-habit-forming.”

“This old person,” Mr. Baynes said as he prepared to take the pill, “will probably contact your Trade Mission direct. I will write down his name so that your people will know not to turn him away. I have not met him, but I understand he’s a little deaf and a little eccentric. We want to be sure he doesn’t become—miffed.” Mr. Tagomi seemed to understand. “He loves rhododendrons. He’ll be happy if you can provide someone to talk to him about them for half an hour or so, while we arrange our meeting. His name, I will write it down.”

Taking his pill, he got out his pen and wrote.

“Mr. Shinjiro Yatabe,” Mr. Tagomi read, accepting the slip of paper. He dutifully put it away in his pocketbook.

“One more point.”

Mr. Tagomi slowly picked at the rim of his cup, listening.

“A delicate trifle. The old gentleman—it is embarrassing. He is almost eighty. Some of his ventures, toward the end of his career, were not successful. Do you see?”

“He is not well-off any longer,” Mr. Tagomi said. “And perhaps he draws a pension.”

“That is it. And the pension is painfully small. He therefore augments it by means here and there.”

“A violation of some petty ordinance,” Mr. Tagomi said. “The Home Government and its bureaucratic officialdom. I grasp the situation. The old gentleman receives a stipend for his consultation with us, and he does not report it to his Pension Board. So we must not reveal his visit. They are only aware that he takes a vacation.”