Mr. Tagomi felt ill as he listened.

“Baldur von Schirach. Former head of Hitler Youth. Considered idealist. Personally attractive in appearance, but considered not highly experienced or competent. Sincere believer in goals of Partei. Took responsibility for draining Mediterranean and reclaiming of huge areas of farmland. Also mitigated vicious policies of racial extermination in Slavic lands in early ‘fifties. Pled case directly to German people for remnant of Slavic peoples to exist on reservationlike closed regions in Heartland area. Called for end of certain forms of mercy killings and medical experimentation, but failed here.

“Doctor Seyss-Inquart. Former Austrian Nazi, now in charge of Reich colonial areas, responsible for colonial policies. Possibly most hated man in Reich territory. Said to have instigated most if not all repressive measures dealing with conquered peoples. Worked with Rosenberg for ideological victories of most alarming grandiose type, such as attempt to sterilize entire Russian population remaining after close of hostilities. No facts for certain on this, but considered to be one of several responsible for decision to make holocaust of African continent thus creating genocide conditions for Negro population. Possibly closest in temperament to original Fuhrer, A. Hitler.”

The Foreign Office spokesman ceased his dry, slow recitation.

Mr. Tagomi thought, I think I am going mad.

I have to get out of here; I am having an attack. My body is throwing up things or spurting them out—I am dying. He scrambled to his feet, pushed down the aisle past other chairs and people. He could hardly see. Get to lavatory. He ran up the aisle.

Several heads turned. Saw him. Humiliation. Sick at important meeting. Lost place. He ran on, through the open door held by embassy employee.

At once the panic ceased. His gaze ceased to swim; he saw objects once more. Stable floor, walls.

Attack of vertigo. Middle-ear malfunction, no doubt.

He thought, Diencephalon, ancient brainstem, acting up.

Some organic momentary breakdown.

Think along reassuring lines. Recall order of world. What to draw on? Religion? He thought, Now a gavotte perform sedately. Capital both, capital both; you’ve caught it nicely. This is the style of thing precisely. Small form of recognizable world, Gondoliers. G. & S. He shut his eyes, imagined the D’Oyle Carte Company as he had seen them on their tour after the war. The finite, finite world.

An embassy employee, at his elbow, saying, “Sir, can I give you assistance?”

Mr. Tagomi bowed, “I am recovered.”

The other’s face, calm, considerate. No derision. They are all laughing at me, possibly? Mr. Tagomi thought. Down underneath?

There is evil! It’s actual like cement.

I can’t believe it. I can’t stand it. Evil is not a view. He wandered about the lobby, hearing the traffic on Sutter Street, the Foreign Office spokesman addressing the meeting. All our religion is wrong. What’ll I do? he asked himself. He went to the front door of the embassy; an employee opened it, and Mr. Tagomi walked down the steps to the path. The parked cars. His own. Chauffeurs standing.

It’s an ingredient in us. In the world. Poured over us, filtering into our bodies, minds, hearts, into the pavement itself.

Why?

We’re blind moles. Creeping through the soil, feeling with our snouts. We know nothing. I perceived this… now I don’t know where to go. Screech with fear, only. Run away.

Pitiful.

Laugh at me, he thought as he saw the chauffeurs regarding him as he walked to his car. Forgot my briefcase. Left it back there, by my chair. All eyes on him as he nodded to his chauffeur. Door held open; he crept into his car.

Take me to the hospital, he thought. No, take me back to the office. “Nippon Times Building.” he said aloud. “Drive slowly.” He watched the city, the cars, stores, tall buildings, now, very modern. People. All the men and women, going on their separate businesses.

When he reached his office he instructed Mr. Ramsey to contact one of the other Trade Missions, the Non-Ferrous Ores Mission, and to request that their representative to the Foreign Office meeting contact him on his return.

Shortly before noon, the call came through.

“Possibly you noticed my distress at meeting,” Mr. Tagomi said into the phone. “It was no doubt palpable to all, especially my hasty flight.”

“I saw nothing,” the Non-Ferrous man said. “But after the meeting I did not see you and wondered what had become of you.”

“You are tactful,” Mr. Tagomi said bleakly.

“Not at all. I am sure everyone was too wrapped up in the Foreign Office lecture to pay heed to any other consideration. As to what occurred after your departure—did you stay through the rundown of aspirants in the power struggle? That comes first.”

“I heard to the part about Doctor Seyss-Inquart.”

“Following that, the speaker dilated on the economic situation over there. The Home Islands take the view that Germany’s scheme to reduce the populations of Europe and Northern Asia to the status of slaves—plus murdering all intellectuals, bourgeois elements, patriotic youth and what not—has been an economic catastrophe. Only the formidable technological achievements of German science and industry have saved them. Miracle weapons, so to speak.”

“Yes,” Mr. Tagomi said. Seated at his desk, holding the phone with one hand, he poured himself a cup of hot tea. “As did their miracle weapons V-one and V-two and their jet fighters in the war.”

“It is a sleight-of-hand business,” the Non-Ferrous Ores man said. “Mainly, their uses of atomic energy have kept things together. And the diversion of their circus-like rocket travel to Mars and Venus. He pointed out that for all their thrilling import, such traffic have yielded nothing of economic worth.”

“But they are dramatic,” Mr. Tagomi said.

“His prognosis was gloomy. He feels that most high-placed Nazis are refusing to face facts vis-à-vis their economic plight. By doing so, they accelerate the tendency toward greater tour de force adventures, less predictability, less stability in general. The cycle of manic enthusiasm, then fear, then Partei solutions of a desperate type—well, the point he got across was that all this tends to bring the most irresponsible and reckless aspirants to the top.”

Mr. Tagomi nodded.

“So we must presume that the worst, rather than the best, choice will be made. The sober and responsible elements will be defeated in the present clash.”

“Who did he say was the worst?” Mr. Tagomi said.

“R. Heydrich. Doctor Seyss-Inquart. H. Göring. In the Imperial Government’s opinion.”

“And the best?”

“Possibly B. von Schirach and Doctor Goebbels. But on that he was less explicit.”

“Anything more?”

“He told us that we must have faith in the Emperor and the Cabinet at this time more than ever. That we can look toward the Palace with confidence.”

“Was there a moment of respectful silence?”

“Yes.”

Mr. Tagomi thanked the Non-Ferrous Ores man and rang off.

As he sat drinking his tea, the intercom buzzed. Miss Ephreikian’s voice came: “Sir, you had wanted to send a message to the German consul.” A pause. “Did you wish to dictate it to me at this time?”

That is so, Mr. Tagomi realized. I had forgotten. “Come into the office,” he said.

Presently she entered, smiling at him hopefully. “You are feeling better, sir?”

“Yes. An injection of vitamins has helped.” He considered. “Recall to me. What is the German consul’s name?”

“I have that, sir. Freiherr Hugo Reiss.”

“Mein Herr,” Mr. Tagomi began. “Shocking news has arrived that your leader, Herr Martin Bormann, has succumbed. Tears rise to my eyes as I write these words. When I recall the bold deeds perpetrated by Herr Bormann in securing the salvation of the German people from her enemies both at home and abroad, as well as the soul-shaking measures of sternness meted out to the shirkers and traitors who would betray all mankind’s vision of the cosmos, into which now the blond-haired blue-eyed Nordic races have after aeons plunged in their—” He stopped. There was no way to finish. Miss Ephreikian stopped her tape recorder, waiting.