The handsome young Japanese couple who had visited Robert Childan’s store, the Kasouras, telephoned him toward the end of the week and requested that he come to their apartment for dinner. He had been waiting for some further word from them, and he was delighted.

A little early he shut up American Artistic Handcrafts Inc. and took a pedecab to the exclusive district where the Kasouras lived. He knew the district, although no white people lived there. As the pedecab carried him along the winding streets with their lawns and willow trees, Childan gazed up at the modern apartment buildings and marveled at the grace of the designs. The wrought-iron balconies, the soaring yet modern columns, the pastel colors, the uses of varied textures… it all made up a work of art. He could remember when this had been nothing but rubble from the war.

The small Japanese children out playing watched him without comment, then returned to their football or baseball. But, he thought, not so the adults; the well-dressed young Japanese, parking their cars or entering the apartment buildings, noticed him with greater interest. Did he live here? they were perhaps wondering. Young Japanese businessmen coming home from their offices… even the heads of Trade Missions lived here. He noticed parked Cadillacs. As the pedecab took him closer to his destination, he became increasingly nervous.

Very shortly, as he ascended the stairs to the Kasouras’ apartment, he thought, Here I am, not invited in a business context, but a dinner guest. He had of course taken special pains with his attire; at least he could be confident of his appearance. My appearance, he thought. Yes, that is it. How do I appear? There is no deceiving anyone; I do not belong here. On this land that white men cleared and built one of their finest cities. I am an outsider in my own country.

He came to the proper door along the carpeted hall, rang the bell. Presently the door opened. There stood young Mrs. Kasoura, in a silk kimono and obi, her long black hair in shining tangle down her neck, smiling in welcome. Behind her in the living room, her husband, with drink in hand, nodding.

“Mr. Childan. Enter.”

Bowing, he entered.

Tasteful in the extreme. And—so ascetic. Few pieces. A lamp here, table, bookcase, print on the wall. The incredible Japanese sense of wabi. It could not be thought in English. The ability to find in simple objects a beauty beyond that of the elaborate or ornate. Something to do with the arrangement.

“A drink?” Mr. Kasoura asked. “Scotch and soda?”

“Mr. Kasoura—” he began.

“Paul,” the young Japanese said. Indicating his wife. “Betty. And you are—”

Mr. Childan murmured, “Robert.”

Seated on the soft carpet with their drinks, they listened to a recording of koto, Japanese thirteen-string harp. It was newly released by Japanese HMV, and quite popular. Childan noticed that all parts of the phonograph were concealed, even the speaker. He could not tell where the sound came from.

“Not knowing your appetites in dining,” Betty said, “we have played safe. In kitchen electric oven is broiling T-bone steak. Along with this, baked potato with sauce of sour cream and chives. Maxim utters: no one can err in serving steak to new-found guest first time.”

“Very gratifying,” Childan said. “Quite fond of steak.” And that certainly was so. He rarely had it. The great stockyards from the Middle West did not send out much to the West Coast any more. He could not recall when he had last had a good steak.

It was time for him to graft guest gift.

From his coat pocket he brought small tissue-paperwrapped thing. He laid it discreetly on the low table. Both of them immediately noticed, and this required him to say, “Bagatelle for you. To display fragment of the relaxation and enjoyment I feel in being here.”

His hand opened the tissue paper, showing them the gift. Bit of ivory carved a century ago by whalers from New England. Tiny ornamented art object, called a scrimshaw. Their faces illuminated with knowledge of the scrimshaws which the old sailors had made in their spare time. No single thing could have summed up old U.S. culture more.

Silence.

“Thank you,” Paul said.

Robert Childan bowed.

There was peace, then, for a moment, in his heart. This offering, this—as the I Ching put it—libation. It had done what needed to be done. Some of the anxiety and oppression which he had felt lately began to lift from him.

From Ray Calvin he had received restitution for the Colt .44, plus many written assurances of no second recurrence. And yet it had not eased his heart. Only now, in this unrelated situation, had he for a moment lost the sense that things were in the constant process of going askew. The wabi around him, radiations of harmony… that is it, he decided. The proportion. Balance. They are so close to the Tao, these two young Japanese. That is why I reacted to them before. I sensed the Tao through them. Saw a glimpse of it myself.

What would it be like, he wondered, to really know the Tao? The Tao is that which first lets the light, then the dark. Occasions the interplay of the two primal forces so that there is always renewal. It is that which keeps it all from wearing down. The universe will never be extinguished because just when the darkness seems to have smothered all, to be truly transcendent, the new seeds of light are reborn in the very depths. That is the Way. When the seed falls, it falls into the earth, into the soil. And beneath, out of sight, it comes to life.

“An hors d’oeuvre,” Betty said. She knelt to hold out a plate on which lay small crackers of cheese, et cetera. He took two gratefully.

“International news much in notice these days.” Paul said as he sipped his drink. “While I drove home tonight I heard direct broadcast of great pageant-like State Funeral at Munich, including rally of fifty thousand, flags and the like. Much ‘Ich hatte einen Kamerad’ singing. Body now lying in state for all faithful to view.”“

“Yes, it was distressing,” Robert Childan said. “The sudden news earlier this week.”

“Nippon Times tonight saying reliable sources declare B. von Schirach under house arrest,” Betty said. “By SD instruction.”

“Bad,” Paul said, shaking his head.

“No doubt the authorities desire to keep order,” Childan said. “Von Schirach noted for hasty, headstrong, even halfbaked actions. Much similar to R. Hess in past. Recall mad flight to England.”

“What else reported by Nippon Times?” Paul asked his wife.

“Much confusion and intriguing. Army units moving from hither to yon. Leaves canceled. Border stations closed. Reichstag in session. Speeches by all.”

“That recalls fine speech I heard by Doctor Geobbels,” Robert Childan said. “On radio, year or so ago. Much witty invective. Had audience in palm of hand, as usual. Ranged throughout gamut of emotionality. No doubt; with original Adolf Hitler out of things, Doctor Goebbels A-one Nazi speaker.”

“True,” both Paul and Betty agreed, nodding.

“Doctor Goebbels also has fine children and wife,” Childan went on. “Very high-type individuals.”

“True,” Paul and Betty agreed. “Family man, in contrast to number of other grand moguls there,” Paul said. “Of questionable sexual mores.”

“I wouldn’t give rumors time of day.” Childan said. “You refer to such as E. Roehm? Ancient history. Long since obliterated.”

“Thinking more of H. Göring,” Paul said, slowly sipping his drink and scrutinizing it. “Tales of Rome-like orgies of assorted fantastic variety. Causes flesh to crawl even hearing about.”

“Lies,” Childan said.

“Well, subject not worth discussing,” Betty said tactfully, with a glance at the two of them.

They had finished their drinks, and she went to refill.