I didn”t think he’d go along with it, he thought. You never know. That’s why it’s always worth trying.

When he next looked up, he saw that the salesman was ready to leave. He had his wicker hamper under his arm and the counter was clear. The salesman was coming toward him, holding something out.

“Yes?” Childan said. He had been going over some correspondence.

“I want to leave our card.” The salesman put down an odd-looking little square of gray and red paper on Childan’s desk. “Edfrank Custom Jewelry. It has our address and phone number. In case you want to get in touch with us.”

Childan nodded, smiled silently, and returned to his work.

When next he paused and looked up the store was empty. The salesman had gone.

Putting a nickel into the wall dispenser, Childan obtained a cup of hot instant tea which he sipped contemplatively.

I wonder if it will sell, he wondered. Very unlikely. But it is well made. And one never sees anything like it. He examined one of the pins. Quite striking design. Certainly not amateurs.

I’ll change the tags. Mark them up a lot higher. Push the handmade angle. And the uniqueness. Custom originals. Small sculptures. Wear a work of art. Exclusive creation on your lapel or wrist.

And there was another notion circulating and growing in the back of Robert Childan’s mind. With these, there’s no problem of authenticity. And that problem may someday wreck the historic American artifacts industry. Not today or tomorrow—but after that, who knows.

Better not to have all irons in one fire. That visit by that Jewish crook; that might be the harbinger. If I quietly build up a stock of nonhistoric objects, contemporary work with no historicity either real or imagined, I might find I have the edge over the competition. And as long as it isn’t costing me anything.

Leaning back his chair so that it rested against the wall he sipped his tea and pondered.

The Moment changes. One must be ready to change with it. Or otherwise left high and dry. Adapt.

The rule of survival, he thought. Keep eye peeled regarding situation around you. Learn its demands. And meet them. Be there at the right time doing the right thing.

Be yinnish. The Oriental knows. The smart black yinnish eyes.

Suddenly he had a good idea; it made him sit upright instantly. Two birds, one stone. Ah. He hopped to his feet, excited. Carefully wrap best of jewelry pieces (removing tag, of course). Pin, pendant, or bracelet. Something nice, anyhow. Then—since have to leave shop, close up at two as it is—saunter over to Kasouras’ apartment building. Mr. Kasouras, Paul, will be at work. However, Mrs. Kasoura, Betty, will very likely be home.

Graft gift, this new original U.S. artwork. Compliments of myself personally, in order to obtain high-place reaction. This is how a new line is introduced. Isn’t it lovely? Whole selection back at store; drop in, etc. This one for you, Betty.

He trembled. Just she and I, midday in the apartment. Husband off at work. All on up and up, however; brilliant pretext.

Airtight!

Getting a small box plus wrapping paper and ribbon, Robert Childan began preparing a gift for Mrs. Kasoura. Dark, attractive woman, slender in her silk Oriental dress, high heels, and so on. Or maybe today blue cotton cooliestyle lounging pajamas, very light and comfortable and informal. Ah, he thought.

Or is this too bold? Husband Paul becoming irked. Scenting out and reacting badly. Perhaps go slower; take gift to him, to his office? Give much the same story, but to him. Then let him give gift to her; no suspicion. And, Robert Childan thought, then I give Betty a call on the phone tomorrow or next day to get her reaction.

Even more airtight!

When Frank Frink saw his business partner coming back up the sidewalk he could tell that it had not gone well.

“What happened?” he said, taking the wicker hamper from Ed and putting it in the truck. “Jesus Christ, you were gone an hour and a half. It took him that long to say no?”

Ed said, “He didn’t say no.” He looked tired. He got into the truck and sat.

“What’d he say, then?” Opening the hamper, Frink saw that a good many of the pieces were gone. Many of their best. “He took a lot. What’s the matter, then?”

“Consignment,” Ed said.

“You let him?” He could not believe it. “We talked it over—”

“I don’t know how come.”

“Christ,” Frink said.

“I’m sorry. He acted like he was going to buy it. He picked a lot out. I thought he was buying.”

They sat together silently in the truck for a long time.

It had been a terrible two weeks for Mr. Baynes. From his hotel room he had called the Trade Mission every day at noon to ask if the old gentleman had put in an appearance. The answer had been an unvarying no. Mr. Tagomi’s voice had become colder and more formal each day. As Mr. Baynes prepared to make his sixteenth call, he thought, Sooner or later they’ll tell me that Mr. Tagomi is out. That he isn’t accepting any more calls from me. And that will be that.

What has happened? Where is Mr. Yatabe?

He had a fairly good idea. The death of Martin Bormann had caused immediate consternation in Tokyo. Mr. Yatabe no doubt had been en route to San Francisco, a day or so offshore, when new instructions had reached him. Return to the Home Islands for further consultation.

Bad luck, Mr. Baynes realized. Possibly even fatal.

But he had to remain where he was, in San Francisco. Still trying to arrange the meeting for which he had come. Forty-five minutes by Lufthansa rocket from Berlin, and now this. A weird time in which we are alive. We can travel anywhere we want, even to other planets. And for what? To sit day after day, declining in morale and hope. Falling into an interminable ennui. And meanwhile, the others are busy. They are not sitting helplessly waiting.

Mr. Baynes unfolded the midday edition of the Nippon Times and once more read the headlines.

He reread the entire article. And then he put the paper once more away, took the phone, and gave the Trade Mission number.

“This is Mr. Baynes. May I have Mr. Tagomi?”

“A moment, sir.”

A very long moment.

“Mr. Tagomi here.”

Mr. Baynes took a deep breath and said, “Forgive this situation depressing to us both, sir—”

“Ah. Mr. Baynes.”

“Your hospitality to me sir, could not be exceeded. Someday I know you will have understanding of the reasons which cause me to defer our conference until the old gentleman—”

“Regretfully, he has not arrived.”

Mr. Baynes shut his eyes. “I thought maybe since yesterday—”

“Afraid not, sir.” The barest politeness. “If you will excuse me, Mr. Baynes. Pressing business.”

“Good day, sir.”

The phone clicked. Today Mr. Tagomi had rung off without even saying good-bye. Mr. Baynes slowly hung the receiver.

I must take action. Can wait no longer.

It had been made very clear to him by his superiors that he was not to contact the Abwehr under any circumstances. He was simply to wait until he had managed to make connections with the Japanese military representative; he was to confer with the Japanese, and then he was to return to Berlin. But no one had forseen that Bormann would die at this particular moment. Therefore the orders had to be superseded. By more practical advice. His own, in this case, since there was no one else to consult.