In the corner of Paul’s office a wastebasket. Into it! Robert Childan said to himself, with this blob, this wu-ridden piece of jewelry.

Could I do it? Toss it away? End the situation before Paul’s eyes?

Can’t even toss it away, he discovered as he gripped the piece. Must not—if you anticipate facing your Japanese fellowman again.

Damn them, I can’t free myself of their influence, can’t give in to impulse. All spontaneity crushed… Paul scrutinized him, needing to say nothing; the man’s very presence enough. Got my conscience snared, has run an invisible string from this blob in my hands up my arm to my soul.

Guess I’ve lived around them too long. Too late now to flee, to get back among whites and white ways.

Robert Childan said, “Paul—” His voice, he noted, croaked in sickly escape; no control, no modulation.

“Yes, Robert.”

“Paul, I… am… humiliated.”

The room reeled.

“Why so, Robert?” Tones of concern, but detached. Above involvement.

“Paul. One moment.” He fingered the bit of jewelry; it had become slimy with sweat. “I am proud of this work. There can be no consideration of trashy good-luck charms. I reject.”

Once more he could not make out the young Japanese man’s reaction, only the listening ear, the mere awareness.

“Thank you, however,” Robert Childan said.

Paul bowed.

Robert Childan bowed.

“The men who made this,” Childan said, “are American proud artists. Myself included. To suggest trashy good-luck charms therefore insults us and I ask for apology.”

Incredible prolonged silence.

Paul surveyed him. One eyebrow lifted slightly and his thin lips twitched. A smile?

“I demand,” Childan said. That was all; he could carry it no further. He now merely waited.

Nothing occurred.

Please, he thought. Help me.

Paul said, “Forgive my arrogant imposition.” He held out his hand.

“All right,” Robert Childan said.

They shook hands.

Calmness descended in Childan’s heart. I have lived through and out, he knew. All over. Grace of God; it existed at the exact moment for me. Another time—otherwise. Could I ever dare once more, press my luck? Probably not.

He felt melancholy. Brief instant, as if I rose to the surface and saw unencumbered.

Life is short, he thought. Art, or something not life, is long, stretching out endless, like concrete worm. Flat, white, unsmoothed by any passage over or across it. Here I stand But no longer. Taking the small box, he put the Edfrank jewelry piece away in his coat pocket.

Mr. Ramsey said, “Mr. Tagomi, this is Mr. Yatabe.” He retired to a corner of the office, and the slender elderly gentleman came forward.

Holding out his hand, Mr. Tagomi said, “I am glad to meet you in person, sir.” The light, fragile old hand slipped into his own; he shook without pressing and released at once. Nothing broken I hope, he thought. He examined the old gentleman’s features, finding himself pleased. Such a stern, coherent spirit there. No fogging of wits. Certainly lucid transmission of all the stable ancient traditions. Best quality which the old could represent… and then he discovered that he was facing General Tedeki, the former Imperial Chief of Staff.

Mr. Tagomi bowed low.

“General,” he said.

“Where is the third party?” General Tedeki said.

“On the double, he nears,” Mr. Tagomi said. “Informed by self at hotel room.” His mind utterly rattled, he retreated several steps in the bowing position, scarcely able to regain an erect posture.

The general seated himself. Mr. Ramsey, no doubt still ignorant of the old man’s identity, assisted with the chair but showed no particular deference. Mr. Tagomi hesitantly took a chair facing.

“We loiter,” the general said. “Regrettably but unavoidably.”

“True,” Mr. Tagomi said.

Ten minutes passed. Neither man spoke.

“Excuse me, sir,” Mr. Ramsey said at last, fidgeting. “I will depart unless needed.”

Mr. Tagomi nodded, and Mr. Ramsey departed.

“Tea, General?” Mr. Tagomi said.

“No, sir.”“

“Sir,” Mr. Tagomi said, “I admit to fear. I sense in this encounter something terrible.”

The general inclined his head.

“Mr. Baynes, whom I have met,” Mr. Tagomisaid, “and entertained in my home, declares himself a Swede. Yet perusal persuades one that he is in fact a highly placed German of some sort. I say this because—”

“Please continue.”

“Thank you. General, his agitation regarding this meeting causes me to infer a connection with the political upheavals in the Reich.” Mr. Tagomi did not mention another fact: his awareness of the general’s failure to appear at the time anticipated.

The general said, “Sir, now you are fishing. Not informing.” His gray eyes twinkled in fatherly manner. No malice, there.

Mr. Tagomi accepted the rebuke. “Sir, is my presence in this meeting merely a formality to baffle the Nazi snoops?”

“Naturally,” the general said, “we are interested in maintaining a certain fiction. Mr. Baynes is representative for Tor-Am industries of Stockholm, purely businessman. And I am Shinjiro Yatabe.”

Mr. Tagomi thought, And I am Tagomi. That part is so.

“No doubt the Nazis have scrutinized Mr. Baynes’ comings and goings,” the general said. He rested his hands on his knees, sitting bolt upright… as if, Mr. Tagomi thought, he were sniffing far-off beef tea odor. “But to demolish the fiction they must resort to legalities. That is the genuine purpose; not to deceive, but to require the formalities in case of exposure. You see for instance that to apprehend Mr. Baynes they must do more than merely shoot him down… which they could do, were he to travel as—well, travel without this verbal umbrella.”

“I see,” Mr. Tagomi said. Sounds like a game, he decided. But they know the Nazi mentality. So I suppose it is of use.

The desk intercom buzzed. Mr. Ramsey’s voice. “Sir, Mr. Baynes is here. Shall I send him on in?”

“Yes!” Mr. Tagomi cried.

The door opened and Mr. Baynes, sleekly dressed, his clothes all quite pressed and masterfully tailored, his features composed, appeared.

General Tedeki rose to face him. Mr. Tagomi also rose. All three men bowed.

“Sir,” Mr. Baynes said to the general, “I am Captain R. Wegener of the Reichs Naval Counter-Intelligence. As understood, I represent no one but myself and certain private unnamed individuals, no departments or bureaus of the Reich Government of any sort.”

The general said, “Herr Wegener, I understand that you in no way officially allege representation of any branch of the Reich Government. I am here as an unofficial private party who by virtue of former position with the Imperial Army can be said to have access to circles in Tokyo who desire to hear whatever you have to say.”

Weird discourse, Mr. Tagomi thought. But not unpleasant. Certain near-musical quality to it. Refreshing relief, in fact.

They sat down.

“Without preamble,” Mr. Baynes said, “I would like to inform you and those you have access to that there is in advance stage in the Reich a program called Lowenzahn. Dandelion.”

“Yes,” the general said, nodding as if he had heard this before; but, Mr. Tagomi thought, he seemed quite eager for Mr. Baynes to go on.

“Dandelion,” Mr. Baynes said, “consists of an incident on the border between the Rocky Mountain States and the United States.”

The general nodded, smiling slightly.

“U.S. troops will be attacked and will retaliate by crossing the border and engaging the regular RMS troops stationed nearby. The U.S. troops have detailed maps showing Midwest army installations. This is step one. Step two consists of a declaration by Germany regarding the conflict. A volunteer detachment of Wehrmacht paratroopers will be sent to aid the U.S. However, this is further camouflage.”