philip_k_dick_-_the_man_in_the_high_castle

'Certainly,' Mr. Baynes said. He reached into his coat and took out a flat silver cigarette case.
'You will find each cigarette to be a hollow container for microfilm.' He passed the case to General
Tedeki.
'What about the case itself?' the general said; examining it. 'It seems too valuable an object to
give away.' He started to remove the cigarettes from it.
Smiling, Mr. Baynes said, 'The case, too.'
'Thank you.' Also smiling, the general put the case away in his topcoat pocket.
The desk intercom buzzed. Mr. Tagomi pressed the button.
Mr. Ramsey's voice came: 'Sir, there is a group of SD men in the downstairs lobby; they are
attempting to take over the building . The Times guards are scuffling with them.' In the distance,
noise of a siren; outside the building from the street below Mr. Tagomi's window. 'Army MPs are
on the way, plus San Francisco Kempeitai.'
'Thank you, Mr. Ramsey,' Mr. Tagomi said. 'You have done an honorable thing, to report
placidly.' Mr. Baynes and General Tedeki were listening, both rigid. 'Sirs,' Mr. Tagomi said to
them, 'we will no doubt kill the SD thugs before they reach this floor.' To Mr. Ramsey he said,
'Turn off the power to the elevators.'
'Yes, Mr. Tagomi.' Mr. Ramsey broke the connection.
Mr. Tagomi said, 'We will wait.' He opened his desk drawer and lifted out a teakwood box;
unlocking it, he brought forth a perfectly preserved U.S. 1860 Civil War Colt .44, a treasured
collector's item. Taking out a box of loose powder, ball and cap ammunition, he began loading the
revolver. Mr. Baynes and General Tedeki watched wide-eyed.
'Part of personal collection,' Mr. Tagomi said. 'Much fooled around in vainglorious swift-draw
practicing and firing, in spare hours. Admit to compare favorably with other enthusiasts in contesttiming.
But mature use heretofore delayed.' Holding the gun in correct fashion he pointed it at the
office door. And sat waiting.
At the bench in their basement workshop, Frank Frink sat at the arbor. He held a half-finished
silver earring against the noisily turning cotton buff; bits of rouge spattered his glasses and
blackened his nails and hands. The earring, shaped in a snail-shell spiral, became hot from friction,
but Frink grimly bore down even more.
'Don't get it too shiny,' Ed McCarthy said. 'Just hit the high spots; you can even leave the lows
completely.'
Frank Frink grunted.
'There's a better market for silver if it's not polished up too much,' Ed said. 'Silverwork should
have that old look.'
Market, Frink thought.
They had sold nothing. Except for the consignment at American Artistic Handcrafts, no one had
taken anything, and they had visited five retail shops in all.
We're not making any money, Frink said to himself. We're making more and more jewelry and
it's just piling up around us.
The screw-back of the earring caught in the wheel; the piece whipped out of Frink's hands and
flew to the polish shield, then fell to the floor. He shut off the motor.
'Don't let those pieces go,' McCarthy said, at the welding torch.
'Christ, it's the size of a pea. No way to get a grip.'
'Well, pick it up anyhow.'
The hell with the whole thing, Frink thought.