philip_k_dick_-_the_man_in_the_high_castle

And then, standing before the Nippon Times Building, with his bags on the sidewalk beside him,
Childan suddenly thought with a chill: Suppose his client isn't Japanese! Everything in the bags had
been selected with them in mind, their tastes —
But the man had to be Japanese. A Civil War recruiting poster had been Mr. Tagomi's original
order; surely only a Japanese would care about such debris. Typical of their mania for the trivial,
their legalistic fascination with documents, proclamations, ads. He remembered one who had
devoted his leisure time to collecting newspaper ads of American patent medicines of the 1900s.
There were other problems to face. Immediate problems. Through the high doors of the Nippon
Times Building men and women hurried, all of them well-dressed; their voices reached Childan's
ears, and he started into motion. A glance upward at the towering edifice, the highest building in
San Francisco. Wall of offices, windows, the fabulous design of the Japanese architects — and the
surrounding gardens of dwarf evergreens, rocks, the karesansui landscape, sand imitating a driedup
stream winding past roots, among simple, irregular flat stones . . .
He saw a black who had carried baggage, now free. At once Childan called, 'Porter!'
The black trotted toward him, smiling.
'To the twentieth floor,' Childan said in his harshest voice. 'Suite B. At once.' He indicated the
bags and then strode on toward the doors of the building. Naturally he did not look back.
A moment later he found himself being crowded into one of the express elevators; mostly
Japanese around him, their clean faces shining slightly in the brilliant light of the elevator. Then the
nauseating upward thrust of the elevator, the rapid click of floors passing; he shut his eyes, planted
his feet firmly, prayed for the flight to end. The black, of course, had taken the bags up on a service
elevator. It would not have been within the realm of reason to permit him here. In fact — Childan
opened his eyes and looked momentarily — he was one of the few whites in the elevator.
When the elevator let him off on the twentieth floor, Childan was already bowing mentally,
preparing himself for the encounter in Mr. Tagomi's offices.
3
At sunset, glancing up, Juliana Frink saw the dot of light in the sky shoot in an arc, disappear to the
west. One of those Nazi rocket ships, she said to herself. Flying to the Coast. Full of big shots. And
here I am down below. She waved, although the rocket ship of course had already gone.
Shadows advancing from the Rockies. Blue peaks turning to night. A flock of slow birds,
migratory, made their way parallel with the mountains. Here and there a car turned its headlights
on; she saw the twin dots along the highway. Lights, too, of a gas station. Houses.
For months now she had been living here in Canon City, Colorado. She was a judo instructor.
Her workday had ended and she was preparing to take a shower. She felt tired. All the showers
were in use, by customers of Ray's Gym, so she had been standing, waiting outdoors in the
coolness, enjoying the smell of mountain air, the quiet. All she heard now was the faint murmur
from the hamburger stand down the road by the highway's edge. Two huge diesel trucks had
parked, and the drivers, in the gloom, could be seen moving about, putting on their leather jackets
before entering the hamburger stand.
She thought: Didn't Diesel throw himself out the window of his stateroom? Commit suicide by
drowning himself on an ocean voyage? Maybe I ought to do that. But here there was no ocean. But
there is always a way. Like in Shakespeare. A pin stuck through one's shirt front, and good-bye
Frink. The girl who need not fear marauding homeless from the desert. Walks upright in