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But above and beyond everything else, he had originally been drawn by her screwball expression; for no reason, Juliana greeted strangers with a portentous, nudnik, Mona Lisa smile that hung them up between responses, whether to say hello or not. And she was so attractive that more often than not they did say hello, whereupon Juliana glided by. At first he had thought it was just plain bad eyesight, but finally he had decided that it revealed a deep-dyed otherwise concealed stupidity at her core. And so finally her borderline flicker of greeting to strangers had annoyed him, as had her plantlike, silent, I'm-on-a-mysterious-errand way of coming and going. But even then, toward the end, when they had been fighting so much, he still never saw her as anything but a direct, literal invention of God's, dropped into his life for reasons he would never know. And on that account -- a sort of religious intuition or faith about her -- he could not get over having lost her.
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Seated on his bed, surrounded by lonely disorder, preparing to go out and begin his day, Frank Frink wondered who else in the vast complicated city of San Francisco was at this same moment consulting the oracle. And were they all getting as gloomy advice as he? Was the tenor of the Moment as adverse for them as it was for him?
Chapter 2
Mr. Nobusuke Tagomi sat consulting the divine Fifth Book of Confucian wisdom, the Taoist oracle called for centuries the I Ching or Book of Changes. At noon that day, he had begun to become apprehensive about his appointment with Mr. Childan, which would occur in two more hours.wholesale china electronics
His suite of offices on the twentieth floor of the Nippon Times Building on Taylor Street overlooked the Bay. Through the glass wall he could watch ships entering, passing beneath the Golden Gate Bridge. At this moment a freighter could be seen beyond Alcatraz, but Mr. Tagomi did not care. Going to the wall he unfastened the cord and lowered the bamboo blinds over the view. The large central office

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he had not seen her in months; in fact he did not even know where she lived. Evidently she had left San Francisco. Perhaps even the PSA. Either their mutual friends had not heard from her or they were not telling him.
Busily he maneuvered the yarrow stalks, his eyes fixed on the tallies. How many times he had asked about Juliana, one question or another? Here came the hexagram, brought forth by the passive chance workings of the vegetable stalks. Random, and yet rooted in the moment in which he lived, in which his life was bound up with all other lives and particles in the universe. The necessary hexagram picturing in its pattern of broken and unbroken lines the situation. He, Juliana, the factory on Gough Street, the Trade Missions that ruled, the exploration of the planets, the billion chemical heaps in Africa that were now not even corpses, the aspirations of the thousands around him in the shanty warrens of San Francisco, the mad creatures in Berlin with their calm faces and manic plans -- all connected in this moment of casting the yarrow stalks to select the exact wisdom appropriate in a book begun in the thirtieth century B.C. A book created by the sages of China over a period of five thousand years, winnowed, perfected, that superb cosmology -- and science -- codified before Europe had even learned to do long division.buy electronics wholesale
The hexagram. His heart dropped. Forty-four. Kou. Coming to Meet. Its sobering judgment. The maiden is powerful. One should not marry such a maiden. Again he had gotten it in connection with Juliana.
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Juliana -- the best-looking woman he had ever married. Soot-black eyebrows and hair; trace amounts of Spanish blood distributed as pure color, even to her lips. Her rubbery, soundless walk; she had worn saddle shoes left over from high school. In fact all her clothes had a dilapidated quality and the definite suggestion of being old and often washed. He and she had been so broke so long that despite her looks she had had to wear a cotton sweater, cloth zippered jacket, brown tweed skirt and bobby socks, and she hated him and it because it made her look, she had said, like a woman who played tennis or (even worse) collected mushrooms in the woods.

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It's all right, Juliana said.
You know, Mrs. Frink, I've gotten so much out of judo. Even more than out of Zen. I wanted to tell you.
Slim your hips the Zen way, Juliana said. Lose pounds through painless satori. I'm sorry, Miss Davis. I'm woolgathering.
Miss Davis said, Did they hurt you much?
Who?
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The Japs. Before you learned to defend yourself.
It was dreadful, Juliana said. You've never been out there, on the Coast. Where they are.
I've never been outside of Colorado, Miss Davis said, her voice fluttering timidly.
It could happen here, Juliana said. They might decide to occupy this region, too.
Not this late!
You never know what they're going to do, Juliana said. They hide their real thoughts.
What -- did they make you do? Miss Davis, hugging her purse against her body with both arms, moved closer, in the evening darkness, to hear.
Everything, Juliana said.
Oh God. I'd fight, Miss Davis said.
Juliana excused herself and walked to the vacant shower; someone else was approaching it with a towel over her arm.
Later, she sat in a booth at Tasty Charley's Broiled Hamburgers, listlessly reading the menu. The jukebox played some hillbilly tune; steel guitar and emotion-choked moaning. . . the air was heavy with grease smoke. And yet, the place was warm and bright, and it cheered her. The presence of the truck drivers at the counter, the waitress, the big Irish fry cook in his white jacket at the register making change.
Seeing her, Charley approached to wait on her himself. Grinning, he drawled, Missy want tea now?
Coffee, Juliana said, enduring the fry cook's relentless humor.
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And the hot steak sandwich with gravy.
Not have bowl rat's-nest soup? Or maybe goat brains fried in olive oil? A couple of the truck drivers, turning on their stools, grinned along with the gag, too. And in addition they took pleasure in noticing how attractive she was. Even lacking the fry cook's kidding, she would have found the truck drivers scrutinizing her. The months of active judo had given her unusual muscle tone; she knew how well she held herself and what it did for her figure.
It all has to do with the shoulder muscles, she thought as she met their gaze. Dancers do it, too. It has nothing to do with size. Send your wives around to the gym and we'll teach them. And you'll be so much more content in life.
Stay away from her, the fry cook warned the truck drivers with a wink. She'll throw you on your can.

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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 electronic wholesale suppliersShakespeare. 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 consciousness of many pinched-nerve possibilities in grizzled salivating adversary. Death instead by, say, sniffing car exhaust in highway town, perhaps through long hollow straw.
Learned that, she thought, from Japanese. Imbibed placid attitude toward mortality, along with money-making judo. How to kill, how to die. Yang and yin. But that's behind, now; this is Protestant land.
It was a good thing to see the Nazi rockets go by overhead and not stop, not take any interest of any sort in Canon City, Colorado. Nor in Utah or Wyoming or the eastern part of Nevada, none of the open empty desert states or pasture states. We have no value, she said to herself. We can live out our tiny lives. If we want to. If it matters to us.
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At that, Mr. Ramsey stiffened abruptly and also bowed.
I've been consulting the oracle, Mr. Tagomi said, as Miss Ephreikian reseated herself with her tape recorder. You understand that Mr. Baynes, who as you know is arriving shortly in person, holds to the Nordic ideology regarding so-called Oriental culture. I could make the effort to dazzle him into a better comprehension with authentic works of Chinese scroll art or ceramics of our Tokugawa Period. . . but it is not our job to convert.
I see, Mr. Ramsey said; his Caucasian face twisted with painful concentration.
Therefore we will cater to his prejudice and graft a priceless American artifact to him instead.
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You, sir, are of American ancestry. Although you have gone to the trouble of darkening your skin color. He scrutinized Mr. Ramsey.
A tan achieved by a sun lamp, Mr. Ramsey murmured. For merely acquiring vitamin D. But his expression of humiliation gave him away. I assure you that I retain authentic roots with -- Mr. Ramsey stumbled over the words. I have not cut off all ties with -- native ethnic patterns.
Mr. Tagomi said to Miss Ephreikian: Resume, please. Once more the tape recorder whirred. In consulting the oracle and obtaining Hexagram Ta Kuo, Twenty-eight, I further received the unfavorable line Nine in the fifth place. It reads:
A withered poplar puts forth flowers.
An older woman takes a husband.
No blame. No praise.
This clearly indicates that Mr. Childan will have nothing of worth to offer us at two. Mr. Tagomi paused. Let us be candid. I cannot rely on my own judgment regarding American art objects. That is why a -- He lingered over his choice of terms. Why you, Mr. Ramsey, who are shall I say native born, are required. Obviously we must do the best we can.
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once more -- ninety-eighth time? -- for sources of water on the moon. We may still solve this heartbreaking dilemma, Mr. Baynes was quoted. Our nearest neighbor, and so far the most unrewarding except for military purposes. Sic! Mr. Tagomi thought, using high-place Latin word. Clue to Mr. Baynes. Looks askance at merely military. Mr. Tagomi made a mental note.
Touching the intercom button Mr. Tagomi said, Miss Ephreikian, I would like you to bring in your tape recorder, please.
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Bit of lilac, Mr. Tagomi observed. Once, he had professionally flower-raised back home on Hokkaido.
Miss Ephreikian, a tall, brown-haired Armenian girl, bowed.
Ready with Zip-Track Speed Master? Mr. Tagomi asked.
Yes, Mr. Tagomi. Miss Ephreikian seated herself, the portable battery-operated tape recorder ready.
Mr. Tagomi began, I inquired of the oracle, Will the meeting between myself and Mr. Childan be profitable? and obtained to my dismay the ominous hexagram The Preponderance of the Great. The ridgepole is sagging. Too much weight in the middle; all unbalanced. Clearly away from the Tao. The tape recorder whirred.
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Miss Ephreikian watched him expectantly. The whirring ceased.
Have Mr. Ramsey come in for a moment, please, Mr. Tagomi said.
Yes, Mr. Tagomi. Rising, she put down the tape recorder; her heels tapped as she departed from the office.
With a large folder of bills-of-lading under his arm, Mr. Ramsey appeared. Young, smiling, he advanced, wearing the natty U.S. Midwest Plains string tie, checkered shirt and tight beltless blue jeans considered so high-place among the style-conscious of the day. Howdy, Mr. Tagomi, he said. Right nice day, sir.
Mr. Tagomi bowed.

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The girl's name was Betty. Such understanding in her face, he thought. The gentle, sympathetic eyes. Surely, even in the short time in the store, she had glimpsed his hopes and defeats.
His hopes -- he felt suddenly dizzy. What aspirations bordering on the insane if not the suicidal did he have? But it was known, relations between Japanese and yanks, although generally it was between a Japanese man and yank woman. This. . . he quailed at the idea. And she was married. He whipped his mind away from the pageant of his involuntary thoughts and began busily opening the morning's mail.Android 2.2 Cell Phone with
His hands, he discovered, were still shaking. And then he recalled his two o'clock appointment with Mr. Tagomi; at that, his hands ceased shaking and his nervousness became determination. I've got to come up with something acceptable, he said to himself. Where? How? What? A phone call. Sources. Business ability. Scrape up a fully restored 1929 Ford including fabric top (black). Grand slam to keep patronage forever. Crated original mint trimotor airmail plane discovered in barn in Alabama, etc. Produce mummified head of Mr. B. Bill, including flowing white hair; sensational American artifact. Make my reputation in top connoisseur circles throughout Pacific, not excluding Home Islands.
To inspire himself, he lit up a marijuana cigarette, excellent Land-O-Smiles brand.
In his room on Hayes Street, Frank Frink lay in bed wondering how to get up. Sun glared past the blind onto the heap of clothes that had fallen to the floor. His glasses, too. Would he step on them? Try to get to bathroom by other route, he thought. Crawl or roll. His head ached but he did not feel sad. Never look back, he decided. Time? The clock on the dresser. Eleven-thirty! Good grief. But still he lay.Android 2.3 Smartphone
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The hexagram. His heart dropped. Forty-four. Kou. Coming to Meet. Its sobering judgment. The maiden is powerful. One should not marry such a maiden. Again he had gotten it in connection with Juliana.
Oy vey, he thought, settling back. So she was wrong for me; I know that. I didn't ask that. Why does the oracle have to remind me? A bad fate for me, to have met her and been in love -- be in love -- with her.
Juliana -- the best-looking woman he had ever married. Soot-black eyebrows and hair; trace amounts of Spanish blood distributed as pure color, even to her lips. Her rubbery, soundless walk; she had worn saddle shoes left over from high school. In fact all her clothes had a dilapidated quality and the definite suggestion of being old and often washed. He and she had been so broke so long that despite her looks she had had to wear a cotton sweater, cloth zippered jacket, brown tweed skirt and bobby socks, and she hated him and it because it made her look, she had said, like a woman who played tennis or (even worse) collected mushrooms in the woods.Android 2.1 Tablets
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He had no lines to read, no nines or sixes; it was static. So he was through. It did not move into a second hexagram.Android 2.1 Tablets
A new question, then. Setting himself, he said aloud, Will I ever see Juliana again?
That was his wife. Or rather his ex-wife. Juliana had divorced him a year ago, and he had not seen her in months; in fact he did not even know where she lived. Evidently she had left San Francisco. Perhaps even the PSA. Either their mutual friends had not heard from her or they were not telling him.
Busily he maneuvered the yarrow stalks, his eyes fixed on the tallies. How many times he had asked about Juliana, one question or another? Here came the hexagram, brought forth by the passive chance workings of the vegetable stalks. Random, and yet rooted in the moment in which he lived, in which his life was bound up with all other lives and particles in the universe. The necessary hexagram picturing in its pattern of broken and unbroken lines the situation. He, Juliana, the factory on Gough Street,3G Dual SIM Android 2.2 the Trade Missions that ruled, the exploration of the planets, the billion chemical heaps in Africa that were now not even corpses, the aspirations of the thousands around him in the shanty warrens of San Francisco, the mad creatures in Berlin with their calm faces and manic plans -- all connected in this moment of casting the yarrow stalks to select the exact wisdom appropriate in a book begun in the thirtieth century B.C. A book created by the sages of China over a period of five thousand years, winnowed, perfected, that

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I'll have to come to terms with old Wyndam-Matson.
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Aloud he said, How should I approach Wyndam-Matson in order to come to decent terms with him? He wrote the question down on the tablet, then began whipping the yarrow stalks from hand to hand until he had the first line, the beginning. An eight. Half the sixty-four hexagrams eliminated already. He divided the stalks and obtained the second line. Soon, being so expert, he had all six lines; the hexagram lay before him, and he did not need to identify it by the chart. He could recognize it as Hexagram Fifteen. Ch'ien. Modesty. Ah. The low will be raised up, the high brought down, powerful families humbled; he did not have to refer to the text -- he knew it by heart. A good omen. The oracle was giving him favorable council.
And yet he was a bit disappointed. There was something fatuous about Hexagram Fifteen. Too goody-goody. Naturally he should be modest. Perhaps there was an idea in it, however. After all, he had no power over old W-M. He could not compel him to take him back. All he could do was adopt the point of view of Hexagram Fifteen; this was that sort of moment, when one had to petition, to hope, to await with faith. Heaven in its time would raise him up to his old job or perhaps even to something better.
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But wait. There was one, a Mr. Omuro, who had bought control of a great area of rental property in downtown San Francisco, and who for a time had been Frank's landlord. There was a bad apple, he thought. A shark who had never made repairs, had partitioned rooms smaller and smaller, raised rents. . . Omuro had gouged the poor, especially the nearly destitute jobless ex-servicemen during the depression years of the early 'fifties. However, it had been one of the Japanese trade missions which had cut off Omuro's head for his profiteering. And nowadays such a violation of the harsh, rigid, but just Japanese civil law was unheard of. It was a credit to the incorruptibility of the Jap occupation officials, especially those who had come in after the War Cabinet had fallen.Android 2.2 WiFi
Recalling the rugged, stoic honesty of the Trade Missions, Frink felt reassured. Even Wyndam-Matson would be waved off like a noisy fly. W-M Corporation owner or not. At least, so he hoped. I guess I really have faith in this Co-Prosperity Pacific Alliance stuff, he said to himself. Strange. Looking back to the early days. . . it had seemed such an obvious fake, then. Empty propaganda. But now. . .
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man craves enormous power, and is capable of obtaining it. Most self-indulgent of all Nazis, and is in sharp contrast to late H. Himmler, who lived in personal want at low salary. Herr G?ring representative of spoils mentality, using power as means of acquiring personal wealth. Primitive mentality, even vulgar, but quite intelligent man, possibly most intelligent of all Nazi chiefs. Object of his drives; self-glorification in ancient emperor fashion.Android 2.1 Smartphone
Next. Herr J. Goebbels. Suffered polio in youth. Originally Catholic. Brilliant orator, writer, flexible and fanatic mind, witty, urbane, cosmopolitan. Much active with ladies. Elegant. Educated. Highly capable. Does much work; almost frenzied managerial drive. Is said never to rest. Much respected personage. Can be charming, but is said to have rabid streak unmatched by other Nazi's. Ideological orientation suggesting medieval Jesuitic viewpoint exacerbated by post-Romantic Germanic nihilism. Considered sole authentic intellectual of the Partei. Had ambitions to be playwright in youth. Few friends. Not liked by subordinates, but nevertheless highly polished product of many best elements in European culture. Not self-gratification, is underlying ambition, but power for its use purely. Organizational attitude in classic Prussian State sense.
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The Foreign Office official paused, glanced up and around at them all. Then resumed.

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Bit of confusion. Other personages, discussing in low tones; heads bowed together.
Sirs, the Foreign Office person said in loud, commanding voice. All eyes fixed then on him. As you know, the Reichskanzler is now confirmed as dead. Official statement from Berlin. This meeting, which will not last long -- you will soon be able to go back to your offices -- is for purposes of informing you of our evaluation of several contending factions in German political life who can now be expected to step forth and engage in no-holds-barred disputation for spot evacuated by Herr Bormann.
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In the folder on his desk, clipping from New York Times of a recent speech by Mr. Baynes. Mr. Tagomi now studied it critically, bending due to slight failure of correction by his contact lenses. The speech had to do with need of exploring once more -- ninety-eighth time? -- for sources of water on the moon. We may still solve this heartbreaking dilemma, Mr. Baynes was quoted. Our nearest neighbor, and so far the most unrewarding except for military purposes. Sic! Mr. Tagomi thought, using high-place Latin word. Clue to Mr. Baynes. Looks askance at merely military. Mr. Tagomi made a mental note.Android 2.2

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Chapter 2
Mr. Nobusuke Tagomi sat consulting the divine Fifth Book of Confucian wisdom, the Taoist oracle called for centuries the I Ching or Book of Changes. At noon that day, he had begun to become apprehensive about his appointment with Mr. Childan, which would occur in two more hours.
His suite of offices on the twentieth floor of the Nippon Times Building on Taylor Street overlooked the Bay. Through the glass wall he could watch ships entering, passing beneath the Golden Gate Bridge. At this moment a freighter could be seen beyond Alcatraz, but Mr. Tagomi did not care. Going to the wall he unfastened the cord and lowered the bamboo blinds over the view. The large central office became darker; he did not have to squint against the glare. Now he could think more clearly.
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We can refrain from insulting him by a moldy gift.
The client would soon reach San Francisco airport by avenue of the high-place new German rocket, the Messerschmitt 9-E. Mr. Tagomi had never ridden on such a ship; when he met Mr. Baynes he would have to take care to appear blaseacute;, no matter how large the rocket turned out to be. Now to practice. He stood in front of the mirror on the office wall, creating a face of composure, mildly bored, inspecting his own cold features for any giveaway. Yes, they are very noisy, Mr. Baynes, sir. One cannot read. But then the flight from Stockholm to San Francisco is only forty-five minutes. Perhaps then a word about German mechanical failures? I suppose you heard the radio. That crash over Madagascar. I must say, there is something to be said for the old piston Android 2.2 WiFiplanes.

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der the Nazis, Joe said. I know what it's like. Is that just talk, to live twelve, thirteen years -- longer than that -- almost fifteen years? I got a work card from OT; I worked for Organization Todt since 1947, in North Africa and the U.S.A. Listen -- He jabbed his finger at her. I got the Italian genius for earthworks; OT gave me a high rating. I wasn't shoveling asphalt and mixing concrete for the autobahns. I was helping design. Engineer. One day Doctor Todt came by and inspected what our work crew did. He said to me, You got good hands. That's a big moment, Juliana. Dignity of labor; they're not talking only words. Before them, the Nazis, everyone looked down on manual jobs; myself, too. Aristocratic. The Labor Front put an end to that. I seen my own hands for the first time. He spoke so swiftly that his accent began to take over; she had trouble understanding him. We all lived out there in the woods, in Upper State New York, like brothers. Sang songs. Marched to work. Spirit of the war, only rebuilding, not breaking down. Those were the best days of all, rebuilding after the war -- fine, clean, long-lasting rows of public buildings block by block, whole new downtown, New York and Baltimore. Now of course that work's past. Big cartels like New Jersey Krupp and Sohnen running the show. But that's not Nazi; that's just old European powerful. Worse, you hear? Nazis like Rommel and Todt a million times better men than industrialists like Krupp and bankers, all those Prussians; ought to have been gassed. All those gentlemen in vests.
But, Juliana thought, those gentlemen in vests are in forever. And your idols, Rommel and Doctor Todt; they just came in after hostilities, to clear the rubble, build the autobahns, start industry humming. They even let the Jews live, lucky surprise -- amnesty so the Jews could pitch in. Until '49, anyhow. . . and then good-bye Todt and Rommel, retired to graze.
Don't I know? Juliana thought. Didn't I hear all about it from Frank? You can't tell me anything about life under the Nazis; my husband was -- is -- a Jew. I know that Doctor Todt was the most modest, gentle man that ever lived; I know all he wanted to do was provide work -- honest, reputable work -- for the millions of bleak-eyed, despairing American men and women picking through the ruins after the war. I know he wanted to see medical plans and vacation resorts and adequate housing for everyone, regardless of race; he was a builder, not a thinker. . . and in most cases he managed to create what he had wanted -- he actually got it. But. . .
A preoccupation, in the back of her mind, now rose decidedly. Joe. This Grasshopper book; isn't it banned in the East Coast?
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How could you be reading it, then? Something about it worried her. Don't they still shoot people for reading --
It depends on your racial group. On the good old armband.
That was so. Slavs, Poles, Puerto Ricans, were the most limited as to what they could read, do, listen to. The Anglo-Saxons had it much better; there was public education for their children, and they could go to libraries and museums and concerts. But even so. . . The Grasshopper was not merely classified; it was forbidden, and to everyone.
Joe said, I read it in the toilet. I hid it in a pillow. In fact, I read it because it was banned.
You're very brave, she said.
Doubtfully he said, You mean that sarcastically?

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I have to turn the bacon. She slid away from him and hurried back to the kitchen.
Following after her, still carrying the book, Joe went on, And the U.S. comes in. After it licks the Japs. And after the war, the U.S. and Britain divide the world. Exactly like Germany and Japan did in reality.
Juliana said, Germany, Japan, and Italy. He stared at her.
You left out Italy. She faced him calmly. Did you forget, too? she said to herself. Like everybody else? The little empire in the Middle East. . . the musical-comedy New Rome.
Presently she served him a platter of bacon and eggs, toast and marmalade, coffee. He ate readily.
What did they serve you in North Africa? she asked as she, too, seated herself.
Joe said, Dead donkey.
That's hideous.
With a twisted grin, Joe said, Asino Morte. The bully beef cans had the initials AM stamped on them. The Germans called it Alter Mann. Old Man. He resumed his rapid eating.
I would like to read this, Juliana thought as she reached to take the book from under Joe's arm. Will he be here that long? The book had grease on it; pages were torn. Finger marks all over it. Read by truck drivers on the long haul, she thought. In the one-arm beaneries late at night. . . I'll bet you're a slow reader, she thought. I'll bet you've been poring over this book for weeks, if not months.
Opening the book at random, she read:
. . .now in his old age he viewed tranquillity, domain such as the ancients would have coveted but not comprehended, ships from the Crimea to Madrid, and all the Empire, all with the same coin, speech, flag. The great old Union Jack dipping from sunrise to sunset: it had been fulfilled at last, that about the sun and the flag.
The only book I carry around, Juliana said, isn't actually a book; it's the oracle, the I Ching -- Frank got me hooked on it and I use it all the time to decide. I never let it out of my sight. Ever. She closed the copy of The Grasshopper. Want to see it? Want to use it?
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Resting her chin on her folded arms on the table surface and gazing at him sideways, she said, Have you moved in here permanently? And what are you up to? Brooding over the insults, the slanders. You petrify me, she thought, with your hatred of life. But -- you have something. You're like a little animal, not important but smart. Studying his limited, clever dark face she thought, How could I ever have imagined you as younger than me? But even that's true, your childishness; you are still the baby brother, worshiping your two older brothers and your Major Pardi and General Rommel, panting and sweating to break loose and get the Tommies. Did they actually garrote your brothers with loops of wire? We heard that, the atrocity stories and photos released after the war. . . She shuddered. But the British commandos were brought to trial and punished long ago.
The radio had ceased playing music; there seemed to be a news program, racket of shortwave from Europe. The voice faded and became garbled. A long pause, nothing at all. Just silence. Then the Denver announcer, very clear, close by. She reached to turn the dial, but Joe stopped her hand.

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As Frank Frink watched his ex-employer waddle down the corridor and into the main work area of W-M Corporation he thought to himself, The strange thing about Wyndam-Matson is that he does not look like a man who owns a factory. He looks like a Tenderloin bum, a wino, who has been given a bath, new clothes, a shave, haircut, shot of vitamins, and set out into the world with five dollars to find a new life. The old man had a weak, shifty, nervous, even ingratiating manner, as if he regarded everyone as a potential enemy stronger than he, whom he had to fawn on and pacify. They're going to get me, his manner seemed to say.
And yet old W-M was really very powerful. He owned controlling interests in a variety of enterprises, speculations, real estate. As well as the W-M Corporation factory.
Following after the old man, Frink pushed open the big metal door to the main work area. The rumble of machinery, which he had heard around him every day for so long -- sight of men at the machines, air filled with flash of light, waste dust, movement. There went the old man. Frink increased his pace.
Hey, Mr. W-M! he called.
The old man had stopped by the hairy-armed shop foreman, Ed McCarthy. Both of them glanced up as Frink came toward them.
Moistening his lips nervously, Wyndam-Matson said, I'm sorry, Frank; I can't do anything about taking you back. I've already gone ahead and hired someone to take your place, thinking you weren't coming back. After what you said. His small round eyes flickered with what Frink knew to be an almost hereditary evasiveness. It was in the old man's blood.
Frink said, I came for my tools. Nothing else. His own voice, he was glad to hear, was firm, even harsh.
Well, let's see, W-M mumbled, obviously hazy in his own mind as to the status of Frink's tools. To Ed McCarthy he said, I think that would be in your department, Ed. Maybe you can fix Frank here up. I have other business. He glanced at his pocket watch. Listen, Ed. I'll discuss that invoice later; I have to run along. He patted Ed McCarthy on the arm and then trotted off, Android 2.2 4GB Tablet HDMI
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Ed McCarthy and Frink stood together.
You came to get your job back, McCarthy said after a time.
Yes, Frink said.
I was proud of what you said yesterday.
So was I, Frink said. But -- Christ, I can't work it out anywhere else. He felt defeated and hopeless. You know that. The two of them had, in the past, often talked over their problems.
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cluding the rouge polishing. All the way from the rough Cratex. And except for the welding --
I never said I could weld, Frink said.
Did you ever think of going into business on your own?

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At the far end of the field, at the concourse entrance, a large number of people were waiting. Relatives, friends of passengers, some of them waving, peering, smiling, looking anxious, scanning faces. A heavyset middle-aged Japanese man, well-dressed in a British overcoat, pointed Oxfords, bowler, stood a little ahead of the others, with a younger Japanese beside him. On his coat lapel he wore the badge of the ranking Pacific Trade Mission of the Imperial Government. There he is, Baynes realized. Mr. N. Tagomi, come personally to meet me.
Starting forward, the Japanese called, Herr Baynes -- good evening. His head tilted hesitantly.
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Bit cold, sir; on this exposed field, Mr. Tagomi said. We shall begin return trip to downtown city by Mission helicopter. Is that so? Or do you need to use the facilities, and so forth? He scrutinized Mr. Baynes' face anxiously.
We can start right now, Baynes said. I want to check in at my hotel. My baggage, however --
Mr. Kotomichi will attend to that, Mr. Tagomi said. He will follow. You see, sir, at this terminal it takes almost an hour waiting in line to claim baggage. Longer than your trip.
Mr. Kotomichi smiled agreeably.
All right, Baynes said.
Mr. Tagomi said, Sir, I have a gift to graft.
I beg your pardon? Baynes said.
To invite your favorable attitude. Mr. Tagomi reached into his overcoat pocket and brought out a small box. Selected from among the finest objects d'art of America available. He held out the box.
Well, Baynes said. Thanks. He accepted the box.
All afternoon assorted officials examined the alternatives, Mr. Tagomi said. This is most authentic of dying old U.S. culture, a rare retained artifact carrying flavor of bygone halcyon day.
Mr. Baynes opened the box. In it lay a Mickey Mouse wristwatch on a pad of black velvet.
Was Mr. Tagomi playing a joke on him? He raised his eyes, saw Mr. Tagomi's tense, concerned face. No, it was not a joke. Thank you very much, Baynes said. This is indeed incredible.
Only few, perhaps ten, authentic 1938 Mickey Mouse watches in all world today, Mr. Tagomi said, studying him, drinking in his reaction, his appreciation. No collector known to me has one, sir.
They entered the air terminal and together ascended the ramp.
Behind them Mr. Kotomichi said, Harusame ni nuretsutsu yane no temari kana. . .
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Old poem, Mr. Tagomi said. Middle Tokugawa Period.
Mr. Kotomichi said, As the spring rains fall, soaking in them, on the roof, is a child's rag