“These are great times,” he said.

“Should I record that, sir? Is that the message?” Uncertainly she started up her machine.

“I was addressing you,” Mr. Tagomi said.

She smiled.

“Play my utterances back,” Mr. Tagomi said.

The tape transport spun. Then he heard his voice, tiny and metallic, issuing from the two-inch speaker. “… perpetrated by Herr Bormann in securing the salvation…” He listened to the insectlike squeak as it rambled on. Cortical flappings and scrapings, he thought.

“I have the conclusion,” he said, when the transport ceased turning. “Determination to exhalt and immolate themselves and so obtain a niche in history from which no life form can cast them, no matter what may transpire.” He paused. “We are all insects,” he said to Miss Ephreikian. “Groping toward something terrible or divine. Do you not agree?” He bowed. Miss Ephreikian, seated with her tape recorder, made a slight bow back.

“Send that,” he told her. “Sign it, et cetera. Work the sentences, if you wish, so that they will mean something.” As she started from the office he added, “Or so that they mean nothing. Whichever you prefer.”

As she opened the office dour she glanced at him curiously.

After she had left he began work on routine matters of the day. But almost at once Mr. Ramsey was on the intercom. “Sir, Mr. Baynes is calling.”

Good, Mr. Tagomi thought. Now we can begin important discussion. “Put him on,” he said, picking up the phone.

“Mr. Tagomi,” Mr. Baynes’ voice came.

“Good afternoon. Due to news of Chancellor Bormann’s death I was unexpectedly out of my office this morning. However—”

“Did Mr. Yatabe get in touch with you?”

“Not yet,” Mr. Tagomi said.

“Did you tell your staff to keep an eye open for him?” Mr. Baynes said. He sounded agitated.

“Yes,” Mr. Tagomi said. “They will usher him in directly he arrives.” He made a mental note to tell Mr. Ramsey; as yet he had not gotten around to it. Are we not to begin discussions, then, until the old gentleman puts in his appearance? He felt dismay. “Sir,” he began. “I am anxious to begin. Are you about to present your injection molds to us? Although we have been in confusion today—”

“There has been a change,” Mr. Baynes said. “We’ll wait for Mr. Yatabe. You’re sure he hasn’t arrived? I want you to give me your word that you’ll notify me as soon as he calls you. Please exert yourself, Mr. Tagomi.” Mr. Baynes’ voice sounded strained, jerky.

“I give you my word.” Now he, too, felt agitation. The Bormann death; that had caused the change. “Meanwhile,” he said rapidly, “I would enjoy your company, perhaps at lunch today. I not having had opportunity to have my lunch, yet.” Improvising, he continued. “Although we will wait on specifics, perhaps we could ruminate on general world conditions, in particular—”

“No,” Mr. Baynes said.

No? Mr. Tagomi thought. “Sir,” he said, “I am not well today. I had a grievous incident; it was my hope to confide it to you.”

“I’m sorry,” Mr. Baynes said. “I’ll ring you back later.” The phone clicked. He had abruptly hung up.

I offended him, Mr. Tagomi thought. He must have gathered correctly that I tardily failed to inform my staff about the old gentleman. But it is a trifle; he pressed the intercom button and said, “Mr. Ramsey, please come into my office.” I can correct that immediately. More is involved, he decided. The Bormann death has shaken him.

A trifle—and yet indicative of my foolish and feckless attitude. Mr. Tagomi felt guilt. This is not a good day. I should have consulted the oracle, discovered what Moment it is. I have drifted far from the Tao; that is obvious.

Which of the sixty-four hexagrams, he wondered, am I laboring under? Opening his desk drawer he brought out the I Ching and laid the two volumes on the desk. So much to ask the sages. So many questions inside me which I can barely articulate…

When Mr. Ramsey entered the office, he had already obtained the hexagram. “Look, Mr. Ramsey.” He showed him the book.

The hexagram was Forty-Seven. Oppression—Exhaustion.

“A bad omen, generally,” Mr. Ramsey said. “What is your question, sir? If I’m not offending you to ask.”

“I inquired as to the Moment,” Mr. Tagomi said. “The Moment for us all. No moving lines. A static hexagram.” He shut the book.

At three o’clock that afternoon, Frank Frink, still waiting with his business partner for Wyndam-Matson’s decision about the money, decided to consult the oracle. How are things going to turn out? he asked, and threw the coins.

The hexagram was Forty-seven. He obtained one moving line, Nine in the fifth place.

For a long time—at least half an hour—he studied the line and the material connected with it, trying to figure out what it might mean. The hexagram, and especially the moving line, disturbed him. At last he concluded reluctantly that the money would not be forthcoming.

“You rely on that thing too much,” Ed McCarthy said.

At four o’clock, a messenger from W-M Corporation appeared and handed Frink and McCarthy a manila envelope. When they opened it they found inside a certified check for two thousand dollars.

“So you were wrong,” McCarthy said.

Frink thought, Then the oracle must refer to some future consequence of this. That is the trouble; later on, when it has happened, you can look back and see exactly what it meant. But now–

“We can start setting up the shop,” McCarthy said. “Today? Right now?” He felt weary.

“Why not? We’ve got our orders made out; all we have to do is stick them in the mail. The sooner the better. And the stuff we can get locally we’ll pick up ourselves.” Putting on his jacket. Ed moved to the door of Frink’s room.

They had talked Frink’s landlord into renting them the basement of the building. Now it was used for storage. Once the cartons were out, they could build their bench, put in wiring, lights, begin to mount their motors and belts. They had drawn up sketches, specifications, parts lists. So they had actually already begun.

We’re in business, Frank Frink realized. They had even agreed on a name.

“The most I can see today,” he said, “is buying the wood for the bench, and maybe electrical parts. But no jewelry supplies.”

They went, then, to a lumber supply yard in south San Francisco. By the end of an hour they had their wood.

“What’s bothering you?” Ed McCarthy said as they entered a hardware store that dealt on a wholesale basis.

“The money. It gets me down. To finance things that way.”

“Old W-M understands,” McCarthy said.

I know, Frink thought. That’s why it gets me down. We have entered the world. We’re like him. Is that a pleasant thought?

“Don’t look back,” McCarthy said. “Look ahead. To the business.”

I am looking ahead, Frink thought. He thought of the hexagram. What offerings and libations can I make? And to whom?