The Man in the High Castle
Philip K. Dick
Language: English
Pages: 288
ISBN: 0547572484
Format: PDF / Kindle (mobi) / ePub
“The single most resonant and carefully imagined book of Dick’s career.” – New York Times
It's America in 1962. Slavery is legal once again. The few Jews who still survive hide under assumed names. In San Francisco, the I Ching is as common as the Yellow Pages. All because some twenty years earlier the United States lost a war—and is now occupied by Nazi Germany and Japan.
This harrowing, Hugo Award-winning novel is the work that established Philip K. Dick as an innovator in science fiction while breaking the barrier between science fiction and the serious novel of ideas. In it Dick offers a haunting vision of history as a nightmare from which it may just be possible to wake.
Winner of the Hugo Award
The Heart Has Reasons: Dutch Rescuers of Jewish Children During the Holocaust
American Spitfire Aces of World War 2
busy. He greeted Childan politely and offered him tea. “I will not bother you long,” Childan said after they had both begun sipping. Paul’s office, although small, was modern and simply furnished. On the wall one single superb print: Mokkei’s Tiger, a late-thirteenth-century masterpiece. “I’m always happy to see you, Robert,” Paul said, in a tone that held—Childan thought—perhaps a trace of aloofness. Or perhaps it was his imagination. Childan glanced cautiously over his teacup. The man
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
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
popular tunes, competing with the radios of other cabs, cars and buses. Childan did not hear; he was used to it. Nor did he take notice of the enormous neon signs with their permanent ads obliterating the front of virtually every large building. After all, he had his own sign; at night it blazed on and off in company with all the others of the city. What other way did one advertise? One had to be realistic. In fact, the uproar of radios, traffic noises, the signs and people lulled him. They
have to find my way back to the workshop, down there in that basement. Pick up where I left off, making the jewelry, using my hands. Working and not thinking, not looking up or trying to understand. I must keep busy. I must turn the pieces out. Block by block he hurried through the darkening city. Struggling to get back as soon as possible to the fixed, comprehensible place he had been. When he got there he found Ed McCarthy seated at the bench, eating his dinner. Two sandwiches, a thermos of
