The consul said, “You’re holding me responsible for general conditions beyond my jurisdiction.” “Chicken shit,” Mr. Tagomi said. “I say that to that.” “This is not the way civilized individuals conduct business,” the consul said. “You’re making this all bitter and vindictive. Where it ought to be mere formality with no personality em broiled.” He threw his cigarette onto the corridor floor, then turned and strode off. “Take foul stinking cigarette along,” Mr. Tagomi said weakly, but the consul had turned the corner. “Childish conduct by self,” Mr. Tagomi said to Mr. Ramsey. “You witnessed repellent child ish conduct.” He made his way unsteadily back into his office. No breath at all, now. A pain flowed down his left arm, and at the same time a great open palm of hand flattened and squashed his ribs. Oof, he said. Before him, no carpet, but merely shower of sparks, rising, red. Help, Mr. Ramsey, he said. But no sound. Please. He reached out, stumbled. Nothing to catch, even. As he fell he clutched within his coat the silver triangle thing Mr. Childan had urged on him. Did not save me, he thought. Did not help. All that endeavor. His body struck the floor. Hands and knees, gasping, the car pet at his nose. Mr. Ramsey now rushing about bleating. Keep equipoise, Mr. Tagomi thought
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