Read The Santaroga Barrier Online
Authors: Frank Herbert
The Santaroga Barrier (8 page)
The left-hand column carried an international news summary whose brevity and language startled Dasein. It was composed of paragraph items, one item per story.
Item: “Those nuts are still killing each other in Southeast Asia.”
It slowly dawned on Dasein that this was the Vietnam news.
Item: “The dollar continues to slip on the international money market, although this fact is being played down or suppressed in the national news. The crash is going to make Black Friday look like a picnic.”
Item: “The Geneva disarmament talks are disarming nobody except the arrogant and the complacent. We recall that the envoys were still talking the last time the bombs began to fall.”
Item: “The United States Government is still expanding that big hidey hole under the mountain down by Denver. Wonder how many military bigshots, government officials and their families have tickets into there for when the blowup comes?”
Item: “France thumbed its nose at the U.S. again this week, said to keep U.S. military airplanes off French airbases. Do they know something we don't know?”
Item: “Automation nipped another .4 percent off the U.S. job market last month. The bites are getting bigger. Does anyone
have a guess as to what's going to happen to the excess population?”
have a guess as to what's going to happen to the excess population?”
Dasein lowered the paper, stared at it without seeing it. The damned thing was subversive! Was it written by a pack of Communists? Was that the secret of Santaroga?
He looked up to see the waiter standing beside him.
“That your newspaper?” the man asked.
“Yes.”
“Oh. I guess Al must've given it to you.” He started to turn away.
“Where does this restaurant buy its food?” Dasein asked.
“From all over the valley, Dr. Dasein. Our beef comes from Ray Allison's ranch up at the head of the valley. Our chickens come from Mrs. Larson's place out west of here. The vegetables and things we get at the greenhouses.”
“Oh. Thanks.” Dasein returned to the newspaper.
“You want anything else, Dr. Dasein? Al said to give you anything you want. It's on his bill.”
“No, thank you.”
The waiter left Dasein to the paper.
Dasein began scanning through it. There were eight pages, only a few advertisements at the beginning, and half the back page turned over to classified. The display ads were rather flat announcements: “Brenner and Sons have a new consignment of bedroom furniture at reasonable prices. First come, first served. These are all first quality local.
“Four new freezer lockers (16 cubic feet) are available at the Lewis Market. Call for rates.” The illustration was a smiling fat man holding open the door of a freezer locker.
The classified advertisements were mostly for trades: “Have thirty yards of hand-loomed wool (54 inches wide)âneed a good chain saw. Call Ed Jankey at Number One Mill.
“That '56 Ford one-ton truck I bought two years ago is still running. Sam Scheler says its worth about $50 or a good heifer. William McCoy, River Junction.”
Dasein began thumbing back through the paper. There was a garden column: “It's time to turn the toads loose in your garden to keep down the snails.”
And one of the inside pages had a full column of meeting
notices. Reading the column, Dasein was caught by a repetitive phrase: “Jaspers will be served.”
notices. Reading the column, Dasein was caught by a repetitive phrase: “Jaspers will be served.”
Jaspers will be served
, he thought.
Jaspers ⦠Jaspers â¦
It was everywhere. Did they really consume that much of the stuff? He sensed a hidden significance in the word. It was a unifying thing, something peculiarly Santarogan.
, he thought.
Jaspers ⦠Jaspers â¦
It was everywhere. Did they really consume that much of the stuff? He sensed a hidden significance in the word. It was a unifying thing, something peculiarly Santarogan.
Dasein turned back to the newspaper. A reference in a classified ad caught his eye: “I will trade two years' use of one half of my Jaspers Locker (20 cubic feet in level five of the Old Section) for six months of carpenter work. Leo Merriot, 1018 River Road.”
What the devil was a Jaspers Locker? Whatever it was, ten cubic feet of it for two years was worth six months' carpentryâno small item, perhaps four thousand dollars.
A splash of sunlight brought his head up in time to see a young couple enter the restaurant. The girl was dark haired with deeply set brown eyes and beautiful, winged eyebrows, her young man fair, blue-eyed, a chisled Norman face. They took the booth behind Dasein. He watched them in the tilted bar mirror. The young man glanced over his shoulder at Dasein, said something to the girl. She smiled.
The waiter served them two cold drinks.
Presently, the girl said: “After the Jaspers, we sat there and listened to the sunset, a rope and a bird.”
“Sometime you should feel the fur on the water,” her companion said. “It's the red upness of the wind.”
Dasein came to full alert. That haunting, elusive quality of almost-meaningâit was schizophrenic or like the product of a psychedelic. He strained to hear more, but they had their heads together, whispering, laughing.
Abruptly, Dasein's memory darted back more than three years to his department's foray into LSD experiments and he recalled that Jenny Sorge, the graduate student from Santaroga, had demonstrated an apparent immunity to the drug. The experiments, abandoned in the glare of sensational LSD publicity, had never confirmed this finding and Jenny had refused to discuss it. The memory of that one report returned to plague Dasein now.
Why should I recall that?
he wondered.
he wondered.
The young couple finished whatever they'd ordered, got up and left the restaurant.
Dasein folded the newspaper, started to put it into his briefcase. A hand touched his arm. He looked up to find Marden staring down at him.
“I believe that's my paper,” he said. He took it from Dasein's hand. “I was halfway to the forks before I remembered it. See you later.” He hurried out, the paper tucked under his arm.
The casual bruskness, the speed with which he'd been relieved of that interesting publication, left Dasein feeling angry. He grabbed up his briefcase, ran for the door, was in time to see Marden pulling away from the curb in a patrol car.
To hell with you!
he thought.
I'll get another one.
he thought.
I'll get another one.
The drugstore on the corner had no newspaper racks and the skinny clerk informed him coldly that the local newspaper could be obtained “by subscription only.” He professed not to know where it was published. The clerk in the hardware store down the street gave him the same answer as did the cashier in the grocery store across from where he'd parked his truck.
Dasein climbed into the cab, opened his briefcase and made notes on as many of the paper's items as he could recall. When his memory ran dry, he started up the truck began cruising up and down the town's streets looking for the paper's sign or a job printing shop. He found nothing indicating the
Santaroga Press
was printed in the town, but the signs in a used car lot brought him to an abrupt stop across the street. He sat there staring at the signs.
Santaroga Press
was printed in the town, but the signs in a used car lot brought him to an abrupt stop across the street. He sat there staring at the signs.
A four-year-old Buick bore the notice in its window: “This one's an oil burner but a good buy at $100.”
On a year old Rover: “Cracked block, but you can afford to put a new motor in it at this price: $500.”
On a ten-year-old Chevrolet: “This car owned and maintained by Jersey Hofstedder. His widow only wants $650 for it.”
His curiosity fully aroused, Dasein got out and crossed to Jersey Hofstedder's Chevrolet, looked in at the dash. The odometer recorded sixty-one thousand miles. The upholstery was leather, exquisitely fitted and tailored. Dasein couldn't see a scratch on the finish and the tires appeared to be almost new.
“You want to test drive it, Dr. Dasein?”
It was a woman's voice and Dasein turned to find himself face to face with a handsome gray-haired matron in a floral blouse and blue jeans. She had a big, open face, smooth tanned skin.
“I'm Clara Scheler, Sam's mother,” she said. “I guess you've heard of my Sam by now.”
“And you know me, of course,” Dasein said, barely concealing his anger. “I'm Jenny's fellow from the city.”
“Saw you this morning with Jenny,” she said. “That's one fine girl there, Dr. Dasein. Now, if you're interested in Jersey's car, I can tell you about it.”
“Please do,” Dasein said.
“Folks around here know how Jersey was,” she said. “He was a goldanged perfectionist, that's what. He had every moving part of this car out on his bench. He balanced and adjusted and fitted until it's just about the sweetest running thing you ever heard. Got disc brakes now, too. You can see what he did to the upholstery.”
“Who was Jersey Hofstedder?” Dasein asked.
“Who ⦠oh, that's right, you're new. Jersey was Sam's chief mechanic until he died about a month ago. His widow kept the Cord touring car Jersey was so proud of, but she says a body can only drive one car at a time. She asked me to sell the Chevvy. Here, listen to it.”
She slipped behind the wheel, started the motor.
Dasein bent close to the hood. He could barely hear the engine running.
“Got dual ignition,” Clara Scheler said. “Jersey bragged he could get thirty miles to the gallon with her and I wouldn't be a bit surprised.”
“Neither would I,” Dasein said.
“You want to pay cash or credit?” Clara Scheler asked.
“I ⦠haven't decided to buy it,” Dasein said.
“You and Jenny couldn't do better than starting out with Jersey's old car,” she said. “You're going to have to get rid of that clunker you drove up in. I heard it. That one isn't long for this world unless you do something about those bearings.”
“I ⦠if I decide to buy it, I'll come back with Jenny,” Dasein said. “Thank you for showing it to me.” He turned, ran
back to his truck with a feeling of escape. He had been strongly tempted to buy Jersey Hofstedder's car and found this astonishing. The woman must be a master salesman.
back to his truck with a feeling of escape. He had been strongly tempted to buy Jersey Hofstedder's car and found this astonishing. The woman must be a master salesman.
He drove back to the Inn, his mind in a turmoil over the strange personality which Santaroga presented. The bizarre candor of those used car signs, the ads in the
Santaroga Press
âthey were all of the same pattern.
Santaroga Press
âthey were all of the same pattern.
Casual honesty,
Dasein thought.
That could be brutal at the wrong time.
Dasein thought.
That could be brutal at the wrong time.
He went up to his room, lay down on the bed to try to think things through, make some sense out of the day. Marden's conversation over lunch sounded even more strange in review. A job with Piaget's clinic? The hauntingly obscure conversation of the young couple in the restaurant plagued him. Drugged? And the newspaper which didn't existâexcept by subscription. Jersey Hofstedder's carâDasein was tempted to go back and buy it, drive it out to have it examined by an
outside
mechanic.
outside
mechanic.
A persistent murmuring of voices began to intrude on Dasein's awareness. He got up, looked around the room, but couldn't locate the source. The edge of sky visible through his window was beginning to gray. He walked over, looked out. Clouds were moving in from the northwest.
The murmur of voices continued.
Dasein made a circuit of the room, stopped under a tiny ventilator in the corner above the dresser. The desk chair gave him a step up onto the dresser and he put his ear to the ventilator. Faint but distinct, a familiar television jingle advertising chewing gum came from the opening.
Smiling at himself, Dasein stepped down off the dresser. It was just somebody watching TV. He frowned. This was the first evidence he'd found that they even had TV in the valley. He considered the geography of the areaâa basin. To receive TV in here would require an antenna on one of the surrounding hills, amplifiers, a long stretch of cable.
Back onto the dresser he went, ear to the ventilator. He found he could separate the TV show (a daytime serial) from a background conversation between three or four women. One of the women appeared to be instructing another in knitting.
Several times he heard the word “Jaspers” and once, very distinctly, “A vision, that's all; just a vision.”
Several times he heard the word “Jaspers” and once, very distinctly, “A vision, that's all; just a vision.”
Dasein climbed down from the dresser, went into the hall. Between his door and the window at the end with its “Exit” sign there were no doors. Across the hall, yes, but not on this side. He stepped back into his room, studied the ventilator. It appeared to go straight through the wall, but appearances could be deceiving. It might come from another floor. What was in this whole rear corner of the building, though? Dasein was curious enough now to investigate.
Downstairs he trotted, through the empty lobby, outside and around to the back. There was the oak tree, a rough-barked patriarch, one big branch curving across a second-floor window. That window must be his, Dasein decided. It was in the right place and the branch confirmed it. A low porch roof over a kitchen service area angled outward beneath the window. Dasein swept his gaze toward the corner, counted three other windows in that area where no doors opened into a room. All three windows were blank with drawn shades.
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