The Man Whose Teeth Were All Exactly Alike by Philip K. Dick
“Mr. Runcible, there were two men looking for you. They said they’d be back. I think they went over to the coffee shop. One was that professor. Doctor Freitas.”
Ten minutes later he saw them crossing the street, Freitas again wearing a gray-striped suit and bow tie, and with him a taller heavier man who looked like an insurance salesman. He had on a Stetson hat, a dark suit, bright green tie, and under his arm was a briefcase.
“Can we talk?” Freitas said, as soon as he and his companion had entered the office. “This is a colleague of mine, Jack Bowman. Also from the anthropology department.”
The three of them retired to a side room that Runcible used as storage space. Seated on a wooden box, Freitas said,
“As far as we can tell, at this point—” He fixed his eyes on Runcible. “Your skull has no antiquity.”
“Meaning what?” Runcible said. He felt his blood stop in his veins; his body processes halted.
“It could be fifty or a hundred or two hundred years old. It’s contemporary, in other words.”
To that, Runcible could say nothing. He heard, from the other room, the sound of the phone and the old woman answering it. Business, he thought. Going on.
“What now?” Runcible said.
Bowman said, “We’d like to take the skull and the artifacts with us. For further tests.”
“Sure,” he said, with a sensation of brine, terrible, scalding brine, in his mouth. “What can I lose?”
“You can lose your skull,” Freitas said. “Or rather, we could possibly lose it or damage it. We’ll be careful, naturally. Bowman is quite interested in it. So am I.”
Bowman said, “Who else have you called to examine it? I’ve seen several newspaper articles on it, but I couldn’t tell who has actually studied it thoroughly, and how qualified they are, and so on. All I could get was that you feel it to be authentic, and you have some authority to back you up, someone of professional status.”
“You know Michael Wharton?” he said. “He feels it’s the real thing. He looked it over pretty thoroughly.”
Bowman glanced questioningly at Freitas.
“The local school teacher,” Freitas said. “Fourth grade. Has a good lay knowledge.” Both men smiled slightly; they exchanged what might have been a wink between them. Runcible went through the motions of lighting himself a cigarette. He did not look directly at them.
“And you,” Bowman said, “For the record, you’re a Realtor in this area. What is your background? Any academic training?”
“No,” he said.
“Everyone here digs,” Freitas said. “For arrowheads, anyhow.”
“Let’s have a look at the site,” Bowman said.
Runcible drove them from the office up the hill to his house. Several curious persons stood around on the road; he had had a better fence put up around his property to keep unauthorized people out, and he had posted NO TRESPASSING signs everywhere. Neither Freitas nor Bowman noticed the people; they passed on through the gate, and soon they were back in the eucalyptus grove with their tools and work clothes, preparing to scratch about.
“Have you been getting much notoriety?” Bowman asked once, when a group of people appeared on the hillside above Runcible’s property. “You want to be sure that they can’t get in here and start carting off everything as souvenirs. They’ll strip you blind. Every rock and bone and shard.”
Runcible said, “When I’m at work I have my wife watch. And at night there’re so many dogs in the neighborhood nobody can get around on foot.” He had seated himself on a eucalyptus log, near them.
“Listen,” Freitas said. “We would have given a testicle apiece if it could have turned out to be mid-Pleistocene.”
“I know,” Runcible said.
He continued to sit and watch the two men dig. An hour or so passed, during which no one spoke to him, although the two men discussed various subjects between them. Once they stopped working to examine what looked to him like a pale, corroded domino; they did not bother to show it to him but put it away in a container.
“I better get back to my office,” he said at last.
They scarcely noticed him.
Depressed and vaguely resentful, he left them, got into his car, and drove back to Runcible Realty. There, he picked up where he had left off; he got the house key from his old woman and carried it up onto the mesa to the party it belonged to.
That evening, as he was closing his office, Janet phoned him.
“Leo,” she said, “Mr. Freitas and that other man asked me to call you. They’re leaving now and they want to take the skull. They said I should check with you before letting them have it.”
“They can take it,” he said.
“They’re using your portable,” she said. “To type out some sort of receipt.”
“Okay,” he said, with irritation. “I don’t care.”
He got home to find them still there. They were in his study, seated across from each other, deep in discussion. When he entered the room Freitas said.
“We forgot about the car. It’s down at the bottom of the hill. We’d walk, but we have too many things, including your skull.”
“I’ll drive you,” he said.
Bowman said, “We found several things of interest.” They had spread out a large light cloth on Runcible’s desk, and on it Runcible saw a number of grimy objects, evidently some of bone, some of granite. And, on the floor, wrapped in newspapers, a large round object.
His heart picked up in its beat.
“Yes sir,” Bowman said. “Another skull. Plus pelvis and thigh bones. This one seems to be a female.”
“What’s that mean?” Runcible demanded. “Isn’t that a good sign?”
Freitas said, “Again, it’s distinctly Neanderthaloid…no doubt of that. This really is puzzling. Except for the carbon dating test, your skull gave evidence of authenticity. And our first examination of this more complete group suggests—to us, anyhow—that we have the real thing.” Behind his calm manner a tremor of excitement stirred; Runcible caught it, and he saw the same emotion on Bowman’s face. The same tension.
This is how I must have looked, he thought. When I first got wind of this, of what it might be.
“The carbon dating test destroyed Piltdown,” Bowman said. “It gave it the final push into oblivion. Out of the Britannica and into the circus tent.” He gestured towards the bundle on the floor. “Here, we’ve got the test from the start. There’s no reason even to doubt. Your skull simply is not out of this period, and probably neither is this. Of course, we’ll test.” He paced around jumpily, rubbing his lower lip.
“What do you think?” Runcible said. “What does it mean?”
“It means we have to suspend judgment,” Freitas said.
Glancing his way, Bowman said sharply, “This is really a mess. It really is.” He had a worried, resentful look, now. “Suppose in some way these things failed to deteriorate—possibly they were placed in protracted contact with material that contaminated them in such a way that the carbon balance was perpetually maintained.” He shrugged. “I give up; it’s ridiculous in its own way.”
“Hasn’t the hydrogen bomb testing fouled up the carbon deposits in the world?” Runcible said.
Neither man answered him.
“I’ll tell you what I think,” Freitas said. “I think this is the Piltdown skull all over again. A thorough-going fake, with every detail skillfully manufactured, but no way of fooling the carbon dating test. That’s why we use it, for christ’s sake.”
Bowman said, “You’d think anyone today, knowing about the carbon dating test, with the skill to do this good a job, and the motive to do it, would procure a sufficiently old skull. When a stamp forger wants to counterfeit a valuable old stamp he gets another issue of the same period, on the same paper, old paper. He only fakes the inked part. His paper stands up under the test.”
“Is there any proof that it’s a fake?” Runcible said.
“You mean indications t
It took the three of them several more hours to get the findings properly insulated and packed into Freitas’ black De Soto. Evidently their activities had been noticed; two cars of reporters appeared, both from San Francisco papers, and the reporters hung around during the final part of their loading.
The next morning when Runcible bought his Chronicle he found on the first page, in the left-hand column, an article about him.
REALTOR’S SKULL PRONOUNCED HOAX
BY UNIVERSITY OF CAL SCIENTISTS
Seated in his car he read the article with numbed feelings.
University of California anthropologists, studying the recently-unearthed alleged stone age skull found by Realtor Leon Runcible at Carquinez, in Marin County, have come to the tentative conclusion that the skull is either the work of a clever prankster or an accidental natural formation no older than three hundred years, it was learned exclusively by the Chronicle today. Ridges around the brow, the receding jaw and fused teeth, according to Jack Bowman of the University of California anthropology department, may indicate no more than that a deformed individual existed “who possessed by chance some of the physical characteristics” associated by anthropologists with the Neanderthal race, a long extinct “missing link” that existed hundreds of thousands of years ago in Europe and Asia but not in North or South America, according to most experts. Research on this skull, plus later finds, is still going on. The anthropologists involved in detection of the possible fraud or possible highly valuable scientific find now say that an entire skeleton may have been unearthed. It was three weeks ago that Leon Runcible of Carquinez claimed to have unearthed a genuine Neanderthal skull, and although his claim was not backed up by any scientific evidence, it was widely felt that such a find was within the realm of possibility. The Neanderthals, a sub-human race remarkable for their stooped posture, receding chins and ridged brows, once inhabited most of the world, it is believed. Numerous skeletal remains of Neanderthal types have been found in the past forty years. The Neanderthals made flint tools and may have had primitive religious rites. They are the best known of the so-called “missing link” races that existed before the true men. The announcement of this possible hoax or possible invaluable scientific find brings to mind the recent expose of the so-called Piltdown skull, for many decades universally accepted by scientists throughout the world as genuine. It was shown to be a hoax, compounded of a Homo sapiens skull and
Runcible did not turn to page six for the balance of the article. The hell with it, he said to himself, folding up the paper and placing it on the seat beside him. He drove to his office, and from there he telephoned the Chronicle.
“Listen,” he said harshly, when he had got hold of someone higher up than the switchboard girl. “This is Leo Runcible. There’s that article on page one of today’s Chronicle about me and the skull which I found.”
The man at the other end seemed to know about the article. So leaning back and holding the phone away from his mouth, he continued in a firm voice, the voice he used when he called someone to get something done. It was not the voice he used with clients nor the voice he used with friends.
“Here’s what I have to say,” he said. “I’ll tell you what I think about that article, and you can print it. There’s no hoax involved; you hear what I’m saying? Do you hear?” He spoke slowly; he did not let his pace speed up. He let them hear his controlled exasperation with them and their article. “This area here—do you know the area I’m talking about? I mean the Carquinez area of West Marin, one of the finest if not the finest area in Northern California—is known for its finds. Its historic and scientific finds. When was the last time you sent a man up into this area?”
The person at the Chronicle said that there had been several men up recently to cover the story about the skull.
“Well, then I wonder what kind of men they were,” he said. “If they could come up to this area and not see what sort of place it is and what sort of people live here. Do you mean to infer that there are people up here who would play games with the public good? Let me tell you this. We have too much respect for the public good up here. We have too much respect for ourselves. If there’s any hoax it’s in your article.” Now his voice did rise. “And you can quote me. If you’re more interested in a sensational approach to science then getting at the real truth, then go ahead, and god help you. But don’t count on me any more, for anything. I think the additional news coming out of this area can better go to some other periodical.”
At the other end the man said something but he did not listen.
“Goodbye,” he said. And he hung up. For a time he sat at his desk, calming down, getting his voice under control. Then he dialed the operator and got the number of the University of California at Berkeley. Soon he was connected with the University switchboard asking to speak to either Bowman or Freitas in the anthropology department.
It was Bowman that he managed to get hold of, at last.
“Listen,” he said, “did you see today’s Chronicle?”
“Yes,” Bowman said. “We were going to call you, but Tony hasn’t come in yet. I was waiting for him; he ought to be here any time now. It’s after nine.”
Runcible said, “What did you tell the Chronicle? That the skull I found is a hoax, or what did you say?”
“We examined the more complete skeleton,” Bowman said. “We found artificial varnishes and traces of bleaches and acids used to give the material the appearance of age. Evidently whoever made them didn’t give this one the same care. He must have just done it. Some of the varnish wasn’t fully dry. Particles of dirt were embedded in it.”
“Then there’s no doubt,” he said, keeping his voice steady.
“Absolutely no doubt,” Bowman said. “Somebody did it in a shop, using modern tools and substances.” His voice had an aloof, unsympathetic ring; there was no friendliness there, at all. No breaking the news gently.
“Thank you very much,” Runcible said, in as formal a voice as possible. “That answers my question.” He hung up, then.
While he was sitting at his desk, meditating, the phone rang. He answered it, and again found himself connected with Bowman.
“I wanted to tell you,” Bowman said, “but you rang off so abruptly. In no way are we accusing you, or do we necessarily think that you had anything to do with the manufacturing of these objects.”
To that he said nothing.
“We’re only reporting what we discovered,” Bowman said. “Which is what you asked us to do.”
“That’s right,” he said.
“We’ll be happy to mail you or bring you all the findings. And of course we’ll return the objects themselves.”
“Okay,” he said.
Bowman said, “The Chronicle article, by the way, is based on our earlier findings. On your first skull. We haven’t said anything to anybody yet about what we found last night; we wanted to talk to you first and see what you said.”
“Go ahead,” he said.
“Fine,” Bowman said. “There’s no alternative, actually.”
Runcible said, “I’d like to have them examined by someone else. Do you have any suggestions?”
That seemed to set the man back. “Well,” he said, “I don’t know. You could take them to another university. Almost any one that has lab facilities. I’ll look into it, if you want. Stanford, I’m sure.”
“I’ll do that,” he said, “Stanford. Thanks.”
Bowman said, “But there’s no doubt that the things were made in a workshop. There’re even marks made by metal tools.”
“Fine,” he said.
“Don’t you understand me?” Bowman said in a sharp tone of voice. “This isn’t conjecture on our parts. There are even tiny bits, particles of metal detectable on microscopic and spe
Runcible hung up, then.
That’s it, he said to himself. That’s the whole business right there. Somebody faked it and planted it on my property.
But after a time he again dialed the operator. He asked her for the number of Stanford University in Paolo Alto, and then, when he had the number, he began the task of getting hold of someone in their anthropology department.
14
Across from him, seated on the living room couch with the newspaper open on her lap, Sherry said,
“This is fascinating. This about Runcible and his Neanderthal skull.”
Walter Dombrosio studied her. Had she guessed? She knew his ability and his experience and she knew about his hoaxes in the past. But she seemed not to tie the two together, the article in the newspaper and her husband.
“Yes,” he said cautiously. “I saw that.”
She continued, “It’s been in and out of the paper for weeks, now.”
“I know,” he said.
“What do you think? Is it genuine?”
He said, “Don’t the Cal scientists say it’s a fake?”
“Yes,” she said, reading intently. “They say it isn’t old and that it’s been worked on by some knowledgeable contemporary craftsman with a background in stone age objects and races. But it also quotes Runcible as saying that he’s going to get Stanford to look at it.”
“What does Stanford say to that?” Dombrosio said.
“They haven’t said anything.” She laid the paper aside, folding it up neatly and smoothing it. “They would, wouldn’t they? Look at it. They could hardly refuse.”
“I guess so,” he said. He did not feel much like discussing it with her. In fact, he talked very little to her in the evenings; after dinner, when they had done the dishes, he usually went off by himself to read or work, while she read or watched TV. Tonight, however, she clearly wanted to talk.