The Santaroga Barrier by Frank Herbert
The women in the outer office glanced up as Dasein let himself through the counter gate, went back to their work. A gang of men was loading hand trucks on the ramp when Dasein emerged. He felt their eyes boring into him as he made his way down the dock above them. A sliding door off to the left opened suddenly. Dasein glimpsed a long table with a conveyor belt down its middle, a line of men and women working along it, sorting packages.
Something about the people in that line caught his attention. They were oddly dull-eyed, slow in their actions. Dasein saw their legs beneath the table. The legs appeared to be held in stocks.
The door closed.
Dasein continued out into the sunshine, disturbed by what he had seen. Those workers had appeared … mentally retarded. He crossed the yard wondering. Problems in Bay 9? Jenny was a competent psychologist. More than competent. What did she do here? What did she really do?
The gate guard nodded to him, said: “Come again, Dr. Dasein.” The man went into his little house, lifted a telephone, spoke briefly into it.
‘The gate guard will be expecting you,’ Dasein thought.
He crossed to the Inn, ran lightly up the steps and into the lobby. A gray-haired woman sat behind the desk working at an adding machine. She looked up at Dasein.
“Could I get a line out to Berkeley?” he asked.
“All the lines are out,” she said. “Some trouble with a brush fire.”
“Thanks.”
Dasein went outside, paused on the long porch, scanned the sky. Brush fire? There wasn’t a sign or smell of smoke.
Everything about Santaroga could appear so natural, he thought, if it weren’t for the underlying sense of strangeness and secrecy that made his neck hairs crawl.
Dasein took a deep breath, went down to his truck, nursed it to life.
This time, he took the turn to ‘City Center.’ The Avenue of the Giants widened to four lanes presently with homes and business mixed at seeming random on both sides. A park opened on the left—paved paths, central bandstand, lower borders. Beyond the park, a stone church lifted an imposing spire into the sky. The sign on its lawn read: Church of All Faiths … Sermon: ‘Intensity of God response as a function of anxiety.’”
Intensity of God response? Dasein wondered. It was quite the oddest sermon announcement he had ever seen. He made a mental note to try and catch that sermon on Sunday.
The people on the streets began to catch Dasein’s attention. Their alertness, the brisk way they moved, was a contrast to the dullness of the line he’d seen in the Co-op. Who were those dull creatures? For that matter, who were these swiftly striding folk on the streets?
There was vitality and a happy freedom in the people he saw, Dasein realized. He wondered if the mood could be infectious. He had never felt more vital himself.
Dasein noted a sign on his right just past the park: A gamboling sheep with the letters “Blue Ewe” carved in a scrolling script. It was a windowless front faced with blue one, an impersonal façade broken only by wide double doors containing one round glass port each.
So Marden wanted to have lunch with him there. Why? it seemed obvious the partrol captain had taken the briefcase. Was he going to pull the ‘go-and-never-darken-my-door’ routine he’d used on the hapless salesman in the dining room of the Inn? Or would it be something more subtle designed for ‘Jenny’s friend from the school’?
At the far end of the town, the street widened once more to open a broad access to a twelve-sided service station. Dasein slowed his truck to admire the structure. It was the largest service station he had ever seen. A canopy structure jutted from each of the twelve sides. Beneath each canopy were three rows of pumps, each row designed to handle four vehicles. Just beyond it, separated from the giant heel of the station, stood a building containing rows of grease racks. Behind the station was a football-field-sized parking area with a large building at the far end labeled “Garage.”
Dasein drove into the station, stopped at an outside row of pumps, got out to study the layout. He counted twenty grease racks, six cars being serviced. Cars were coming and going all around him. It was another hive. He wondered why none of the datum-data mentioned this complex. The place swarmed with young men in neat blue-gray uniforms.
One of the neat young men came trotting up to Dasein, said: “What grade, sir?”
“Grade?”
“What octane gas do you want?”
“What do you have?”
“Eighty, ninety and a hundred-plus.”
“Fill it with ninety and check the oil.”
Dasein left the young man to his labors, walked out toward the street to get a better perspective on the station. It covered at least four acres, he estimated. He returned to the truck as the young man emerged from beneath the hood holding the dipstick.
“Your oil’s down a bit more than a quart,” the young man said.
“Put in thirty-weight detergent,” Dasein said.
“Excuse me,” he said, “but I heard this clunker drive in. We carry an aircraft grade of forty weight. I’d recommend you use it. You won’t burn quite as much.”
“What’s it cost?”
“Same as all the others—thirty-five cents a quart.”
“Okay.” Dasein shook his head. Aircraft grade at that price? Where did Mr. Sam buy it?
“How do you like Santaroga?” the young man asked, his voice bright with the invitation for a compliment.
“Fine,” Dasein said. “Beautiful little town. You know, this is the biggest service staton I’ve ever seen. It’s a wonder there haven’t been any newspaper or magazine articles about it.”
“Old Sam doesn’t cotton to publicity,” the attendant said.
“Why’s it so damn’ big?” Dasein asked.
“Has to be big. It’s the only one in the valley.” The young man worked his way around the engine, checking the water in the radiator, the level in the battery. He grinned at Dasein. “Kinda surprises most outsiders. We find it handy. Some of the farmers have their own pumps and there’s service at the airport, but they all get their supplies through Sam.” He closed the hood.
“And where does Old Sam get his supplies?”
The attendant leveled a probing stare at Dasein. “I sure hope you haven’t taken on a sideline with one of the big oil companies, sir,” he said. “If you’re thinking of selling to Sam, forget it.”
“I’m just curious,” Dasein said. The attendant’s choice of words was puzzling. Sideline? Dasein chose to ignore it for the moment, intent on the larger question.
“Sam orders his supplies once a year on open bid,” the attendant said. He topped off the truck’s gas tank, returned the hose to its holder. “This year it’s a little company in Oklahoma. They truck it up here in convoys.”
“That so?”
“I wouldn’t say it if it weren’t so.”
“I wasn’t questioning your word,” Dasein said. “I was registering surprise.”
“Don’t see much to get surprised about. Person ought to buy where he gets the most value for his money. That’ll be three dollars and three cents.”
Dasein counted out the change, said: “Is there a pay phone around here?”
“If you’re making a local call, there’s a phone inside you can use, Dr. Dasein,” the attendant said. “The pay phones are over there beside the rack building, but no sense wasting your time if you’re calling outside. Lines are down. There was a fire over on the ridge.”
Dasein went to full alert, glared at the attendant. “How’d you know my name?” he demanded.
“Heck, mister, it’s all over town. You’re Jenny’s fellow from the city. You’re the reason she sends all the locals packing.”
The grin that went with this statement should have been completely disarming, but it only made Dasein more wary.
“You’re going to like it here,” the attendant said. “Everybody does.” The grin faded somewhat. “If you’ll excuse me, sir. I’ve other cars to service.”
&nb
A long green Chrysler Imperial pulled into the empty space on the other side of the pumps. The driver, a fat man smoking a cigarette in a holder, leaned out, asked: “Hey! This the road out to 395?”
“Straight ahead,” Dasein said.
“Any gas stations along the way?”
“Not here in the valley,” Dasein said. “Maybe something outside.” He shrugged. “I’ve never been out that way.”
“You damn’ natives,” the driver growled. The Imperial shot ahead in a surge of power, swerved out onto the avenue and was gone.
“Up yours,” Dasein muttered. “Who the hell you calling a native?”
He climbed into his truck, turned back the way he had come. At the fork, he headed up the mountain toward Porterville. The road climbed up, up—winding its way out of the redwoods and into a belt of oaks. He came at last to the turn off where he’d taken his first long look at the valley. He pulled out and parked.
A light smokey haze obscured details, but the Co-op stood out plainly and the slash burner of a sawmill off to the left. The town itself was a patch of color in the trees—tile roofs—and there was a serpentine river line out of the hills straight across from him. Dasein glanced at his wristwatch—five minutes to ten. He debated going out to Porterville and placing his call to Selador there. That would crowd him on the date with Marden, though. He decided to post a letter to Selador, have the “burned out phone lines” story checked from that end.
Without his briefcase and notes, Dasein felt at a disadvantage. He rummaged in the glove compartment, found a small gas-record notebook and stub of pencil, began setting down his observations for later formal entry in his report.
“The township itself is small,” he wrote, “but it appears to serve a large market area. There are a great many people about during the day. Note twelve double pumps in service station. Transients?
“Odd alertness about the natives. Sharpness of attitude toward each other and outsiders.
“Question local use of Jaspers products. Why won’t the cheese travel? What’s the reason for the decided local preference? It tastes different than what I bought outside. What about aftertaste? Subjective? What relationship to the beer?
“Investigate use of Jaspers as a label. Adjective?”
Something big was moving through the trees on the hill beyond the Co-op. The movement caught Dasein’s attention. He studied it a moment. Too many trees intervened to permit a clear look.
Dasein went around to the camper back, found his binoculars there. He focused them on the movement in the trees. The donut-wheeled bush buggy leaped into view. Marden was driving. It threaded its way through trees and buck brush. The thing appeared to be herding something … or someone. Dasein scanned ahead for a clearing, found one, waited. Three men in hunting clothes emerged, hands clasped over their heads. Two dogs flasked them, watchful, guarding. The hunters appeared angry, frightened.
The group angled down into a stand of redwoods, was lost to view. Dasein climbed back into the cab, made a note on what he had seen.
It was all of a pattern, he thought. These were things that could be resolved by natural, logical explanations. A law enforcement officer had picked up three illegal hunters. That was what law enforcement officers were supposed to do. But the incident carried what Dasein was coming to recognize as a Santaroga twist. There was something about it out of phase with the way the rest of the world operated.
He headed his truck back into the valley, determined to question Marden about the captive hunters.
3
The Blue Ewe’s interior was a low-key grotto, its walls painted in varying intensities of pastel blue. Rather ordinary banquette booths with tables flanked an open area of tables and chairs. A long bar with a mirror decorated by dancing sheep occupied the back wall.
Marden awaited him in one of the booths. A tall iced drink stood in front of him. The patrol captain appeared relaxed, his red hair neatly combed. The collar tabs of his uniform shirt carried the double bars of a captain. He wore no coat. His eyes followed Dasein’s approach with an alert directness.
“Care for a drink?” he asked as Dasein sat down.
“What’s that you’re having?” Dasein nodded at the iced drink.
“Kind of an orange beer with Jaspers.”
“I’ll try it,” Dasein said.
Marden raised a hand toward the bar, called: “Another ade, Jim.” He returned his attention to Dasein. “How’s your head today?”
“I’m fine,” Dasein said. He found himself feeling edgy, wondering how Marden would bring up the subject of the briefcase. The drink was put in front of him. Dasein welcomed it as a distraction, sipped it. His tongue encountered a sharp orange flavor with the tangy, biting overtone of Jaspers.
“Oh, about your briefcase,” Marden said.
Dasein put down his drink with careful deliberation, met Marden’s level, measuring stare. “Yes?”
“Hope it hasn’t inconvenienced you, my taking it.”
“Not too much.”
“I was curious about technique mostly,” Marden said. “I already knew why you were here, of course.”
“Oh?” Dasein studied Marden carefully for a clue to the man’s mood. How could he know about the project?
Marden took a long swallow of the orange beer, wiped his mouth. “Great stuff, this.”
“Very tasty,” Dasein agreed.
“You’ve laid out a pretty routine approach, really,” Marden said. He stared at Dasein. “You know, I’ve the funny feeling you don’t realize how you’re being used.”
There was amusement in Marden’s narrow face. It touched off abrupt anger in Dasein, and he struggled to hide his reaction. “What’s that supposed to mean?” he asked.
“Would it interest you to know you’ve been a subject of discussion before our Town Council?” Marden asked.
“Me?”
“You. Several times. We knew they’d get to you sooner or later. Took ’em longer than we expected.” Marden shook his head. “We circulated a photograph of you to key people—waiters, waitresses, bartenders, clerks …”
“Service station attendants,” Dasein said. The pattern was becoming clear. He made no attempt to conceal his anger. How dared they?
Marden was sweet reasonableness. “They were bound to get wind of the fact that one of our girls was sweet on you,” he said. “That’s an edge, you understand. You use any edge you can find.”
“Who’s this they you keep referring to?” Dasein demanded.
“Hmmmm,” Marden said.
Dasein took three deep breaths to calm himself. He had never really expected to hide his purpose here indefinitely, but he had hoped for more time before exposure. What the devil was this crazy patrol captain talking about?
“You pose quite a problem,” Marden said.
“Well, don’t try tossing me out of the valley the way you did that stupid salesman last night or those hunters you got today,” Dasein said. “I’m obeying the law.”
“Toss you out? Wouldn’t think of it. Say, what would you like to eat? We did come here for lunch.”
Dasein found himself psychologically off balance, his anger diverted by this sudden change of subject, his whole attitude hampered by feelings of guilt.
“I’m not hungry,” he growled.
“You will be by the time the food gets here. I’ll order for both of us.” Marden signaled the waiter, said: “Two salads Jaspers on the special lunch.”
“I’m not hungry,” Dasein insisted.
“You will be.” Marden smiled. “Hear a big two-fisted outsider in a Chrysler Imperial called you a native today. Did that tick you off?”
“News certainly gets around here,” Dasein said.
??
“Jenny has nothing to do with this.”
“She has everything to do with it. Let’s understand each other, Doc. Larry needs another psychologist and Jenny says you’re one of the best. We can make a good place here in the valley for a fellow like you.”
“How big a place?” Dasein asked, his mind on the two investigators who’d died here. “About six feet long and six feet deep?”
“Why don’t you stop running away from yourself, Dasein?”
“I learned early,” Dasein said, “that a good run was better than a bad stand.”
“Huh?” Marden turned a puzzled frown on him.
“I’m not running away from myself,” Dasein said. “That’s what I mean. But I’m not going to stand still while you order my life for me the way you ordered those salads.”
“You don’t like the food you don’t have to eat it,” Marden said. “Am I to understand you won’t consider the job Larry’s offering?”
Dasein looked down at the table, absorbing the implications of the offer. The smart thing would be to play along, he knew. This was his opportunity to get behind the Santaroga Barrier, to find out what really went on in the valley. But he couldn’t escape the thought of the Town Council at its meetings, questioning Jenny about him, no doubt, discussing preparations for the Dasein invasion! The anger wouldn’t stay down.
“You and Jenny and the rest, you have it all figured out, eh?” he asked. “Throw the poor sucker a bone. Buy him off with a …”
“Slack off, Doc,” Marden said. The voice was level and still with that tone of amusement. “I’m appealing to your intelligence, not to your greed. Jenny says you’re a very sharp fellow. That’s what we’re counting on.”
Dasein gripped his hands into fists beneath the table, brought himself under control. So they thought he was a poor innocent jerk to be maneuvered by a pretty female and money!
“You think I’m being used,” he said.