The Santaroga Barrier by Frank Herbert
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.
No doors, but three windows, Dasein thought.
He set a slower pace back up to his room. The lobby was still empty, but there were sounds of voices and the switchboard from the office behind the desk.
Once more in his room, Dasein stood at the window, looked down on the porch roof. The slope was shallow, shingles dry. He eased open the window, stepped out onto the roof. By leaning against the wall, he found he could work his way sideways along the roof.
At the first window, he took a firm grip on the ledge, looked for a gap in the curtain. There was no opening, but the sound of the TV was plain when he pressed his ear against the glass. He heard part of a soap commercial and one of the women in the room saying: “That’s enough of this channel, switch to NBC.”
Dasein drew back, crept to the next window. There was a half-inch gap at the bottom of the shade. He almost lost his balance bending to peer in it, caught himself, took a firm grip on the ledge and crouched to put his eyes to the gap.
The swimming wash of cathode gray in a shadowy room met his gaze. He could just make out a bank of eight TV receivers against the wall at his right. Five women sat in comfortable arm chairs at a good viewing distance from the screens. One of the women he noted with some satisfaction was knitting. Another appeared to be making notes on a shorthand pad. Yet another was operating some sort of recorder.
There was a businesslike women-at-work look about the group. They appeared to be past middle age, but when they moved it was with the grace of people who remained active. A blonde woman with a good figure stood up on the right, racked a clip-board across the face of the top right-hand screen, turned off the set. She flopped back into her chair with an exaggerated fatigue, spoke loudly:
“My God! Imagine letting that stuff pour uncensored into your brain day after day after day after …”
“Save it for the report, Suzie!” That was the woman with the recorder.
Report? Dasein asked himself. What report?
He swept his gaze around the room. A row of filing cabinets stood against the far wall. He could just see the edge of a couch directly under the window. A pull-down stairway of the type used for access to attics occupied the corner at the left. There were two typewriters on wheeled stands behind the women.
Dasein decided it was one of the most peculiar rooms he had ever seen. Here were all the fixtures of normalcy, but with that odd Santaroga twist to them. Why the secrecy? Why eight TV receivers? What was in the filing cabinets?
What report?
From time to time, the women made notes, used the recorder, switched channels. All the time, they carried on casual conversations only parts of which were audible to Dasein. None of it made much sense—small talk: “I decided against putting in pleats; they’re so much trouble.” “If Fred can’t pick me up after work, I’ll need a ride to town.”
His exposed position on the roof began to bother Dasein. He told himself there was nothing else to be learned from a vigil at the window. What explanation could he give if he were caught here?
Carefully, he worked his way back to his room, climbed in, closed the window. Again, he checked the hall. There just was no door into that strange room at this level. He walked down to the exit sign, opened a narrow door onto a back landing. An open stairway with doweled railing wound up and down from the landing. Dasein peered over the railing, looked down two stories to a basement level. He looked up. The stairwell was open to a skylight above the third floor.
Moving quietly, he climbed to the next level, opened the landing door onto another hall. He stepped in, looked at the wall above the secret room. Two steps from the landing there was another door labeled “Linen Supplies.” Dasein tried the handle—locked.
Frustrated, he turned back to the landing. As he stepped from the hall, his right foot caught on a loose edge of carpeting. In one terrifying instant, Dasein saw the railing and the open stairwell flash toward him. His right shoulder hit the rail with a splintering crash, slowing his fall but not stopping it. He clutched at the broken rail with his left hand, felt it bend out, knew then that he was going over—three stories down to the basement. The broken rail in his hand made a screeching sound as it bent outward. It all seemed to be happening in a terrible slow motion. He could see the edges of the descending stairway where they had been painted and the paint had run in little yellow lines. He saw a cobweb beneath one of the risers, a ball of maroon lint caught in it.
The broken rail came free in one last splintering crack and Dasein went over. In this deadly instant, as he saw in his mind his own body splattered on the concrete three floors down, strong hands grabbed his ankles. Not quite realizing what had happened, Dasein swung head down, released the broken rail and saw it turn and twist downward.
He felt himself being pulled upward like a doll, dragged against the broken edges of the railing, turned over onto his back on the landing.
Dasein found himself looking up into the scowling black face of Win Burdeaux.
“That were a mighty close one, sir,” Burdeaux said.
Dasein was gasping so hard he couldn’t answer. His right shoulder felt like a giant ball of pain. The fingers of his left hand were bent inward with an agonizing cramp from the strength with which he had gripped the rail.
“I heard someone try the supply closet door,” Burdeaux said. “I was in there, sir, and I came out. There you were going through the railing, sir. How did that happen?”
“Carpet,” Dasein gasped. “Tripped.”
Burdeaux bent to examine the area at the landing door. He straightened, said: “I’ll be blessed if that carpet isn’t torn there, sir. That’s a very dangerous situation.”
Dasein managed to straighten his cramped fingers. He took a deep breath, tried to sit up. Burdeaux helped him. Dasein noted that his shirt was torn. There was a long red scratch on his stomach and chest from being dragged across the broken rail.
“You best take it easy for a few minutes, sir,” Burdeaux said. “You want for me to call the doctor?”
“No … no, thank you.”
“It wouldn’t take but a minute, sir.”
“I’ll … be all right.”
Dasein looked at the torn carpet, a jagged edge of maroon fabric. He remembered the piece of railing as it had tumbled away into the stairwell and found it strange that he had no recollection of hearing the thing hit the bottom. There was another picture in his mind, equally disturbing: the fatal accidents of the two previous investigators. Dasein pictured himself dead at the bottom of that stairwell, the investigation—all very natural, regrettable, but natural. Such things happened.
But were they accidents?
His shoulder was beginning to throb.
“I’d better get down to my room … and change,” Dasein said. The pain in his shoulder, intense now, told him he had to have medical attention. He could feel some instinct in himself fighting the idea, though, even as he struggled upright.
Burdeaux reached out to help him to his feet, but Dasein pulled away, knowing the irrationality of the act as he did it.
“Sir, I mean you no harm,” Burdeaux said. There was a gentle chiding in the tone.
Was my fear of him that obvious? Dasein asked himself.
He remembered then the strong hands grabbing his ankles, the lifesaving catch at the brink of the stairwell. A feeling of apology overcame Dasein.
“I … know you don’t,” he said. “You saved my life. There aren’t words to thank you for that. I … was thinking about the broken rail. Shouldn’t
Using the wall as a support, Dasein gained his feet. He stood there panting. The shoulder was a massive agony.
“I will lock this door here, sir,” Burdeaux said, his voice gentle, but firm. “I am going to call the doctor, sir. You are favoring your shoulder. I suspect there is much pain in it. Best the doctor see you, sir.”
Dasein turned away, wondering at his own ambivalence. A doctor had to see the shoulder—yes. But did it have to be Piaget? Hugging the wall for support, Dasein moved down the steps. Piaget … Piaget … Piaget. Had Piaget been called on the two fatal accidents? Movement sent fiery pain through the shoulder. Piaget … Piaget … How could this incident on the stairs have been anything except an accident? Who could have predicted he’d be in that particular place at that particular moment?
There came the sound of the door being closed and latched above him. Burdeaux’s heavy footsteps sounded on the stairs. The vibration sent more pain through the aching shoulder. Dasein clutched the shoulder, paused on the second floor landing.
“Sir?”
Dasein turned, looked up at the dark Moorish face, noting the expression of concern.
“It will be best, sir,” Burdeaux said, “if you do not go out on the roof again. You may be subject to falls, sir. A fall from that roof would be very dangerous.”
4
The rain storm hit the valley just before dark. Dasein was settled into a heavy old-fashioned chair in the Piaget house by then, his shoulder immobilized by a firm bandage, Jenny sitting across from him on a hassock, an accusing look on her face.
A gentle, unswerving Burdeaux had driven him to the clinic adjoining Piaget’s house and had seen him into the antiseptic atmosphere of a tiled emergency room before leaving.
Dasein didn’t know what he’d expected—certainly not the cold professional detachment with which Piaget had set about treating the shoulder.
“Torn ligaments and a slight dislocation,” Piaget had said. “What were you trying to do—commit suicide?”
Dasein winced as a bandage was drawn tightly into place. “Where’s Jenny?”
“Helping with dinner. We’ll tell her about your damn foolishness after we have you repaired.” Piaget secured the end of a bandage. “You haven’t told me what you were up to.”
“I was snooping!” Dasein growled.
“Were you now?” He adjusted a sling around Dasein’s neck, set it to immobilize the arm. “There, that should hold you for awhile. Don’t move that arm any more than you have to. I guess I don’t have to tell you that. Leave your coat off. There’s a covered walkway to the house—right through that door. Go on in and I’ll send Jenny to entertain you until dinner.”
The covered walkway had glass sides and was lined with potted geraniums. The storm struck as Dasein was making his way between the pots and he paused a moment to look out at a new-mown lawn, rows of standard roses, a lowering blue-gray sky. The wind whipped rain down a street beyond the roses, bending the branches of a line of white birches. There were people hurrying along the sidewalk beside the birches. The damp hems of their coats lashed their legs in each gust.
Dasein felt a bit light-headed, chilled in spite of the walkway’s protection. What am I doing here? he asked himself. He swallowed in a dry throat, hurried on to the door of the house and into a paneled living room full of big furniture. There was the faint smell of a coal fire in the room. His shoulder was a place of dull throbbing. He made his way across the room, past a sideboard full of massive cut-glass pieces, lowered himself carefully into a deep, soft chair of corded green upholstery.
The lack of movement and its temporary easing of pain filled him with a momentary sense of relief. Then the shoulder began throbbing again.
A door slammed—hurrying feet.
Jenny burst upon him through a wide archway to the left. Her face was flushed. A damp wisp of hair strayed at her temple. She was wearing a simple orange dress, a shocking splash of color in the dull tones of the big room. With an odd sense of detachment, Dasein remembered telling her once that orange was his favorite color. The memory filled him with an unexplainable wariness.
“Gil, for heavens sake!” she said, stopping in front of him, hands on hips.
Dasein swallowed.
Jenny looked at his open shirt, the edge of bandages, the sling. Abruptly, she dropped to her knees, put her head in his lap, clutching at him, and he saw she was crying—silent tears that spread shiny dampness across her cheeks.
“Hey!” Dasein said. “Jenny …” The tears, the lack of contortion in her face—he found it embarrassing. She filled him with a sense of guilt, as though he’d betrayed her in some way. The feeling overrode his pain and fatigue.
Jenny took his left hand, pressed her cheek against it. “Gil,” she whispered. “Let’s get married—right away.”
Why not? he wondered. But the guilt remained … and the unanswered questions. Was Jenny bait in a trap that had been set for him? Would she even know it if she were? Did the worm know it was impaled on the hook to lure the trout?
A soft cough sounded from the archway to Dasein’s left.
Jenny pulled back, but still held his hand.
Dasein looked up to find Piaget there. The man had changed to a blue smoking jacket that made him look even more the mandarin. The big head was tipped slightly to the right with an air of amusement, but the dark eyes stared out speculatively.
Behind Piaget, amber wall sconces had been turned on in a dining room. Dasein could see a large oval table set with three places on white linen, the gleam of silver and crystal.
“Jenny?” Piaget said.
She sighed, released Dasein’s hand, retreated to the green ottoman, sat down with her legs curled under her.
Dasein grew aware of the smell of roasting meat savory with garlic. It made him acutely aware of hunger. In the heightening of his senses, he detected an enticing tang, recognized the Jaspers odor.
“I think we should discuss your susceptibility to accidents,” Piaget said. “Do you mind, Gilbert?”
“By all means,” Dasein said. He sat watching the doctor carefully. There was an edge of caution in Piaget’s voice, a hesitancy that went beyond a host’s reluctance to engage in an embarrassing conversation.
“Have you had many painful accidents?” Piaget asked. He strode across the room as he spoke, crossing to a quilted leather chair behind Jenny. When he sat, he was looking across Jenny’s shoulder at Dasein and Dasein had the abrupt suspicion that this position had been chosen with care. It aligned Piaget and Jenny against him.
“Well?” Piaget asked.
“Why don’t we trade answers?” Dasein countered. “You answer a question for me and I answer a question for you.”
“Oh?” Piaget’s face relaxed into the bemused smile of a private joke.
Jenny looked worried.
“What’s your question?” Piaget asked.
“A bargain’s a bargain,” Dasein said. “First, an answer. You ask if I’ve been involved in many accidents. No, I have not. That is, not before coming here. I can recall one other—a fall from an apple tree when I was eight.”
“So,” Piaget said. “Now, you have a question for me.”
Jenny frowned, looked away.
Dasein felt a sudden dryness in his throat, found his voice rasping when he spoke: “Tell me, Doctor—how did the two investigators die—the ones who came before me?”
Jenny’s head snapped around. “Gil!” There was outrage in her voice.
“Easy, Jenny,” Piaget said. A nerve began ticking on the broad plane of his left cheek. “You’re on the wrong track, young man,” he growled. “We’re not savages here. There’s no need. If we want someone to leave, he leaves.”
“And you don’t want me to leave?”
“Jenny doesn’t want you to leave. And that’s two questions from you. You owe me an answer.”
Dasein nodded. He stared across Jenny at Piaget, reluctant to look at her.
Dasein swallowed, lowered his gaze to meet a pleading stare in Jenny’s eyes. Piaget knew the answer to that question! Why did he ask it now?
“You know I do,” Dasein said.
Jenny smiled, but two bright tears beaded her eyelashes.
“Then why did you wait a year to come up here and tell her so?” Piaget asked. There was an angry, accusatory bite in his voice that made Dasein stiffen.
Jenny turned, stared at her uncle. Her shoulders trembled.
“Because I’m a damn’ stubborn fool,” Dasein said. “I don’t want the woman I love to tell me where I have to live.”
“So you don’t like our valley,” Piaget said. “Maybe we can change your opinion about that. You willing to let us try?”
No! Dasein thought. I’m not willing! But he knew this answer, visceral and instinctive, would come out petulant, childish. “Do your damnedest,” he muttered.
And Dasein wondered at himself. What were his instincts telling him? What was wrong with this valley that put him on guard at every turn?
“Dinner’s ready.”
It was a woman’s voice from the archway.
Dasein turned to find a gaunt gray female in a gray dress standing there. She was a Grant Woods early American come to life, long-nosed, wary of eye, disapproval in every line of her face.
“Thank you, Sarah,” Piaget said. “This is Dr. Dasein, Jenny’s young man.”
Her eyes weighed Dasein, found him wanting. “The food’s getting cold,” she said.
Piaget lifted himself out of his chair. “Sarah’s my cousin,” he said. “She comes from the old Yankee side of the family and absolutely refuses to dine with us if we eat at a fashionable hour.”
“Damn’ foolishness, the hours you keep,” she muttered. “My father was always in bed by this time.”
“And up at dawn,” Piaget said.
“Don’t you try to make fun of me, Larry Piaget,” she said. She turned away. “Come to table. I’ll bring the roast.”
Jenny crossed to Dasein, helped him to his feet. She leaned close, kissed his cheek, whispered: “She really likes you. She told me so in the kitchen.”