“What's it cost?”
“Same as all the othersâthirty-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.”
Dasein found himself staring at a retreating back.
He suspected I might represent an oil company,
Dasein thought,
but
he knows my name ⦠and he knows about Jenny.
It was a curious disparity and Dasein felt it should tell him something. It could be the simple truth, though.
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, upâwinding 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 treesâtile roofsâand there was a serpentine river line out of the hills straight across from him. Dasein glanced at his wristwatchâfive 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.
T
he 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 peopleâwaiters, 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.
“It certainly does, Doc. Of course, what that fellow's
mistake
says to me is that you're just a natural Santarogan. Jenny didn't make any mistake about
you
.”
“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.
“We
know
you're being used.”
“You haven't said by whom.”
“Who's behind it? A group of financiers, Doc, who don't like what Santaroga represents. They want in and they can't get in.”
“The Santaroga Barrier,” Dasein said.
“That's what they call it.”
“Who are
they
?”
“You want names? Maybe we'll give them to you if that suits our purposes.”
“You want to use me, too, is that it?”
“That isn't the way Santaroga runs, Dasein.”
The salads came. Dasein looked down into an inviting array of greens, diced chicken and a creamy golden dressing. A pang of hunger gripped him. He sampled a bite of chicken with the dressing, tasted the now familiar tang of a Jaspers cheese in it. The damned stuff was ubiquitous, he thought. But he had to admit it was delicious. Perhaps there was something in the claim that it wouldn't travel.
“Pretty good, isn't it?” Marden asked.
“Yes, it is.” He studied the patrol captain a moment. “How does Santaroga run, Captain?”
“Council government with Town Meeting veto, annual elections. Every resident above age eighteen has one vote.”
“Basic Democracy,” Dasein said. “Very nice when you have a community this size, but ⦔
“We had three thousand voters and fifty-eight hundred proxies at the last Town Meeting,” Marden said. “It can be done if people are interested in governing themselves. We're interested, Dasein. That's how Santaroga's run.”
Dasein gulped the bite of salad in his mouth, put down his fork. Almost nine thousand people over age eighteen in the valley! That was twice as many as he'd estimated. What did they all do? A place like this couldn't exist by taking in each others' wash.
“You want me to marry Jenny, settle hereâanother voter,” Dasein said. “Is that it?”
“That's what Jenny appears to want. We tried to discourage her, but ⦔ He shrugged.
“Discourage herâlike interfering with the mails?”
“What?”
Dasein saw Marden's obvious puzzlement, told him about the lost letters.
“Those damn' biddies,” Marden said. “I guess I'll have to go down there and read them the riot act. But that doesn't change things, really.”
“No?”
“No. You love Jenny, don't you?”
“Of course I love her!”
It was out before Dasein could consider his answer. He heard his own voice, realized how basic this emotion was. Of course he loved Jenny. He'd been sick with longing for her. It was a wonder he'd managed to stay away this longâtestimony to wounded masculine pride and the notion he'd been rejected.
Stupid pride!
“Well, fine,” Marden said. “Finish your lunch, go look around the valley, and tonight you talk things over with Jenny.”
He can't really believe it's that simple,
Dasein thought.
“Here,” Marden said. He brought Dasein's briefcase from the seat, put it on the table between them. “Make your market study. They already know everything you can find out. That's not really how they want to use you.”
“How
do
they want to use me?”
“Find out for yourself, Doc. That's the only way you'll believe it.”
Marden returned to his salad, eating with gusto.
Dasein put down his fork, asked: “What happened to those hunters you picked up today?”
“We cut off their heads and pickled them,” Marden said. “What'd you think? They were fined and sent packing. You want to see the court records?”
“What good would that do?”
“You know, Doc,” Marden said, pointing a fork at Dasein, “you're taking this much the same way Win didâWin Burdeaux.”
Taking what?
Dasein wondered. But he asked: “
How
did Win take it?”
“He fought it. That's according to pattern, naturally. He caved in rather quickly, though, as I remember. Win was tired of running even before he got to Santaroga.”
“You amateur psychologists,” Dasein sneered.
“That's right, Doc. We could use another good professional.”
Dasein felt baffled by Marden's unassailable good nature.
“Eat your salad,” Marden said. “It's good for what ails you.”
Dasein took another bite of the chicken drenched in Jaspers sauce. He had to admit the food was making him feel better. His head felt clear, mind alert. Hunger crept up on one at times, he knew. Food took off the pressures, allowed the mind to function.
Marden finished eating, sat back.
“You'll come around,” he said. “You're confused now, but if you're as sharp as Jenny says, you'll see the truth for yourself. I think you'll like it here.”
Marden slid out of the booth, stood up.
“I'm just supposed to take your word for it that I'm being used,” Dasein said.
“I'm not running you out of the valley, am I?” Marden asked.
“Are the phone lines still burned out?” Dasein asked.
“Darned if I know,” Marden said. He glanced at his watch.
“Look, I have work to do. Call me after you've talked to Jenny.”
With that, he left.
The waiter came up, started collecting dishes.
Dasein looked up into the man's round face, took in the gray hair, the bent shoulders. “Why do you live here?” he asked.
“Huh?” The voice was a gravelly baritone.
“Why do you live in Santaroga?” Dasein asked.
“You nuts? This is my home.”
“But why this place rather than San Francisco, say, or Los Angeles?”
“You are nuts! What could I get there I can't get here?” He left with the dishes.
Dasein stared at his briefcase on the table. Market study. On the seat beyond it, he could see the corner of a newspaper. He reached across the table, captured the paper. The masthead read: “Santaroga Press.”