Herbert, Frank - The Santaroga Barrier

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2024-12-08 0 0 400.1KB 270 页 5.9玖币

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Chapter 1

The sun went down as the five-year-old Ford camper-pickup truck

ground over the pass and started down the long grade into Santaroga

Valley. A crescent-shaped turn-off had been leveled beside the first

highway curve. Gilbert Dasein pulled his truck onto the gravel,

stopped at a white barrier fence and looked down into the valley

whose secrets he had come to expose.

Two men already had died on this project, Dasein reminded himself.

Accidents. Natural accidents. What was down there in that bowl of

shadows inhabited by random lights? Was there an accident waiting

for him?

Dasein's back ached after the long drive up from Berkeley. He shut

off the motor, stretched. A burning odor of hot oil permeated the

cab. The union of truckbed and camper emitted creakings and

poppings.

The valley stretching out below him looked somehow different from

what Dasein had expected. The sky around it was a ring of luminous

blue full of sunset glow that spilled over into an upper belt of

trees and rocks.

There was a sense of quiet about the place, of an island sheltered

from storms.

What did I expect the place to be? Dasein wondered. He decided all

the maps he'd studied, all the reports on Santaroga he'd read, had

led him to believe he knew the valley. But maps were not the land.

Reports weren't people.

distance, the mournful baying of hounds. The voice of the pack

appeared to come from beyond the Co-op.

He swallowed, thinking that the yellow windows suddenly were like

baleful eyes peering into the valley's darker depths.

Dasein shook his head, smiled. That was no way to think.

Unprofessional. All the ominous nonsense muttered about Santaroga

had to be put aside. A scientific investigation could not operate in

that atmosphere. He turned on the cab's dome light, took his

briefcase from the seat beside him. Gold lettering on the brown

leather identified it: "Gilbert Dasein -- Department of Psychology -

- University of California -- Berkeley."

In a battered folder from the case he began writing: "Arrived

Santaroga Valley approximately 6:45 p.m. Setting is that of a

prosperous farm community . . ." Presently, he put case and folder

aside. Prosperous farm community, he thought. How could he know it

was prosperous? No-prosperity wasn't what he saw. That was

something he knew from the reports.

The real valley in front of him now conveyed a sense of waiting, of

quietness punctuated by occasional tinklings of cowbells. He

imagined husbands and wives down there after a day of work. What did

they discuss now in their waiting darkness?

What did Jenny Sorge discuss with her husband -- provided she had a

husband? It seemed impossible she'd still be single -- lovely,

nubile Jenny. It was more than a year since they'd last seen each

other at the University.

Dasein sighed. No escaping thoughts of Jenny -- not here in

Santaroga. Jenny contained part of Santaroga's mystery. She was an

he met her. He was here on business, a psychologist detached from

his usual teaching duties to make a market study in Santaroga Valley.

What was a perfectly normal way to act with Jenny, though? How did

one achieve normalcy when encountering the paranormal?

Jenny was a Santarogan -- and the normalcy of this valley defied

normal explanations.

His mind went to the reports, "the known facts." All the folders of

data, the collections of official pryings, the second-hand secrets

which were the stock in a trade of the bureaucracy -- all this really

added up to a single "known fact" about Santaroga: There was

something extraordinary at work here, something far more disturbing

than any so-called market study had ever tackled before.

Meyer Davidson, the soft looking, pink fleshed little man who'd

presented himself as the agent of the investment corporation, the

holding company behind the chain stores paying for this project, had

put it in an angry nutshell at the first orientation meeting: "The

whole thing about Santaroga boils down to this -- Why were we forced

to close our branches there? Why won't even one Santarogan trade

with an outsider? That's what we want to know. What's this

Santaroga Barrier which keeps us from doing business there?"

Davidson wasn't as soft as he looked.

Dasein started the truck, turned on his headlights, resumed his

course down the winding grade.

All the data was a single datum.

Outsiders found no houses for rent or sale in this valley.

Santaroga. Its substance: Santarogans had a remarkable

susceptibility to allergens when forced to live away from their

valley for extended periods. This was the chief reason for service

rejection of Santaroga's youths.

Data equaled datum.

Santaroga reported no cases of mental illness or mental deficiency to

the State Department of Mental Hygiene. No Santarogan could be found

in a state mental hospital. (The psychiatrist who headed Dasein's

university department, Dr. Chami Selador, found this fact

"alarming.")

Cigarette sales in Santaroga could be accounted for by transient

purchasers.

Santarogans manifested an iron resistance to national advertising.

(An un-American symptom, according to Meyer Davidson.)

No cheese, wines or beers made outside the valley could be marketed

to Santarogans.

All the valley's businesses, including the bank, were locally owned.

They flatly rejected outside investment money.

Santaroga had successfully resisted every "pork barrel" government

project the politicians had offered. Their State Senator was from

Porterville, ten miles behind Dasein and well outside the valley.

Among the political figures Dasein had interviewed to lay the

groundwork for his study, the State Senator was one of the few who

didn't think Santarogans were "a pack of kooks, maybe religious nuts

of some kind."

constituents were as straightforward and honest.

One man's opinion, Dasein thought.

An isolated opinion.

Dasein was down into the valley proper now. The two-lane road

leveled into a passage through gigantic trees. This was the Avenue

of the Giants winding between rows of sequoia gigantea.

There were homes set back in the trees. The datum-data said some of

these homes had been here since the gold rush. The scroll work of

carpenter gothic lined their eaves. Many were three stories high,

yellow lights in their windows.

Dasein grew aware of an absence, a negative fact about the houses he

saw: No television flicker, no cathode living rooms, no walls washed

to skimmed-milk gray by the omnipresent tube.

The road forked ahead of him. An arrow pointed left to "City Center"

and two arrows directed him to the right to "The Santaroga House" and

"Jaspers Cheese Co-op."

Dasein turned right.

His road wound upward beneath an arch: "Santaroga, The Town That

Cheese Built." Presently, it emerged from the redwoods into an oak

flat. The Co-op loomed gray white, bustling with lights and activity

behind a chain fence on his right. Across the road to his left stood

Dasein's first goal here, a long three-storey inn built in the

rambling 1900 style with a porch its full length. Lines of

multipaned windows (most dark) looked down onto a gravel parking

area. The sign at the entrance read: "Santaroga House -- Gold Rush

Museum -- Hours 9 a.m. to 5 p.m."

He took his suitcase from the camper, turned to the inn. There was a

smell of new mown lawn in the air and the sound of running water. It

reminded Dasein of his childhood, his aunt's garden with the brook

along the back. A strong sense of nostalgia gripped him.

Abruptly, a discordant note intruded. From the upper floors of the

inn came the raucous sound of a man and woman arguing, the man's

voice brusk, the woman's with a strident fishwife quality.

"I'm not staying in this godforsaken hole one more night," the woman

screamed. "They don't want our money! They don't want us! You do

what you want; I'm leaving!"

"Belle, stop it! You've . . ."

A window slammed. The argument dimmed to a muted screeching-

mumbling.

Dasein took a deep breath. The argument restored his perspective.

Here were two more people with their noses against the Santaroga

Barrier.

Dasein strode along the gravel, up four steps to the porch and

through swinging doors with windows frosted by scroll etching. He

found himself in a high-ceilinged lobby, crystal chandeliers

overhead. Dark wood paneling, heavily grained like ancient charts

enclosed the space. A curved counter stretched across the corner to

his right, an open door behind it from which came the sound of a

switchboard. To the right of this counter was a wide opening through

which he glimpsed a dining room -- white tablecloths, crystal,

silver. A western stagecoach was parked at his left behind brass

posts supporting a maroon velvet rope with a "Do Not Touch" sign.

And risked my life for that damned stage

That wasn't worth the robbin'."

Dasein chuckled, shifted his briefcase to his left arm, crossed to

the counter and rang the call bell.

A bald, wrinkled stick of a man in a black suit appeared in the open

doorway, stared at Dasein like a hawk ready to pounce. "Yes?"

"I'd like a room," Dasein said.

"What's your business?"

Dasein stiffened at the abrupt challenge. "I'm tired," he said. "I

want a night's sleep."

"Passing through, I hope," the man grumbled. He shuffled to the

counter, pushed a black registry ledger toward Dasein.

Dasein took a pen from its holder beside the ledger, signed.

The clerk produced a brass key on a brass tag, said: "You get two

fifty-one next to that dang' couple from L.A. Don't blame me if they

keep y' awake arguing." He slapped the key onto the counter.

"That'll be ten dollars . . . in advance."

"I'm hungry," Dasein said, producing his wallet and paying. "Is the

dining room open?" He accepted a receipt.

"Closes at nine," the clerk said.

It was a scene Dasein was to think of many times later as his first

clue to the real nature of Santaroga. The effect was that of holding

time securely in a bygone age.

Vaguely troubled, Dasein said: "I'll check my room later. May I

leave my bag here while I eat?"

"Leave it on the counter. No one'll bother it."

Dasein put the case on the counter, caught the clerk studying him

with a fixed stare.

"Something wrong?" Dasein asked.

"Nope."

The clerk reached for the briefcase under Dasein's arm, but Dasein

stepped back, removed it from the questing fingers, met an angry

stare.

"Hmmmph!" the clerk snorted. There was no mistaking his frustration.

He'd wanted a look inside the briefcase.

Inanely, Dasein said: "I . . . uh, want to look over some papers

while I'm eating." And he thought: Why do I need to explain?

Feeling angry with himself, he turned, strode through the passage

into the dining room. He found himself in a large square room, a

single massive chandelier in the center, brass carriage lamps spaced

around walls of dark wood paneling. The chairs at the round tables

were heavy with substantial arms. A long teak bar stretched along

the wall at his left, a wood-framed mirror behind it. Light

glittered hypnotically from the central chandelier and glasses

stacked beneath the mirror.

their forks.

There was a division of people in this room, Dasein felt. It was a

matter of nervous tension contrasted with a calmness as substantial

as the room itself. He decided he could pick out the transients --

they appeared tired, more rumpled; their children were closer to

rebellion.

As he moved farther into the room, Dasein glimpsed himself in the bar

mirror -- fatigue lines on his slender face, the curly black hair

mussed by the wind, brown eyes glazed with attention, still driving

the car. A smudge of road dirt drew a dark line beside the cleft in

his chin. Dasein rubbed at the smudge, thought: Here's another

transient.

"You wish a table, sir?"

A Negro waiter had appeared at his elbow -- white jacket, hawk nose,

sharp Moorish features, a touch of gray at the temples. There was a

look of command about him all out of agreement with the menial

costume. Dasein thought immediately of Othello. The eyes were brown

and wise.

"Yes, please: for one," Dasein said.

"This way, sir."

Dasein was guided to a table against the near wall. One of the

carriage lamps bathed it in a warm yellow glow. As the heavy chair

enveloped him, Dasein's attention went to the table near the bar --

the card game . . . four men. He recognized one of the men from a

picture Jenny had carried: Piaget, the doctor uncle, author of the

medical journal article on allergens. Piaget was a large, gray-

haired man, bland round face, a curious suggestion of the Oriental

"You know Dr. Larry, sir?"

"I know his niece, Jenny Sorge. She carried a photo of Dr. Piaget."

The waiter glanced at the briefcase Dasein had placed in the center

of the table. "Dasein," he said. A wide smile put a flash of white

in the dark face. "You're Jenny's friend from the school."

The waiter's words carried so many implications that Dasein found

himself staring, open-mouthed.

"Jenny's spoken of you, sir," the waiter said.

"Oh."

"The men playing cards with Dr. Larry -- you want to know who they

are." He turned toward the players. "Well, sir, that's Captain Al

Marden of the Highway Patrol across from Dr. Larry. On the right

there, that's George Nis. He manages the Jaspers Cheese Co-op. The

fellow on the left is Mr. Sam Scheler. Mr. Sam runs our independent

service station. I'll get you that menu, sir."

The waiter headed toward the bar.

Dasein's attention remained on the card players, wondering why they

held his interest so firmly. Marden, sitting with his back partly

turned toward Dasein, was in mufti, a dark blue suit. His hair was a

startling mop of red. He turned his head to the right and Dasein

glimpsed a narrow face, tight-lipped mouth with a cynical downtwist.

Scheler of the independent service station (Dasein wondered about

this designation suddenly) was dark skinned, an angular Indian face

with flat nose, heavy lips. Nis, across from him, was balding,

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摘要：

Chapter1Thesunwentdownasthefive-year-oldFordcamper-pickuptruckgroundoverthepassandstarteddownthelonggradeintoSantarogaValley.Acrescent-shapedturn-offhadbeenleveledbesidethefirsthighwaycurve.GilbertDaseinpulledhistruckontothegravel,stoppedatawhitebarrierfenceandlookeddownintothevalleywhosesecretsheha...

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Herbert, Frank - The Santaroga Barrier

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