The Man Whose Teeth Were All Exactly Alike

by Philip K. Dick

  “As a news item.”

  “Oh yes, as a news item.” Panic crossed her face and then disappeared; the tension once more set in.

  “He really found all this stuff,” Faulk asked, mostly to himself.

  “He certainly did,” she said in a bleak voice.

  In his mind he consulted his experience. I don’t want to be identified with any of Leo Runcible’s promotion schemes, he said to himself. In the past, especially in the early days of Runcible Realty, he had been roped into printing as news items various attention-getting statements of Leo Runcible. Finally he had made a deal; he had forced Runcible Realty to run, in informal compensation, half-page ads. Runcible paid for the ads, and then the statements were put in as news. This had seemed to work at first. But, he had found, some people identified his paper with the bombastic tone and sense of the items. So now he had to put it carefully; he couldn’t simply run what Runcible handed him.

  It could go, he thought, possibly:

  REPORT OF AN INDIAN FIND

  But always Runcible seemed to like to see his name somewhere in the big type at the top of the column, not in the body of the article alone.

  RUNCIBLE REPORTS INDIAN FIND

  That might do it.

  In a statement to the News, today, Leo Runcible revealed the discovery of a possibly rich new find of Indian tools and remains that may be the largest found in this area in many years.

  Surely, Faulk thought, that separated the paper from the item.

  According to Runcible, the find was made by chance on land owned by him hitherto not suspected by even the most expert authorities on Indian culture of yielding anything of worth. Details of the possibly sensational trove uncover the fact that it was Runcible himself who suspected the possibility and kept the find from once more being lost and depriving American science and universities of a rare opportunity. As he put it to the News. “I saw at once that we were on the track of something of inestimable importance,” Runcible confided.

  At the counter, Janet Runcible studied him as he sat leaning back in his chair, referring to the typed sheet and then closing his eyes as he worded the item which he would use.

  But even as he put together the item in his mind he thought, I wonder if it’s on the level. I’d better inquire before I print anything.

  Does this mean that Runcible is going to give away an arrowhead with each lot? Is this a new way of promoting his various schemes? Will this bring people into the area, etc.?

  Of course, it was good if people came into the area. That was the hope of all the little businesses, all of whom ran ads in the News. On this point, Seth Faulk agreed with Runcible Realty; they had an aim in common, and both of them knew it.

  I wonder who this would bring, Faulk thought. Like that big shark they caught up on Tomales Bay…people did drive up to that shrimp shack to look at it; the picture in the S.F. Chronicle did bring about a thousand curious people. But what did they do, then? Buy a few pounds of shrimp? A few beers? Yes, he thought. Before they made that long drive back to town.

  There had, in the past, been professors from universities come to the area to study Indian finds. There had been articles in the big metropolitan papers, the San Rafael and the S.F. papers, with pictures. Those had publicized the area quite well.

  Of course, he realized, it depends on what the bastard finds. No amount of arrowheads will bring anyone unless he finds so many that he really can give them away. But just to look…no, no one will come to look, because they can look now; they can go up to the grammar school to Wharton’s classroom and look at his collection. And no one does, except on evenings that the PTA meets in his room.

  Aloud, he said, “This is very interesting.”

  Janet Runcible, with visible pride and relief, said, “I knew you would think so.”

  “I think I’ll give Leo a call,” Faulk said.

  “He’s down at the office,” she said, at once.

  “Yes,” he said, putting the typewritten paper back in its envelope. “I’ll phone him and get a few more details before I run an item.” For one thing, Runcible probably didn’t do it alone; there’s no mention of anyone but Runcible, Runcible, Runcible in this paper, and we can’t do that; we have to spread it around where it’s due. Nothing brings down trouble faster than to leave people out.

  Later, after Mrs. Runcible had left the office, he carried the envelope back to his wife and had her read it. Seated at the largest of their three presses, Mary opened the envelope and read the paper from beginning to end. Then she said,

  “You’d have to completely rewrite it. He makes it sound as if it was absolutely certain. But it’s just his idea, isn’t it? That he’s found something valuable.”

  “I called his office,” Faulk said. “He’s out with a client, but he’ll call me when he gets back.”

  Mary Faulk said, “He gets so excited. You’d think it had to do with the Civil War or something really important.”

  “This would be important,” Faulk said. “Indian remains can be important.”

  “Why?” his wife said. “All these Indians here ever did was eat raw oysters—I can see those Eastern Indians, those Cheyennes or Apaches, the ones who built wigwams and shot with bows and arrows. These California Indians were just—dirty.”

  At that Faulk laughed.

  “They didn’t even ride horses,” Mary Faulk said.

  Faulk said, “Listen, it’s not your job to decide if they’re important or not. It’s what people think. Other people.”

  “There’s no one in the world who gives a dam about our Indians,” she said. “Except the University of California, and possibly the people at Sacramento. The California Historical Society and the Marin Historical Society. And they have to. It’s their job. Like the pound has to take an interest in dead cats.”

  “You’d like an obsidian arrowhead to show visitors,” Faulk pointed out.

  “But that’s not what he said he found anyhow. He says he found a burial mound or something.”

  “There’s always junk in a burial mound,” Faulk said. “Pots and baskets—they buried all the chief’s possessions with him when he died. Or maybe that was the Egyptians.”

  “If Runcible wants space, let him pay for it.”

  Her lips pressed tight with determination, she resumed work. To her, there was no discussion; he knew her attitude towards Runcible.

  But we have to play along, he realized. Not with the man but with his ideas. He’s had a few good ones, like when he got them to vote on expanding the school. At least he’s looking ahead to the future. And that’s a darn sight more than the ranchers are doing.

  And, he thought, Runcible does make news.

  “He’s brought business into this area,” he said. “He’s made it more prosperous.”

  His wife did not answer. She did not approve, and she never would; she shut Runcible out on principle, and no matter what the man did, he would never be acceptable to her. Mary had been born here, had grown up in the area; she had gone to the old River School and to Tomales High—she knew all the ranchers’ wives personally, and when she wasn’t setting type or proof reading she was on the phone talking to one of them after another, getting the news of what they had done, their little Sunday jaunts, their dinners, their birthday and social events. He himself handled the non-social news, such as robberies and deaths and car accidents and new tax rates, and of course the ads.

  I wonder how it feels, he wondered, to be disliked by all the original people, here. To never be accepted, no matter how long you live here or have your realty office here. These original people went to Thomas, still, even though the old man was semi-retired, an invalid with a bum leg who got out of his house one day a week and who could not even get to some of the property he listed. He had to send his clients on with a shakily-drawn pencil map.

  What’ll they do when Thomas dies? he wondered. Stop selling their property entirely?

  Once Runcible had had a sign made, at his own expense. A big sign,
nicely painted and lettered, put up alongside the road coming into Carquinez; it read: YOU ARE ENTERING CARQUINEZ. DRIVE SLOWLY. LIVE HAPPILY. One weekend a carload of area farm kids had tied a chain to it, pulled it down, and burned it up.

  Maybe it wasn’t appropriate, Seth Faulk thought. After all, this is still a farm area, not a suburban town, zoned, with tree-lined streets and ivy-covered fire station. But the man meant well. And it cost him money. And when he found out they had torn the sign down he didn’t try to put another one up; he did give up. And that had bothered Faulk; he had expected Runcible to go and commission another one.

  And, Faulk thought, has the man ever done any harm?

  Show me where he has done harm, he said to himself. He’s got his clients a good price for their land when they wanted to sell; if anything, he’s bumped up the prices too high. And he’s worked his head off finding the right house for people wanting to enter the area. He works. He’s always out of his office, driving around; he’s never just sitting behind a desk…as, he thought. I am, or the insurance broker is, or the banker is, or, for that matter, the guys at the gas stations.

  If there’s one man in this town who earns his money, it’s Leo Runcible.

  It’s been said, he remembered, that Runcible has vulgarized the area. Said by well-to-do retired people up in the Ridge area.

  He thought, now, of a headline. His thoughts phrased themselves along professional lines.

  RUNCIBLE DIRTY LITTLE JEW FROM OUTSIDE,

  IS ALLEGATION

  Leo Runcible of Runcible Realty wears yellow shoes and a purple necktie, it was alleged today by residents of the Ridge area, according to reports reaching the News. Some residents reported having heard him remark “Bullshit!” at various times and Sheriff Christen is looking into these reports.

  He found himself chuckling at this imaginary item; it would be on page one, of course, in the far-right column.

  Then, of course, Leo Runcible would fire back at his detractors, and that, too, would get into the paper. How would the man reply? He would get his typewritten statement immediately to the press; there would be Janet Runcible, in her long shapeless coat, standing at the counter, waiting while he read the statement.

  RUNCIBLE DEPLORES OLD FARTS

  IN FIERY STATEMENT

  Today, in a speech calculated to cause great perturbation in certain ranchers of the area, Leo Runcible branded as “old farts” those who took the position in yesterday’s discussion regarding Runcible’s use of language and wearing apparel that Runcible might be a “dirty little Jew from outside,” as it was put to the News.

  There could be one of Mary’s notes, too.

  Wednesday, Leo Runcible and family motored to San Rafael late in the day and spent an hour with his attorney discussing a lawsuit.

  From the back of the press, Mary Faulk appeared. “Say,” she said. “Do you have any intention of going and looking at what he found?”

  With chagrin he said, “No.” It had never occurred to him: he had only taken up the problem of getting at the truth of who had made the find.

  “Look at them and see if they’re important,” Mary said. “Don’t take Runcible’s word—look what you’re doing; you’re falling for his line of spiel, like everyone else, like those clients of his.”

  He felt his face redden.

  “What a dreadful reporter you are,” she said, and returned to setting up type. “All you care about is what people say,” she said. “Words, words.”

  He shrugged. But he had no answer.

  “Like legal notices,” Mary said. “Just words.”

  To that he had a reply. The News printed many legal notices, and they were a major source of revenue. Without them—he started to say—the paper would not be solvent. But as he spoke he glanced out, through the front window at the street and cars and stores. Going along, past the post office, was a green Mercury which he recognized; he scrambled to his feet and peered.

  The car, from the San Rafael Journal, showed up when there was real news, when there had been a robbery or a fatal accident. He hated the sight of it, the familiar dusty green fenders and hood, the card on the windshield, the two men inside wearing classy business suits. Now he himself in his Hawaiian sports shirt stepped quickly out onto the porch of the press building to watch the car as it traveled slowly along, until finally—as he knew it would—it parked in front of Runcible Realty.

  “What is it?” Mary said, coming out after him. Now she, too, saw the San Rafael car parked before Runcible’s office. Saying nothing she ducked back inside, back to her work. There was nothing to say. He remained where he was, on the porch, feeling shame, understanding how foolish he was.

  “I guess I spent too much time thinking,” he said to her, at last. “You were right. I should have gone to see those things he dug up.” He shut the door as he came slowly back inside the office.

  The dirt road climbed among bishop firs, so steeply that the large-animal vet slowed his truck almost to a stop. The vet, Tom Heyes, shifted into low gear. As the truck reached the ascent, various objects in the rear began to slide; he heard them slithering and bumping across the metal floor behind him. But he continued on up, hearing the roar of the engine. Stones flew up and clanked against the fenders and hood. The truck lurched as one wheel got down into a furrow.

  The winter rains had carried away parts of the road, had left huge holes and mounds; he heard the bottom of the truck scrape as he turned a curve to the right. And still the road climbed. At one place a tree had fallen and, at some earlier time, blocked the road. But the tree had been dragged far enough off to let trucks and jeeps pass. And older cars, the vet thought. Those with high clearance.

  In the fir forest there was little sunlight. The ground was damp. The vet saw ferns, huge and black, with leaves dripping. A constant drizzle of moisture from the trees…the ground was covered with bushes. A glade that extended up the sides of the ridge to the top, miles of first growth. It had never been logged, although back towards the highway there had been some bulldozing.

  For a little time the truck crossed a flat field into which some sunlight got. Ferns and firs did not grow here; instead he saw dry grass, and several steer munching. And, at the edge, two deer without antlers grazed. They paid no attention to the truck. Ahead, the vet saw cattle on the road, some of them calves with huge brown heads.

  The road divided. He took the left fork, and soon the truck again moved in the shadows between trees.

  At the top of the ridge the fir forest ceased for the last time. Great boulders lay everywhere, among grass and dirt; the land had a smooth, flat quality, and the few trees had been bent and stunted by the ocean wind. He felt the wind, now; it snapped the windshield wipers back and forth and whistled into the cab of the truck.

  Almost at once he found himself passing above an estero. The gray water stirred with the wind, and the reeds along the mud banks bent and swayed, releasing flights of grebes. On the water itself grebes like dots of black clay bobbed. The road kept close to the mesa overlooking the estero, on firm high ground, safely above the marsh. For that he was grateful; he did not want to get bogged down, out here.

  Telegraph poles ahead caught his eye. Now he saw the rotting line of fence that marked the beginning of the oyster farm. The fence carried down to the water and out into the water, where it sagged at last and disappeared. To keep sharks and rays out, he reasoned. To protect the oysters. The barge was nowhere in sight. Probably beyond a bend of land. At the end of the estero the white clapboards of shacks caught the mid-morning sun. Almost there now, he thought.

  How desolate it was. No cars. No voices. Now, not even cattle or deer. And the fir forest far behind him. The ground, on each side of the road, was mostly sand.

  This collection of shacks and barns by the estero had once been connected to the world by sea. Boats had supplied it, the original town of Carquinez, back about 1900. No roads had crossed the ridge to link up with the towns inland; everything had come in and out by water
. The few people who remained now made their living from oysters, which they brought over the ridge by truck. They had some livestock, too, a few sheep, cows, chicken. And they grew vegetables.

  The vet had been out here to the old town only a few times. He did not like it, and the people had almost no money. But he felt that he had to come; there was no other vet in the area, and people as poor as this depended on their animals. He had been notified by a post card. There were, he thought, no phones out here.

  To his left he saw, as he always saw when he came out here, a large abandoned farm. Barns, the main house…all falling into ruins, without paint or wiring. Dark brown, destroyed by wind and water, the salt air. The wood eaten by rot and termites. A steer appeared from between the house and the barn and walked slowly away.

  At the town itself he saw an ancient gas pump with a hand-crank. The pump, rusted and leaning to one side, had no glass top of any sort; it was only a column of tin with a chain and wheel visible inside. For their boats, he decided. He saw several old men, now, sitting on the long wharf and on the steps of the principal building of the town. It was used, still, for storage. Everywhere, in blue-gray mounds, the oyster shells were heaped. The road had turned from dirt to broken shells; they gleamed ahead, and he heard the tires crunching over them.

  A man rose to his feet. He wore pale jeans, a wool jacket as dark as hide, and a hat. None of the other men stirred.

  The vet pulled his truck up beside the men. “Hi,” he said.

  The man on his feet nodded.

  “I got a post card,” the vet said. “You have a sick sheep?”

  Turning, the man waved him to follow. The vet parked his truck, shut off the motor and got out. From the back he got his bag and followed the old man, down the oyster shell street, past what had once been a creamery building; he recognized the metal roof, the pipes of the refrigeration equipment.

  At a corral he found the old man standing by an open gate, waiting. “How’d you know it was sick?” the vet said.