Carbon Copy

by Clifford D. Simak

  "There's another catch," said Homer. "The builder won't lease to you unless you buy a new car from him."

  "That's illegal!" shouted Morgan.

  "I wouldn't know. Nobody's forcing you to take the offer."

  "Let's forget about the car for the moment," Morgan urged. "What I want to know is, how can the builder put up a place like that for five thousand dollars? I know for a fact that he can't."

  "So do I. But if he wants to lose a lot of money, who are we to stop him?"

  Morgan pounded on the desk. "What's the gimmick, Jackson?"

  "The builder wears his shoes on the wrong feet, if that means anything to you."

  Morgan stared at him. "I think you're crazy, too. What would that have to do with it?"

  "I don't know," said Homer. "I just mentioned it, thinking it might help you."

  "Well, it doesn't."

  Homer sighed. "It's got me puzzled, too."

  Morgan picked up his hat and jammed it on his head. "I'll be seeing you," he said. It sounded like a threat.

  "I'll be right here," said Homer as Morgan went out slamming the door.

  Homer went down to the drugstore for a cup of coffee. When he got back, a second visitor was waiting for him. The man sat stiffly in a chair and tapped nervous fingers on his briefcase, held primly in his lap. He looked as if he'd eaten something sour. "Mr. Jackson," he said, "I represent the County Realtors' Association."

  "Not interested," said Homer. "I've gotten along for years without joining that outfit. I can get along a few years more."

  "I'm not here to solicit membership. I am here about that ad of yours in the paper yesterday."

  "Good ad, I thought. It brought in a lot of business."

  "It's exactly the kind of advertising that our association frowns upon. It is, if you will pardon the expression, nothing but a come-on."

  "Mr… by the way, what is your name?"

  "Snyder," said the man.

  "Mr. Snyder, if you happen to be in the market for a place out in this area at the ridiculously low cost of $4.16 a month, I shall be glad to show you any one of fifty houses. If you have a moment, I can drive you out."

  The man's mouth snapped together like a trap. "You know what I mean, Jackson. This is fraudulent advertising and you know it is. It is misrepresentation. We mean to show it is."

  Homer pitched his hat on top of the filing cabinet and sat in his chair. "Snyder," he said, "you're cluttering up the place. You've done your duty—you've warned me. Now get out of here."

  It wasn't exactly what he had meant to say and he was surprised at himself for saying it. But now that it was said, there was no way of recalling it and he rather liked the feel of strength and independence that it gave him.

  "There is no use flying off the handle," said Snyder. "We could talk this over."

  "You came in and made your threat," Homer retorted. "There's nothing to talk over. You said you were going to get me, so come ahead and get me."

  Snyder got to his feet savagely. "You'll regret this, Jackson."

  "Maybe so," admitted Homer. "Sure you don't need a house?"

  "Not from you," said Snyder, and went stalking out.

  Must have hurt their weekend sales, Homer told himself, watching Snyder go stumping down the street.

  He sat quietly, thinking. He'd known there would be trouble, but there had been no way he could have passed up the deal.

  Not with Elaine set on that trip to Europe.

  And now he was committed. He could not back out even if he wished. And he wasn't sure that he wanted to. There could be a lot of money in it. The car deal he didn't like, but there was nothing he could do about it. And by handling it right, he might keep in the clear.

  Maybe, he thought, he should go out and talk to Steen about it.

  Gabby Wilson, his insurance-selling neighbour down the hall, came in and flopped into a chair. Gabby was a loudmouth. "Howsa boy?" he yelled. "Hear you got that Happy Acres deal. How's about cutting in your old pal on the insurance end?"

  "Go chase yourself," invited Homer irritably.

  "Heard a good story the other day. It seems this wrecking outfit got a job to tear down a building. And the straw boss got his orders wrong and tore down another building." Gabby slapped his knee and roared with laughter. "Can you imagine the look on that contractor's face when he heard the news?"

  "It cost him a lot of money," Homer said. "He had a right to be good and sore."

  "You don't think it's funny?"

  "No, I don't."

  "How you getting on with this Happy Acres gang?"

  "Fine, so far," said Homer.

  "Cheap outfit," Gabby told him. "I been checking round. They got some two-bit contractor from out in the sticks somewhere to do the job for them. Didn't even buy their material from the dealers here. The contractor brought his own crew with him. The developers didn't spend a nickel locally."

  "Unpatriotic of them."

  "Not smart, either. Houses probably will fall down in a year or two."

  "I don't care particularly. Just so I get them leased."

  "Do anything so far?"

  "Got some interest in them. Here comes a prospect now."

  It was Morgan. He had parked in front and was getting out of a new and shiny car, agleam with chrome. Gabby beat a swift retreat.

  Morgan came into the office. He sat down in a chair and pulled out his cheque-book. "I bought the car," he said. "How do you want this cheque made out?"

  Six weeks later, Homer dropped in at the shopping centre office. Steen was sitting with his feet up on the desk. He was wearing black shoes instead of the brown ones he had worn before. They still were on the wrong feet.

  "Mr. Jackson," he said easily.

  "I finally got rid of them. All the houses are leased."

  "That's fine." Steen reached into a drawer, took out a small book and tossed it across the desk to Homer. "Here. This belongs to you."

  Homer picked it up. It was a bank book. He opened it and saw a neat row of $4,500 entires marching down the page.

  "You made yourself a mint," said Steen.

  "I wish I had fifty more," Homer told him. "Or two hundred more. This thing is catching on. I could lease them in a week. I've got a waiting list longer than my arm."

  "Well, why don't you go ahead and lease them?"

  "I can't lease them a second time."

  "Funny thing," said Steen. "There's no one living in those houses. They are all standing empty."

  "But that can't be!" objected Homer. "There might be a few still empty—a few that the people haven't occupied yet. But most of them have moved in. They're living in those houses."

  "That's not the way it looks to me."

  "What's happened to those people then? Where have they…"

  "Mr. Jackson!"

  "Yes?"

  "You haven't trusted me. You didn't trust me from the start. I don't know why. You thought the deal was queer. You were scared of it. But I've played fair with you. You'll have to admit I have."

  Homer stroked the bank book. "More than fair."

  "I know what I am doing, Mr. Jackson. I'm not anybody's fool. I have the angles figured out. String along with me. I need a man like you."

  "You mean lease all those houses a second time!" Homer asked uneasily.

  "A second time," said Steen. "And a third. And fourth. Lease them as often as you like. Keep right on leasing them. No one will mind at all."

  "But the people will mind—the people that I lease those houses to," Homer pointed out.

  "Mr. Jackson, let me handle this. Don't you worry about a solitary thing. You just keep those houses moving."

  "But it isn't right."

  "Mr. Jackson, in some six weeks' time, you've made a quarter million dollars. I suppose that's what's wrong with you. I suppose you figure that's enough…"

  "Well, no. With income tax and all…"

  "Forget the income tax. I told you that this bank of ours had tax advantages."

&nb
sp; "I don't get it," Homer said. "This is no way to do business."

  "But it is," said Steen. "I challenge you to find a better way to do business. There's no end to it. You can become a multimillionaire…"

  "In jail."

  "I've told you we weren't doing wrong. If you don't want to handle it…"

  "Let me think it over," Homer pleaded. "Give me a day or two."

  "Noon tomorrow," said Steen decisively. "If you don't tell me you are willing to go ahead by noon tomorrow, I'll look for someone else."

  Homer got up. He thrust the bank book in his pocket. "I'll be in to see you."

  Steen put his feet back on the desk. "Fine. I'll be expecting you."

  Out on the concourse, Homer walked along the gleaming shop fronts. And the shops, he saw, were no more than half-staffed and entirely innocent of buyers. He went into a drugstore to buy a cigar and was waited on by a girl of just slightly more than high-school age. He failed to recognize her.

  "You live around here?" he asked.

  "No, sir. In the city."

  He went into a hardware store and into a grocery supermarket. He saw no one he knew. And that was queer. He'd lived in the area for almost thirteen years and thought he knew…

  He recalled what Gabby had said about the contractor from somewhere out of town. Maybe, for some zany reason, Steen had a policy against employing local people. Still, he'd employed Homer.

  It was a crazy set-up, Homer told himself. None of it made sense—and least of all, the leasing of the houses a second time around.

  Perhaps he should get out of it. He'd made a fair amount of money. Right now, most likely, he could get out slick and clean.

  If he stayed, there might be trouble.

  He lighted up the cigar and went back to his car. Wheeling out of the parking lot, he headed for the road that led into the housing development.

  He drove slowly, looking closely at each house. All of them seemed empty. The windows stared blindly without drapes or curtains. The lawns had not been cut for weeks. There was no sign of anyone—and there should be children and pets playing. Almost everyone he'd leased to had had children and dogs and cats. The place should be jumping, he told himself, and instead it was silent and deserted.

  He stopped the car and went into a house. It was bare and empty. There was sawdust in the corners and wood shavings here and there. There were no scuff marks on the floor, no handprints on the wall. The windows had not been washed; the trademark paper still was sticking to them. He went out puzzled.

  He inspected two more houses. They were the same.

  Steen had been right, then. Steen, with his shoes on the wrong feet, and with something else—with his different way of talking now. Six weeks ago, when Steen had come into Homer's office, he had been stiff and formal, awkward, yet striving for preciseness. And now he was easy in his manner, now he put his feet up on the desk, now he talked slangily.

  There was no one living in the houses, Homer admitted to himself. No one had ever lived in them. He had leased all fifty of them and no one had moved in.

  And it had a fishy smell—it had a terribly fishy smell.

  On his way out, he stopped at Steen's office. The place was locked up.

  The old gateman opened the gate and waved at him from the window of his kiosk.

  Back in his own office, Homer took out of a drawer the list of leases he had drawn. He phoned Morgan, the first name on the lease.

  "That number has been changed," the operator told him. She gave him the new number and he dialled it.

  "Happy Acres," said a singsong operator-voice.

  "Huh?"

  "Happy Acres," the voice sang. "Whom did you wish, sir?"

  "The Morgan residence."

  He waited and it was Morgan who answered.

  "Homer Jackson. Just checking. How do you like the house? Are you getting on okay?"

  "Perfectly," Morgan told him happily. "I've been meaning to come in and thank you for putting me onto this."

  "Everything is really all right?"

  "Couldn't be better. I hardly ever go into my office now. I stay out here and work in the amusement room. I go fishing and I take walks. The wife and kids are just as pleased as I am."

  Morgan lowered his voice. "How do you guys manage this? I've tried to figure it out and I can't."

  "It's a secret," Homer replied, thinking on his feet. "The answer to the housing problem."

  "Not that I care," Morgan said. "Just curious, you know. I'll be dropping in one day. I'll bring you something."

  "Glad to see you," said Homer.

  He called the Happy Acres number and asked for another family. He went halfway through the list. He talked mostly to the women, although some of the men were home. They were not only happy, but enthusiastic. They asked him jokingly how he got away with it.

  When he finished, he was glassy-eyed.

  He went down to the drugstore for a cup of coffee. When he returned, he'd made up his mind. He took out his waiting list and began making calls.

  "There just happens to be a vacancy in Happy Acres if you are interested." They were.

  He reminded them about the cars. They said they'd take care of that matter first thing in the morning.

  By supper-time, he'd leased twenty of the houses by making twenty phone calls.

  "There's something wrong," Homer said to his wife. "But there's money in it."

  "It's just that you don't understand," said Elaine. "There may be a perfectly good reason why Mr. Steen can't explain it all to you."

  "But it means we have to give up our trip to Europe. And after we had got our passports and all."

  "We can go to Europe later. You'll never get a chance like this again."

  "It worries me," said Homer.

  "Oh, you're always worried over things that never happen. Mr. Steen is satisfied and the people you have leased to are, so why are you worrying?"

  "But where are these people? They aren't living in the houses and yet they talk as if they were. And some of them asked me how I got away with it or words to that effect. They asked it as if they admired me for being slick in some kind of shady deal, and if it turns out that I am smart, I'd like to know just how I managed…"

  "Forget it," Elaine said. "You aren't smart and you never were. If I didn't keep behind you, pushing all the time…"

  "Yes, dear," said Homer. He'd heard it all before.

  "And quit your worrying."

  He tried to, but he couldn't.

  The next morning, he drove to Happy Acres and parked across the road from the gate. From seven o'clock until nine, he counted forty-three cars coming out of the development. Some of the people in them he recognized as those he had leased the houses to. Many of them waved to him.

  At 9:30, he drove in through the gate and went slowly down the road.

  The houses still were empty.

  When he got back to the office, there were people waiting for him. The block was clogged with cars that gleamed with newness.

  He did a rushing business. No one, it turned out, was interested in seeing the houses. Most of them had seen them earlier. All they wanted was a lease. He filled out the forms as rapidly as he could and raked in the cheques and cash.

  Some other people showed up. Word had got around, they said, that there were vacancies in the Happy Acres tract. Yes, he said, there were. Just a few of them. He reminded them about the cars.

  The last man in line, however, did not want to lease a house.

  "My name is Fowler," he said. "I represent the Contractors' and Builders' Association. Maybe you can help me."

  "I've got another house, if that is what you want," said Homer.

  "I don't need a house. I have one, thanks."

  "Pay you to sell it and get in on this deal. The newest thing in housing. A completely new concept."

  Fowler shook his head. "All I want to know is, how do I get hold of Steen?"

  "No trouble at all," said Homer. "You just go out to Happy Acres. He has
an office there."

  "I've been out there a dozen times. He is never in. Usually the office is locked."

  "I never have any trouble finding him, although I don't see him often. I'm too busy handling the property."

  "Can you tell me how he does it, Mr. Jackson?"

  "How he does what? How he is always out?"

  "No. How he can sell a house for five thousand dollars."

  "He doesn't sell. He leases."

  "Don't pull that one on me. It's the same as selling. And he can't build for anywhere near that kind of money. He's losing a good twenty thousand or more on every house out there."

  "If a man wants to lose his money…"

  "Mr. Jackson," said Fowler, "that is not the point at all. The point is that it's unfair competition."

  "Not if he leases," Homer pointed out. "If he sold, it might be."

  "If this keeps on, it'll put every contractor in the area out of business."

  "That," said Homer, "would be no more than simple justice in a lot of cases. They throw up a shack with plenty of glitter and charge a fancy price and…"

  "Nevertheless, Mr. Jackson, none of them intend to be put out of business."

  "And you're going to sue," guessed Homer.

  "We certainly intend to."

  "Don't look at me. I only lease the places."

  "We intend to get out an injunction against your leasing them."

  "You make the second one," Homer informed him, annoyed.

  "The second what?"

  "The real estate boys sent a guy like you out here several weeks ago. He made a lot of threats and nothing's happened yet. He was bluffing, just like you."

  "Let me set your mind at rest," said Fowler. "I'm not doing any bluffing."

  He got up from his chair and stalked stiffly out.

  Homer looked at his watch. It was long past lunchtime. He went down to the drugstore for a sandwich and a cup of coffee. The place was empty and he had the counter to himself.

  He sat hunched over the lunch and thought about it, trying to get all the queer goings-on straightened out into some sort of logic. But the only thing he could think about was that Steen wore his shoes on the wrong feet.

  Wearily, still worried, Homer went back to the office. There were people waiting, with their new cars parked outside. He leased houses right and left.