“I’ll tell you what I think,” Timmons said. “I think he’ll move out of here. He’ll be the laughing stock of the area, and don’t think he’ll like that. He’s very sensitive. He can’t stand to be laughed at. I tell you, he’d rather lose a sale, lose money, than be made a fool of. Remember that time Joe Tamino sold that piece of land direct, without a Realtor?” He went on to recount the whole business. Dombrosio waited, holding his brush.
I wonder what he’ll do, he thought. When he finds out. He’s sure hooked as of now. My god…the man must have run up two hundred dollars in long distance phone calls. If what people said was so. Runcible had evidently called every newspaper and educational institution in California. Strange cars had been parked in front of the man’s house all day long, and Runcible was coming and going constantly. With that look on his face, Dombrosio thought. That busy, vital look.
“He’ll really be sore,” he said aloud.
“Of course he still won’t know who did it,” Timmons said.
“He’ll guess,” Dombrosio said. Or maybe not.
Dipping his brush, he resumed his careful, expert work.
13
Crossing the living room step by step, as if balancing herself on some fragile wire, Janet Runcible said, “Leo, could you get the phone? It’s Mr. Freitas. He’s down in town, at the Chevron Station. He wants to know how to get up here.” Her words, passing through her dazed, alcoholic personality, came to him so slowly that he could hardly wait to the end. He got up from his desk before she had finished her sentence; striding by her, he picked up the phone.
“Hello, Tony,” he said, with all the force and geniality he could create; he let it flow from him—it rolled out, pleasing him; his own joyfulness buoyed him up, swept him on. “How was the drive over our little hill?”
In a dry voice Anthony Freitas said, “Thank you, Runcible, it wasn’t too bad. I know it fairly well.”
Catching the man’s formality, Runcible made a readjustment. “You’re at the Chevron Station,” he said in a businesslike manner. “All right. I’ll be down there right away. Give me three minutes.”
“Good enough,” Freitas said. “You’ll recognize my De Soto. It’s black. On the order of two years old.”
“Okay, then,” Runcible said, and hung up.
As he put on his coat and started from the house, Janet came once again towards him. She had, for today, put on her tailored gray wool slacks, and although she looked fashionable enough, the slacks made her seem older. Really getting along, he thought as he stood at the door. Her face, lined. Too bad, he thought, as he opened the door.
“Later,” he said, as she started to speak in her protracted, laborious fashion.
“Leo,” she said. “I—want you to—” She studied the floor as she tried to find words. “Be grateful,” she said. “To Mr. Freitas. For coming out here.” She swallowed noisily.
“Grateful!” he said. “Are you out of your head? What have you been into, the kerosene?”
“Mr. Freitas—” she began.
“Doctor Freitas,” he corrected, scathingly. “He’s a fudnik; he has a Ph.D.” Shutting the door after him he hurried down the steps to his car. A moment later he had shot off down the hill, as fast as he could go, towards the Chevron Station.
Twice in his life he had seen Dr. Freitas, once at a lecture Freitas had given at Marin Junior College and once at a party in Ross. He had shaken hands with the man after the party, and evidently Wharton, who knew Freitas very well, had been able to bring him to the man’s mind. He’s about the top person in anthropology in this country, Runcible said to himself as he drove. The realization filled him. He could have let out yells of glee. Hot dog! he shouted to himself. Hot hot dog!
But if the man thinks he’s going to patronize me, he thought abruptly, he’s mistaken.
Because, he thought, I know what I’ve got, here.
When he pulled up into the gas station he saw standing by a black DeSoto a dapper small man wearing a gray suit and bow tie. The man had a top coat over his arm. How long has it been since I last saw one of those cotton top coats? Runcible asked himself. The man appeared to be in his late fifties. He had light hair, a squarish, sandy-colored face, and a wispy, tended-to mustache. When he raised his hand to greet Runcible, Runcible saw silver and jewel cufflinks.
“My stuff,” Freitas said, “is in the car. Possibly you can give me a hand.” His voice had a twang, but not a regional one. It was, Runcible decided, a university accent. I hope he’s not a fairy, he thought; the accent did have a pansy quality. The man, too, smelled of talc and aftershave, and Runcible felt dismay. But what does it matter? he thought as he opened the trunk of the De Soto and, at Freitas’ direction, lifted out a great metal and leather black case. It’s who he is that counts, not what.
I don’t care if he screws rats, he said to himself as he lugged the case to his own car. He’s in a position to bring my find to the attention of the entire academic world.
Freitas, accompanying him, said, “Pleasant little village. I know it well. You have a species of beaver here that exists nowhere else in the country.”
Half-hearing him, Runcible said, “And we’re growing. We have land here for industry.”
Freitas laughed.
His ears burning, Runcible said, “I’m sorry.”
“Please don’t be,” Freitas said. “Any job well done is worthy of respect.” He got into Runcible’s car, on the right, and shut his door. Runcible got in behind the wheel, and soon they were going back up the hill, towards the house.
Gazing out, Freitas interested himself in the countryside. He did not speak, and Runcible found himself becoming more and more agitated.
“Did you look at the pictures?” he said finally.
Freitas turned his head. “No. Not that I know of.”
“Photographs I sent on to you. Of the skull.”
Gesturing, Freitas returned to his study of the scenery.
“What would it mean,” Runcible said, unable to keep silent, “to find a Neanderthal skull in this area?”
Freitas said, “Oh, about what it would mean to find it anywhere in the continent.”
“And what’s that?” He felt his dander go up; the man rubbed him the wrong way, very much so.
“That Mousterian culture obtained in this region. As well as in Europe, Asia, and Africa.”
“And that’s a pretty important discovery,” Runcible said.
The smaller man turned towards him and regarded him. “Is it?” he said.
“Isn’t it?”
“I suppose.” Freitas considered. “But you see—merely finding a skull and a few flint instruments…well—” He smiled slightly. “It’s difficult to explain in a way that you would appreciate.”
“Try,” Runcible said.
“What do they say…‘one swallow does not a summer make…’”
“There’s more,” Runcible said. “All you have to do is dig. I’m positive of it.”
Freitas said, “I don’t believe you understand. A particular stratum—actually, several strata—are associated with the Mousterian culture. Roughly, the mid-Pleistocene period. What is involved in this is glaciation. There are both warm and cold fauna associated with Neanderthal remains…we can date our finds as occurring at about the 40,000 year level, but no doubt both before and after what you’d call the ice age. He may go back into the Pliocene period. And of course he’s replaced by Neanthropic man. By ourselves, in the form of Cro-Magnon types. What I’m trying to make clear to you is this. The finding of an isolate skull signifies very little. It could be, say, a genuine skull, found elsewhere—not even on this continent, but brought in from Europe or Asia. And deposited—how deep did you find it?”
“About eight feet down,” Runcible said.
Freitas smiled.
“Water had washed through that land,” Runcible said.
“I see.”
“It probably was much deeper, earlier.”
“Possibly. B
ut you see—what does it prove? The stratum is absent. It’s found at a level which we would have to date as perhaps a thousand years. An archeological level, so to speak. You’ve had Indian mounds at, say, the four hundred year level. You understand that. What can we establish by means of your find, assuming it’s a genuine one? Nothing that I can see.”
There was silence.
“That’s ridiculous,” Runcible said.
“Why?” Doctor Freitas regarded him.
“It’s of—” He gestured with one hand, holding the wheel with the other. “Incredible importance.”
“But we can’t authenticate its importance. We can’t demonstrate that it has that importance. We can only make a supposition.”
“I see that,” Runcible said. “But my god, there ought to be as much interest stirred up by this as by any scientific discovery that—”
“Oh, if it’s publicity you’re thinking about,” Freitas broke in, “you’ll certainly get that. The Sunday supplements will be writing about it for a century. Assuming it’s genuine.”
After a while Runcible said, “What about the carbon test?”
“The ‘carbon test,’ as you put it, will tell us something. An age spread. But only of the skull—and if it’s genuine, the age isn’t in dispute anyhow. It’s the indigenous element that concerns us. You see, suppose it was found in, say, the Near East.” He eyed Runcible. “Say in Palestine. An actual Neanderthal skull, and there have been quite a few found, and showing, of course, an age of about, say, 100,000 years forward. By being brought here to California it doesn’t lose the chemical characteristics collected by the so-called ‘carbon test.’ You see?” He added, “In fact, it will be the carbon-dating test which will be a central technique by which we’ll date the skull.”
“You can tell me,” Runcible said, “if the skull is genuine or not. But that’s all.”
“Not quite all. Who told you it was a Neanderthal skull in the first place? Where did you get the idea?”
“Wharton.”
“Well, he’s a competent amateur. But—” Freitas shrugged.
“You think,” Runcible said, “that this is a publicity stunt.”
“That would be an ad hominem argument,” Freitas said.
“Meaning what?”
“Meaning that we would be making an error in logic by consulting questions as to the motive or—employment of the finder than the actual qualities of the find. Of course, we’ll avoid that.”
“Even if I am a Realtor—”
“It could still be authentic. And you could genuinely believe it authentic and yet it might be not. And so on. What you believe or what you want are of no matter. You see?”
They had come to the house, now; Runcible reflexively parked and shut off the motor.
“Will I be able to persuade your wife to fix me some coffee?” Freitas said as he opened the door. “I see her there on the porch. At least, I presume she’s your wife.”
Runcible groaned; there stood Janet, supporting herself on the porch railing, gazing down at him and Freitas cloudily.
After he had had coffee, Doctor Freitas, evidently at his leisure, strolled through the back yard and out onto the wilder land and at last to the eucalyptus grove. Runcible followed, lugging the black case for him.
The skull, of course, was no longer outdoors; he had had it brought inside for safe keeping. But before he examined the skull, Freitas wanted to see the site. He stood listening while Runcible explained the history of it, Dombrosio’s leaching field, Wharton’s calculations that had brought them up to the eucalyptus grove, the digging by Flores’ high school boys with shovels.
“And everything was free,” Freitas said. “I mean, in soil. Not in rock.”
“In soil,” he admitted. “But it had to be free; it was no doubt washed here from higher up. You’d probably find some in rock way up.” He pointed up the hill, but Freitas did not notice. The man had put on a canvas worksuit that covered him from neck to ankles, plus boots over his shoes; squatting down, he now began scratching at the dirt with a pronged tool.
“Has this been screened?” he said. “The dirt shoveled through a wire screen?”
“No.”
Freitas pondered. “Well, let’s see the skull,” he said, after a time. But he remained at the site. For almost an hour he poked and dug, collecting various samples into envelopes and bottles, making notes, saying nothing to Runcible. At last he rose. “The skull,” he said.
They returned to the house. He had locked the skull in a closet, in a suitcase; he now carefully carried the suitcase out and laid it on the bed. When he opened it Freitas laughed. Pounds of cotton were wrapped around the skull, forming an enormous soft pale ball.
“I’ll unwrap it,” Freitas said, seating himself on the floor with the ball before him. Taking great care he unwrapped the cotton folds and laid them to one side.
Soon the skull was exposed. Grimy, dry, yellow… Runcible felt the same fear of it, and the same nervous curiosity, as before. As if it were some illicit thing, he thought as he watched Freitas. Dirty pictures. Forbidden and exciting, stimulating…he felt his pulse race as Freitas ran his hands over the pocked, encrusted jaw.
“The appearance,” Freitas said finally, “is undoubtedly Neanderthaloid. See here? Look at these teeth. Possibly this creature could not manage to speak. He must have lived on a diet of vegetables. Uncooked seeds. Wheat grains. He ground his food. Possibly he had meat as a rare treat. This jaw must have made speech impossible. But we can’t be sure. Still, he had the brain capacity for it. Odd. Really not like us at all.” His voice trailed off; he had become absorbed.
“It’s brittle, isn’t it?” Runcible said.
Freitas grunted. “You know, we were coeval with this man. Leakey has shown that.”
“Wharton was telling me,” Runcible said.
“They used to dismiss finds of Homo sapiens skulls down at the old levels. Must have dropped there. The good old Darwin boys. The primitive, the crude, the inferior, had to come first. Higher and better had to evolve out of lower. Aristotle…right?” Freitas glanced up and back at him. “Consider.” He tapped the skull with a metal instrument of some sort, tonged things, like pliers. “Actually, these poor things used up all their physical energies, their psychic and physical, merely to survive. That’s the real difference. Not that we’re smarter or more evolved. But we had an abundance. Time left over. I pity this.” He touched the skull.
Runcible, feeling self-conscious, said, “Alas, poor Neanderthal.”
“Yes,” Freitas said. But he did not laugh. “Indeed, poor Neanderthal. God, they must have been repulsive. Very little, you know. Although I’ve heard—in pseudo-Freudian circles, mostly—that our myth about ogres may be a racial memory of these. I doubt it. Very much. Neanderthal was a bent-over vegetable-eating thing…he couldn’t stand fully erect, you know. He did make tools, though. So if man is defined as a tool-making animal, this fellow was a man.”
Both of them were silent.
“I’ll tell you what it was more like,” Freitas said. “No ogre that we feared. But a grubby timid creature…in my mind. I see them like terribly underprivileged factory workers in the nineteenth century, in England. Or medieval serfs. Incredibly limited, pushed aside, back off out of the way. Possibly allowed to carry wood. Build the fires, skin animals, chew the pelt. You know, it has occurred to me—maybe the reason our ancestors had time to paint those superb bulls on their cave walls…maybe they had slaves. This.” He tapped the skull. “An inferior race to do the menial work for them, to free them.”
“Why not?” Runcible said. “If they really did live side by side and not first Neanderthal and then Cro-Magnon.”
“The crimes we’ve committed,” Freitas said. “The crime of life, I suppose. Supplant the weak. Kill and enslave the inferior. The crime is to be weak; is that it? If you can be beaten you deserve to be beaten. Christ was a sinner par excellence, then.” He glanced at Runcible with a wry grimace. “Excuse me.
You already have your attitude on that dictated for you.”
“How long will it take to make your tests?” Runcible said.
“Weeks. At least.”
“You’re going to take the skull with you?”
“I’d like to. But if you won’t release it, I can get what I want from it here.”
“It occurred to me,” Runcible said, “that you might want to spend the night. There’s plenty of room.”
“Maybe so,” Freitas said. “I’d like to look up Wharton while I’m here. Maybe we could get him over.”
“Hell,” Runcible said, “he’s over here every day, as soon as school’s out. Digging around like a prospector hot on the scent.”
The time was two-thirty. “Fine,” Freitas said. “Maybe I’ll do some digging with him. He probably has tools—I didn’t bring anything except a little spade.”
“Down in the basement,” Runcible said, “there’s every kind of digging tool in existence. I drove up to Grandi’s and bought all I could get my hands on. The works.” He hesitated, and then he said, “You think it’s genuine? The skull.”
“I can’t tell.”
“I don’t mean scientifically; I mean how you feel about it. Don’t you get an intuition? I always do about clients. I can tell as soon as I see them if they’re fakers, if they’ve got the glue to back up their talk or not.”
Freitas said, “If I had found it I would have had the instantaneous emotional reaction that it was genuine.”
A wave of dizziness rushed through Leo Runcible, a sense of power and joy and—god knew. He had never felt such things before; it swept him away.
“This must be how a stamp collector feels,” he murmured.
“Better not get your hopes up too far,” Freitas said drily. “Wait for the tests.”
“Okay,” Runcible said. But I know what they’ll show, he said to himself. I know.
A week later, when he dropped into his office to pick up a key, the elderly woman who did his secretarial work rose from her typewriter and said,