Philip Dick: Humpty Dumpty in Oakland

“Thanks,” the old man said, with relief.

Standing by the desk, Harman thumped the closed papers in a deeply absorbed manner. He thumped them again and again. “I tell you what. Listen. You want some—what’ll I call it? Not advice.” Lifting the papers open once more he leafed through them. “Over on the other side of the Bay. In Marin County. They’re doing a lot of building. They’re expanding.” He stared at the old man.

“Yes,” the old man said. He held his breath.

“They’re rebuilding parts of Highway 101 completely. A multimillion-dollar project that’ll take years. Have you been over there?”

“Not for a year or so.”

“There are several new shopping centers,” Harman said. “One at Corte Madera. A truly magnificent job. Now listen.” His voice had a harsh, brusque quality; it penetrated, and the old man went to close the office door, although Harman had not told him to do so. “Don’t kid yourself,” Harman said. “That’s where the growth is, not here. Not in the East Bay. The master plan—” He laughed. “There’s still no room. The East Bay is filled up. So is the peninsula. The only place you can grow and build is Marin County!” He stared at the old man wide-eyed.

“Yeah,” the old man said, nodding.

Reaching inside his coat, Harman brought out a flat, dark gray wallet; he opened it and took a business card from it. With his fountain pen he wrote slowly and deliberately on the back of the card, then passed it to the old man.

On the back of the card Harman had written a phone number, re-inking the prefix several times. It was not an exchange that the old man knew. Du , he read.

“Dunlap,” Harman said. “Call that.”

“Why?”

Harman said, “Call him in the next twenty-four hours. Don’t wait on this, Jim.”

“What is it?” he demanded, wanting very badly to know; needing to know.

Seating himself on the littered desk, Harman folded his arms; he gazed at the old man silently for a long time.

“Tell me,” the old man said, writhing, hearing his voice writhe with a whining tone he had never heard before in his life.

“This man,” Harman said, “is Achilles Bradford. You would know him if you were anywhere involved. If you get him before he’s decided, get your attorney and drive over there. He’ll do business. He wants to do business. But he can’t wait. He’s got about one million of his own money in it now.” In a calmer voice, he went on, “It’s a shopping center, Jim. Up Highway 101 out of San Rafael toward Petaluma. At Novato. There’s the Air Force base up there, Hamilton Field. Many tract-home subdivisions. More going constantly.”

“I see,” the old man said. But he did not see.

“What I hear,” Harman said, “is that they’re trying for an automotive center. Agency, probably Chevrolet but possibly Ford. Or even one of the hot imports, such as VW. Anyhow, they’ll absolutely be putting in a garage. Those people commute, Jim. All the way down to San Francisco. They drive two hundred miles a day on that eight-lane freeway, and it’s bumper to bumper at rush hour. And listen. There is no train service. You see what that means? Those people have to maintain their cars. The auto center would be complete. New-car sales, parts supply, repair garage—it stands or falls on the repair. And it means a big garage, Jim. Not like you had here, a one-man operation. To keep those people on the road means a twenty-four-hour repair service. With something in the order of ten to fifteen mechanics on call all the time. Tow trucks. A jitney service to the City for parts. You begin to get the picture?”

“Yes,” he said. And he did.

“It’s a new idea in garage development. Oriented toward the future. The garage of tomorrow, in a sense. Capable of taking on the responsibility for tomorrows traffic. The old-fashioned garage will be obsolete in five more years. You were right to sell out when you did; you were very smart.”

Fergesson nodded.

“You could get into this,” Harman said. “Can you get over there? Can you get your attorney and make your move?”

“I don’t know,” the old man said.

“If not, then go over without him. But get over there .” All at once Harman hopped down from the desk. “I have to go. I’m late.” He started from the office, swinging the door wide.

Following him, Fergesson said, “But my health—the whole point is I can’t do garage work.”

Pausing, Harman said, “The garage investor puts up initial capital and supervises the shop. He contributes know-how and experience. The physical work will be done by union mechanics. Don’t you follow?”

“Oh,” the old man said.

Holding out his hand, Harman said, “So long, Jim.”

Awkwardly, Jim Fergesson shook the hand.

“The rest,” Harman said, “is up to you.” He winked, a great, friendly, optimistic wink. “You’re on your own.” Waving, he strode to his Cadillac and jumped in. As he started it up he called, “Have to get the grease job tomorrow; can’t wait now.”

The Cadillac disappeared out into traffic.

For a long time Jim Fergesson gazed after it. Then, by degrees, he moved back toward the Buick on which he had been working.

An hour later the telephone in the office rang. When he answered it he found himself talking to Harman.

“What did he say?” Harman said.

“I haven’t called,” the old man said.

“You what?” Harman sounded astonished. “Well, you better get in on it, Jim; don’t let this slip past you.” He said a few more things of that kind, and then hung up, after asking the old man to let him know when he had talked to Bradford.

In the office, the old man sat at his desk meditating.

I’m not going to be rushed, he told himself. Nobody can stampede me. It’s against my nature.

He thought to himself, I’m not going to call. Now or ever.

What I’m going to do, he decided, is go over there, to Marin County. To see that place, that shopping center. And take a look at it with my own eyes. And then if I like what I see then maybe I’ll talk with the guy.

Inside him he felt a deep spurt of his own nature, his own cunning. And he laughed. “The hell with that,” he said aloud. Go and call without knowing anything? With only having someone’s word?

Why should I believe Harman? Why should I believe anybody? I didn’t get where I am by relying on what people tell me. On rumor.

But he had to be sure he saw the right place. So, lifting the phone, he called the number next to Harman’s name on his sheet of old customers.

That night, when he got home, he passed his wife without a word. He went directly into the bathroom, closed and locked the door, and before Lydia’s voice could distract him he had turned the tub water on full.

As he lay in the water soaking, he thought, I know where it is. I can find it.

It was his plan to go up the next morning as early as possible and to be back to his garage by noon. Lying in the tub on his back, staring up at the steam-drenched ceiling, he went over each bit of the plan. Relishing it, revolving it in his mind, he made of it the most he could; he filled it in so that nothing was left unthought.

A new one, he thought. It would be new, every aspect of the place. No grease, no stale smell; the dampness, the sense of age, the discarded parts heaped in the corner . . . all gone. Swept away. Piles and pools, the dust. None of that.

The hell with them, he thought. I’ll have an office with all glass and soundproofing; I can see down at the mechanics. I’ll be overlooking. With several intercoms. Maybe the kind without wires. Fluorescent lights everywhere, like in the new factories. Lots of automatic stuff. All organized; no wasted time costing money.