Astonished, June Raub listened as the man in the satellite went on to describe in greater and greater detail his medical complaint. Was this what Happy meant? she asked herself. Dangerfield had turned into a hypochondriac and no one had noticed the transition, except for Hoppy whose senses were extra acute. She shivered. That poor man up there, doomed to go around and around the Earth until at last, as with the Russians, his food or air gave out and he died.
And what will we do then? she asked herself. Without Dangerfield… how can we keep going?
VIII
Orion Stroud, Chairman of the West Marin school board, turned up the Coleman gasoline lantern so that the utility school room in the white glare became clearly lit, and all four members of the board could make out the new teacher.
“I’ll put a few questions to him,” Stroud said to the others. “First, this is Mr. Barnes and he comes from Oregon. He tells me he’s a specialist in science and natural edibles. Right, Mr. Barnes?”
The new teacher, a short, young-looking man wearing a khaki shirt and work pants, nervously cleared his throat and said, “Yes, I am familiar with chemicals and plants and animal-life, especially whatever is found out in the woods such as berries and mushrooms.”
“We’ve recently had bad luck with mushrooms,” Mrs. Tallman said, the elderly lady who had been a member of the board even in the old days before the Emergency. “It’s been our tendency to leave them alone; we’ve lost several people either because they were greedy or careless or just plain ignorant.”
Stroud said, “But Mr. Barnes here isn’t ignorant. He went to the University at Davis, and they taught him how to tell a good mushroom from the poisonous ones. He doesn’t guess or pretend; right, Mr. Barnes?” He looked to the new teacher for confirmation.
“There are species which are nutritious and about which you can’t go wrong,” Mr. Barnes said, nodding. “I’ve looked through the pastures and woods in your area, and I’ve seen some fine examples; you can supplement your diet without taking any chances. I even know the Latin names.”
The board stirred and murmured. That had impressed them, Stroud realized, that about the Latin names.
“Why did you leave Oregon?” George Keller, the principal, asked bluntly.
The new teacher faced him and said, “Politics.”
“Yours or theirs?”
“Theirs,” Barnes said. “I have no politics. I teach children how to make ink and soap and how to cut the tails from lambs even if the lambs are almost grown. And I’ve got my own books.” He picked up a book from the small stack beside him, showing the board in what good shape they were. “I’ll tell you something else: you have the means here in this part of California to make paper. Did you know that?”
Mrs. Tallman said, “We knew it, Mr. Barnes, but we don’t know quite how. It has to do with bark of trees, doesn’t it?”
On the new teacher’s face appeared a mysterious expression, one of concealment. Stroud knew that Mrs. Tallman was correct, but the teacher did not want to let her know; he wanted to keep the knowledge to himself because the West Marin trustees had not yet hired him. His knowledge was not yet available—he gave nothing free. And that of course was proper: Stroud recognized that, respected Barnes for it. Only a fool gave something away for nothing.
For the first time the newest member of the board, Miss Costigan, spoke up. “I—know a little about mushrooms myself, Mr. Barnes. What’s the first thing you look for to be sure it isn’t the deadly amanita?” She eyed the new teacher intently, obviously determined to pin the man down to concrete facts.
“The death cup,” Mr. Barnes answered. “At the base of the stipe; the volva. The amanitas have it, most other kinds don’t. And the universal veil. And generally the deadly amanita has white spores… and of course white gills.” He smiled at Miss Costigan, who smiled back.
Mrs. Tallman was scrutinizing the new teacher’s stack of books. “I see you have Carl Jung’s Psychological Types. Is one of your sciences psychology? How nice, to acquire a teacher for our school who can tell edible mushrooms and also is an authority on Freud and Jung.”
“There’s no value in such stuff,” Stroud said, with irritation. “We need useful science, not academic hot air.” He felt personally let down; Mr. Barnes had not told him about that, about his interest in mere theory. “Psychology doesn’t dig any septic tanks.”
“I think we’re ready to vote on Mr. Barnes,” Miss Costigan said. “I for one am in favor of accepting him, at least on a provisional basis. Does anyone feel otherwise?”
Mrs. Taliman said to Mr. Barnes, “We killed our last teacher, you know. That’s why we need another. That’s why we sent Mr. Stroud out looking up and down the Coast until he found you.”
With a wooden expression, Mr. Barnes nodded. “I know. That does not deter me.”
“His name was Mr. Austurias and he was very good with mushrooms, too,” Mrs. Tallman said, “although actually he gathered them for his own use alone. He did not teach us anything about them, and we appreciated his reaSons; it was not for that that we decided to kill him. We killed him because he lied to us. You see, his real reason for coming here had nothing to do with teaching. He was looking for some man named Jack Tree, who it turned out, lived in this area. Our Mrs. Keller, a respected member of this community and the wife of George Keller, here, our principal, is a dean friend of Mr. Tree, and she brought the news of the situation to us and of course we acted legally and officially, through our chief of police, Mr. Earl Colvig.”
“I see,” Mr. Barnes said stonily, listening without interrupting.
Speaking up, Orion Stroud said, “The jury which sentenced and executed him was composed of myself, Gas Stone, who’s the largest land-owner in West Marin, Mrs. Tallman and Mrs. June Raub. I say ‘executed,’ but you understand that the act—when he was shot, the shooting itself– was done by Earl. That’s Earl’s job, after the West Marin Official Jury has made its decision.” He eyed the new teacher.
“It sounds,” Mr. Barnes said, “very formal and law-abiding to me. Just what I’d be interested in. And—” He smiled at them all. “I’ll share my knowledge of mushrooms with you; I won’t keep it to myself, as your late Mr. Austurias did.”
They all nodded; they appreciated that. The tension in the room relaxed, the people murmured. A cigarette—one of Andrew Gill’s special deluxe Gold Labels—was lit up; its good, rich smell wafted to them all, cheering them and making them feel more friendly to the new teacher and to one another.
Seeing the cigarette, Mr. Barnes got a strange expression on his face and he said in a husky voice, “You’ve got tobacco up here? After seven years?” He cleanly could not believe it.
Smiling in amusement, Mrs. Taliman said, “We don’t have any tobacco, Mr. Barnes, because of course no one does. But we do have a tobacco expert. He fashions these special deluxe Cold Labels for us out of choice, aged vegetable and herbal materials the nature of which remain– and justly so—his individual secret.”
“How much do they cost?” Mr. Barnes asked.
“In terms of State of California boodle money,” Orion Stroud said, “about a hundred dollars apiece. In terms of prewar silver, a nickel apiece.
“I have a nickel,” Mr. Barnes said, reaching shakily into his coat pocket; he fished about, brought up a nickel and held it toward the smoker, who was George Keller, leaning back in his chair with his legs crossed to make himself comfortable.