Man of Two Worlds

by Frank Herbert

  “Our shield will float overhead,” she said. “Rays of the sun will pass through it but passersby will see only a hostile surface.”

  Grudgingly, Habiba admitted to herself that Earthers did produce marvelously inventive ideas. Perhaps that had been the intention of the original idmage.

  “Ironic, isn’t it?” she said. “Earth’s Free-Willed minds imperil us but also provide the seedling of our salvation. Now! In addition, we must send more operatives to seek out Jongleur’s misguided son. Ryll’s presence there is a danger to us. We have no idea how much he may have learned about the erasure ship or how much he may tell the Earthers if he is captured.”

  Mugly felt the stirrings of disquiet. Habiba’s tone told him she, too, was enthralled by Earth despite its dangers. Was her shield idea not a bit facile?

  “To make a shield, would we not have to alter the Creative Spirals around Dreenor?” Jongleur asked.

  “Minor changes,” Habiba said. “We will loop the Spirals to leave alien visitors well outside our shield. We will merely pass through the shield by more primitive propulsion before connecting with a Spiral.”

  “I assume Dreenor itself was a Dreen creation,” Mugly said. “Do we dare tamper with . . .”

  “We will not tamper,” Habiba said. “My senses tell me Dreenor is a very powerful idmage. But our shield can be made if we use the concerted energies of all Dreens.”

  Jongleur looked at Mugly. Mugly looked at Jongleur. Two Dreens with one thought: This is still tampering with our nest.

  “Come!” Habiba said. “Back into Thoughtcon trance, everyone! We must return our cupola to its proper place.”

  ***

  We do not know why Hanson Junior collided with a Dreen ship. He claims ignorance of Dreens. Nothing useful came from study of the wreck. We assume a Dreen self-destructed to avoid capture. Hanson’s ship will be released and he will be watched.

  —Zone Patrol day sheet. XEN-50: Major Captain

  In the Zone Patrol elevator, Lutt stepped on the glowing butt of a discarded cigar. He waved at stale smoke and wondered why air conditioning had not dispelled it. He found his answer in a grimy placard beside the door:

  “Please be patient during air conditioning repairs.”

  The placard was dated almost eight months earlier.

  The elevator doors groaned closed, shutting off his view of Major Captain in her odd perch. She sat studying something on her desk.

  You should’ve smoked the cigar, Ryll intruded. It was less than half consumed. I like an occasional drag.

  The elevator began a slow, clanking ascent.

  If I’m nuts, I guess I have to roll with it, Lutt thought. So don’t suggest I use someone’s leavings. That’s a sure way to catch a disgusting disease. Besides, I don’t smoke.

  But I do and finding a butt saves the trouble of idmaging.

  But the germs in another’s saliva!

  Dreens are immune to all diseases. This body is more than ninety percent my protoplasm and I feel confident that Dreen cells dominate it.

  Old age is a disease. Are we immune to that, too?

  My school proctors claim not all mergings are identical, but if we avoid the Zone Patrol and other dangers, we may live long enough to make your question purely academic.

  So you don’t really know.

  I know Td like to be separated from you, Lutt!

  Amen!

  You’re beginning to believe in me, aren’t you, Lutt?

  That bitch did ask me about Dreens. And . . . there were times when I said things that . . .

  I’m sorry I pre-empted our voice that way. I will try to remain silent in the presence of others until I learn more about your ways. Blame the outburst on my youth. Dreens should be patient and observe closely before speaking.

  The elevator bumped to a stop and the doors slammed open alarmingly. Lutt stepped out into a green-tiled lobby with a high ceiling that glittered with tiny lights. A replica of an antique Zone Patrol ship occupied the center of the lobby. Its stubby wings glistened. Groups of Zone Patrol officers stood around it talking. They paid little attention to Lutt. Through bars at the door he glimpsed a portico entrance and street traffic. A sergeant sat behind a desk beside the door.

  The sergeant looked up with a bored expression as Lutt approached. Lutt started to speak but the sergeant thrust papers toward him and interrupted.

  “Here’s directions to the warehouse. Here’s where you sign that you were not mistreated and you love the Zone Patrol like a father.”

  “Oh, yes,” Lutt said. “I love you just like I love my father.”

  That was a very deceptive response, Lutt.

  So don’t distract me.

  Lutt signed where indicated and accepted the directions to the warehouse. The sergeant pressed a button on her desk.

  The door creaked but did not open.

  “Damn GI equipment!” the sergeant said. She went to the door and kicked it. Rasping and jittering, the door inched open.

  Lutt darted through, fearful that the doors would slam shut on him. He paused under the portico and looked down at the street.

  Lutt, you must stop thinking of me as a distraction. I wish to study your primitive peoples in meticulous detail. There will be questions and I shall expect answers from you.

  It’s like having a mosquito buzzing in my ear.

  Become accustomed to it or I shall begin calling you Lout, the way your brother does.

  My name’s Lutt, dammit! And stop spying on my thoughts!

  I will attempt to cooperate. Even if we can’t be friends, we can be courteous.

  Yeah, and I’m the Queen of Rumania.

  Lutt took a deep breath of cool morning air. A concrete walk led off through high hedges to his left beyond a sign that read “Transport Area.”

  I shall try to be more reticent, Lutt, but I have much to offer you and it is the way of my people to speak openly.

  You’re a damn chatterbox!

  You surely don’t expect me to be mute.

  Lutt set off along the concrete walk without responding. It was a snake track through the high hedges, with occasional wide places where benches had been placed beneath “No Loitering” signs.

  I see that you fear embarrassment, Ryll ventured. You don’t want to become nervous and . . . ahhh, with a flushed face. Your emotional reactions are known to us, you see?

  It’s not nice to embarrass people.

  Are Earthers always nice?

  Of course not!

  Then I will behave as Earthers do, being nice only some of the time. That appears to be entirely proper and I do not wish to create behavioral mistakes with our mutual body.

  Just leave me in charge, huh?

  I shall keep a mental tally. Whenever I see Earthers being polite, or if I hear of politeness, I will make an entry. We Dreens do this sort of thing with ease.

  You talk too much!

  That is not polite, Lutt.

  I’m not trying to be polite. I don’t want to be polite. I just want to be shut of you!

  Obviously, you know nothing about a Dreen’s infinite capacity for recollection—when we’re paying attention, of course. My store of experiences and stories is limited by my youth and past inattentiveness but it is possible for me never to forget a story or any observed detail.

  The walk opened out onto a wide stairway climbing to another level planted with shrubs and trees. Lutt could hear vehicles moving up there.

  I am particularly talented when I put my mind to it, Ryll insisted.

  Lutt began running up the stairs, leaping them three at a time. He made groaning noises as he ran to drown out Ryll’s intrusive voice and wished he might leave this madness behind him. A blackbird hopped aside midway but he met no people until he reached the top where two women in Zone Patrol uniforms glanced at him curiously before descending.

  “Don’t loiter!” Lutt shouted after them and laughed hysterically.

  The women quickened their pace with startled backw
ard glances.

  You’re behaving foolishly for someone who fears embarrassment, Lutt.

  Aw, shut up!

  I see I must give you more time to adjust.

  Lutt emerged onto a wide sidewalk along a curved drive lined with vehicles—vans, limousines, buses. He had no difficulty identifying the rickshaw. Oversized, trimmed in garish carving and with a heavily armored enclosed cab, it looked like a giant red sedan chair on cushioned wheels. The towbar rested on a jade green inflatable Chinese dog. Six fat robots painted and dressed in gold-thread brocade like ancient mandarins stood beside the towbar. Each held a pellet gun made to appear like a laser rifle.

  Hanson Security programed them to guard against terrorists but the design was said to be pure L.H.—”Something different for friends and family.” L.H. had once told an interviewer he never created for his enemies “except to make them jealous.”

  As Lutt approached the limo, he wondered if these vehicles had ever aroused anything but laughter. His mother professed to admire them because the design “was one of my wedding presents.” She also liked the idea that robot guards were an obvious flourish of wealth but she said their presence “tends to prevent trouble.”

  Abruptly, one of the limo’s electric doors flopped open to become a ramp. Phoenicia Hanson emerged followed by Lutt’s younger brother, Morey. This aroused a flurry of activity among the robots. Two detached themselves from the towbar and flanked the ramp. Their weapons pointed at Lutt.

  “It’s me, dumbos!” Lutt shouted.

  The guns continued to point at Lutt but the robot eyes scanned other areas around them.

  Looking at his mother and brother, Lutt thought, What a contrast! Phoenicia, a small woman in an ankle-length dress of white embroidery, appeared pale and delicate under a bun of strawberry blond hair. Morey towered over her, a commanding Patrician with high cheekbones, deeply set pale blue eyes and a sharp nose that some said could scratch glass.

  Contrasts within contrasts, Ryll intruded.

  It was Lutt’s thought precisely. Phoenicia’s delicate appearance concealed a toughness that caused friends from her Alabama childhood to call her “the Steel Magnolia.” And behind Morey’s imposing presence lay a weak character.

  “You were running,” Phoenicia said as Lutt stopped below her. “Are you escaping?”

  “I wanted the exercise,” Lutt said.

  “Exercise?” Morey sneered. “That’s not like you, Lout.”

  “You don’t know what I’m like, but I’ll teach you the meaning of pain if you call me that again,” Lutt warned.

  “Boys!” Phoenicia said. “I do wish you’d both grow up and behave like civilized gentlemen.”

  Lutt mounted the ramp, gave his mother a pecking kiss on the forehead and glowered at Morey, surprised because Morey did not appear as tall as remembered.

  Morey, too, noticed this. “Have you grown since I saw you last, dear brother?”

  Ignoring the question, Lutt growled, “Let’s get into the cab and out of the high-target area.”

  “You sound just like your father,” Phoenicia said, but she returned to the cab. Morey followed her, moving slowly and forcing Lutt to wait outside.

  Always hoping some terrorist will pick me off!

  Stooping to enter the pseudo-rickshaw, Lutt marveled that he felt so good after the run. The sedentary life of a newspaper publisher and inventor had left him accepting a slower pace . . . until yesterday.

  You feel my strength, not yours, Ryll told him. But do not fear I will embarrass you. I wish to observe your family before speaking to them on my own.

  Don’t you do that! You hear me?

  I can hardly fail to hear you when we share the same body.

  The ramp swung up and sealed them inside as Lutt sat down facing his mother and brother, his back to the robots, who resumed their stations along the towbar. As usual, Lutt found the limo’s dim interior repellent—red velvet and tassels, brocade, red and black lacquer. And the seats were too soft.

  “Did you have to come for me in this damned sideshow?” Lutt asked. “I’ve told you time and again I hate it.”

  “I rather like it,” Morey said. “And it carries fond memories for Mother.” He turned a melting gaze on Phoenicia. “Doesn’t it, dear?”

  “You’re being smarmy, darling,” Phoenicia said.

  “I really think these limos are one of L.H.’s better efforts,” Morey insisted.

  Phoenicia abruptly glared at her younger son and snapped: “Be still! You don’t know what you’re saying.”

  Morey fell into abashed silence.

  Morey the flunky, Lutt thought. You never know when defending Father will get you into trouble. But Phoenicia’s response surprised Lutt. Was there something about these limos that had not been revealed?

  Phoenicia opened a glossy black panel beside her and spoke into it, addressing the collective robot system directing the limo: “You know where to go, Hung Far Low.”

  Alerted to nuances, Lutt heard the effort it took his mother to use the key-name required before the limo would obey. Father had always said it was named for a favorite restaurant in Portland, Oregon, but Lutt wondered if that name might not be another sign from the mysterious “helper.”

  The limo lurched into motion and Lutt heard the clopping of robot feet on paving, at first quite distinct and then blurred into a staccato buzz as they picked up speed. You had to say one thing for these damned rickshaws, he thought. They could do an honest seventy klicks an hour.

  Lutt studied his brother. What to do about Morey? I know about your thefts from Hanson Industries, Brother. And that million-dollar postage stamp in your left shoe heel.

  Eyes and Ears Unlimited, a surveillance firm hired by Lutt, had produced the damning information about Morey. It had been a delicate task under the noses of Hanson Family Security. But EE, as it was known on the street, had been owned by the late Ricardo Green. The surviving son, Esteban Green, had been Lutt’s roommate in their teens at a private school. Lunches, dinners and dates with sexual partners carefully vetted by the senior Green had built a bond between the young men.

  With instruction from Esteban, Lutt himself had placed the surveillance bugs around Morey. Esteban never asked why this was done but Lutt suspected EE of bugging the bugs. No matter—spying on the Hansons could be dangerous and Esteban had earned a reputation for extreme caution after his father’s mysterious death in the collapse of a building EE was watching.

  But now I have you where I want you, dear brother. No more of your insults and backbiting.

  Morey frequently hinted he might tell Mother how Lutt consorted with the cheapest prostitutes. “If she only knew.”

  But you consort with criminals, Morey. You steal from your family. You support the vicious traffic in narcotics and—

  Ryll interrupted. What fierce emotions you Earthers have! And you are very devious, Lutt.

  Stay the hell out of this!

  Impishly, Ryll seized voice control and said: “You’re in deep trouble, Morey.”

  Lutt overrode Ryll and shouted: “Be quiet!”

  “What are you saying?” Phoenicia demanded. “And why are you changing your voice that way?”

  Morey was fearful. “What do you mean I’m in trouble?”

  “Just watch your step, Morey,” Lutt said.

  “Will you both please try to behave?” Phoenicia pleaded.

  What would happen if you told them about me? Ryll asked.

  You’d better think about what the Zone Patrol would do with that information.

  Your own family would . . . ahhh, rat on you?

  Morey would.

  Your memories confirm this painful truth.

  So stop making my life miserable with interruptions!

  I can do more than interrupt.

  Ryll forced the closure of their eyelids and swiveled their eyes inward.

  Lutt choked and gagged.

  Ryll returned their eyes to normal and opened them.

 
“Are you all right, dear?” Phoenicia asked. “What did those terrible Zone people do to you?”

  Lutt spoke weakly. “They held me in a cell and asked a lot of dumb questions. They told you I had an accident with my Vortraveler, didn’t they?”

  “They told us nothing,” Morey said. “Father informed us this morning where you could be found and told us to get you.”

  “Were you hurt in the accident?” Phoenicia asked.

  “Just a few bruises.”

  You could say I was a hallucination following the accident, Ryll suggested. That way they’d know about me but it would not be information useful for Morey.

  You are a hallucination!

  Excellent. This way you’ll sound all the more sincere.

  You’re nuts!

  I cannot be a hallucination and insane.

  “Tell us about your accident, dear,” Phoenicia said.

  Lutt took a deep breath, inhaling the slightly offbeat smell of newness in the limo. Not a natural odor. Something from a can, the way he simulated newsroom odors at the Enquirer. Another false front, and Phoenicia tried most of them.

  “It helps to talk about dangers we survive,” she said.

  Lutt stared past his mother and brother through a brass-framed armor-glass window. It framed an avenue of poplars growing smaller in the distance. The limo turned a corner and the trees no longer were visible. Sunlight struck the rear window, activating a dark green shade in the glass.

  “Something you’re ashamed of?” Morey asked.

  Tell them but don’t mention Dreens, Ryll insisted. Do it or I’ll inward-focus.

  “All right!” Lutt said.

  He leaned back in the velvet cushions and gave a brief account of the accident and aftermath. At Ryll’s prodding, he added: “I thought an alien got into my body. There was a voice in my head.”

  “You hear voices?” Morey asked. He sounded pleased.

  You’re a poor storyteller, Lutt, Ryll intruded. I’m a very young Dreen but even I can do much better.

  “And poor Drich Baker is dead,” Phoenicia said. “Oh, dear! I shall have to call on his family.”

  “But Lutt’s hearing voices, Mother.”

  “Not voices, dear. A voice. His accident was more severe than he lets on. We shall have to employ specialists.”