Man of Two Worlds

by Frank Herbert

  Lutt looked down at the table, realizing there must be spy devices here as well as in the rooms.

  “You go ahead and stick your neck in the guillotine,” Lutt said. “I happen to admire the Legion.”

  “Oh, everyone admires the Legion,” she agreed, speaking around a mouthful of sweet roll. “But isn’t it hypocritical of them if they tell each expeditionary force their particular mission is so important the captain’s hand has been sent to them for the extra power and pride it brings?”

  “Hasn’t it occurred to you the Legion might think you’re working for the Chinese?” Lutt asked.

  “What a terrible thing for you to say! I purely hate those little yellow men.”

  “They aren’t exactly yellow and I’ve seen some pretty big ones,” Lutt said. “My advice is for you to scrap this idea. Do a piece about Legion women.”

  “Be a nice little woman and write about nice little woman things, is that it? You’re just like all men. Well, Buster, I’m here to cover a war and I’ll do it my way.”

  “I thought you were going to call me Peter.”

  “I may call you some other things. Keep your nose cool, Buster. This is one hot place.”

  She finished her roll, gulped a cup of coffee and left him to his breakfast.

  Lutt closed his eyes and shook his head, feeling the abrupt inward swivel of his eyes and their return to normal.

  I’ve put some fresh fruit in the roll, Ryll told him.

  When he opened his eyes, Lutt saw the roll apparently unchanged but there was, indeed, fresh fruit in it—juicy peaches.

  I have a suggestion about our body, Ryll intruded.

  My body! It’s been mine for thirty-five years. You’ve only been around a few days.

  You never pay attention, Lutt. The very fact that you don’t need real glasses should tell you this is not in fact your original body.

  What’s your suggestion?

  The only practical solution seems to be for us to split up the control each day. You do what you wish until midafternoon and then I take over.

  You ever hear about possession being nine points of the law? I’m in possession of this body.

  But it’s mostly composed of my flesh! I was being generous offering you a split. Are you forgetting I saved your life? Without me, you’d have nothing.

  I warned you what I’d do if you tried to take over.

  I might survive you anyway. The instant this body became unusable, I could idmage my own Dreen body or select a more favorable human with whom to cohabitate.

  I’d like to see you try that on the surface of Venus without inceram armor.

  The way I read your will to live tells me you’re bluffing, Lutt.

  Shall we step outside right now and test it?

  They won’t let you through the lock without armor!

  You told me in the ZP cell Dreens can be casualties. If this body dies, it dies. And there’s a lot of you in this body. So see if I’m bluffing.

  But you have a strong will to live and acquire tremendous personal power.

  It seems we understand each other a little better. You’d like to escape this sharing and I’d prefer to be on my own. We both want the same thing.

  Ryll remained out of contact for a time, thinking privately that his predicament worsened daily. What would the Legion do if it discovered a Dreen here? Exposure on Venus might be far worse than capture by the Zone Patrol.

  Tell me when you’re ready to separate us, Lutt thought.

  At the first opportunity. Meanwhile, we have another problem. This body is still growing as I warned you it would. Haven’t you noticed a little tightness in your clothes?

  I’ve been eating a bit more than usual but . . .

  Only a few centimeters’ growth per week, Lutt, but it adds up.

  My God! That would make my inceram armor worthless!

  Don’t panic.

  But without armor . . . Why didn’t you speak up during the fittings?

  I didn’t think it necessary.

  You fool! Inceram armor has no growth tolerance. Which is why children born on Venus are shipped offworld immediately in special incubators. Venus has regulations against births. Birth control is mandatory!

  So now maybe we can bargain.

  Bargain? What do you mean?

  I am capable of re-idmaging the armor to larger dimensions and I doubt anyone would notice the change.

  “Are you all right, sir?” It was the waiter and Lutt looked up to see the man staring at him.

  “The food and that Texas bore didn’t agree with me,” Lutt said.

  “Better food is available, sir . . . at a price, of course.”

  Get rid of him, Ryll insisted.

  “I’ll talk to you about it later,” Lutt said. “Have to consult my bankers.”

  The waiter’s grin was not pleasant but he went away without further comment.

  Lutt returned to his argument with Ryll. So you can adjust the armor for my growth.

  Our growth. Yes. Do we split up control of the day or do I let nature take its course?

  The last time I let you have a hand in events I had the worst hangover of my life.

  The food didn’t agree with my Dreen flesh.

  The minute he revealed this, Ryll knew he had made another mistake.

  We didn’t eat anything strange. The pesto was the best I’ve ever tasted and you seemed to enjoy it at the time.

  I’ve enjoyed many things that disagreed with me.

  What’d happen if I ordered a pesto dinner right now? You heard that waiter. Better food is available.

  Ryll remained out of contact for almost a minute.

  No comment? Lutt asked. And he thought: Something in the pesto. What? The pasta was ordinary enough. The seasoning? Could he have an aversion to basil?

  Ryll felt powerless to interfere with these thoughts. He knew he had waited too long to divert Lutt from this course. Anything he introduced now might only add to Lutt’s suspicions. Perhaps the bazeel could be removed from . . . but Lutt would be sure to notice.

  Let’s try for another hangover tonight, Lutt insisted.

  I’m trying to be reasonable with you, Lutt. Dreens always try to be reasonable. Think over my day-sharing proposal and we’ll discuss it later.

  Sure we will. After we recover from our hangover.

  ***

  Every defense minister in the solar system knows the economic realities. While robots can function well in some combat situations, human troops have become easier and cheaper to replace. Under public pressure to preserve human life, democracies use some robotroops, but the Chinese are under no such restrictions. Their severe overpopulation makes the decision purely economic. Because we cannot match them soldier for soldier, we must rely on superior strategy.

  —From officers’ manual, French Foreign Legion, NSC translation

  When there was no contact from the Legion by the second afternoon, Lutt decided to take matters into his own hands. First, he called the Enquirer bureau and, instead of the Roy Humperman listed as the company employee here, got a woman who identified herself as “Roweena Humperman, Roy’s widow.”

  “Humperman’s dead?”

  She seemed casual about it. “Poor Roy got it three days ago covering that Chinese attack at Pe-Duc. French deflector rays broke down and there were no survivors. Who’d you say you were?”

  “Peter Andriessen.”

  “Oh, yes. I’ve seen your byline in the files. Well, I hope you last longer than Roy. He only had eleven months. One thing you can say about dying on Venus: No body to bury.”

  “I’m not here to replace Roy. I’m on a special project.”

  Briefly, he explained about vorcameras and instantaneous transmissions, and his present predicament.

  “And they’ve confined you to the hotel? Let me see what I can do about that. There’s a French officer who has the hots for me and he may be able to spring you. In return, I’d like you to do what you can to have me hired as Roy’s
permanent replacement.”

  “Get me out of here and you’ve got the job.”

  “Just like that? You must have some clout with the Hansons. Hey! Is the Little Boss really the great ladies’ man everyone says?”

  “The stories are all true,” Lutt growled, resenting her reference to “Little Boss.” Someday, I’II be Big Boss, honey. My bod’s still growing and I’ll have my own base soon enough.

  “I bet I could teach him a thing or two. Well, you stay right there, Peter honey, and I’ll get back to you. When I say tonight’s the night, my Frenchy may come and get you himself.”

  Roweena called back in just under ten minutes.

  “Wowee, Peter honey! I thought I’d have to get a stick and beat him off at the door. Now, here’s the drill. You have to go through the payoff channels. At Uno, that’s the concierge. Be dumb and ask him for a directory of military offices. He’ll just send you to the Tribunal office for this jurisdiction, but you act dumb and butter him good, you hear?”

  “How much?”

  “Five hundred francs should do it. I’ll meet you at the Tribunal with my Frenchy in tow.”

  The concierge was an immense specimen with dyed black hair slicked back from a central part like beetle wings, a great hooked nose and a remarkably bulging stomach that made it impossible for him to look down and see his own feet. Lutt wondered how the man dressed himself, and certainly fitting him to inceram armor would be a serious problem. He presented a figure of profound dignity beside a tiny desk in the lobby, dispensing advice in English with a thick French accent.

  “I am sorry, Monsieur Andriessen,” he said in response to Lutt’s question, “but there is no such directory.” He peered at Lutt dispassionately from tiny eyes recessed in fat cheeks, adding: “In truth, there are no directories whatsoever in all of the Legion territories.”

  “I know I need a pass to visit the battlefront and I’ve been told to confine myself to this hotel. How do I take care of that?”

  “The battlefront?” The concierge was horrified “Ahhh, you brave correspondents! You throw yourselves into deadly peril and for what? That people may read of such things over their breakfasts.”

  Lutt spoke dryly. “The news is big business.” He rubbed the fingers of his right hand together. “Profits.”

  “But why do you not cover the war as other newsmen do? Every afternoon at five o’clock, the Legion shows pictures and briefs the correspondents. It is called The Five O’Clock Follies.’ You can write your stories from the security of your own room.”

  “I’m a photo journalist and have to send pictures,”

  “Ahhh! The bravest of the brave. I should have known just by looking at you. But, monsieur, you can hire photographers here very reasonably. I have a cousin who—”

  He broke off as Lutt removed a prepared roll of bills from his pocket and began counting off five hundred francs.

  “Monsieur, one as rich and brave as yourself should preserve himself. Ask me about restaurants or quaint little shops where one can purchase gifts for his lady love.” He glanced around at the others awaiting his services. “She is with you?”

  “No. This isn’t a pleasure trip.” Lutt held the five hundred francs loosely in one hand. “How do I leave the hotel? I don’t wish to violate regulations.”

  “There are so many regulations, monsieur.” The concierge’s chins quivered with indignation as he spoke. “We all violate regulations on occasion. Unwittingly, of course. It is always a question of which regulations the Legion wishes to enforce.”

  “How do you know those regulations?”

  The concierge’s shoulders heaved in an immense Gallic shrug. “No one has ever been able to determine this. I would recommend you begin at Number 1205 triple B, Ruecan D’Monsard. That is the Tribunal office for this jurisdiction.”

  “But won’t I be violating regulations if I leave the hotel?”

  A broad smile creased the concierge’s face as he extracted the bills from Lutt’s hand and pocketed them. “Oh, that, monsieur. It is already arranged.”

  His armor secure, the map chip in its slot for projection against his faceplate, Lutt went through the lobby lock and entered the furnace world. His meters showed the exterior temperature shooting up but all he heard was a faint clicking and he felt the cooled KK air against his skin.

  The doorman wanted to provide a guide but the map showed the Tribunal only half a kilometer distant. Lutt thought he could walk it. He paused only to ask about the increased redness in the atmosphere.

  “They are diverting a lava blow to the south. The plume provides a lovely color, not so?”

  “Oh, yes. Lovely.”

  The map directed him across an elevated conveyor to the opposite side of the canal and up an escalator to another dock level. He threaded his way through armored pedestrians, noting the occasional faceplate directed squarely at him, but faces were not visible.

  Our progress is, perhaps, clumsy enough to betray the recent arrival, Ryll suggested.

  That’s okay. Here we are at the Tribunal.

  No, this is 1205B. I distinctly heard him say triple B.

  Lutt consulted the map. Yeah. It’s a bit farther along.

  This time he wound up at 1205BB and noted that he had picked up a trio of followers in patched and pitted armor.

  I don’t like the look of those three, Ryll warned. It occurs to me that our armor must look very new. That, too, would be a mark of the newcomer.

  What would you suggest I do about it?

  I note that you are versed in ways of self-defense. Dreen-augmented muscles can account for at least two of those brigands . . . if they are brigands. Let us be wary.

  Once more, Lutt consulted the map. Yes, the Tribunal was down this narrow side alley. He turned in at the alley and saw the three followers turn behind him, closing the distance between them quickly. One of them had some sort of tube device in one armored hand. That must be a weapon! Ryll cautioned.

  Lutt turned and faced the trio but before he could even assume a posture of defense, a door beside him snapped open. Five armored figures darted out. Lutt had only time to note the Legion crests on their helmets and arms, then the five were around the three followers. It was over in seconds. The three were pinned against a wall, the weapon removed, metallic bindings were thrown around them and two of the legionnaires led them away.

  One of the three remaining legionnaires faced Lutt and saluted. “Sergeant McCauley at your service, Monsieur Andriessen. Colonel Paul has ordered us to escort you to the Tribunal.”

  “Good. Those guys were really after me, eh?” Lutt started to turn down the alley the way he had been going.

  An armored hand restrained him. “Not that way, monsieur. The dispenser at Uno gave you a rigged map. It was intended that you fall into this trap. There will be punishments.”

  “The concierge?”

  “Oh, no, monsieur. He is the one who alerted us.”

  “Good God! It’s really dangerous here, isn’t it!”

  “Until you learn our ways, monsieur. This way, please.”

  The Tribunal was around two more curving corners. It proved to be a bulging dome with a Legion squad guarding the entrance lock. Lutt and his escort were passed through without ceremony.

  Inside an immense inceram-tiled lobby, Lutt was confronted by a scene of confusion. Lines of armored people, their helmets thrown back onto the hinges, ranged across the floor and clustered along a counter that extended from one side of the lobby to the other. A babble of voices—shouts and cries—filled the place.

  Without lifting his own helmet, Sergeant McCauley helped Lutt fold back his helmet and said, “Down this side, monsieur. Colonel Paul awaits you.”

  Lutt was led around the left side of the room, noting the resentment-filled looks from people he passed. There was a rich smell of sweaty humanity and inadequate waste recycling in the room. They went through a wide double door into a hallway and then into a large round office where an unarmored man and
woman stood facing each other. They turned toward Lutt as he entered.

  Sergeant McCauley saluted and said, “Monsieur Andriessen, Mon Colonel!” and closed the door as he left.

  Lutt was struck first by the disparity in the sizes of the couple. The woman was tiny, a full-figured pocket Venus with dark auburn hair and gamin features. Smile creases etched the corners of her mouth and she aimed a piercing stare at Lutt from large green eyes.

  Colonel Paul was tall and slender, a blond, blue-eyed Nordic with sharply chiseled features. He stepped forward and clapped a hand on Lutt’s armored shoulder.

  “Delighted to be of service, dear fellow.” The accent was faintly British. “Paul Carlson at your service.” He turned toward his companion. “And this is the lovely Roweena.”

  “I’ve just gone through Roy’s coded dispatches about you,” she greeted him. “Why the hell didn’t you tell me who you really were?”

  “On an open phone line?” Lutt asked.

  “It’ll be all over Gorontium by tomorrow, anyway,” she said. “Especially about your prowess with the ladies. So I have the job?”

  “You have it. . .” Lutt glanced at the colonel who had stepped back two paces. “If . . .”

  “Everything will be arranged, dear fellow,” the colonel said. “What do we call you? Surely not Monsieur Andriessen?”

  “My friends call me Lutt.”

  “And we will be friends,” the colonel said.

  Humperman grinned. “I’ve never been friends with the boss before, but Roy always did bring me luck.”

  “You don’t seem very sad about him,” Lutt said.

  “Roy was my fifth. My fourth was a Legion sergeant who bought it from a Chinese scatter missile the same way Roy did, I think. That’s life on Venus, Lutt.”

  “And death,” the colonel added. “Meanwhile, we must be merry. Is it true you wish to transmit from Legion headquarters?”

  “The underground headquarters, yes.”

  “That may take some arranging.”

  “It’d be easier to get into a battle zone,” Roweena said.