Man of Two Worlds

by Frank Herbert

  “I am fine,” Ryll said.

  “Where’ll I put these, sir?” the copyboy asked. He held a pair of red trousers, a black shirt and white tie, a black jacket and white shoes with white socks, plus organdy boxer shorts.

  “There.” Ryll pointed to a desk.

  “You going to wear that outfit?” Stuart asked. “You’ll look like a Mafia hit man in a B movie.”

  “It’s fine, fine,” Ryll said.

  “You do not sound well, Lutt,” Nishi said. She put a hand to his forehead. “You are perspiring.”

  “I am all right,” Ryll said. Lutt? Where are you, Lutt?

  “Spiral News Service is a smashing success,” Stuart said. “We’re making new sales every day. The special fund is healthy again.”

  “That’s fine,” Ryll said, staring at the colorful pile of clothes.

  “What you want us to do about the alien story?”

  “Just carry on as you were.”

  “Will you do one thing for me, Lutt?” Stuart asked. “Tell me how you got in here without any of us seeing you arrive?”

  “It’s . . . it’s a family secret,” Ryll said.

  “I’m sorry, Lutt, but I had a weird idea. You see, the rumor is this alien came on some kind of ship that may be similar to the ship you’re working on with Sam. The stories say it has something to do with . . . well, they say, ‘Spirals.’ I couldn’t help but make the association with our news service.”

  “Yes, yes, of course,” Ryll said. He wished Stuart would leave or shut up. What had happened to Lutt?

  “My weird idea,” Stuart said. He pointed to a large gray box with a glowing orange screen standing against the wall to Ryll’s left. “I came along here because I heard that vordata receiver chattering . . . and there you two were. I thought, Jesus H. Christ, is he traveling by this spiral thing, too?”

  “That is a weird idea,” Ryll said. He looked at the orange screen. Flesh disassembled and reassembled? Did Osceola and Uncle Dudley transmit people as well as pictures?

  Lutt! Where are you, Lutt?

  Still no sign of his fleshmate. Ryll suddenly felt bereft. How could he simulate Lutt’s behavior and carry on without the damned Earther? Already, Nishi was suspicious. Could he fake an illness?

  “Were you transmitted on that machine?” Stuart asked.

  Perhaps we were, Ryll thought. Did it separate us? He did not dare allow himself to hope.

  Abruptly, Ryll freed his hand from Nishi’s, thrust himself past Stuart and bolted down the hall. Stuart’s voice floated after him: “Your clothes, Lutt! You’re not dressed!”

  What was it Raj Dood had said about an essence? It occurred to Ryll that Lutt might have been delayed in transmission and at this very instant might be trying to find their body.

  I must get as far away from that vordata thing as I can!

  Slipping and skidding in his bare feet, Ryll dashed in his pajamas down a hallway to a door marked EXIT and pushed through. He found himself on concrete steps and went down two and three at a time, counting the landings marked on doorways he passed.., At the first floor, he slammed open a heavy door and burst into the lobby. It was cold tile and chilled his feet. A mirror wall confirmed that he still looked like Lutt but he had lost his glasses. The mirror showed him something else that dismayed him.

  Lutt’s mother strode toward him across the lobby. Ryll turned from the mirror and saw that she recognized him. She stopped. Phoenicia Hanson’s mouth dropped open in shock. A look of horror came over her face. Her mouth contorted, sharpening the creases at the corners.

  Only one thing to do, Ryll thought. If he spoke to Lutt’s mother, she might suspect he was not her son. She had heard the story of the body invasion. He dashed past her.

  “You!” she screeched as Ryll ran past. “What terrible thing have you been doing? Those pictures from Venus were base! I’ve never been so humiliated! What are you doing, Lutt?”

  He ignored her and plunged through swinging doors to the sidewalk. There, he slowed to a smooth, jogging stride. People looked at him strangely but joggers were a familiar sight. A man called out, “Hey! Tough guy! Love your PJs. Is barefoot the new way to jog?”

  Shit! Where have you taken us? It was Lutt, a frantic thought in Ryll’s awareness. Where we going? Why are you running?

  Ryll came to a stop and leaned against a lamp post. He felt ill, both dismayed and relieved.

  That damn Osceola! She still doing things to us?

  Ryll held his thoughts to himself, trying to maintain bodily control, but Lutt was pressing. Ryll felt muscles tremble and jerk.

  That bitch! She sent me through Hell! I been inside a volcano. An insect eaten by a bird. I was some kinda fish chewed up by a shark! And even worse! And all the time, I could hear her laughing. Damn chicken cackle! Where the hell are we, Ryll?

  On the street near the Enquirer.

  Where’s my Nishi?

  In your office, the last I saw her.

  Why’re we still in pajamas?

  No time to change.

  I’m taking over, Ryll! Let go of our body or I’ll make sure we do something the ZP is sure to hear about.

  Your mother’s in the Enquirer lobby and she’s angry.

  Ryll allowed him a memory glimpse of the encounter.

  Why’d you run like that? Lutt asked.

  It seemed a good idea at the time. I, too, dislike that Osceola creature.

  She do something to you, too?

  I do not wish to discuss it.

  Neither do I. Now, get outa the way, Ryll baby. I’m taking over!

  With a definite feeling of relief, Ryll relaxed his hold on their flesh and felt Lutt assume control. Ryll found himself astonished at how welcome it was resuming the observer role. Am I becoming a voyeur?

  People stood all around him on the sidewalk, some passing, some standing to gawk.

  A woman said, “He does not look well.”

  A man said, “Hey! That’s Lutt Hanson, Jr. You sick, pal?”

  Lutt looked to his right. The Enquirer was two blocks away and across the street. He recalled the Lowtown incident and the young woman spitting on Phoenicia’s hand.

  I’m out here without Hanson Guards! And these people know who I am. Not good.

  The man who had asked about his health stepped one pace closer. “You need help, Mister Hanson? Your foot’s bleeding. Why are you barefoot?”

  “It was a bet and I won,” Lutt said.

  “Those crazy Hansons!” one of the gawkers said. Laughter greeted this, but it was a friendly outburst.

  “Excuse me,” Lutt said. He pushed his way through the throng. They yielded easily.

  Someone asked, “How much did you win?”

  “Puh-lenty!” Lutt said.

  “Way to go!” a man shouted.

  More laughter. There appeared to be no enemies here, but Lutt walked back to the Enquirer at a brisk pace. He did not breathe easily until he was in the lobby and saw a squad of Hanson Guards trotting toward him.

  “We were just coming to look for you, sir,” one said as they closed in around him.” You shouldn’t leave without us.”

  There was no sign of his mother in the lobby.

  “Have you seen my mother?” Lutt asked.

  “She went out, sir,” a guard said. “But she wants to see you pronto. Where do you wish to go, sir?”

  “Back to my office for some clothes and then we’ll go to the Hanson compound. Does anyone know where my brother is?”

  “Mister Morey is out of town, sir,” a guard said. “An errand for your father.”

  Sent him someplace to keep him away from me, I’ll bet, Lutt thought.

  But your brother has criminal companions, Ryll reminded him. Would they not do his bidding? And where is this Woon?

  I’ll have to find out.

  You live a very dangerous life, Lutt, but I am beginning to see its attractions.

  ***

  Upsy daisy, downsy daisy!

  Kicksy daisy, stamps
y daisy!

  Picksy daisy, stripsy daisy!

  Tearsy daisy, killsy daisy!

  —Children’s chant from the childhood of Lutt Hanson, Jr.

  The noonday sun hot and brilliant behind her, Lorna Subiyama paused in the opening of the French doors from her pool patio near Austin, Texas. In a custom-made pink swimming suit that gave the illusion of enormous nudity, she ignored the wet trail she left as she moved into the room’s shadows.

  Prosik, wearing a lemon-yellow jumpsuit, stood at a table near the center of the room leafing through a stack of papers.

  “Carmelita said you wanted to see me muy pronto, honey,” she said. “What you want, I hope?”

  “Oh.” Prosik looked up from his papers. “Your office called. Hanson’s been seen in Seattle. There’s a message. They said to tell you right away.” He pointed to a vidcom screen built into the wall on his left.

  She gave his bottom a hard slap, leaving a wet handprint as she passed him. “How you coming on the garden plan, sweetie?”

  “We plant tomorrow. The marketing people arrive next week for planning and they want to hire a lab.”

  “Why they want to do that?” She stopped at the communicator and touched its keys.

  “They want a better way to ship bazeel fresh. If we can get it as far away as New York undamaged, profits will be very big.”

  She leaned close to the vidcom screen, reading as she spoke. “You got a good business head, Lew honey. Wouldn’t be a bit surprised if we made a killing in your bazeel.”

  “I learn from you, my sweet Habiba. It was edifying when you made a profit from resale of my armor after our return.”

  “Paying for our honeymoon, isn’t it?” She glanced back at him. “Mister Lew Subiyama! Man, I thought that clerk would freak out when you told him you’d take my name. And that preacher!”

  “It is an odd custom for the man’s name to dominate,” he said.

  “My great-grandmother was Choctaw and she used to say the same thing. Said it was a wise child knew his own father but you sure know your mother. Said white folks were crazy. A woman’s name disappears like sugar in the water. You got any Indian blood, honey?”

  “I do not think so. Was it an important message?”

  “Hanson’s been seen in Seattle. The bastard was running down a street in his pajamas. Honeymoon’s over, Lew. It’s back to work. Turn the planting over to Heysoos. He’s a good major-domo. Put the marketing people on the back burner. We’re going to Seattle.”

  “Yes, my sweet Habiba.”

  She strode to his side, swung him around and enveloped him in a gigantic hug.

  “I still can’t believe my luck, honey,” she said. “You really love me. You don’t want me to diet, you just. . .”

  “Do not change, sweet Habiba! I love all of you.”

  “That’s what I mean. Say! You’ve never explained why you call me sweet Habiba. It sounds Arabic.”

  “It is a thing of my infancy, a mother figure.”

  “And I thought you were Irish.”

  “Is this world not called a melting pot?”

  She hugged him tightly. “That it is, sweetie. Have you thought about us having kids?”

  His voice was muffled against her bosom. “I often think of little else. Us sitting by the seedhouse—” He broke off, recalling the reproductive system employed by Earthers.

  She pushed him away slightly. “Sitting by the what?”

  He caressed her abdomen. “The seedhouse where our infant would grow.”

  A great bellowing laugh shook her. “You got gardening on the brain, honey! I love it. Now hurry up. We gotta get packed. There’s a big story in that Hanson bastard and we’re gonna get it.”

  ***

  Idmaging is not a singular process. Complexities encompass many variations—one procedure for life forms, another for inanimate objects, another for correcting mistakes. Variations must be infinite. In an infinite universe, one does not impose limits on infinity.

  —Habiba’s journal

  Nishi gasped as Lutt led her into his house in the Hanson compound outside Seattle.

  The house, one of five set among tall silver firs around a lake, was cool and shadowy on a hot afternoon. The senior Hansons’ home was just visible on a cantilevered platform over the water on the opposite side of the lake. Like Lutt’s home, it was built of a Hanson proprietary material, Fabriwood, that mimicked natural wood but never needed painting and was impervious to insects and rot. The seniors’ home appeared to be a series of bleached silver blocks stacked together, but Lutt’s dark-brown home drew on Japanese tradition and sat almost concealed in trees and bushes. Morey’s home, to the east, copied that of his parents. The other two residences, occupied by guards and aides, lay completely hidden in the trees.

  “It is so beautiful,” Nishi said. She looked at Lutt beside her in his red, black and white clothes.

  The foyer where Lutt and Nishi stood was lined with potted bamboo and led to steps that went down into a lower living area furnished in wicker.

  “I’m glad you like it,” Lutt said. “I had a cute little Jap guy design and build it.”

  “I do not like that way of referring to him,” Nishi said. “I have Japanese ancestors as well as French.”

  “Japanese, Jap—what’s the difference, long as you know what I mean?”

  “Sometimes, we mean more than we think.” She went down into the living area. “Perhaps I should not have come here.”

  “Why not?”

  “You will try to take liberties.”

  “And you don’t have legionnaires to protect you here?”

  “Oh, I think I have a protector. Ryll, would you protect me?”

  You try to hurt her and I’ll cause trouble, Ryll intruded.

  What the hell could you do?

  I think I can prevent the flow of blood to a . . . certain . . . inflatable part of our body.

  You wouldn’t!

  Nishi has been charged by your uncle with protecting me. I, in turn, will protect her.

  You son of a bitch!

  I am the son of Dreens. That is distinctly different.

  “Why do you not respond, Ryll?” Nishi asked.

  Grasping for voice control, Ryll spoke in a weak falsetto: “I can protect you. I have warned him.”

  Lutt wrenched back control of their voice and shouted: “Someday, I’ll get you, Ryll! You just see if I don’t! And when I do, baby . . .”

  “You see?” Nishi asked. “I will never be far from my protector.”

  Sullenly, Lutt said, “There’s a guest room up the stairs on the right. I’ll have the housekeeper bring you some clothes.”

  “You have clothes for your women guests?”

  “We have a lot of things here.”

  “And so many servants.”

  “You saw the dogs and guards when we came in? Nobody gets past the boundary fences or leaves unless they belong. Just you remember that.”

  “That is not a very loving thing to say, Lutt.”

  “I’m getting tired of your cat-and-mouse game.”

  “You are accustomed to getting what you want when you want. Yes. I see that.”

  “Osceola said you love me. Is it true?”

  “I begin to wonder if it is you I love or if I have seen Ryll in you and, perhaps, love him.”

  “Shit!”

  Nishi spoke in a soft voice. “My guru says you love me in your own way, Lutt. What is that way?”

  Lutt glared at her in angry silence. Yeah! I love her. She’s my Ni-Ni. But what kind of hell must I go through to get her?

  Perhaps you will be required to change, Ryll offered.

  In a pig’s ass! She’s the one who’s going to change.

  Would you still love her then?

  The question shocked Lutt.

  Before he could respond, there was a pounding on the front door.

  “Lutt! You’re in there, Lutt! I know you’re in there!”

  It was L.H.’s famili
ar angry bellow.

  Lutt stepped to a wall, slid a concealed panel aside and pushed a button. They heard the front door open.

  L.H. lurched into their presence on his canes. His prosthetic eyes probed for them like insect antennae. He stopped short and stared at Nishi.

  “What have we here?”

  “This is Nishi D’Amato,” Lutt said.

  “We are to be married,” Nishi said and then wondered why she offered this information.

  L.H. eyed her up and down. “Are you really?”

  “Yes.” Lutt’s voice was unmistakably sullen.

  “This is a pretty sexy lady you got here, boy,” L.H. said. “You already tried her out?”

  “That’s none of your business,” Lutt said.

  “Playing hard to get, is she?” He turned his attention to Lutt. “I tell you something that is my business. You put your own locks on this place. I warned you not to do that.”

  “This is my home! I’ll lock it any damn way I want.”

  “And it’s my compound, boy!”

  “You going to kick me out?”

  “Boy, why do you rile me so? You could boss the whole shebang if you ever come around to it.”

  “And be another one of your slaveys?”

  “I’m not gonna fight you about it now, but you change those locks or I will.”

  “And make it easier for Morey to get in here, too?”

  “So you got my warning. How is old Dudley?”

  “He looks fine.”

  “Stupid son-of-a-bitch! Always worried about what our inventions would do to people. I always said, ‘Long as they make a profit, who cares?’”

  “You see, Lutt?” Nishi asked. “I told you the Raj Dood is a good man.”

  Lutt ignored her. “You’ve seen the profit sheet on my Spiral News Service, Father. What do you say now?”

  “Peanuts. Enjoyed the story about the Legion whorehouse, though.”

  “Nishi did that story,” Lutt said and grinned at her maliciously.

  “Did you now?” L.H. looked at her with new interest. “You one of the girls?”

  “I am still a virgin,” she said.

  “Christ on a crutch! What you got here, boy?”