Four Unpublished Novels

by Frank Herbert

  “I don’t like to be kept waiting,” said Cecelia, taking his arm.

  “I know you don’t dear,” said The Coor. “I’m sorry, but it was some important business. Now let’s go to …”

  They passed out of sight and hearing. Newton turned a grin on fifth cousin Loren Addington, sobered when he received no response.

  Chapter Eleven

  On the forty-seventh day following his low-opp, Movius received orders to report to Bu-Trans. The orders came out in the District Circular without any special notice attached to them.

  Movius stood in the hidden room, the paper in his hands. “They want to bring me out in the open and knock me over,” he said. “I’m sure of it.”

  Grace, working with the duplicator on the table they had installed in a corner of the room, missed catching a card as the machine disgorged it. The other cards piled up, jamming, until she shut down the machine.

  Quilliam London, who always seemed to make it a point to be present when Grace was in the room, sat on Movius’ cot, writing in a notebook. “We’ve made good preparations, he said. “Gerard has heard reports about you which make him practically drool. You’re the answer to his dreams.”

  Movius balled the District Circular into a crumpled wad, threw it into the corner.

  “It’s not the ALP,” said Quilliam. “It’s Bu-Trans.”

  “Target practice for The Coor’s thuggees,” said Movius.

  “It’s early yet,” said Quilliam London. “You and Grace had better go down to District Housing and ask for quarters.”

  Movius stared at him. “Why, I hadn’t …”

  “You’ll have to make it look good,” said London. “They won’t be expecting you to come right out there tonight.” There was a touch of grimness at the corners of his lean mouth. “The honeymoon is over.”

  The transport whined to a stop at the corner, waited while the morning’s human cargo jostled and pushed abroad, a mood of impatient anger about them. The standard aroma of the standard breakfast puffed out on their breaths. Another LP, Daniel Movius, allowed himself to be crushed into the transport, found a space as far back as he could push. Furtive glances at his companions showed nothing he could mark as unusual. He could only assume that Bu-Con and The Coor had not had men watching District Housing, that they had not expected a hunted man to come out openly and register.

  It had been a strange experience at District Housing. The clerk, with that nervous officiousness of those with petty powers, had grumbled about his paper work, assigned them quarters half a mile from Quilliam London’s apartment. Grace had held Movius’ arm as they’d stood there. When they were back in the street, she’d said, “We’d better go out there now. Get off the streets.”

  It was a standard Warren apartment—F5MC—floor 5, married couple. Two rooms nine by ten, double bed, sitting room with couch and chair, standard wall TV, collapsible table and a smoking stand. The bathroom was four by four, closet five by four. More space for the wedded; marriage had to have some advantages.

  Movius tested the springs on the couch. “It’ll do. You take the bedroom.”

  Grace opened the door between the rooms, suddenly fled into the bedroom. Movius caught a fleeting glimpse of her contorted face; he jumped up, followed. “What’s wrong?”

  She was drying her eyes on a corner of a blanket. “Nothing.”

  “Well, it’s obviously something.”

  “I guess it’s just that this is so different from what I’d imagined.” She looked around her with an empty expression.

  Movius found himself remembering the wedding ceremony, his desperate feeling of wrongness. “I’m sorry. I guess there are some things we didn’t consider.”

  “Such as?” She sniffled.

  “Human feelings maybe.” He shrugged. “But it can’t be helped. He felt like an executive telling his secretary he was sorry she couldn’t have the night off but there was all this work to do. He remembered all the hours Grace had worked beside him, ignoring obvious fatigue. Movius walked into the bedroom, patted her shoulder, “Believe me, if there was some other way …”

  She pulled away and suddenly, without warning, turned on him, eyes glittering with tears. “Of course there’s no other way as long as you’re filled with hate for that egotistical drive for revenge.” She fell silent, put a hand to her mouth. “I’m sorry. I didn’t …”

  Again he had that feeling of being cheated, of missing something. Rather stiffly, he said, “I thought it was what you wanted, too.”

  Grace looked at the floor, turned her back on him. “Yes, of course.

  He stepped closer, disturbed, put his hands on her shoulders. Her hair gave off a faint fragrance. The memory of that tremulous kiss came back to him. She leaned back slightly against his hands, just a faint pressure. It was enough. He had an abrupt, glaring touch of insight, thought, Great Roper! She’s in love with me! The thought made him drop his hands, pull away. There she was, vital certainly, but really on the plain side, much too thing-featured and intense, like the ones he saw sitting in the parks on festival days, listening to ancient music. The wrong kind of fire inside to attract him. It was tragic when he thought about it.

  He said, “These aren’t times for anything but hate.”

  She sighed. “No. I guess not.”

  They had gone to their separate rooms, Movius to twist and turn on the too-short couch, tortured by one word in Grace’s accusation—egotistical. He thought, All I want is a clean government for everyone. And far back in his mind something sniggered and said, “With you at the top!”

  The transport turned on the parkway—Government Avenue—began making frequent stops to disgorge writhing blobs of workers. Movius saw his stop coming, worked his way forward, was squeezed out with the rest into the chill morning air.

  There was the building: Bu-Trans. A towering concrete hive, its tiled floors clicking to purposeful feet. A container for efficient scurrying hither and yon, papers clutched in hands. Machines clacking and buzzing, pneumo-tubes whacking out their cartridges with more bits of paper. A sum total of officiousness.

  Movius joined the inbound stream of workers, broke away in the cavernous lobby to go to the window labeled STARTING CLERK. The clerk’s tired eyes peered out of a steel wicket. “Name and number?”

  “Daniel Movius, 662843509, LP.”

  The clerk turned to check the records. Movius leaned on the counter to wait, became conscious of two men, one standing on either side of him. Something hard pressed against his left side. He looked down, saw a fap gun in the hand of the man on his left.

  “Daniel Movius?” asked the one of the right.

  “Yes.” Movius looked at the man, mind churning. This was what he had feared. He said, “Why?”

  “We’ll ask the questions.” The man began patting Movius’ pockets, stooped to feel along his legs. Presently, he stood up, said, “He’s not carrying it.”

  The pressure was removed from Movius’ left side.

  “Where’ve you been, Movius?” asked the man on the right.

  “With my wife,” said Movius, forcing his voice to remain even and questioning. “We’ve been on our honeymoon. I …”

  The starting clerk returned to the window. “You report to Department CR-14.” He suddenly noticed the two men beside Movius. “You must take your places in line,” he said. “We serve everybody in his proper turn.”

  The man on the right flashed a badge and identification card. “Bu-Con,” he said. “This man is a fugitive from work report.”

  The clerk gave a glance to the badge and card, glanced down to papers he held in his hand. “I don’t see how that can be. I have his work order here in my hand. It came through yesterday. He’s reporting well within the forty-eight-hour limit.” The clerk reached out, grasped Movius’ thumb, held thumb and papers under the facsimile-eye on his counter. “Same man.”

  “We’ll tell you if it’s the same man or not,” said the one on Movius’ right.

  The clerk leaned fo
rward, said, “Look, bull-con, I’ve identified this man as one assigned to CR-14. I’m going to call them upstairs and report what’s going on.” He pulled a phone from beneath the counter, put it to his ear.

  The man on Movius’ left rested his fap-gun on the counter, said, “Put away the phone, sonny.”

  “If you pull that trigger, the guard in our tower will drop you in your tracks,” said the clerk. “We don’t trust you bull-con illegitimates over here in Bu-Trans.” He bent over the phone. “Get me Mr. Gerard, will you, beautiful? I’ll wait.”

  “Movius is going with us,” said the man on the right.

  “That may be,” said the clerk. “But I’m reporting this to the top all the same.” Again he moved the phone closer to his mouth. “Mr. Gerard?” He waited. “Mr. Gerard? This is Bailey downstairs. Daniel Movius, the new CR-14, just reported and there are a couple of bull-cons here threatening to take him away on a charge of failure to report.” A rasping sound issued from the phone. “Sure it’s a phony,” said the clerk.

  The man on Movius’ right said, “Let’s go.” He took Movius’ arm, turned him around. “Out the door and don’t give us any trouble.”

  The clerk tipped the phone away from his mouth. “The big boss says for you to wait.”

  “We don’t take our orders from your boss,” said the one with the gun.

  The clerk reached under the counter. A clanging crash sounded from the front doors as a steel barrier dropped. “You’re not going anywhere,” said the clerk. “Not unless you happened to bring an oxy-torch in your side pocket.”

  The man with the gun looked to his companion. “We can’t do it in here,” he said. “They’d blast us first and ask questions later.”

  “I’m thinking,” said the other man.

  They mean to kill me! thought Movius. He suddenly slashed his right hand down at the gunman’s wrist, heard the gun clatter on the floor. Almost in the same motion, he brought up his left thumb, jamming it behind the other man’s ear, saw him collapse. Again he thanked fate for the years spent in the privileged gymnasiums, for Okashi’s patient teaching. The gunman was bending to pick up his weapon. Movius stepped back half a step, kicked the man alongside the head. The man sprawled forward onto his face. Movius stooped, picked up the gun, walked back to the clerk’s window. “They were going to kill me,” he said.

  The clerk was speaking rapidly into the phone. “Yes. Now he has the gun.… Well, I don’t really know. It happened so fast I couldn’t follow it.… Yes, I’ll have him sent right up.… Yes, it’s the same man for CR-14.”

  Movius put the fap gun on the counter. “What do I do with this?”

  “Leave it right there,” said the clerk. “I’ll give it to him when he wakes up. You’re to report to the big boss.” He leaned through the wicket, pointed to his left. “Take that elevator all the way to the top—seventy-first floor. They’re expecting you.” He shook his head. “Man! That was beautiful.”

  The elevator let him out in a penthouse office, sunlight glaring into the place from too many windows. A male receptionist built like a Roman gladiator, even to the beaked nose, said, “You the one snowed under the two bull-cons?”

  Movius nodded.

  The Roman gladiator hooked a thumb over his shoulder. “Go right in. You’re welcome.”

  Venetian blinds made the inner office gloomy after the reception room. Gerard, a frail-bodied man with a bald head two sizes too large for his body, was sitting with his back to the door, speaking into a Dictaphone. As Movius entered, he put down the Dictaphone, swiveled his chair. Gerard had dishwater blue eyes with lids which gave the impression of a chicken’s nictating membrane.

  “Well, so you’re …” Gerard stopped, stared intently at Movius. “I should pay more attention,” he said. “I didn’t put the name and face together.” He sat back, waved Movius to a chair across from him. “You’re the Daniel Movius who went out with Liaison a month or so ago.”

  “That’s right.” Movius dropped into the chair.

  Gerard wriggled in his chair and a glistening reflection of him in the polished surface of the desk matched the movement. “What happened?”

  What could he tell this man? Movius wondered. Gerard was one of the top twenty-five in government and, by all the stories, a powerful and ruthless man. Movius decided on partial truth, said, “The Coor wanted my fiancée.”

  “Oh?” Gerard’s voice became distant.

  Movius wondered if he had overplayed his hand, cursed himself for not thinking twice. Both Quilliam London and O’Brien had said Gerard hated The Coor, though.

  “The Coor, eh?” said Gerard.

  “Glass didn’t realize I was tired of her and looking for a way out,” said Movius. “When he took her off my hands, I married the woman I wanted.”

  Gerard leaned forward, a half-smile on his face. “What’s this about failing to report?”

  Play it cautiously, thought Movius. “I’m sure I don’t know,” he said. “I waited until my number came up—I saw it last night—and reported as soon as I could.”

  Gerard leaned back, pulled a phone from a recess in his desk, spoke into it. “Get me old owl guts Addington at Bu-Con.”

  It’s what O’Brien and London said, thought Movius. They hate each other at the top.

  Gerard stretched the muscles of his neck, wriggled in his chair. “Hello, is that you, owl guts?” he asked. “The same to you. What do you want with my new CR-14, Daniel Movius?” He waited, jerked his head up, glancing furtively at Movius. “Is that so? Well, that’s penalty service. What was the charge?” Another wait. “Can’t find it, eh? Maybe you’d better learn how to keep records over there.” Gerard wore a fierce grin. “Sure, I know where he is. He’s sitting right across from me.… Sure, you can question him; right here in my office and no place else. And that’s final.” He paused listening, put a hand over the mouthpiece. “Somebody’s just telling him about his two flunkies you messed up.” Gerard turned back to the phone. “He did? Well isn’t that a shame? Why don’t you patch them up and bring them along for another go at him?” Gerard listened, said, “Goodbye, owl guts,” slammed down the receiver. He turned the fierce grin on Movius. “If you’re clean, Movius, I’ll throw everything I have behind you. I like nothing better than cobbing old owl guts. But you’d just better be clean. They won’t dare touch you if I’m behind you.”

  I only hope you’re right, thought Movius. He said, “I don’t know what the hell this is all about.”

  “They’re on their way over,” said O’Brien.

  Movius framed a mental picture of Addington going to the elevator, riding down, getting into his car, driving the two blocks to Bu-Trans, coming up the elevator here. Almost to the second when he felt they should arrive, Gladiator ushered the visitors into Gerard’s office. Addington did look like an owl—fat, dumpy body, round face, horn-rimmed glasses and a thin, pinched nose. He was accompanied by two men. With a start, Movius recognized a murderous glare. The other was an aide carrying a bulging briefcase.

  “Before we get off to any wrong starts,” said Gerard, “maybe I should remind everybody that no one gets out of this building alive without my say-so.” He rubbed a hand across his bald head.

  Addington sat down with a grunt, popped a white lozenge into his mouth. “Save the drama for those who appreciate it, bulb head.” The two aides remained standing. Addington had not shown that he even knew Movius was present. Suddenly, he whirled on Movius, said, “What we really want you for is murder!”

  Movius did not have to feign surprise. He looked from Addington to Gerard, back to Addington. “This is fantastic. I’ve been on my honeymoon. I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  Without taking his eyes from Movius, the Bu-Con chief reached up to his aide, took the briefcase, opened it on his lap. From the case he pulled a paper, glanced at it. “On the eve of Mid-summer Festival, you, Daniel Movius, in the company with another man as yet unidentified, did accost Howell Pescado and Birch Morfon in the
Richmond Warrenate. You and companion did then attack Mr. Pescado and Mr. Morfon with such violence that Mr. Pescado died. You then stole Mr. Pescado’s gun and with it did wound Benjam Rousch, who had stopped to investigate the disturbance.”

  Movius shook his head. “I’ve never heard of these people. I’ve never been in such a fight.”

  Gerard leaned forward. The reflected image on the desk surface darted with him. “To hell with a street brawl! What’s this about Dan failing to report for the ALP?”

  Movius noted the use of his first name and knew the familiarity was aimed at making Addington unsure of their relationship.

  Addington flushed, spoke without looking up from the paper. “That was an error. He is not wanted on such a charge.”

  Gerard said, “Oh?” He leaned back, turned to Movius. “Did you knock over this Pescado?”

  “No.”

  “You say you’ve been on your honeymoon,” said Addington. “Isn’t it a fact that you were hiding out instead?”

  “Hiding from what?” asked Movius. He shrugged. “I have been staying pretty close to my bride, of course; except to come out and register my opps.”

  Addington hunted through the briefcase, extracted another paper. “That’s another thing, Movius. You registered opps everywhere from Killson Warrenate to Lascadou.”

  “Is there a law that says you have to register some special place?” asked Movius.

  “You were never in these places,” said Addington.

  “How do you know?” asked Movius.

  “Because we …” Addington broke off.

  Movius smiled. He thought of Gerard’s obvious hate for this man, decided to burn his bridges and play all out for Gerard. It was not difficult to put hate into his tone. “Look, you fat son-of-a-bitch!” he barked. “I’ve had all I’m taking from you! I’ve spent twelve years in the service of the government. Never once taken my off-time, always registered my opps, kept my nose clean. Two of your trained hounds put a gun on me downstairs and talked about killing me. I don’t know why I’m your target, but I’m telling you now to look out!” He glanced at the man he had thumbed. The aide had been edging toward Movius. “And if your brother here moves another inch toward me I’ll wipe up this office with him!” The aide took another involuntary step backwards.