Four Unpublished Novels

by Frank Herbert

  “Pick him up and ask him,” said Addington.

  The Coor shook his head. “I’m beginning to see it. O’Brien and Gerard together and Roper knows what other departments; but those two are doing the thinking. No wonder Gerard is so bold.”

  “Where does Movius fit into this?” Addington swallowed the lozenge, fumbled in his pocket for another.

  “I wish I knew. I’m tempted to raid his apartment.”

  Addington paled. “That’d mean open war. Maybe that’s what they want.”

  Glass showed his teeth in a superior smile. “You’re afraid I’d send you against that Army Gerard keeps on the building. Well, aren’t you, owl guts?”

  Addington flushed. “Great Gallup! Don’t you start calling me that too.”

  “Why didn’t you pick up the Movius woman when you’d spotted her?” demanded Glass.

  “They took her home by copter, same way they’ve been moving Movius around.”

  “How many men would we need to crack that apartment?” asked Glass.

  Addington shook his head. “I don’t know. And anyway, I don’t think Movius and his wife are there anymore. Gerard threw two extra crews of guards around the building yesterday, hauled off half of them today. Bu-Trans copters made half a dozen trips from the apartment to the Bu-Psych Building. I think they’re holed up with O’Brien.”

  “Then how many to crack Bu-Psych?”

  “Helmut, don’t talk foolishness. We don’t know how many departments are in this. We don’t know how many guards.”

  “Then find out!” bellowed Glass. “You be ready to move the night of the seventh. They’re planning something and I’ve a suspicion it will be aimed at the Fall poll. Well, we’re going to strike first. Bring in every man you can trust. Raid your sub-districts in other cities for men.”

  “But that only gives me two days. I’ll need …”

  “You’ve had two months! Great Gallup! You’ve had two years! Get moving!”

  Addington hoisted himself to his feet with a grunt. He shook his head, waddled from the room.

  Gerard went to another door, opened it. “Cecie, I’ve a job for you. You remember Daniel Movius? Well, he’s making trouble for the government and I want you to …”

  Chapter Twenty-six

  Movius took the elevator to the Bu-Psych sub-basement. He glanced at his watch—six-thirty. There were so many loose ends, but they couldn’t be helped now. Another half hour.

  The room was a contrast in crudity and efficiency. Rough concrete walls enclosed a scene of hurrying messengers, clacking typewriters, people conducting low-voiced conversations on phones. It was a space about eighty feet long, perhaps half that wide, a row of concrete pillars down the middle. Early in the city’s history it had been built for printing machinery never installed. Forgotten and walled off, it had been re-discovered by a Sep in Bu-Plan.

  Movius entered through the access tunnel his men had hacked out. What he saw in the room pleased him. The tall black box of a scrambler dominated one end of the room, beside it an emergency generator. A large map of the world covered the opposite wall. Red pins showed Sep organizations which were ready to attack. Yellow pins indicated danger areas. A liquid incendiary tube ran along the top of the map, ready to destroy it. Every record in the room was guarded the same way.

  Along one wall was a row of desks, secretaries working at typewriters. Between pillars and walls were other desks, some occupied, some empty—district cell chiefs. In the opposite aisle, more desks—area coordinators. In a far corner, two desks and a typesetting and facsimile transceiver identical to the one in The Bureau of Communication which controlled the world’s opp registration kiosks.

  O’Brien and a short, chunky man stood in front of the transceiver as Movius approached. The chunky man was speaking, pointing to a square black screen above the transceiver. “… basic fallacy. They think there’s no way to tell when a message is on the beam or what scramble pattern the message is taking. Dan’s idea when we first worked on it was to make a device which would show us the message and its scramble pattern as a motion. He …”

  Movius put a hand on the chunky man’s shoulder. “Hello, Phil.”

  “Oh, hello, Dan. I was just explaining to Mr. O’Brien here …”

  “I heard you.” Movius glanced across at O’Brien. “We’re as ready as we’ll ever be.” He walked to the corner desk, dropped into the chair.

  Behind O’Brien he could see a round table with four men seated around it, three talking, one doodling on a scratch pad. They were men of different sizes and shapes, but with a stamp of sameness to them. One was constructing an intricate doodle like a maze. It was a significant doodle for the men at the table. They were the Bu-Psych semantic analysts, masters at maze-like thinking.

  O’Brien went to the table, addressed the doodler. “I think we’ll have some work for you pretty soon, Jim.”

  The man, a thin-faced individual with grey hair like a disarrayed mop, pushed away his notepad. “It’s about time.”

  Movius looked at his watch, listened to it. “Where’s Peterson? He was due back here with Grace an hour ago.”

  Someone came into the room at the far end. A post blocked the view. Movius shifted to one side. Navvy, and hurrying. He stopped at the desk.

  “I couldn’t find him,” said Navvy. “I thought sure I could find him. He’s not in any of his regular haunts.”

  “Quilliam London can be as elusive as a mosquito if he wants,” said O’Brien. “He slipped right away from my men.”

  “This isn’t good,” said Movius.

  O’Brien rubbed the grey spots at his temples. “He could ruin everything. He knows too much about our plans.”

  “I should never have let Grace go out,” said Movius. He slapped the palm of his hand against the desktop in irritation. “She was just like you, Navvy, sure she could find him.”

  “He’s a master of disguise,” said Navvy. “I hate to admit it, but I could have passed him a dozen times and never recognized him. I thought I’d know his walk, but …” He shrugged. “Then I hoped he’d recognize me and contact me.” Navvy lowered his eyes. “I … uh, took off my disguise a couple of times just in the hopes …”

  In unison, both Movius and O’Brien barked, “You what?”

  “I wasn’t followed,” said Navvy. “The bull-con isn’t made who could tail me.”

  “That wasn’t what I was thinking,” said Movius. He looked at O’Brien, an unspoken question in his eyes.

  O’Brien held out both hands, palms up. “She might get the same notion. After all, she’s his sister. Who knows?”

  Movius jumped to his feet. “Navvy, do you have any idea where …” From his standing position, Movius saw Janus Peterson’s bulky figure come through the door, hurry toward them. He was alone.

  Peterson was breathing rapidly. He came up to the desk, took a deep breath, swallowed before speaking. “Dan, I …”

  “Where’s Grace?”

  “I had no idea she was going to pull a stunt like that,” said Peterson.

  Movius walked around the desk. “Where is she?”

  “Bu-Con has her. The Coor. They took her to Com-Burs.”

  In a flat tone, Movius said, “She took off her disguise.”

  Peterson nodded. “At the festival grounds. Lots of old timers hang around there. She was hoping Quilliam would spot her. I didn’t know what she was going to do. I swear.” He took a gulping breath. “She went into a comfort station, came out the other side without a disguise. I didn’t know what to do. I saw a young fellow on the path spot her and I knew if I went to her, I’d be tabbed. She saw this fellow the same time I did—maybe she recognized him. She started to run. Just like that they were all around her. They seemed to come up out of the ground. I faced back, watched them hustle her into a car.”

  Movius clenched his fists. “How do you know they went to Com-Burs?”

  “I spotted a Bu-Trans truck, gave them the sign and followed the car.”

&n
bsp; “In a truck?” asked O’Brien.

  “They never look at trucks,” said Peterson.

  “Bu-Con does,” said Movius. “Are you certain you weren’t followed?”

  “Not unless they came through some garbage tubes …” Peterson lowered his eyes. “It’s my fault they got her, Dan. Give me some men and—”

  Movius turned his back. “No.” He looked across at O’Brien. “Contact Cecelia Lang.”

  O’Brien nodded. “Right.” He left the room.

  “Janus, get your guards into the tunnel, see that O’Brien’s Security force is alerted. The Fall poll preliminary starts in a few minutes.”

  “What about Grace?” asked Navvy.

  “I’m hoping the confusion will give Cecelia a chance to act.” Movius compressed his lips. “We can’t carry off an open attack. They’d use Grace as a shield.”

  O’Brien returned. “Couldn’t reach Cecelia. If she sees them bring in Grace, she’ll know what to do. She knows their methods of questioning.”

  Movius picked up a phone, punched the button which put him into a special section of the master switchboard, dialed a number, waited. “Give me Gerard, please … Gerard? This is Dan. Monkey-shines.” He waited for Gerard to respond to the code word, said, “We’re ready to move. Call in every fighting man you have. Bring them across to the Bu-Psych Building. Ferry them by copter.” He put down the phone, went to the map, stared at it.

  O’Brien joined him. “Quite a few danger points, Dan.”

  Movius nodded. “Charts and pins in a map don’t tell it all. Bu-Con has been throwing its weight around. Raids on the Warrens. People disappearing. Our own rumor campaign about Bu-Con torture chambers has people raging.” He turned to O’Brien. “That’s the important thing to watch—the temper of the people. Now, all we have to do is make Glass show his hand, come out from behind that front of high and mighty legality.”

  “If you could make him take over full control without the opps,” said O’Brien.

  “We’ll have more recruits than we can use,” said Movius.

  “Delicately, Dan. He mustn’t suspect what you’re actually trying to do.”

  Movius turned, thrust his hands into his pockets. “It’s one minute to seven. The preliminary starts in one minute.”

  Phil Henry sat down at the transceiver.

  “Tap the beam,” said Movius.

  Henry swung a control board in front of him, flicked a switch. The screen above a transceiver gleamed silver, a pulsing purple rope stretching diagonally across it. The purple rope suddenly showed a moving white band, juggling, dancing, shimmering. Henry’s fingers darted over the controls. Another purple rope came up from the bottom center of the screen, matched itself to the moving white band, contacted it. The white stopped. Immediately, the transceiver in front of Henry began to clack out a message.

  Movius and O’Brien stepped forward to look over his shoulder.

  “Just warming up,” said Henry.

  On the printer tape they could read, “BXBBG … MORE IMPORTANT THAN YOUR OPPS. NOTHING MORE IMPORTANT THAN YOUR OPPS. NOTHING MORE IMPORTANT THAN YOUR OPPS. NOTHING MORE IMPORTANT THAN YOUR OPPS. NOTHING MORE IMPORTANT THAN YOUR OPPS. MAY THE MAJORITY RULE.” The machine stopped typing, continued a low humming.

  “Won’t they know we’ve stopped the message?” asked O’Brien.

  “Not a chance,” said Movius. “This isn’t the door they’re guarding. They believe the beam can’t be tapped. It’s in all the manuals. There is no way to tap a communications beam short of its terminal.”

  The transceiver clacked twice—“XX,” began to chatter with its message.

  Work had stopped in the room. People stood in a quarter circle around the corner looking at the activity. The four men at the table pulled note paper to a handy position. They were the star performers now.

  Movius ripped the printer tape out of the machine. “They’re after Bu-Trans first.” He read it aloud: “Would you favor reducing the number of government employees through a merging of the Bureau of Transportation and the Bureau of Control under the direction of the Bureau of Control?” He put the tape on the table.

  The doodler took up his stylus. “I hope they’re all this easy. How does this sound?” He began to write as he composed. “Would you favor giving greater police power to the Bureau of Control by merging that Bureau with the Bureau of Transportation?”

  The other three men at the table nodded.

  “That’ll do it,” said O’Brien. He passed the revised question to Henry at the machine.

  Henry clipped the question in front of him. “What code number? Theirs?”

  Movius fingered the number on his lapel. “Use the first three from mine—six, six, two.”

  “Right.” He punched out the numbers and question.

  “One minute, fifteen seconds,” said O’Brien. “They’ll never notice the delay.”

  Navvy moved over beside O’Brien. “They’ll try to bargain with us for Grace. What do we do then?”

  Through Movius’ mind ran the words from his father’s book: “Nothing is important to a revolutionist except his cause.” He felt himself trembling. He’d have to go ahead as planned. Have to! Damn them!

  Again the machine began to clack. O’Brien read the tape: “Code 089.” He looked at Movius. “The Coor’s private number.” He held up the tape. “In the event of a Separatist uprising, would you give the Coordinator unilateral powers to restore order?”

  Movius got to his feet. “Let that one go.”

  “What?” O’Brien spoke. The four men at the table looked up at Movius.

  “This is exactly what we want,” said Movius. “He has played right into our hands. We want him to show his dictatorial powers.” He took the tape, handed it back to Phil Henry at the transceiver. “Send it through—code and all.”

  “That’s dangerous,” said O’Brien. “Unilateral power means he can do anything legally to restore order. He could take the opp on this one, strike right out at us.”

  “Let’s hope he does,” said Movius. He turned to Phil Henry. “Start punching this: To All LP’s—Coordinator Helmut Glass has this day by-passed the opp to make himself dictator. The numbers 089 are held by High-Opp friends of the Coordinator’s and were put in the Selector in an illegal manner. The opp requires that the Coordinator must open the Selector for public inspection upon demand. This demand is hereby made.” Movius put a hand on Henry’s shoulder. “Signed Daniel Movius, Separatist.”

  “If they harm Grace,” said Navvy, “I’ll …”

  “You’ll do nothing,” said Movius. “Glass and his friends are to be the focus of public hate. If they survive the revolt, they will have public executions.”

  “I thought so,” said Navvy. “You’re just like …”

  “Shut up!” raged Movius. “I’d like to hang them up by the thumbs and pour acid on them! But I won’t. I’ll …”

  “Sorry,” said Navvy.

  A Bu-Psych runner ushered Warren Gerard and his gladiator secretary into the room, pointed to Movius and his group in the corner. Gerard, his bald head glistening under the room lights, made his way across the room, nodded to O’Brien. “Hello, Nate. Didn’t know you were acquainted with Dan.” To Movius, “What is all this, Dan?”

  “This is Sep headquarters.” Movius looked at Navvy, nodded toward Gerard and bodyguard. Navvy pulled a gun from his pocket, covered the two from behind.

  “Quite an organization you have here,” said Gerard. He looked around with a proprietary air, caught sight of Navvy’s gun.

  “Don’t move,” said Movius.

  The bodyguard made a motion as though to grab a lapel gun.

  “You’d be dead before you touched it,” said Movius. He extended a hand, found the gun in its lapel holster, took it. Gerard and aide had five guns between them.

  Gerard’s eyes blazed. “So you were going to make me the Coordinator?”

  “On an island somewhere,” said Movius. “You won’t have a thing to
worry about for the rest of your life.”

  “Loyalty index!” said Gerard.

  “I’m returning the favor,” said Movius. “I’m saving your life. You and O’Brien may be the only top officials to escape public execution.”

  “You’re damned confident of winning!” blurted Gerard.

  “I can’t lose,” said Movius.

  Navvy snapped manacles on the men’s wrists, led them over to a central pillar, manacled their arms around the pillar. He turned back. At that instant the lights flickered, came back on as the emergency generator started.

  “Your men on the relay ship were late,” said Movius. “It’s sixteen minutes after seven.” He turned to Phil Henry. Before he could speak, the transceiver began to chatter. Movius bent to read the message, felt Navvy beside him.

  “Would you approve a two-rank advance for information leading to the capture of Separatist leaders Daniel Movius, Nathan O’Brien, Warren Gerard, Quilliam London, Navvy London …” The machine went on clacking out names, district organizers, cell leaders.

  “That means they’ve made Grace talk,” said Navvy.

  “Give the word,” said Movius. “The revolt is on!”

  Phil Henry typed out the signal, a phrase Movius had remembered from an ancient history book.

  “FIRE ONE!”

  Movius turned to the ring of watchers. “You have work to do. Get on it.”

  They dispersed to desks, phones. Some picked up weapons, went out. A tight-wave radio transmitter was warmed up on one desk.

  A dead feeling settled into Movius’ stomach. Grace … They’ll pay! Damn them! First the revolt. Nothing else could occupy his attention now. Still he felt the numbness inside him. He wondered if other commanders had felt this way when the battle was joined and the outcome depended on the planning that had gone before. The history books never mentioned it.

  The distant roar of an explosion echoed up the conduit tunnels, created a momentary ear-clicking vacuum in the headquarters room. Movius put a green pin into the map at Tampico. Another city secured for them. The radio operator came across the room with a message, scuffing his way through scattered balls of crumpled paper. “Campobella has just capitulated in Manila,” he said.