Four Unpublished Novels

by Frank Herbert

  He felt dizzy, as though he were many persons at once. The river reminded him of a barge trip he had taken on the Rhine when he was twenty. He looked to the fuzzy spread of moonlit hills for the familiar outline of castles.

  Part of him seemed to cling to the fabric in the ceiling of the plane’s cabin—peering down. This part of him whispered in his mind: “Tell them what’s wrong with you before it’s too late!”

  Monti retreated into her corner. She could see the moon through the overhead curve of windshield. It was an alien moon—like none she had ever seen. The earth-lighted circle looked far too big, the melon slice of sun reflection far too bright. It was a Hollywood moon: unreal. It frightened her, made her feel small—dwindling away to nothing, a tiny spark lost in the infinity of the universe.

  She pressed her eyes tightly closed.

  I mustn’t think like that or I’ll go crazy! God! When will they find us?

  David curled into his corner behind Jeb, studied the shadowy outline that was Gettler. The Aussie hat had been thrown back. Gettler’s head bulked thickly above the craggy nose and beard-softened curve of his chin.

  He’s crazy, thought David. I should be afraid of him, but I’m not. I feel sorry for him. An adult thought burst into the child mind: I remind him of someone. That’s why he wants me to like him.

  “Killers!” muttered Gettler.

  “Was that Indian one of the ones who killed my dad?” asked David.

  “No,” said Jeb.

  “How d’you know?” roared Gettler. “You don’t know! They’re all killers!”

  Silence pressurized the cabin. Jeb heard the cautious sound of Monti’s controlled breathing. Slowly, the pressure bled away.

  David announced: “I’m going to sleep.” He twisted into a new position. His foot bumped Jeb’s back through the seat.

  “Gettler?” said Jeb.

  A grunt answered him.

  “You know the jungle, Gettler,” said Jeb. “What’ll the Jivaro do? We should get ready for them.”

  Gettler’s voice surprised him by coming out calm and remote. “If they’re at ‘the cut’ that’s a canyon. They may drop boulders … or they could run a net across the river to spill us into the rapids.”

  “That last’s what I’m afraid of,” said Jeb.

  “Are you sure this plane won’t fly?” asked Monti.

  “Even if I got it off, it wouldn’t stay up,” said Jeb. “The motor’s sure to overheat.”

  “I hope we don’t meet them in the dark,” she said.

  Gettler chuckled softly. “The things we meet in the dark are always worse, eh?”

  Jeb found himself puzzled by Gettler’s tone. It was though the man had been transformed into a pleasant stranger—someone entirely different from the wild-eyed killer. A word he only half understood popped into Jeb’s mind: schizophrenia—split personality.

  “We’re always more afraid of what we can’t see or understand,” said Gettler.

  Again he chuckled. By its very difference and tone of sanity the sound was frightening.

  Monti sat up straight beside Jeb.

  Gettler said: “I keep thinking of Cardinal Newman’s ‘terrible aboriginal calamity.’ That’s what we’re headed for down there: a meeting with original sin.”

  David stirred, sat up. “I can’t get to sleep.”

  “I keep listening for a plane,” said Monti. “Oh God! When will they come?”

  “Keep your fingers crossed,” said Jeb.

  “What were you talking about, Mr. Gettler?” asked David. “What calamity?”

  “I’ve never prayed so hard for anything in my life,” said Monti.

  “Well, son,” said Gettler, “you’ve asked a philosophical question about good and evil—original sin. That was the cardinal’s calamity.”

  “What’s philosophy?” asked David.

  “That’s the dreamers interpreting their dream,” murmured Gettler.

  Monti leaned toward Jeb. “What’s he rattling on about?”

  Jeb shrugged.

  “Good and evil are part of the dream,” said Gettler.

  “Two days,” muttered Jeb. “Jesus! If we only had the radio!”

  “Good and evil are man-made opposites,” said Gettler.

  David shut out the murmurous conversation in the front seats, listened to Gettler. The words falling from the man’s lips seemed to have special meaning—something that would suddenly fill out and answer every uncertainty.

  “Men anchor their lives between good and evil,” said Gettler. “They try that way to stop all motion—to end the flow of life toward death—keep everything as it is. They don’t realize that when everything stops: that’s death.”

  Monti began humming softly.

  “Everything in the universe flows like this river,” said Gettler. “Everything changes constantly from one form into another. Nothing can stop this—nothing should stop it: no anchor, no philosophy, no man or god.”

  Monti’s humming grew louder.

  “Everything flows like a river,” said Gettler. “Nothing is static, nothing’s ever twice the same. Not good! Not evil! Even the Ten Commandments have their exceptions.”

  “You mean the Bible?” asked David.

  Gettler gripped David’s arm. “The good-and-evil book! The only thing a man has is his own ability to make decisions from moment to moment. Good and evil can only confuse him.”

  Jeb heard this last, thought: What’s he feeding David?

  Monti said: “Would it be better to anchor and wait for rescue?”

  “We can’t be sure of rescue,” said Jeb. “We have to take our chances on the river. We have to!”

  “Never let yourself be submerged in the herd,” said Gettler. His grip on David’s arm became painful. “You do and you have to accept the herd’s judgments. Be your own judge. Don’t lose any sleep over what the herd thinks!” He relaxed his grip.

  Did that Indian tell me the truth? wondered Jeb. Yes. Christ! That’s a killer back there! I have to keep reminding myself.

  Jeb turned, glanced back into the dark shadows.

  Just go to sleep, Gettler. Let me get my hands on that revolver!

  “Are you sure we shouldn’t wait?” asked Monti. “Somebody’s sure to miss us.”

  “Who?”

  “The people at Ramona.”

  “They won’t even begin to ask questions for another week.”

  “But what about the army when that radio station doesn’t answer?”

  “They may think it’s a mechanical failure. Happens all the time. And what’s to connect us with the failure of a radio station?”

  “But we know they’re downstream waiting for us!” She rubbed at her forehead. “They’re going to try and kill us!”

  “That’s the problem,” said Jeb. “The river’s carrying us toward both danger and safety.”

  “Somebody’s sure to come,” she said.

  “Just like waiting for the Second Coming!” said Gettler.

  “Take it easy, Monti,” said Jeb. “We’ll fight our way through all right.”

  But he didn’t feel that confident.

  Monti looked at Jeb. His angular features looked hard, almost metallic in the reflected moon glow. He’s so strong, she thought. And I’m so tired … She lowered her head onto Jeb’s lap like a small child seeking comfort, burrowed her left hand behind him, under his shirt, caressed his back.

  Jeb stroked her hair. A fluttering aliveness pulsed within him … the delicate beginning movements of desire. He tried to force his attention onto the night around them, the dangers ahead.

  Monti’s hand became quiet against his back, her breathing deepened. She relaxed into sleep.

  She’s like a little girl, he thought.

  The plane drifted down a lane of glittering water. A cold glow of fireflies danced in the dark shadows of the forest. A sense of eternal corruption came from the jungle.

  It pressed in upon the tenuous moon path.

  Gettler’s w
ords came back to Jeb: “Everything in the universe flows like a river.”

  And he thought, Maybe Gettler’s right. I exist through a flowing of moments … alive only in my own memory. Everything’s changing. You can’t say something eternally absolute at this moment and have it be true at the next heartbeat …

  Introspection came hard to Jeb and brought feelings of anxiety that moved toward terror.

  Time is on the jungle’s side, he thought. And he experienced an abrupt feeling of detachment, as though he had suddenly come upon himself like a reflection in a mirror … or heard about himself like an echo … and he was both the original voice and the echo—the substance and the reflection.

  Jeb felt that he existed at this moment in an ultimate awakening where everything around him unfolded before an inner mind—and the only part of himself that he knew became a memory, like a perfume lingering behind a strange passion. He saw everything as related to totality, dancing and weaving in a thin plane of reality like a fabric coming off an endless loom.

  Reality and illusion were through the same cloth.

  And he knew that he would never again be the same.

  It was a feverish sensation accompanied by an inner trembling.

  The world around Jeb—the darkly flowing jungle—began to intrude. A wind arose, gave the plane an uneasy shifting motion. A curious damp nutrient in the wind fed Jeb’s awareness. He looked up. The stars were sharp points of light that stabbed through rushing clouds.

  Something flickered like a firefly on the right bank.

  And again. Red streamers of fire wavered in the forest: a bobbing, dancing lacery of light.

  “Gettler!” hissed Jeb.

  “Heh?”

  “On the right bank.”

  “Torches!”

  Monti sat up. “Wha’s happening?”

  “Torches along the right bank,” whispered Jeb.

  “How far away are they?” asked David.

  “A hundred yards at least,” said Gettler.

  “Half that,” said Jeb.

  “Do they see us?” asked Monti.

  “Can’t miss us,” said Jeb.

  “What’re they doing?” she asked.

  “God knows.”

  Something thudded against a wing. Again. A pellet-rattling of taps sounded along the fuselage.

  “Darts!” said Gettler. “Start the motor and get us the hell out of here!”

  Jeb primed the engine, snapped on the ignition, pulled the starter. It caught on the second revolution, coughed, belched orange flame around the cowling, settled into its off-beat banging. The plane surged down the dark water. Jeb snapped on the wing lights. They punched two round holes out of the nights, caught up a grey fog of insects.

  “Turn off that light!” roared Gettler.

  “Can’t!” shouted Jeb.

  “Turn it off!”

  “Shut up and leave me alone!”

  They pounded around a slow bend into a wider stretch of water.

  Jeb throttled back.

  “I thought that Indian said two days downstream!” snarled Gettler.

  “Those could’ve been Napos after revenge for the man you killed,” said Jeb.

  “Wrong shore!” snapped Gettler.

  “You can’t be sure.”

  Another bend. The river grew even wider. Jeb shut off the motor, slapped the light switch. They plunged into darkness, coasting slower and slower.

  “Why’re you stopping?” demanded Gettler.

  “I’m not sure that patch will take this.” He looked at the right shore. “They couldn’t send a dart this far.” Jeb turned. “Check that float patch, Gettler.”

  “Check it yourself!”

  Jeb shrugged. “Excuse me, Monti.” He opened her door, climbed across her, down to the float, removed the cap by feel, probed inside.

  “How is it?” whispered Monti.

  “So far so good.”

  He replaced the cap, climbed back into his seat.

  “It’s awful dark,” whispered David.

  “Going to rain,” said Jeb.

  “Are we likely to run into rapids at night?” asked Monti.

  “Any time—day or night,” said Jeb. “As long as we’re just drifting we can hear them in time—I hope.”

  Jeb opened his door, slipped down to the pontoon. The fitful wind imparted a dipping-swaying motion to the plane. He gripped the strut, peered ahead, listened.

  “What’re you doing?” whispered Gettler.

  “Looking for a place to anchor.”

  “Not yet!”

  “It’s getting too dark.”

  “We’re too close to them! They’ll …”

  “They’ll expect us to drift all night. So we won’t.”

  “Can’t they still see us?” asked Monti.

  “Can you see either shore?” asked Jeb.

  “No.”

  A hissing sound intruded: the noise of the current soughing around an obstruction. Jeb saw a darker shadow against the blackness ahead. It drew nearer. There came the rhythmic lament of water against a broken limb.

  Jeb freed the grapnel, tossed it into the dark shadow.

  “What is it?” asked Gettler.

  “A water soaked tree caught in shallows.”

  “Did you hit it with the anchor?”

  “Yes.”

  Jeb held the line, felt the anchor catch, twist. The plane swung around downstream, snubbed up short at the end of the line. It began sawing back and forth in a slow, persistent pendulum.

  “Where are we?” asked Monti.

  Jeb climbed into the cabin, snicked his door shut. “Somewhere in midstream.”

  “I’m dying for a smoke,” she said.

  “No lights!” snapped Gettler.

  “I know it!”

  “I’ll take the first watch,” said Jeb. And he thought: Maybe Gettler’s tired enough to fall into a deep sleep. Let him do it just once! I’ll have my gun back!

  Gettler turned uneasily. “I’m not sleepy.”

  Son-of-a-bitch! thought Jeb.

  “You get some rest,” said Gettler. “I’ll watch.”

  If I argue he’ll get suspicious, thought Jeb. Well, let him get even more tired. I’ll have a better chance.

  “Okay, Gettler.”

  Jeb leaned against his door. He still felt feverish, strangely weak and light headed. I’d better take a pill in the morning.

  Sleep invaded his mind like a rolling fog.

  The plane sawed back and forth … back and forth.

  Let him sleep, thought Gettler. He’s no danger to me when he’s asleep. The boy can take the watch when I get tired. He bent to peer at the luminous dial of his watch: eleven minutes to one.

  Jeb awoke to rain sounds, and darkness slowly creeping into grey dawn. Light increased. Steel lines of the downpour slanted against the pale green jungle. It was a rain of monotonous violence. It thundered against the plane, pocked the river in countless tiny craters.

  “This is the third day,” said David. “I’m keeping count.”

  Monti looked out at the rain. “How long’s this going to last?”

  “Four or five months,” said Gettler.

  She sat upright. “Just like that … like that out there?”

  “More or less. There may be a few breaks at first … and maybe not.”

  Jeb looked up at the clouds hovering low above the trees that lined the shores.

  “How could they see us down here?” demanded Monti. “I mean from a rescue plane?”

  “They couldn’t,” said Jeb. He looked at the riverbank, realized that he could actually see the water rising against the gnarled roots. “But that’s not our first problem.”

  Abruptly, the tree snag that held their anchor shifted, bumped a few feet downstream.

  “What’s that?” demanded Monti.

  “Our first problem,” said Jeb. “This river’s going to turn into a raging hell.” He clambered out, pulled in the line, released the grapnel. Rain felt warm an
d fresh against his face. He stood on the end of the pontoon enjoying the freshness. Shoreline twisted across his vision: greenery dimmed to pastel by the torrent.

  Jeb returned to the cabin feeling refreshed and hungry. “Let’s try that fish line, Gettler. I feel lucky.”

  “I don’t,” said Gettler.

  “What do we have for bait?” asked Jeb.

  “Rotten lizard guts,” said Gettler. “I wrapped them in an empty K-ration carton.” He turned around, groped in the luggage compartment.

  “Is that what’s smelling up the cabin?” demanded Jeb.

  Gettler handed him a reeking package.

  Jeb nerved himself to bait the hook, tossed it into the mud yellow river. Dirty suds of foam swirled around the edges of the floats, were beaten flat by the rain when they strayed into the current.

  Nothing struck the bait.

  The morning wore on through slackening rain. A warm, misty feeling permeated the air. The mildew smell of the cabin grew stronger.

  Clouds of gunmetal cotton lifted until they brushed the hilltops above the river. A beaded drapery of raindrops hung on every tree along the shores.

  Jeb began to pull in his fish line to examine the bait, suddenly jerked the line, hauled it in frantically.

  “Fish!” he shouted.

  He lifted it out of the muddy current—a blue and silver flat-nosed catfish that flopped violently on the floor of the cabin where Jeb threw it.

  Gettler dispatched the fish with a knife. “Clean it out there,” he said. “I’ll set up the pellet stove on the back of your seat to cook it.”

  The fish tasted flat and faintly muddy, but they ate every morsel and wished for more.

  A slack, barely moving stretch of river held them. It began to get warmer. Bees hummed about the plane, departed. The rain became an occasional random drop from the rising clouds.

  Jeb climbed into the cabin, leaned back, drowsed.

  A buzzing insect sound invaded his torpor. He brushed at his face, suddenly snapped upright: wide awake.

  “What’s wrong?” asked Monti. “You …”

  “Quiet!” He held up his hand, cocked his head to one side.

  Gettler leaned over the back of Jeb’s seat. “Plane?”

  “Yes, by God!”

  Jeb lowered himself to the pontoon.

  “Could it be more rapids?” asked Monti. “It sounds …”

  “Gettler!” snapped Jeb. “In that slotted pocket under your seat—see if there’s a rocket flare!”