Four Unpublished Novels

by Frank Herbert

  Monti coughed at the touch of the sulphurous dust.

  The moon came up to draw a yellow trail along the water. A rush of wind shook the plane, hummed through the trees. The wind increased, and they saw the air become clearer, the moonlight more whitely brilliant. The light spilled out over the dark forest and onto the river.

  Jeb found the flashlight, directed it against the shore.

  “What’re you doing?” demanded Gettler.

  “Checking the height of the water. It’s up again.”

  “More rain behind us,” said Gettler.

  Jeb turned off the light.

  Moonlight flooded over them: a milky, impersonal glow. And an enormous silence enclosed the drifting plane. It stretched from the silvered peaks ahead into every jungle shadow, reaching out in all directions as far as the mind could imagine.

  Jeb leaned forward, looked up. The stillness spread straight up to the stars. He found the Southern Cross on their left, looked back to the moon.

  Gettler came in from the pontoon, sank heavily onto the seat, grunted.

  Again the silence enfolded them.

  “A place like this could drive you crazy,” said Monti. “It makes you feel that … you don’t matter.”

  “We have to solve the food problem,” said Gettler.

  “Some kind of meat,” said Jeb.

  “But how can you hunt?” asked Monti. “Isn’t it too dangerous … out there? I mean … with the Indians?”

  “Just being here’s dangerous,” said Jeb.

  “Just being alive is dangerous,” said Gettler. And again it was as though darkness temporarily erased his madness. The low voice carried a weary note of calmness.

  But Monti was caught up in a new fear: What if something happened that left me alone here? If they go hunting … She could not even face the thought.

  “The jungle terrifies me,” she said.

  “The unknown,” murmured Gettler. “The jungle’s the omnipresent unknown that—”

  “Oh, stop playing with words!” she snapped. “We know you’re educated.”

  “That’s the difference between us and the savages,” said Gettler.

  “Gosh, the moon’s bright,” said David.

  “We’ve tangled ourselves in a snare of words,” said Gettler.

  “He drives me nuts!” hissed Monti.

  Jeb patted her arm.

  “But the words are empty of everything except a kind of vacant ritual,” said Gettler. “They’re refined past all meaning. They’re like the finest pastry flour: capable of making a sickly sweet civilized cookie with no nourishment.”

  “Words?” asked David.

  “Yes, words.”

  “Won’t anything shut him up?” whispered Monti.

  “Then what are words?” asked David. “Shouldn’t we talk?”

  “Filling David full of that crap!” hissed Monti.

  “Words are actually little tags like they put on your luggage when you travel,” said Gettler. “They label something that’s moving … something that’s changing. They mark a position on a circle. They tell you where it starts, and where it must return.”

  “Crap!” said Monti.

  “Just another label,” chuckled Gettler.

  “Don’t the Indians use words?” asked David.

  “Yes, but they still know how to talk with their bodies. And they still read nature directly without man-made noise in the way.”

  “Do they really cut off your head?” asked David.

  Gettler choked on a gasping breath.

  Christ! I’m talking like damned-good Bannon! he thought.

  A nerve twitched at the corner of Gettler’s mouth. He chuckled: a cold sound. “See! It takes a child to cut through the sham. How simple the difference between savage and civilized: a matter of cutting off the head!”

  “Will you shut up!” cried Monti. She pressed her hands against her mouth, stared at the moon trail ahead.

  “They kill us and take our heads,” said Gettler. “They believe they subjugate our spirits that way. Do you—”

  “Please!” said Monti.

  “Knock it off,” said Jeb. “You’re frightening Monti.”

  “But don’t you see it?” demanded Gettler. “Don’t you see the difference? The savage tries to conquer the spirits of the dead. Civilization tries to conquer the spirits of the living!”

  “Knock it off, Gettler,” said Jeb. “You’re being morbid.”

  “I’m being a realist!” barked Gettler. “The world’s not what our labels say it is! Nothing says what I am! Nor you!”

  “Don’t you believe in anything?” demanded Monti.

  “I believe in myself!”

  Again silence blotted up their voices.

  The plane turned slowly in an eddy.

  The sonofabitch, thought Jeb. Scaring Monti. Mixing up that poor kid.

  “Do you understand what I said, David?” asked Gettler.

  “I don’t know, sir. You say things aren’t what we call them. That’s funny talk. I …” He fell silent.

  “Go ahead,” said Gettler.

  “Well … what am I, then?”

  “Ahhh,” said Gettler. “What is the self? The eternal question.”

  “I’m more interested in where we’re going to find food,” snapped Monti.

  “The female nourishes,” said Gettler. “But David’s question fits our present situation, too. Here we are—isolated, lost in the omnipresent unknown that I—”

  “Oh, for Christ’s sake!” said Monti. She turned sideways, pressed her cheek against the seat back.

  “Where’s the flashlight?” asked Gettler.

  “What do you want with it?” asked Jeb.

  “I want to answer the boy’s question. Give it here.”

  Jeb found the light, passed it back.

  Gettler pressed the switch. Light stabbed the darkness.

  “What am I doing, David?” asked Gettler.

  “What am I doing, David?” mimicked Monti.

  “You’re shining the flashlight,” said David.

  “You’re shining the flashlight,” mimicked Monti.

  Jeb pressed her arm for silence. Gettler’s actions and words suddenly fascinated him. A madman might just know! he thought.

  “See how the light reaches out there,” said Gettler.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “That’s the self.”

  “You mean like that light shining there?”

  “Yes. The self’s a projection from something else. It has no other reality. The self’s an image … another symbol.”

  He turned off the light.

  “Crap,” said Monti. But she sounded defensive.

  David spoke into the darkness: “Is God shining the light, Mr. Gettler?”

  “Who knows?” said Gettler.

  “Come to Jesus!” said Monti.

  “Everyone strives for consciousness of God,” said Gettler. “And do you know what frightens me? I’m afraid I’ll see the hand on the light switch … and it’ll be my own hand.”

  The plane drifted in and out of moon shadows. A darker shadow suddenly swept across the river. Jeb looked up to see shreds of sky torn out of rushing clouds.

  “It’s getting cloudy,” he said.

  A silver-rimmed thunderhead erased the moon. They heard the wind stirring in the jungle. The plane rocked, turned. Again the moon appeared.

  “We’d better tie up for the night,” said Jeb. “That looks like an island ahead … that dark place.”

  “The river’s full of islands in the wet season,” said Gettler.

  Jeb opened his door, slid down to the pontoon. Gettler clambered down to the opposite pontoon. The plane drifted closer to the mound of darkness.

  “Looks flooded,” said Gettler. He began poling toward the island as a current tugged them away.

  Jeb readied the grapnel. His knees felt weak and trembling. He gripped the strut with his left hand. There came a soughing of water through bushes and grass. Jeb
threw the grapnel into the shadows, felt it grab. The plane swung downstream, dragging and scratching through drowned bushes and grass, stirring up a fog of insects. Jeb ducked a reaching limb, prayed that the patched float would hold. He could see the darker shadows of the jungle shore close on the right. The other shore was farther away.

  Jeb dragged himself back into the cabin, sprawled in the seat. The door remained open. He willed himself to pull it closed, and again sank back against the seat.

  Gettler crawled into the rear, grunted as he settled himself comfortably.

  “How’re you feeling, Jeb?” asked Monti.

  “Weak as a kitten. I better take a couple more pills.”

  She found the medicine, helped him with the water.

  Gettler said: “I s’pose this means I’ll have to stand all the watches, too.”

  David said: “I can …”

  “I’m feeling weak, but I’m wide awake,” said Jeb. “I slept all afternoon.”

  Gettler sighed, a heavy sound filled with weariness.

  He’s tired, thought Jeb. He’ll probably sleep like a log, now that I’m too weak to jump him! A sense of impotence surged through him.

  Wind and current tugged at the plane, set up an uneasy rocking motion that stopped when the wind died.

  “All right,” said Gettler. “Take the first watch, Logan, but I’ll sleep lightly. Remember that.” He turned, grunted.

  “Shall I stay awake, too?” asked David.

  “No need,” said Jeb.

  “Go to sleep, David,” said Monti.

  David leaned back, closed his eyes. Why’s Gettler so afraid of everyone? he asked himself. He lied to me about why he’s holding onto all the guns. David opened his eyes, looked toward Gettler. But without the moon there was only a vague darkness without details. Should I try to get one of the guns? But what if he caught me again? David’s nose smarted at the memory of Gettler’s blow.

  Gettler turned restlessly.

  What a funny man, thought David. And he recalled the whispered conversation between his mother and Jeb Logan—their suspicions about Gettler. Aw, he wouldn’t really kill a friend! But another part of David’s mind argued: He’s crazy, though. And he did kill that Indian Jeb said was helping us!

  David leaned forward, whispered: “Mother?”

  Gettler snapped upright. “What’re y’doing?”

  “I just wondered what time it was,” said David. He stared fearfully at the hulking shadow beside him.

  “It’s night time,” said Gettler. “Go to sleep so you’ll be alert when it comes time for you to stand watch.”

  “Try to sleep, David,” said Monti.

  David retreated into his corner, closed his eyes. He sleeps too lightly! There’s nothing I can do.

  Gettler settled back to his restless dozing.

  David’s breathing deepened. He sank into a nightmare that jerked at his muscles: a spectral Gettler chased him through a black jungle, crying: “Help me! Help me!” And each time the dream-David stopped, hideous laughter filled his head, bullets crashed around him. And again he ran, sobbing, panting. It went on without end.

  Monti leaned toward Jeb, put her head in his lap.

  I need a man, she thought. I need his strength. And she laughed silently at herself. So I pick one who’s burned out by fever!

  Jeb stroked her hair, almost a mindless reflex.

  But there is strength in him, thought Monti. Man means strength. She lifted her left hand, caressed his neck.

  Jeb’s fingertips touched her cheek.

  Sex is like a drug, she thought. You should commune with your body … and the sound drowns out everything fearful. Your bodies say the darkness isn’t really there. Nothing can really hurt you. There’s no such thing as death!

  She lifted her face, pulled his lips down to meet her own. Danger sweetened the kiss … drew it out, long and clinging.

  I haven’t forgotten you, Roger, she thought. This man’s like the strong part of you I loved. And I need that now. Oh, God! How I need it!

  Desire pumped strength into Jeb. He crushed her against him. And their danger became an academic thing to him … drawing far away into the warm night. He slipped his right hand beneath her shirt, caressed her back.

  Monti found his hand, guided it up, pressed it against her breast.

  Oh, God! if only we were alone! she thought.

  Jeb kissed her neck, and his beard burned against her cheek, but she felt no pain. And again their lips clung.

  Abruptly, a cold part of her mind leered up at her: But you aren’t alone! So you’d better stop while you can!

  She pulled her lips away, whispered in Jeb’s ear: “They’ll hear us.” And even while she whispered she sensed her mind searching for words to deny reality, for excuses to prolong this moment.

  Jeb’s hand fumbled across her breast. She pulled his hand away, kissed it, clung to it while she straightened and retreated into her corner. Jeb tried to follow, but she held him with a hand against his chest.

  “Please,” she whispered. And then softer: “I’m sorry.”

  Jeb swallowed, tried to quiet the panting swiftness of his breath.

  David—in his nightmare—thrashed convulsively behind them. Gettler mumbled, turned.

  It was like an icy shower to Jeb. Reason returned. The night and its peril flooded through his senses. He drew back, sneered at himself. Jesus Kee-rist! How’d I get sucked into that tornado?

  Monti reached out, found Jeb’s hand, held it. He wanted to push her away, but couldn’t.

  Okay, so I want her, he told himself. What’s abnormal about that?

  Jeb turned the watch over to David at two a.m.

  But even after that it was a long night for Jeb and Monti—their minds tormented by the dream that came from frustration.

  Jeb awoke to the nervous voice of the jungle dawn. He listened to the twitterings and scrabblings, the sudden silences. His mind felt clear, tingling with awareness. Weakness still drenched his muscles, but it was weakness in retreat.

  He straightened, looked out at the river, yellow with its burden of mud. The river in flood lost itself amidst vegetation on all sides, and there was no real shoreline. Jeb glanced upward. The night’s clouds were gone. An opalescent mist hung just above the water.

  The sun climbed over the hills, bleached all color from the rim of the eastern horizon. The mist burned away.

  Jeb glanced at Monti asleep in her corner. Blue shadows darkened the skin below her eyelids. Her cheeks were sunken, pale.

  David coughed.

  Gettler rumbled: “We better get moving.”

  Monti awoke, rubbed her eyes, pushed the flame-colored hair away from her forehead. She caught Jeb’s gaze upon her, and for a moment their eyes locked.

  “Day number five,” said David.

  “How many more?” whispered Monti.

  Jeb shook his head.

  “Live them one at a time,” said Gettler. “It’s easier that way.”

  Jeb opened his door, slid down onto the float. His knees felt rubbery from the fever, but his muscles obeyed his will.

  Fungus blotches spread across the leaves of the drowned trees on the left. In the gloom beyond, Jeb discerned the fairy-lace foliage of a tree fern. He moved his attention to the right, pointed while trying to find his voice. A papaya drooped over the current, its limbs heavy with fruit.

  “Papaya!” husked Gettler. He lowered himself out the door on the right, took up a pole.

  Jeb loosed the grapnel from its bed in the flooded bushes.

  They guided the plane across to the papaya, hunger lending a desperate strength to their muscles.

  “Is it good to eat?” asked David.

  “Yes,” said Monti.

  The plane buried its nose in bushes beneath the papaya. Gettler grabbed a vine, held it. Jeb climbed onto the cowling, passed the fruit down to Monti. Limbs freed of their burden snapped out of reach.

  “That’s all of it,” said Jeb.

&nbs
p; Gettler released the vines, pushed off. The current caught them.

  Jeb slid down and into the cabin.

  They gorged on papaya. The fruit eased their hunger pangs, but there was no real satisfaction in it.

  “We still need meat,” said Gettler. He studied the rushing shoreline.

  A hissing eddy swirled them toward a wall of trees where yellow water foamed around submerged trunks. Jeb and Gettler scrambled down to the pontoons, fought the cane poles until the plane was back in the central current.

  Again they drifted on open water—a wide, moving lake—but the swollen river stretched wild fingers out into the forest. They could only guess at the true channel, a precarious thread to civilization.

  A stupor of heat settled over the plane as the sun climbed the sky. Heat shimmered off the river in coiling vibrations. Every air current carried its torturing stream of insects.

  Monti wrapped her face in the silver scarf, and huddled in the front seat. David leaned across the seat back above her, staring downstream with a glassy-eyed expression, as though his mind had ceased all motion in the heat.

  Gettler sat on the right hand pontoon, cane pole across his lap, the rifle butt ready at hand on the cabin floor above him. The small eyes glittered with a fearful alertness from beneath the brim of the Aussie hat.

  Jeb on the left pontoon leaned against the strut in the glittering metal shadow of the wing, stared at the passing shore.

  Time’s like this river, he thought. He felt the swelling pressure of this thought … and he had the idea that somewhere he had dived into Time, and had become trapped in Time’s current without the means to escape.

  A half-drowned island split the flow ahead of them. Jeb and Gettler stirred to action, fought the plane into the left hand current. Their cane poles vibrated in the surging water. They came out below the island only to confront another division of the current. Now, they took the channel on the right, working with desperate speed as the river gained speed. They whirled past another island, rounded a sweeping bend. And the river widened, slowed.

  But still vagrant currents poured off through walls of trees on every side.

  Jeb saw the current ahead swelling across a submerged island: the waters pregnant with dipping bushes, grass and tangled flotsam. He leaned against the cane pole to change course, felt the blisters burning on his palms.