Four Unpublished Novels

by Frank Herbert

  “See how you’re supposed to handle these? By the tail.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “How’s the hand?”

  “It’s … okay.”

  Monti unfolded the little heat tab stove, began cooking the fish.

  The small game revolver cracked twice from the lower end of the island. The three at the plane jerked around, stared at Gettler. His bulky figure was bent over something in the bushes.

  “What is it?” asked Monti.

  “Can’t see,” said Jeb.

  Gettler straightened, lifted a small, red monkey. He brought it back to the plane, flopped it onto the end of Jeb’s pontoon.

  “It’s damn near skin and bones from starvation,” said Gettler. “It was stranded out here by the flood.”

  “Uggh!” said Monti. “You don’t expect us to …”

  “How hungry are you?” demanded Gettler.

  “I’ll eat fish,” she said.

  “Hah!”

  “Cut the monkey meat off in strips,” said Jeb. “We can cook it with the fish.”

  Monti turned away.

  Gettler bent over the monkey, brought out his knife. Presently, he straightened, handed Jeb a double handful of stringy red meat.

  “I’ve seen more meat on a cat,” said Gettler. “Korean cat.” He turned to Monti. “You and David share the fish. We’ll eat this …”

  “We’ll split our fair share of the fish,” she said. “Just don’t make me try to eat that.” She pushed the stove and tin pan toward him. “Here. You cook it.”

  They ate without civilized reserves, swallowing half-chewed gulps of food.

  We get more like animals every day, thought Monti.

  Gettler stood in the rain off the end of Jeb’s float, stared morosely upstream, then down. Water dripped from his flopping hat, ran in rivulets off his shoulders. He leaned the rifle against a bush, took the hat off, shook it and replaced it.

  “Monti, there’s a little tea in the kit,” said Jeb. “Why don’t you brew some?”

  Gettler turned. “Tea?” His red-rimmed eyes glared at Jeb. “Why’nt you say you had tea?”

  “There isn’t much of it,” said Jeb. “I’ve held back, waiting for a time like this when we really need it.”

  “Why do we need it now?

  “For a lift. For morale.”

  “And you decide about it.”

  Jeb looked at him. “What’s eating you?”

  Gettler trembled with rage, focusing his attention on the tea with a feeling that he had just discovered in it all the truth he needed to know about Jeb Logan.

  “So you save the tea?” snarled Gettler.

  “It’s not that important,” said Jeb.

  “You don’t like me, eh?” asked Gettler.

  Good grieving god! Is he going to blow his stack over a stupid mess of tea? wondered Jeb.

  “You don’t trust me?” pressed Gettler.

  “Oh, dry up!”

  Gettler suddenly raged at him: “You’ve been hoping I’d die! Leave more for the rest of you!”

  “It’s only tea!” cried Monti.

  “The ladies’ man decides,” snarled Gettler.

  “Oh, go to hell!” said Jeb.

  “Stop it!” shouted Monti. “This is ridiculous!”

  Gettler ignored her, splashed out alongside the pontoon, glared at Jeb. “But I didn’t die!”

  Jeb stared down into Gettler’s eyes. They radiated violence, unveiled savagery.

  No sympathy for Gettler complicated Jeb’s thinking in that moment. He thought only: So this is how a murderous madman looks.

  Gettler suddenly lashed out, knocked Jeb backward under the fuselage, hurled himself across the float with hands clutching for Jeb’s neck.

  Monti screamed.

  Jeb rolled in the shallow, reed-clotted water, struggled to evade Gettler’s groping fingers. The man’s completely uninhibited strength momentarily paralyzed Jeb with fear.

  “Kill you!” snarled Gettler.

  His hands found Jeb’s throat, squeezed. Gettler closed his eyes, called up a memory image of Oberst Freuchoff. Strength coursed through his fingers. They pulsed with a life of their own.

  Jeb lashed out frantically with his left hand, banged Gettler’s head against the dugout. The terrible choking eased momentarily. Jeb drew in a quick gasping breath, tried to break away. The water and restricted space beneath the plane hampered him. His head was thrust under the muddy flow. Gettler’s fingers constricted. Again, Jeb battered Gettler’s head against the dugout, heaved himself up, choking.

  Dimly, he was aware of Monti screaming.

  One of Jeb’s flailing hands found a strut. He pulled himself backward across the dugout, dragging Gettler with him like a terrible leech. Jeb dug a finger into Gettler’s left eye, kicked him in the groin. The throat grip loosened, broke. Jeb hurled himself backward with Gettler leaping after him, questing hands outthrust.

  Then they were out in front of the plane, rolling in the sodden grass, thrashing, slugging, kicking.

  If I can only get one of the guns! thought Jeb.

  But there was no revolver in Gettler’s belt.

  The rifle!

  Again, Gettler found Jeb’s throat.

  And from the corner of his eye, Jeb saw Monti out of the plane and scrambling after the rifle that still leaned against a bush.

  Spots danced before Jeb’s eyes. He felt strength draining from him. They rolled over, and he loosened the choking hands for a short breath that was throttled off.

  Gettler felt none of Jeb’s blows. An ecstasy filled him. So long to wait, Oberst!

  Monti swung the rifle butt, caught Gettler alongside the head. He lost his grip on Jeb’s throat. Jeb drank in a burning breath, tried to roll away, felt something hard under his side.

  The revolver?

  Before he could roll away, Gettler dived after him, brought out the hard lump from beneath them: The revolver! Jeb grabbed for Gettler’s wrist, bent the hand away.

  “Thought you’d get away!” snarled Gettler.

  They rolled over and over in the soggy grass, struggling for the gun. Gettler grunted, mouthed curses in German. Suddenly, the gun went off, blasted past Jeb’s ear, momentarily deafening him. He saw Monti’s feet behind Gettler, glimpsed the rifle in her hands. She pushed the muzzle past Jeb, jammed it against Gettler’s chest.

  “Stop it!” she screamed.

  Gettler still fought to bring the revolver against Jeb.

  “I’ll kill you!” screamed Monti. “I mean it!”

  Gettler hesitated, turned his head slowly to look up at her. His eyes were bloodshot, feral. Strength flowed out of him, and his eyes took on a veiled, retreating look.

  Jeb maintained his grip on Gettler’s gun hand.

  “Drop that gun!” ordered Monti.

  “You wouldn’t pull that trigger,” said Gettler.

  Desperation tightened Monti’s voice. “I will! If I have to, I will!”

  Jeb shook Gettler’s hand. “Drop that gun!”

  “Do as he says,” said Monti. She prodded Gettler with the rifle.

  Gettler opened his hand. The revolver slipped out of his fingers into the grass.

  Jeb grabbed it, drew back, patted Gettler’s pockets for the twenty-two, found it and stuffed it into his own belt. He got to his feet, covered Gettler with the big revolver, said, “Move away from him, Monti.”

  She obeyed, holding the rifle at the ready.

  Gettler heaved himself to his feet, backed away.

  Monti said: “What’s that bulging in his pockets, Jeb?”

  Gettler bent forward, hands claw like, clutching at the air. His head moved from side to side like a snake’s.

  Jeb tensed, said: “Emeralds. Raw emeralds.”

  “How’d you know?” demanded Gettler, then: “Rog told you. Just like him. He told you.”

  “Emeralds?” asked Monti.

  “There’s why your husband died,” said Jeb.

  “Wanted to cov
er up the mine,” snarled Gettler. “Forget about it! That’s what he wanted!”

  “Is that why you killed him?” asked Jeb.

  Gettler shook his head sharply, closed his eyes. A smile spread across his lips. “I didn’t kill him.”

  Jeb glanced over his shoulder, saw David’s white face peering through the plane’s windshield. “Bring us the adhesive tape from the first aid kit,” called Jeb.

  David jumped, then moved to obey.

  “What’re you going to do?” demanded Gettler.

  “Tie you up,” said Jeb.

  Gettler stumbled backward. “Why? What’ve I done?”

  Jeb stared at him, startled. “What’ve you …”

  “I won’t let you tie me,” said Gettler. His eyes regained their wild light. “You’ll put the blood on my hands.” And he whimpered: “You’ll whip me.”

  “Would you rather we left you here for the Indians?” asked Jeb.

  David came up with the tape, handed it to Jeb.

  “Did he really kill my dad?”

  “No!” shouted Gettler. He looked pleadingly at David. “Don’t believe them! Lies! Lies!”

  “How’re we going to tie him?” asked Monti.

  Again Gettler crouched. His head swayed from side to side.

  And he suddenly reminded Jeb of the coyote that had been trapped in the fence corner of his uncle’s ranch—the trapped, cowardly coyote that had slashed two slavering hounds to ribbons. And Jeb thought: Now, we’re the hounds!

  But Gettler began to cry, destroying the illusion.

  Jeb had never before seen a grown man cry. It filled him with a deep embarrassment.

  “Turn around!” barked Jeb.

  Gettler obeyed.

  “Put your hands behind you!”

  Slowly, the hands came back.

  Jeb jammed the revolver into his waistband, motioned to Monti. “Come up beside me, Monti. If he makes a sudden move … well …” He glanced at the rifle in her hands.

  “I understand,” she said.

  David turned away, stumbled back to the plane.

  Jeb saw that the boy was crying.

  Monti said: “Hurry up. Get it over with.”

  Jeb crossed Gettler’s wrists, bound them around and around with the tape. He emptied Gettler’s pockets: clasp knife, eleven cartridges for the rifle, bandanna, fingernail clipper, a bar of soap wrapped in a rag, a small unmarked bottle of pills, pocket compass … and two more emeralds in leaf wrappings.

  Monti gasped when Jeb unwrapped the stones. “They’re so … big.”

  “Clean!” sobbed Gettler. “No more dirt! Good smells! Sweet smells. Soft things!” He whirled, glared at Jeb.

  “Okay,” said Jeb. “Into the plane.” He herded Gettler along the float, helped him into the rear seat beside David.

  The boy turned away, stared out the side window.

  “You’ll have to keep an eye on him for us, David,” said Jeb.

  David nodded without turning around.

  Jeb sorted the cartridges, stowed the other items from Gettler’s pockets in the survival kit on the floor of the luggage compartment.

  Monti climbed into her side of the cabin. She looked at David’s bandaged hand. “How’s your hand feel, dear?”

  David glanced at her, looked away. “It’s okay.”

  Jeb brought the grapnel from the island, hung it on the strut, took up the cane pole, pushed the plane into the current.

  Hysterical laughter suddenly erupted from Gettler. “Smart guy, Logan!” he gasped. “Now, you have to do all the work!” The laughter rolled from him.

  “Oh, shut up!” snapped Monti.

  “I could help,” said David.

  “Not with that hand,” said Monti.

  “It’s all right. Really.”

  “No.”

  The plane drifted through the rain—between dense, somber greyness of jungle walls. It was a ghost world of dull, leaden colors. Sounds took on the same quality. Gettler chuckled to himself intermittently. There was a coffin creaking to the plane’s metal. Mosquitoes droned, and Jeb’s cane pole scraped against the float, splashed with a muted dullness.

  A bird called abruptly from the left shore with a sound like a stick drawn along a board fence. There came the deep booming of jungle doves farther back, and the rain stopped abruptly as though someone had shut it off.

  Color returned to the riverbanks, a dark, shiny green. The leaves ran in torrents.

  A storm of gaudy orange flowers swept out from the trees to the right, enveloped the plane, crawling everywhere.

  Overhead, the clouds began to lift, piling up before sudden gusts of wind that shook plane and forest. Thin streaks of blue appeared, widened. The sun came through, and it was like turning on a furnace. The air above the river vibrated with the heat. Both shorelines wavered as though seen through defective glass.

  Jeb rubbed at his throat where Gettler had choked him. The skin burned. A reaction of relief set in, and he felt his knees trembling. He stared out at a sudden spangling of lower ornaments in the tumult of green jungle.

  The plane felt as though it were gliding down a long incline, making a transient passage toward a goal that was more instinctive than definite.

  My God! We got the guns! Jeb thought.

  The plane drifted around a sweeping bend, and a native village appeared downstream along the right bank: dark brown huts of sticks and mud clustered on a flat stretch of high ground.

  “Monti, give me the rifle,” said Jeb.

  She passed it to him.

  “Close the door on your side,” he said.

  She shut the door like a thunderclap in the tense air. The plane drifted closer.

  Nothing stirred in the village.

  The plane drifted closer.

  “No canoes,” said Monti.

  Jeb glanced at the far shore behind him. Too far away for a dart attack. He looked back to the village, glanced in at Gettler.

  Some of the wildness faded from Gettler’s eyes. He studied the village.

  “What tribe, Gettler?” asked Jeb.

  The reply came in a conversational calm: “Could be Zaparo. But some of those cone roofs in back look like Jivaro make. It’s either Jivaro with some huts copied from the Zaparo, or the other way around.”

  “That’s what I figured,” said Jeb.

  “Where are they?” whispered Monti.

  “Hiding in the jungle back there,” said Jeb.

  “Better release me,” said Gettler. “You’ll need help if they attack.”

  “We’ll struggle along as we are,” said Jeb.

  Gettler sank back, turned his head slowly to keep his gaze on the village as the plane drifted past.

  A light breeze carried the vegetable-carrion stink of the place across their path.

  Another bend hid the village from sight.

  “If they were Zaparo, then the curse is working,” said Jeb. “We’ll get no help.”

  Gettler began muttering, and his words grew distinguishable only after a moment. “And such as are skillful of lamentation to wailing. And in all the vineyards shall be wailing: for I will pass through thee, sayeth the Lord.”

  “What’s he saying?” asked Monti.

  “The day of the Lord is darkness, and not light,” said Gettler.

  “Sounds like something out of the Bible,” said Jeb.

  “The Bible? Him?”

  “Shall not the day of the Lord be darkness, and not light?” muttered Gettler. “Even very dark, and no brightness in it?”

  David leaned forward close to Monti. “What’s he saying, Mother?”

  “I don’t know, dear.”

  “He sounds scary.”

  “But let judgment run down as waters, and righteousness as a mighty stream,” said Gettler.

  And again his voice sank into an unintelligible mutter.

  David sank back, pulled away into his own corner.

  Gettler suddenly roared: “Everything’s rotting!”

 
He glared up at a green splotch of mildew on the fabric of the cabin ceiling, began to breathe rapidly in shallow, rocking gasps.

  Jeb and Monti turned.

  “Mother!” hissed David. He stared at Gettler.

  “You’re going to let them take my head!” cried Gettler.

  “Stop that!” barked Jeb.

  “I know what you’re planning!” snarled Gettler. He began straining at the tape binding his wrists. The veins stood out like ropes along his neck.

  “What’ll I do?” demanded David.

  Gettler stopped, turned, looked down at David. A nerve twitched in the man’s forehead. He frowned, swayed. Abruptly, he spoke to David in a coarse, husking voice: “Don’t let me get away! Don’t …” He slumped back, and his head lolled to one side.

  David turned toward his mother. Monti looked at Jeb.

  “In the Dark Ages they talked about a human being possessed,” whispered Jeb. “I never understood it before.”

  “He’s breathing so funny,” whispered Monti.

  Tears formed at the corners of Gettler’s eyes, rolled down into his beard.

  Jeb and Monti turned away.

  Monti rubbed at her forehead.

  Jeb cursed under his breath, slipped the rifle onto the floor beneath Monti’s feet, returned to the cane pole.

  The day wore on in a crescendo of heat that draped over them like a wet rag. Darkness came as an abrupt feeling of purity. The sun’s afterglow fired the tips of the peaks in the west. A first quarter moon bathed the river in cold light. Flitting bats laced the sky overhead. Fireflies danced and jigged at the jungle’s edge. The frog roar mounted from the shallows, and there came splashing sounds in the river all around.

  Jeb wearily studied the moon path downstream, felt the burning fire of the blisters on his hands. He could see the dark shadow of Monti in the front seat, David leaning close to her.

  “How’s your hand, David?” asked Jeb.

  The boy straightened, looked out at Jeb. “It’s all right, sir.”

  “If it hurts badly you should tell us,” said Jeb.

  “I can stand it.”

  Something in David’s tone spoke of suffering.

  “It hurts pretty badly, doesn’t it?” asked Jeb.

  “Sure, but …”

  “Give him one of the codeine pills, Monti,” said Jeb. “Better use the flash to make sure you get the right ones.”

  Monti groped on the floor for the flashlight. Presently its beam poked out a cone of brilliance in the cabin.