Jorj X. McKie 1 - Whipping Star

by Frank Herbert

  "It's precisely at that point where the single distinguishing characteristic between original and artificial is the connective," Tuluk explained.

  "Huh?" McKie said.

  "Look at me," Tuluk said.

  "I am looking at you!"

  "Imagine that you take a food vat and produce in it an exact fleshly duplicate of my person," Tuluk said.

  "An exact fleshly . . ."

  "You could do it, couldn't you?" Tuluk demanded.

  "Of course. But why?"

  "Just imagine it. Don't question. An exact duplicate down to and including the cellular message units. This flesh would be imbued with all my memories and responses. Ask it a question you might ask me, and it would answer as I might answer. Even my mates wouldn't be able to distinguish between us."

  "So?" McKie said.

  "Would there be any difference between us?" Tuluk asked.

  "But you said . . ."

  "There'd be one difference, wouldn't there?"

  "The time element, the . . ."

  "More than that," Tuluk said. "One would know it was a copy. Now, that chairdog in which Ser Bildoon sits is a different matter, not so?"

  "Huh?"

  "It's an unthinking animal," Tuluk said.

  McKie stared at the chairdog Tuluk had indicated. It was a product of genetic shaping, gene surgery and selection. What possible difference could it make that a chairdog was an animal -- however remotely descended? '

  "What does the chairdog eat?" Tuluk asked.

  "The food tailored for it, what else?" McKie turned back to the Wreave, studied him.

  "But neither the chairdog nor its food is the same as their ancestral flesh," Tuluk said. "The vat food is an endless, serial chain of protein. The chairdog is flesh which is ecstatic in its work."

  "Of course! That's the way it was . . . made." McKie's eyes went wide. He began to see what Tuluk was explaining.

  "The differences, these are the connectives," Tuluk said.

  "McKie, do you understand this gibberish?" Bildoon demanded.

  McKie tried to swallow in a dry throat. "The Caleban sees only these . . . refined differences?" he asked.

  "And nothing else," Tuluk said.

  "Then it doesn't see us as . . . shapes or dimensions or . . ."

  "Or even as extensions in time the way we understand time," Tuluk said. "We are, perhaps, nodes on a standing wave. Time, for the Caleban, isn't something squeezed out of a tube. It's more like a line which your senses intersect."

  "Hahhhhh," McKie breathed.

  "I don't see where this helps us one bit," Bildoon said. "Our major problem is to find Abnethe. Do you have any idea, McKie, where that Caleban sent you?"

  "I saw the constellations overhead," McKie said. "Before I leave, we'll get a mindcord on what I saw and have a computer check on the star patterns."

  "Provided the pattern's in the master registry," Bildoon said.

  "What about that slave culture McKie stumbled on?" one of the legal staff asked. "We could ask for a . . ."

  "Haven't any of you been listening?" McKie asked. "Our problem is to find Abnethe. I thought we had her, but I'm beginning to think this may not be that easy. Where is she? How can we go into a court and say, 'At some unknown place in an unknown galaxy, a female believed to be Mliss Abnethe, but whom I didn't really see, is alleged to be conducting . . .' "

  "Then what do we do?" the legal staffer growled.

  "With Furuneo dead, who's watching Fanny Mae?" McKie asked.

  "We have four enforcers inside, watching . . . where she is, and four outside, watching them," Bildoon said. "Are you sure you've no other clue to where you were?"

  "None."

  "A complaint by McKie would fail now," Bildoon said. "No -- a better move might be to charge her with harboring a" -- he shuddered -- "a PanSpechi fugitive."

  "Do we know who that fugitive is?" McKie asked.

  "Not yet. We haven't decided the proper course yet." He glanced at a Legal Department representative, a human female seated near Tuluk. "Hanaman?"

  Hanaman cleared her throat. She was a fragile-looking woman, thick head of brown hair in gentle waves, long oval face with soft blue eyes, delicate nose and chin, wide full mouth.

  "You think it advisable to discuss this in council now?" she asked.

  "I do, or I wouldn't have called on you," Bildoon said.

  For an instant McKie thought the reproof might bring real tears to Hanaman's eyes, then he saw the controlled downtwist at the corners of her mouth, the measuring stare she swept around the conference room. She had brains, he saw, and knew there were those here susceptible to her sex.

  "McKie," she said, "is it necessary for you to stand on the table? You're not a Taprisiot. "

  "Thanks for reminding me," he said. He jumped down, found a chairdog opposite her, stared back at her with a bland intensity.

  Presently she focused on Bildoon, said, "To bring everyone up to date, Abnethe with one Palenki tried to flog the Caleban about two hours ago. Acting on our orders, an enforcer prevented the flogging. He cut off the Palenki's arm with a raygen. As a result, Abnethe's legal staff is already seeking an injunction."

  "Then they were prepared ahead of time," McKie said.

  "Obviously," she agreed. "They're alleging outlaw sabotage, misfeasance by a bureau, mayhem, misconduct, malicious mischief, felonious misprision . . ."

  "Misfeasance?" McKie demanded.

  "This is a robo-legum case, not a Gowachin jurisdiction," Hanaman said. "We don't have to exonerate the prosecutor before entering the . . ." She broke off, shrugged. "Well, you know all that. BuSab is being held to answer for collective responsibility in the consequences of unlawful and wrongful acts committed by its agents in pursuance of the authority permitted them . . ."

  "Wait a minute!" McKie interrupted. "This is bolder than I expected from that crowd."

  "And they charge," Hanaman went on, "that the Bureau is guilty of a felony by criminal neglect in its failure to prevent a felony from being committed and in not bringing to justice the offender after such commission."

  "Have they named names, or is it all John Does?" McKie asked.

  "No names."

  "If they're this bold, they're desperate," McKie said. "Why?"

  "They know we aren't going to sit idly by and allow our people to be killed," Bildoon said. "They know we have copies of the contract with the Caleban, and it gives Abnethe sole control of the Caleban's jumpdoor. No one else could've been responsible for Furuneo's death, and the perpetrator . . ."

  "No one except the Caleban," McKie said.

  A profound silence settled over the room.

  Presently Tuluk said, "You don't seriously believe . . ."

  "No, I don't," McKie said. "But I couldn't prove my belief to a robo-legum court. This does present an interesting possibility, though."

  "Furuneo's head," Bildoon said.

  "Correct," McKie said. "We demand Furuneo's head."

  "What if they contend the Caleban sequestered the head?" Hanaman asked.

  "I don't intend asking them for it," McKie said. "I'm going to ask the Caleban."

  Hanaman nodded, her gaze intent on McKie and with a light of admiration in her eyes. "Clever," she breathed. "If they attempt to interfere, they're guilty. But if we get the head . . ." She looked at Tuluk.

  "What about it, Tuluk?" Bildoon asked. "Think you could get anything from Furuneo's brain?"

  "That depends on how much time has passed between the death and our key-in, Tuluk said. "Nerve replay has limits, you know."

  "We know," Bildoon said.

  "Yeah," McKie said. "Only one thing for me to do now, isn't there?"

  "Looks that way," Bildoon said.

  "Will you call off the enforcers, or shall I?" McKie asked.

  "Now, wait a minute!" Bildoon said. "I know you have to go back to that Beachball, but . . ."

  "Alone," McKie said.

  "Why?"

  "I can give the demand for Furu
neo's head in front of witnesses," McKie said, "but that's not enough. They want me. I got away from them, and they've no idea how much I know about their hidey hole."

  "Exactly what do you know?" Bildoon asked.

  "We've already been through that," McKie said.

  "So you now see yourself as bait?"

  "I wouldn't put it exactly that way," McKie said, "but if I'm alone, they might try bargaining with me. They might even . . ."

  "They might even shorten you!" Bildoon snarled.

  "You don't think it's worth the try?" McKie asked. He stared around the room at the attentive faces.

  Hanaman cleared her throat. "I see a way out of this," she said.

  Everyone looked at her.

  "We could put McKie under Taprisiot surveillance," she said.

  "He's a ready-made victim, if he's sitting there in a sniggertrance," Tuluk said.

  "Not if the Taprisiot contacts are minimal every few seconds," she said.

  "And as long as I'm not yelling for help, the Tappy breaks off," McKie said. "Good."

  "I don't like it," Bildoon said. "What if . . ."

  "You think they'll talk openly to me if they see the place full of enforcers?" McKie asked.

  "No, but if we can prevent . . ."

  "We can't, and you know it."

  Bildoon glared at him.

  "We must have those contacts between McKie and Abnethe, if we're going to try cross-charting to locate her position," Tuluk said.

  Bildoon stared at the table in front of him.

  "That Beachball has a fixed position on Cordiality," McKie argued. "Cordiality has a known planetary period. At the instant of each contact, the Ball will be pointing at a position in space -- a line of least resistance for the contact. Enough contacts will describe a cone with . . ."

  "With Abnethe somewhere in it," Bildoon supplied, looking up. "Provided you're right about this thing."

  "The call connectives have to seek their conjunction through open space," Tuluk said. "There must be no large stellar masses between call points, no hydrogen clouds of any serious dimensions, no groups of large planetary . . ."

  "I understand the theory," Bildoon said. "But there's no theory needed about what they can do to McKie. It'd take them less than two seconds to slip a jumpdoor over his neck and . . ." He drew a finger across his throat.

  "So you have the Tappy contact me every two seconds," McKie said. "Work it in relays. Get a string of agents in. . . ."

  "And what if they don't try to contact you?" Bildoon asked.

  "Then we'll have to sabotage them," McKie said.

  It is impossible to see any absolute through a screen of interpreters.

  -Wreave Saying

  When you came right down to it, McKie decided, this Beachball wasn't as weird a home as some he'd seen. It was hot, yes, but that fitted a peculiar requirement of the occupant. Sentients existed in hotter climates. The giant spoon where the Caleban's unpresence could be detected -- well, that could be equated with a divan. Wall handles, spools there, lights and whatnot -- all those were almost conventional in appearance, although McKie seriously doubted he could understand their functions. The automated homes of Breedywie, though, displayed more outlandish control consoles.

  The ceiling here was a bit low, but he could stand without stooping. The purple gloom was no stranger than the variglare of Gowachin, where most offworld sentients had to wear protective goggles while visiting friends. The Beachball's floor covering did not appear to be a conventional living organism, but it was soft. Right now it smelled of a standard pyrocene cleaner-disinfectant, and the fumes were rather stifling in the heat.

  McKie shook his head. The fly-buzz "zzzt" of Taprisiot contact every two seconds was annoying, but he found he could override the distraction.

  "Your friend reached ultimate discontinuity," the Caleban had explained. "His substance has been removed."

  For substance read blood-and-body, McKie translated. He hoped the translation achieved some degree of accuracy, but he cautioned himself not to be too sure of that.

  If we could only have a little air current in here, McKie thought. Just a small breeze.

  He mopped perspiration from his forehead, drank from one of the water jugs he had provided for himself.

  "You still there, Fanny Mae?" he asked.

  "You observe my presence?"

  "Almost."

  "That is our mutual problem -- seeing each other," the Caleban said.

  "You're using time-ordinal verbs with more confidence, I note," McKie said.

  "I get the hang of them, yes?"

  "I hope so."

  "I date the verb as a nodal position," the Caleban said.

  "I don't believe I want that explained," McKie said.

  "Very well; I comply."

  "I'd like to try again to understand how the floggings are timed," McKie said.

  "When shapes reach proper proportion," the Caleban said.

  "You already said that. What shapes?"

  "Already?" the Caleban asked. "That signifies earlier?"

  "Earlier," McKie said. "That's right. You said that about shapes before."

  "Earlier and before and already," the Caleban said. "Yes; times of different conjunction, by linear alteration of intersecting connectives."

  Time, for the Caleban, is a position on a line, McKie reminded himself, recalling Tuluk's attempt at explanation. I must look for the subtly refined differences; they're all this creature sees.

  "What shapes?" McKie repeated.

  "Shapes defined by duration lines," the Caleban said. "I see many duration lines. You, oddly, carry visual sensation of one line only. Very strange. Other teachers explain this to self, but understanding fails . . . extreme constriction. Self admires molecular acceleration, but . . . maintenance exchange confuses."

  Confuses! McKie thought.

  "What molecular acceleration?" he asked.

  "Teachers define molecule as smallest physical unit of element or compound. True?"

  "That's right."

  "This carries difficulty in understanding unless ascribed by self to perceptive difference between our species. Say, instead, molecule perhaps equals smallest physical unit visible to species. True?"

  What's the difference? McKie thought. It's all gibberish. How had they gotten off onto molecules and acceleration from the proper proportion of undefined shapes?

  "Why acceleration?" he insisted.

  "Acceleration always occurs along convergence lines we use while speaking one to another."

  Oh, damn! McKie thought. He lifted a water jug, drank, choked on a swallow. He bent forward, gasping. When he could manage it, he said, "The heat in here! Molecular speedup!"

  "Do these concepts not interchange?" the Caleban asked.

  "Never mind that!" McKie blurted, still spitting water. "When you speak to me . . . is that what accelerates the molecules?"

  "Self assumes this true condition."

  Carefully McKie put down the water jug, capped it. He began laughing.

  "Not understand these terms," the Caleban objected.

  McKie shook his head. The Caleban's words still came at him with that non-speech quality, but he detected definite querulous notes . . . overtones. Accents? He gave it up. There was something, though.

  "Not understand!" the Caleban insisted.

  This made McKie laugh all the harder. "Oh, my," he gasped, when he could catch his breath. "The ancient wheeze was right all along, and nobody knew it. Oh, my. Talk is just hot air!"

  Again laughter convulsed him.

  Presently he lay back, inhaled deeply. In a moment he sat up, took another swallow of water, capped the jug.

  "Teach," the Caleban commanded. "Explain these unusual terms."

  "Terms? Oh . . . certainly. Laughter. It's our common response to non-fatal surprise. No other significant communicative content."

  "Laughter," the Caleban said. "Other nodal encounters with term noted."

  "Other nodal . . ." M
cKie broke off. "You've heard the word before, you mean?"

  "Before. Yes. I . . . self . . . I attempt understanding of term, laughter. We explore meaning now?"

  "Let's not," McKie objected.

  "Negative reply?" the Caleban asked.

  "That's correct -- negative. I'm much more curious about what you said about . . . maintenance exchange. That was what you said, wasn't it? Maintenance exchange confuses?"

  "I attempt define position for you odd one-tracks," the Caleban said.

  "One-tracks, that's how you think of us, eh?" McKie asked. He felt suddenly small and inadequate.

  "Relationship of connectives one to many, many to one," the Caleban said. "Maintenance exchange."

  "How in the hell did we get into this dead-end conversation?" McKie asked.

  "You seek positional referents for placement of floggings, that begins conversation," the Caleban said.

  "Placement . . . yeah."

  "You understand S'eye effect?" the Caleban asked.

  McKie exhaled slowly. To the best of his knowledge, no Caleban had ever before volunteered a discussion of the S'eye effect. The one-two-three of how to use the mechanism of the jumpdoors -- yes, this was something they could (and did) explain. But the effect, the theory. . . .

  "I . . . uh, use the jumpdoors," McKie said. "I know something of how the control mechanism is assembled and tuned to . . ."

  "Mechanism not coincide with effect!"

  "Uhhh, certainly," McKie agreed. "The word's not the thing."

  "Precisement! We say -- I translate, you understand? -- we say, 'Term evades node.' You catch the hanging of this term, self thinks."

  "I . . . uh, get the hang of it," McKie agreed.

  "Recommend hang-line as good thought," the Caleban said. "Self, I believe we approach true communication. It wonders me."

  "You wonder about it."

  "Negative. It wonders about me."

  "That's great," McKie said in a flat voice. "That's communication?"

  "Understanding diffuses . . . scatters? Yes -- understanding scatters when we discuss connectives. I observe connectives of your . . . psyche. For psyche, I understand 'other self.' True?"

  "Why not?" McKie asked.

  "I see," the Caleban said, ignoring McKie's defeated tone, "psyche patterns, perhaps their colors. Approachments and outreaching touch by awareness. I come, through this, to unwinding of intelligence and perhaps understand what you mean by term, stellar mass. Self understands by being stellar mass, you hang this, McKie?"