The Green Brain

by Frank Herbert

  “We’re all eye-witnesses.”

  “It was put to a vote,” Rhin said. “Your men insist.”

  Joao looked from Rhin to Chen-Lhu, back to Rhin. “That still leaves twelve men here. What happens to them?”

  “Only eight now,” Rhin whispered.

  “Who?” Joao managed.

  “Hogar,” she said. “Thome of your crew; two of my field aides: Cardin and Lewis.”

  “How?”

  “There is a thing that looks like a qena flute,” Chen-Lhu said. “The creature in your truck pod carried one.”

  “Dart gun,” Joao said.

  “No,” Chen-Lhu said. “They mimic us better than that. It’s a generator of a sonic-disruption pattern. What it disrupts is human red blood cells. They must get fairly close with it, though, and we’ve been keeping them back since we discovered it.”

  “You can see we have to get this information out,” Rhin said.

  No doubt of that, Joao thought.

  “Surely there must be someone stronger, better able to insure the success of this,” Joao said.

  “You’ll be as strong as any of us in a couple of hours,” Rhin said. “We are not in the best condition, none of us.”

  Joao stared up at the gray light of the tent ceiling. Very little rocket fuel, damaged controls. They mean to make for the river, of course: float out in the pod. It’ll afford some protection from those … things.

  Rhin stood up. “You rest and build up your strength,” she said. “I’ll bring you some food in a little while. We have nothing but field rations, but at least they’re loaded with energy.”

  What river is that? Joao wondered. The Itapura, very likely. He made a rough estimate based on his knowledge of the region and the length of his flight over it before the crash landing here. It’ll be seven or eight hundred kilometers by river! And we’re right on top of the rainy season. We don’t stand a chance.

  6

  The dancing pattern of insects on the cave ceiling appeared as a lovely thing to the Brain. It admired the interplay of color and motion while it read the patterned message:

  “Report from listeners in the savannah; acknowledge.”

  The Brain signaled for the dance to proceed.

  “Three humans prepare to flee in the small vehicle,” danced the insects. “The vehicle will not fly. They will try to escape by floating away on the river. What do we do?”

  The Brain paused to assess data. The trapped humans had been under observation twelve days. They’d provided much information about their reactions under stress. The information expanded data obtained from captives under more direct control. Ways to immobilize and kill humans became more obvious daily. But the problem wasn’t how to kill them. It was how to communicate with them in the absence of fear or stress on either side.

  Some of the humans—tike the old one with the grand manner—made offers and suggestions and appeared to display reason … but could they be trusted? That was the key question.

  The Brain felt a desperate need for observational data on humans under conditions it could control without that control being noticed. Discovery of the listening posts in the Green had aroused a frenzy of human activity. They used new sonotoxics, deepened their barriers, renewed their attacks on the Red.

  Another worry compounded all this—the unknown fate of four units which had penetrated the barriers before the Bahia catastrophe. Only one had returned; its report: “We became twelve. Six gave up unit-identity to envelop the area where we captured the two human leaders. Their fate is unknown. One unit was destroyed. Four dispersed to produce more of us.”

  Discovery of those four units at this time would be catastrophe, the Brain realized.

  When would the simulacra emerge? That depended on local conditions—temperature, available foods, chemicals, moisture. The lone unit that had returned had no knowledge of where the four had gone.

  We must find them! the Brain thought.

  The problems of individually-directed action dismayed the Brain then. The simulacra were a mistake. Many identical units would only attract disastrous attention.

  That the simulacra meant no great harm and were conditioned only to limited violence had no meaning under present conditions. That they wanted only to be allowed to speak and to reason with human leaders—this plan carried only pathos and irony now.

  The reported words of the human called Chen-Lhu came back to plague the Brain: “Debacle … barren earth.” This Chen-Lhu offered a way to solve their mutual problem, but what were his true intentions? Could he be trusted?

  The Brain suspended decision, directed a question at its minions: “Which humans will try to escape?”

  Attention must be paid to such details, the Brain knew. Hive orientation tended to ignore individuals. The error with the simulacra had originated in this tendency.

  On the surface, the Brain knew its problem appeared deceptively simple. But just under the surface lay the hellish complications of emotional triggers. Emotions! Emotions! Reason had so many barriers to hurdle.

  The messengers had consulted their listening-post data. Now they danced out the name sounds: “The latent queen, Rhin Kelly, and the ones called Chen-Lhu and Joao Martinho.”

  Martinho, the Brain thought. That was the human from the other half of the airtruck. In this fact lay an indication of the humans’ complicated quasi-hive kinship. There could be value in that relationship. And Chen-Lhu would be in the vehicle, as well.

  The insects on the ceiling, having been bred with a repeat factor to insure communication, repeated their previous question:

  “What counter action is required?”

  “Message to all units,” the Brain said. “The three in the vehicle will be allowed to escape to the river. Offer just enough resistance to make it appear we oppose the escape. They are to be followed by action groups capable of disposing of them whenever necessary. As soon as the three have reached the river, overwhelm the ones who remain.”

  Messenger units began assembling overhead, dancing the pattern to imprint it. They took off in compact groups, darting out of the cavemouth into the sunlight.

  The Brain admired the color and motion for a few minutes, then lowered its sensors, set itself to the problem of overcoming protein incompatibility.

  We must produce immediate and consequential benefits that the humans cannot fail to recognize, the Brain thought. If we can demonstrate dramatic usefulness, they may yet be brought to understand that interdependence is circular, inextricably entangled and a matter of life and death.

  They need us and we need them … but the burden of proof has fallen on us. And if we fail to prove it, this will be truly barren earth.

  “It will be dark soon, Jefe,” Vierho said. “You will go then.” Vierho swung the pod’s canopy forward, leaned into it.

  Joao stood one step behind him, still feeling weak and plagued by occasional flash-cramps in his left leg above the energy pack. The direct feed and specialized hormones could only approximate the needs of a specific body, and Joao could feel himself half poised against strange tensions because of this treatment.

  “I have put the food and other emergency supplies here under the seat,” Vierho said. “There’s more food in the gig-box there in the back. You have two sprayrifles with twenty spare charges, one hard-pellet carbine. I’m sorry we have so little ammo for it. There’re a dozen foamal bombs under the other seat, and I’ve tied a handspray rig into the corner back there. It’s fully charged.”

  Vierho straightened, glanced back at the tents. His voice fell to a conspiratorial whisper. “Jefe, I do not trust the Doctor Chen-Lhu. I heard him when he thought he was dying. This new face is not like him.”

  “It’s a chance we have to take,” Joao said. “I still think you or one of the others who weren’t as sick should go in place of me.”

  “No more talk of that, Jefe, please.”

  Again Vierho’s voice fell to the conspiratorial whisper: “Jefe, step close to me as though we a
re saying goodbye.”

  Joao hesitated, then obeyed. He felt something metallic and heavy pushed into the belt pocket of his uniform. The pocket sagged with it. Joao pulled his jungle jacket around to cover the sag, whispered, “What’s that?”

  “It belonged to my great grandfather,” Vierho said. “It is a pistol called the .475 Magnum. It has five bullets and here are two dozen more.” Another packet was slipped into the side pocket of Joao’s jacket. “It’s not much good except against men,” Vierho said.

  Joao swallowed, felt tears dampen his eyes. All the Irmandades knew the Padre carried that old blunderbuss and wouldn’t part with it. The fact that he parted with it now meant he expected to die here—likely true.

  “God go with you, Jefe,” Vierho said.

  Joao turned, looked to the river about five hundred meters away across the savannah. He could just glimpse the beach of the opposite shore, the wild growth there illuminated by the afternoon sun. The jungle lifted there in steady waves of color, its bold lines standing out in the flat light. The growth was a deep blue-green at the bottom, a sun-bleached sage at the top, and with flecks of yellow, red and ochre between. Above the green towered a candello tree with batfalcon nests cluttering the forks of its branches. A twisted screen of lianas partly obscured a wall of mata-polo trees to the left.

  “Fifteen minutes of fuel in the pod and that’s all?” Joao asked.

  “Maybe a minute more, Jefe.”

  We’ll never make it with nothing but that river’s current to move us, Joao thought.

  “Jefe, sometimes there’s a wind on the river,” Vierho said.

  Christ, he doesn’t expect us to sail that thing, does he? Joao wondered. He looked at Vierho, saw the deep weariness in the man’s face, the scarecrow emaciation.

  “That wind could cause trouble, Jefe,” Vierho said. “I have used one of the pod’s grapnel anchors to make a thing that will float just under the surface and provide some drag. It is called a sea anchor. It’ll keep the nose of the pod into the wind.”

  “That’s a clever idea, Padre,” Joao said.

  And he wondered: Why do we play out this farce? We’re going to die here, all of us … either here or somewhere down that river. There were seven or eight hundred kilometers of that river—rapids, chasms, waterfalls—and the rainy season was almost on them. The river would become a torrential hell. And if it didn’t get them, there were always the new insects, the creatures of acid and sophisticated poisons.

  “You better inspect it one more time yourself, Jefe,” Vierho said. He gestured at the pod.

  Yes, anything to keep busy, to keep from thinking, Joao thought. He’d already been over it once, but another look wouldn’t hurt anything. After all, their lives would depend on it … for awhile.

  Our lives!

  Joao allowed himself to wonder then if escape were possible, if there were any hope at all. This was, after all, the pod of a jungle airtruck. It could be sealed against most insects. It was designed to take abuse.

  I mustn’t allow myself to hope, he thought.

  But he set himself to another inspection of the pod … just in case.

  The white bandeirante paint of its exterior had been washed away in patches, streaked and etched by acid. The float skids, normally long and faired extrusions of the pod’s bottom curve, had been cranked out manually and locked in position. They formed a flat step up to the stub wings and into the cabin. The entire pod was just short of five and a half meters long with two meters at the rear taken up by the rocket motors. The motor complex which had nested into the discarded rear truck section was cut off flat on both sides. The pod itself was roughly oval in cross section. This left two flat half moon surfaces which opened into the rear bulkhead of the pod’s cabin. The left-side half-moon was a maze of male and female connectors which once had linked the pod to the truck section. The right side was sealed by a hatch which now opened from the cabin and down to one of the float skids.

  Joao inspected the hatch, made certain the connectors had all been sealed off, looked at the right-side float skid. A jagged rent in the side of the float had been patched with butyl and fabric.

  He could smell rocket fuel, and he knelt to peer up at the belly tank section. Vierho had siphoned out the fuel, applied a chemical hotpatch on the outside and spraytank sealant inside, then replaced the fuel.

  “It should hold all right if you don’t hit anything,” Vierho said.

  Joao nodded, worked his way around, climbed up on the left stub wing and looked down into the cabin. Dual control seats forward and the padded gig-box in the rear. Spray stains were all over the interior. The interior formed a space about two meters square and two and a half meters deep. Windows in front looked down over the rounded nose. Side windows stopped at the wings forward, dipped deeper in the rear. A single transparent panel of polarizing plastic ran over the top to the rear bulkhead.

  Joao let himself down into the command seat on the left, checked the manual controls. They felt loose and sluggish. New fuel-monitoring and firing controls had been installed with crude, hand-lettered labels.

  Vierho spoke at his shoulder.

  “I had to use whatever was available, Jefe. There was not much. I’m glad these IEO people were such fools.”

  “Hmmm?” Joao spoke absently as he continued his examination.

  “When they left their truck, they took tents. I would’ve taken more weapons. But the tents gave me the new guy cables and fabric for patches.”

  Joao finished tracing the fuel controls. “No automatic demand valves on the fuel lines,” he said.

  “They couldn’t be repaired, Jefe—but you don’t have much fuel anyway.”

  “Enough to blow us all to hell … or run away with us if it gets out of hand.”

  “That’s why I put the big knob there, Jefe; I told you about that. On and off in short bursts—no problem.”

  “Unless I accidentally give it too big a drink.”

  “Underneath there, Jefe: the piece of wood, that’s the stop I put in. I tested it with containers under the fuel injectors. You won’t have a very fast ship … but it’s enough.”

  “Fifteen minutes,” Joao mused.

  “That’s just a guess, Jefe.”

  “I know—maybe a hundred and fifty kilometers if everything works as it’s supposed to; a hundred and fifty meters with us spread all over if it doesn’t.”

  “A hundred and fifty kilometers,” Vierho said. “You wouldn’t even be halfway to civilization.”

  “No argument,” Joao said. “I was just thinking out loud.”

  “Well, is everything ready to go?” Chen-Lhu’s voice boomed up at them full of false heartiness. Joao looked down to see the man standing near the tip of the left wing, his body bent over with the appearance of weakness. Joao had just about decided Chen-Lhu’s weakness was appearance only.

  He was the first to recover, Joao thought. He’s had more time to regain his strength. But … he was closer to death. Maybe I’m just imagining things.

  “Is it ready or isn’t it?” Chen-Lhu asked.

  “I hope so,” Joao said.

  “There’s danger?”

  “It’ll be like a Sunday ride in the park,” Joao said.

  “Is it time to come aboard?”

  Joao looked at the shadows stretching out from the tents, the orange cast of the sunlight. He found he was having difficulty breathing, knew this for tension. Joao took a deep breath, found a level of hesitant calm within himself; not relaxed, certainly, but with fear held at bay.

  Vierho answered for Joao: “Twenty minutes, more or less, Senhor Doctor.” He patted Joao’s shoulder. “Jefe, my prayers go with you.”

  “You sure you wouldn’t rather take my place, Padre?”

  “We will not discuss it, Jefe.” Vierho stepped down off the float skid.

  Rhin Kelly emerged from her lab tent with a small bag in her left hand, crossed to stand beside Chen-Lhu.

  “About twenty minutes, my dear,”
Chen-Lhu said.

  “I’m not at all sure I should have a place in that thing,” she said. “One of the others might give you a …”

  “It has been decided,” Chen-Lhu said, and he put angry sharpness in his voice. The fool woman! Why can’t she let well enough alone? “No one will permit you to stay,” he said. Besides, my dear Rhin, I may need you to sway that Brazilian. This Joao Martinho will have to be played very carefully. A woman sometimes can do that better than a man.

  “I’m still not sure,” she said.

  Chen-Lhu looked up at Joao. “Perhaps you should speak to her, Johnny. Surely you don’t want to leave her here.”

  Here or there—not much difference, Joao thought. But he said, “As you say: the decision already has been made. You’d better get aboard and fasten your safety harness.”

  “Where do you want us?” Chen-Lhu asked.

  “You in back; you’re heavier,” Joao said. “I don’t think we’ll get off the ground before we hit the river, but we might. I want us nose high.”

  “Do you want us both in back?” Rhin asked. And she realized then that she had agreed with their decision. Why not? she asked herself, not realizing she shared Joao’s pessimism.

  “Jefe?”

  Joao looked down at Vierho, who’d just completed a final examination of the undercarriage.

  Rhin and Chen-Lhu went around to the right side, began climbing in.

  “How does it look?” Joao asked.

  “Try to hold it up on that left skid a little, Jefe,” Vierho said. “That might help.”

  “Right.”

  Rhin began strapping herself into the bucket seat beside him.

  “We’ll send help as soon as we can,” Joao said, sensing how empty and useless the words were as soon as he spoke them.

  “Of course, Jefe.”

  Vierho stepped back, readied a bomb thrower.

  Thome and the others came out of the tents, loaded with weapons, began setting them up on the side facing the river.

  No good-byes, Joao thought. Yes, that’s best. Treat this as routine, just another flight.