The Collected Stories of Frank Herbert

by Frank Herbert

  “What kind of wires?”

  “That’s just it, Keeler’s old man is a jeweler and Keeler says this wire is silver. It’s kind of a screen like, criss-crossed every which way.”

  “What were they hooked up to?”

  “To nothing we could find,” said Czernak. He looked at Welch. “Ain’t that right?”

  “Nothing there but this wire,” said Welch.

  “What did you do with it?” asked Lewis.

  “Nothing,” said Czernak. “We just left like it was and took pictures.”

  “Anything under the floor?”

  Czernak’s face brightened. “Boy, we sure hit the jackpot there!” He bent his head and peered closely at Lewis. “How’d you know we’d find something under there?”

  “I just knew those tanks kept appearing out of nowhere,” said Lewis. “What was under there?”

  Czernak straightened. “Well, a whole section of the hall floor was an elevator and down below there was this big room. It stretched from under the hall to clear under the embalming room and there was a section of the embalming room floor where a bunch of tiles come up in one piece and there was a trapdoor and a stairway. Hell! It was just like one of them horror movies!”

  “What was down there?”

  “A buncha machinery,” said Czernak.

  “What kind?”

  “I dunno.” Czernak shook his head, glanced at Welch.

  “Craziest stuff I ever saw,” said Welch. He shrugged.

  “Doc Bellarmine came down and had a look at it after the autopsy last night,” said Czernak. “He said he’d be in to see you this morning.”

  “Did he say anything about the autopsy?” asked Lewis.

  “Not to me,” said Czernak.

  Welch hitched his chair closer to the foot of the bed, rested an arm on the rail. “He told me it was something about the autopsy made him come down to have a look at the mortuary,” he said. “He didn’t say what it was, though.”

  “What about the mortuary staff?” asked Lewis. “Did they say anything about the secret room?”

  “They swear they never even knew it was there,” said Czernak. “We took ’em all into custody anyway, all except Tule and his wife.”

  “Tule?”

  “Yeah, the other partner. His wife was a licensed mortician, too. Ain’t been seen since the night you were shot. The staff says that Johnson, Tule and the wife was always locking doors around the building for no good reason at all.”

  “What did this machinery look like?”

  “Part of it was just an elevator for that section of floor. The other stuff was hooked up to a bunch of pipes coming down from the embalming table upstairs. There was this big—” Czernak stopped as the door opened.

  Dr. Bellarmine’s cynical face peered into the room. His eyes swept over the occupants; he entered, closed the door behind him. “The patient’s feeling better, I see,” he said. “For a while there I thought this would be a job for me in my official capacity.”

  “This guy’ll outlive all of us,” said Welch.

  “He probably will at that,” said the doctor. He glanced down at Lewis. “Feel like a little conversation?”

  “Just a minute, Doc,” said Lewis. He turned to Czernak. “John, I have one more favor,” he said. “Could you get one of those tanks of embalming fluid to a welding shop and have it cut open with a burner. I want to know how it’s made inside.”

  “No, you don’t,” said Czernak. “I’m not leavin’ here without some kind of an explanation.”

  “And I don’t have an explanation,” said Lewis. “All the pieces aren’t together yet. I’m tied to this bed when I should be out working on this thing. I’ve ten thousand questions I want answered and no way of answering them.”

  “Don’t excite yourself,” said Bellarmine.

  “Yeah, Welby, take it easy,” said Czernak. “It’s just that I’m about ready to pop with frustration. Nothing makes sense here. This guy tries to kill you for no apparent reason and then commits suicide. It seems to be because you wanted to look inside them tanks, but they’re just embalming fluid. I don’t get it.”

  “Would you have those tanks cut open for me?” asked Lewis.

  “Okay, okay.” Czernak hoisted himself to his feet. Welch also arose. “Come on, Joe,” said the sheriff. “We’re nothin’ but a couple of leg men for Sherlock here. Let’s take them—”

  “John, I’m sorry,” said Lewis. “It’s just that I can’t—”

  “I know you can’t do it yourself now,” said Czernak. “That’s why I’m doing it. You’re the best man I got, Welby; so I’m countin’ on you to put this together. Me, I gave up when I saw that machinery.” He left the room, muttering, followed by Welch, who stopped at the door, winked at Lewis.

  Bellarmine waited until the door closed, sat down on the foot of the bed. “How’d you get onto them?” he asked.

  Lewis ignored the question. “What’d you find in that autopsy?” he asked.

  The surgeon frowned. “I thought you were nuts when the sheriff told me what you wanted,” he said. “Any fool could see Johnson died of a gunshot wound in the head. But I guessed you had a reason; so I did my cutting carefully and it was a lucky thing I did.”

  “Why?”

  “Well, this is the kind of case an autopsy surgeon sloughs off sometimes. Visible wound. Obvious cause. I could’ve missed it. The guy looked to be normal.”

  “Missed what?”

  “His heart, for one thing. It had an extra layer of muscles in the cardiac sheath. I experimented with them and near dropped my knife. They work like that automatic sealing device they put in airplane fuel tanks. Puncture the heart and this muscle layer seals the hole until the heart’s healed.”

  “Damn!” said Lewis.

  “This guy was like that all over,” said Bellarmine. “For a long time doctors have looked at the human body with the wish they could redesign certain things to better specifications. Johnson looked like our wish had come true. Fewer vertebrae with better articulation. Pigment veins into the pupil of the eye which could only be some kind of filter to—”

  “That’s it!” Lewis slapped the bed with the palm of his hand. “There was something freakish about him and I couldn’t focus on it. The pupils of his eyes changed color. I can remember seeing it and—”

  “You didn’t see anything,” said Bellarmine. “His pelvic floor was broader and distributed the weight more evenly to the legs. The feet had larger bones and more central distribution of weight over the arch. There was an interlaced membranous support for the viscera. His circulatory system had sphincter valves at strategic points to control bleeding. This Johnson may have looked human on the outside, but inside he was superhuman.”

  “What about the machinery in the mortuary basement?” asked Lewis.

  Bellarmine stood up, began to pace the floor, back and forth at the foot of the bed. Presently he stopped, put his hands on the rail, stared at Lewis. “I spent half the night examining that layout,” he said. “It was one of the most beautifully designed and executed rigs I’ve ever seen. Its major purpose was to take cadaver blood and fractionate the protein.”

  “You mean like for making plasma and stuff like that?” asked Lewis.

  “Well, something like that,” said Bellarmine.

  “I didn’t think you could use the blood of a corpse for that,” said Lewis.

  “We didn’t either,” said the surgeon. “The Russians have been working on it, however. Our experience has been that it breaks down too quickly. We’ve tried—”

  “You mean this was a Communist set-up?”

  Bellarmine shook his head. “No such luck. This rig wasn’t just foreign to the U.S.A. It was foreign to Earth. There’s one centrifugal pump in there that spins free in an air blast. I shudder every time I think of the force it must generate. We don’t have an alloy that’ll come anywhere near standing up to those strains. And the Russians don’t have it, either.”

  “How can you
be sure?”

  “For one thing, there are several research projects that are awaiting this type of rig and the Russians have no more results on those projects than we have.”

  “Then something was produced from cadaver blood and was stored in those tanks,” said Lewis.

  Bellarmine nodded. “I checked. A fitting on the tanks matched one on the machinery.”

  Lewis pushed himself upright, ignoring the pain in his chest. “Then this means an extraterrestrial in—” The pain in his chest became too much and he sagged back to the pillow.

  Dr. Bellarmine was suddenly at his side. “You fool!” he barked. “You were told to take it easy.” He pushed the emergency button at the head of the bed, began working on the bandages.

  “What’s matter?” whispered Lewis.

  “Hemorrhage,” said Bellarmine. “Where’s that fool nurse? Why doesn’t she answer the bell?” He stripped away a length of adhesive.

  The door opened and a nurse entered, stopped as she saw the scene.

  “Emergency tray,” said Bellarmine. “Get Dr. Edwards here to assist! Bring plasma!”

  Lewis heard a drum begin to pound inside his head—louder, louder, louder. Then it began to fade and there was nothing.

  * * *

  He awoke to a rustling sound and footsteps. Then he recognized it. The sound of a nurse’s starched uniform as she moved about the room. He opened his eyes and saw by the shadows outside that it was afternoon.

  “So you’re awake,” said the nurse.

  Lewis turned his head toward the sound. “You’re new,” he said. “I don’t recognize you.”

  “Special,” she said. “Now you just take it easy and don’t try to move.” She pushed the call button.

  It seemed that almost immediately Dr. Bellarmine was in the room bending over Lewis. The surgeon felt Lewis’s wrist, took a deep breath. “You went into shock,” he said. “You have to remain quiet. Don’t try to move around.”

  His voice low and husky, Lewis said, “Could I ask some questions?”

  “Yes, but only for a few minutes. You have to avoid any kind of exertion.”

  “What’d the sheriff find out about the tanks?”

  Bellarmine grimaced. “They couldn’t open them. Can’t cut the metal.”

  “That confirms it,” said Lewis. “Think there are any other rigs like that?”

  “There have to be,” said Bellarmine. He sat down on a chair at the head of the bed. “I’ve had another look at that basement layout and took a machinist with me. He agrees. Everything about it cries out mass production. Mostly cast fittings with a minimum of machining. Simple, efficient construction.”

  “Why? What good’s the blood from human cadavers?”

  “I’ve been asking myself that same question,” said Bellarmine. “Maybe for a nutrient solution for culture growths. Maybe for the antibodies.”

  “Would they be any good?”

  “That depends on how soon the blood was extracted. The time element varies with temperature, body condition, a whole barrel full of things.”

  “But why?”

  The surgeon ran a hand through his gray hair. “I don’t like my answer to that question,” he said. “I keep thinking of how we fractionate the blood of guinea pigs, how we recover vaccine from chick embryos, how we use all of our test animals.”

  Lewis’s eyes fell on the dresser across his room. Someone had taken the books from his night stand and put them on the dresser. He could still see the bug-eyed monster cover.

  “From what I know of science fiction,” said Lewis, “that silver grid in the hall must be some kind of matter transmitter for sending the tanks to wherever they’re used. I wonder why they didn’t put it downstairs with the machinery.”

  “Maybe it had to be above ground,” said Bellarmine. “You figure it the same way I do.”

  “You’re a hard-headed guy, Doc,” said Lewis. “How come you go for this bug-eyed monster theory?”

  “It was the combination,” said Bellarmine. “That silver grid, the design of the machinery and its purpose, the strange metals, the differences in Johnson. It all spells A-L-I-E-N, alien. But I could say the same holds for you, Lewis. What put you wise?”

  “Johnson. He called me a mere human. I got to wondering how alien a guy could be to separate himself from the human race.”

  “It checks,” said Bellarmine.

  “Buy why guinea pigs?” asked Lewis.

  The surgeon frowned, looked at the floor, back at Lewis. “That rig had a secondary stage,” he said. “It could have only one function—passing live virus under some kind of bombardment—X-ray or beta ray or whatever—and depositing the mutated strain in a little spray container about as big as your fist. I know from my own research experience that some mutated virus can be deadly.”

  “Germ warfare,” whispered Lewis. “You sure it isn’t the Russians?”

  “I’m sure. This was a perfect infecting center. Complete. Banbury would’ve been decimated by now if that’s what it was.”

  “Maybe they weren’t ready.”

  “Germ warfare is ready when one infecting center is set up. No. This rig was for producing slight alterations in common germs or I miss my guess. This little spray container went into a…”

  “Rack on Johnson’s desk,” said Lewis.

  “Yeah,” said Bellarmine.

  “I saw it,” said Lewis. “I thought it was one of those deodorant things.” He picked a piece of lint off the covers. “So they’re infecting us with mutated virus.”

  “It scares me,” said Bellarmine.

  Lewis squinted his eyes, looked up at the surgeon. “Doc, what would you do if you found out that one of your white rats was not only intelligent but had found out what you were doing to it?”

  “Well—” Bellarmine looked out the window at the gathering dusk. “I’m no monster, Lewis. I’d probably turn it loose. No—” He scratched his chin. “No, maybe I wouldn’t at that. But I wouldn’t infect it anymore. I think I’d put it through some tests to find out just how smart it was. The rat would no longer be a simple test animal. Its usefulness would be in the psychological field, to tell me things about myself.”

  “That’s about the way I had it figured,” said Lewis. “How much longer am I going to be in this bed?”

  “Why?”

  “I’ve figured a way for the guinea pigs to tell the researchers the jig’s up.”

  “How? We don’t even know their language. We’ve only seen one specimen and that one’s dead. We can’t be sure they’d react the same way we would.”

  “Yes, they would,” said Lewis.

  “How can you say that? They must already know we’re sentient.”

  “So’s a rat sentient—to a degree,” said Lewis. “It’s all in the way you look at it. Sure. Compared to us, they’re vegetables. That’s the way it’d be with—”

  “We don’t have the right to take risks with the rest of humanity,” protested Bellarmine. “Man, one of them tried to kill you!”

  “But everything points to that one being defective,” said Lewis. “He made too many mistakes. That’s the only reason we got wise to him.”

  “They might dump us into the incinerator as no longer useful,” said Bellarmine. “They—”

  Lewis said, “They’d have to be pretty much pure scientists. Johnson was a field man, a lab technician, a worker. The pure scientists would follow our human pattern. I’m sure of it. To be a pure scientist you have to be able to control yourself. That means you’d understand other persons’—other beings’—problems. No, Doc. Your first answer was the best one. You’d put your rats through psychological tests.”

  Bellarmine stared at his hands. “What’s your idea?”

  “Take a white rat in one of those little lab cages. Infect it with some common germ, leave the infecting hypo in the cage, put the whole works—rat and all—in front of that silver grid. Distort—”

  “That’s a crazy idea,” said Bellarmine. “How co
uld you tell a hypothetical something to look at your message when you don’t even know the hypothetical language—how to contact them in the first place?”

  “Distort the field of that grid by touching the wires with a piece of metal,” said Lewis. “Tie the metal to the end of a pole for safety.”

  “I’ve never heard a crazier idea,” said Bellarmine.

  “Get me the white rat, the cage and the hypo and I’ll do it myself,” said Lewis.

  Bellarmine got to his feet, moved toward the door. “You’re not doing anything for a couple of weeks,” he said. “You’re a sick man and I’ve been talking to you too long already.” He opened the door, left the room.

  Lewis stared at the ceiling. A shudder passed over his body. Mutated virus!

  The door opened and an orderly and nurse entered. “You get a little tube feeding of hot gelatin,” said the nurse. She helped him eat it, then, over his protests, gave him a sedative.

  “Doctor’s orders,” said the nurse.

  Through a descending fog, Lewis murmured, “Which doctor?”

  “Dr. Bellarmine,” she said.

  The fog came lower, darkened. He drifted into a nightmare peopled by thousands of Johnsons, all of them running around with large metal tanks asking, “Are you human?” and collecting blood.

  * * *

  Sheriff Czernak was beside the bed when Lewis awoke. Lewis could see out the window that dawn was breaking. He turned toward the sheriff. “Mornin’, John,” he whispered. His tongue felt thick and dry.

  “’Bout time you woke up,” said Czernak. “I’ve been waiting here a coupla hours. Something fishy’s going on.”

  “Wind my bed up, will you?” asked Lewis. “What’s happening?”

  Czernak arose, moved to the foot of the bed and turned the crank.

  “The big thing is that Doc Bellarmine has disappeared,” he said. “We traced him from the lab here to the mortuary. Then he just goes pffft!”

  Lewis’s eyes widened. “Was there a white rat cage?”

  “There you go again!” barked Czernak. “You tell me you don’t know anything about this, but you sure know all the questions.” He bent over Lewis. “Sure, there was a rat cage! You better tell me how you knew it!”