The Collected Stories of Frank Herbert

by Frank Herbert

  “First tell me what happened,” said Lewis.

  Czernak straightened, frowning. “All right, Welby, but when I get through telling, then you better tell.” He wet his lips with his tongue. “I’m told the Doc came in here and talked to you last night. Then he went down to the lab and got one of them white rats with its cage. Then he went over to the mortuary. He had the cage and rat with him. Our night guard let him in. After a while, when the Doc didn’t come out, the guard got worried and went inside. There in the back hall is the Doc’s black bag. And over where this silver wire stuff was he finds—”

  “Was?” Lewis barked the word.

  “Yeah,” said Czernak wearily. “That’s the other thing. Sometime last night somebody ripped out all them wires and didn’t leave a single trace.”

  “What else did the guard find?”

  Czernak ran a hand under his collar, stared at the opposite wall.

  “Well?”

  “Welby, look, I—”

  “What happened?”

  “Well, the night guard—it was Rasmussen—called me and I went right down. Rasmussen didn’t touch a thing. There was the Doc’s bag, a long wood pole with a tire iron attached to it and the rat cage. The rat was gone.”

  “Was there anything in the cage?”

  Czernak suddenly leaned forward, blurted, “Look, Welby, about the cage. There’s something screwy about it. When I first got there, I swear it wasn’t there. Rasmussen doesn’t remember it, either. My first idea when I got there was that the Doc’d gone out the back way, but our seal was still on the door. It hadn’t been opened. While I was thinking that one over—I was standing about in the middle of the hall—I heard this noise like a cork being pulled out of a bottle. I turned around and there was this little cage on the floor. Out of nowhere.”

  “And it was empty?”

  “Except for some pieces of glass that I’m told belonged to a hypo.”

  “Broken?”

  “Smashed to pieces.”

  “Was the cage door open?”

  Czernak tipped his head to one side, looked at the far wall. “No, I don’t believe it was.”

  “And exactly where was this cage?” Lewis’s eyes burned into the sheriff’s.

  “Like I said, Welby. Right in front of where the wires was.”

  “And the wires were gone?”

  “Well—” Again the sheriff looked uncomfortable. “For just a second there, when I turned around after hearing that noise—for just a second there I thought I saw ’em.”

  Lewis took a deep breath.

  Czernak said, “Now come on and give, will you? Where’s the Doc? You must have some idea, the way you been askin’ questions.”

  “He’s taking his entrance exams,” said Lewis. “And we’d all better pray that he passes.”

  OCCUPATION FORCE

  He was a long time awakening. There was a pounding somewhere. General Henry A. Llewellyn’s eyes snapped open. Someone at his bedroom door. Now he heard the voice. “Sir … sir … sir…” It was his orderly.

  “All right, Watkins, I’m awake.”

  The pounding ceased.

  He swung his feet out of the bed, looked at the luminous dial on his alarm clock—two-twenty-five. What the devil? He slipped on a robe, a tall, ruddy-faced man—chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff.

  Watkins saluted when the general opened the door. “Sir, the President has called an emergency cabinet meeting.” The orderly began to talk faster, his words running all together. “There’s an alien spaceship big as Lake Erie sailing around the earth and getting ready to attack.”

  It took a second for the general to interpret the words. He snorted. Pulp magazine poppycock! he thought.

  “Sir,” said Watkins, “there is a staff car downstairs ready to take you to the White House.”

  “Get me a cup of coffee while I dress,” said the general.

  * * *

  Representatives of five foreign nations, every cabinet officer, nine senators, fourteen representatives, the heads of the secret service, FBI and of all the armed services were at the meeting. They gathered in the conference room of the White House bomb shelter—a panelled room with paintings around the walls in deep frames to simulate windows. General Llewellyn sat across the oak conference table from the President. The buzzing of voices in the room stopped as the President rapped his gavel. An aide stood up, gave them the first briefing.

  A University of Chicago astronomer had picked up the ship at about eight P.M. It was coming from the general direction of the belt of Orion. The astronomer had alerted other observatories and someone had thought to notify the government.

  The ship had arrowed in at an incredible rate, swung into a one-and-one-half-hour orbit around Earth. It was visible to the unaided eye by that time, another moon. Estimates put its size at nineteen miles long, twelve miles wide, vaguely egg-shaped.

  Spectroscopic analysis showed the drive was a hydrogen ion stream with traces of carbon, possibly from the refractor. The invader was transparent to radar, responded to no form of communication.

  Majority opinion: a hostile ship on a mission to conquer Earth.

  Minority opinion: a cautious visitor from space.

  Approximately two hours after it took up orbit, the ship put out a five-hundred-foot scout which swooped down on Boston, grappled up a man by the name of William R. Jones from a group of night workers waiting for a bus.

  Some of the minority went over to the majority. The President, however, continued to veto all suggestions that they attack. He was supported by the foreign representatives who were in periodic communication with their governments.

  “Look at the size of the thing,” said the President. “An ant with an ant-size pea-shooter could attack an elephant with the same hopes of success we would have.”

  “There’s always the possibility they’re just being prudent,” said a State Department aide. “We’ve no evidence they’re dissecting this Jones from Boston, as I believe someone suggested.”

  “The size precludes peaceful intent,” said General Llewellyn. “There’s an invasion army in that thing. We should fire off every atomic warhead rocket we can lay hand to, and…”

  The President waved a hand to silence him.

  General Llewellyn sat back. His throat hurt from arguing, his hand ached from pounding the table.

  At eight A.M., the spaceship detached a thousand-foot scout as it passed over the New Jersey coast. The scout drifted down over Washington, D.C. At eight-eighteen A.M., the scout contacted Washington airport in perfect English, asked for landing instructions. A startled tower operator warned the scout ship off until Army units had cleared the area.

  General Llewellyn and a group of expendable assistants were chosen to greet the invaders. They were at the field by eight-fifty-one. The scout, a pale robins-egg blue, settled to a landing strip which cracked beneath it. Small apertures began flicking open and shut on the ship’s surface. Long rods protruded, withdrew. After ten minutes of this, a portal opened and a ramp shot out, tipped to the ground. Again silence.

  Every weapon the armed services could muster was trained on the invader. A flight of jets swept overhead. Far above them, a lone bomber circled, in its belly THE BOMB. All waited for the general’s signal.

  Something moved in the shadow above the ramp. Four human figures appeared at the portal. They wore striped trousers, cutaways, glistening black shoes, top hats. Their linen shone. Three carried briefcases, one had a scroll. They moved down the ramp.

  General Llewellyn and aides walked out to the foot of the ramp. They look like more bureaucrats, thought the general.

  The one with the scroll, a dark-haired man with narrow face, spoke first. “I have the honor to be the ambassador from Krolia, Loo Mogasayvidiantu.” His English was faultless. He extended the scroll. “My credentials.”

  General Llewellyn accepted the scroll, said, “I am General Henry A. Llewellyn”—he hesitated—“representative of Earth.”

&n
bsp; The Krolian bowed. “May I present my staff?” He turned. “Ayk Turgotokikalapa, Min Sinobayatagurki and William R. Jones, late of Boston, Earth.”

  The general recognized the man whose picture was in all of the morning newspapers. Here’s our first Solar quisling, he thought.

  “I wish to apologize for the delay in our landing,” said the Krolian ambassador. “Occasionally quite a long period of time is permitted to elapse between preliminary and secondary phases of a colonial program.”

  Colonial program! thought the general. He almost gave the signal which would unleash death upon this scene. But the ambassador had more to say.

  “The delay in landing was a necessary precaution,” said the Krolian. “Over such a long period of time our data sometimes becomes outmoded. We needed time for a sampling, to talk to Mr. Jones, to bring our data up to date.” Again he bowed with courtly politeness.

  Now General Llewellyn was confused: Sampling … data … He took a deep breath. Conscious of the weight of history on his shoulders, he said, “We have one question to ask you, Mr. Ambassador. Do you come as friends or conquerors?”

  The Krolian’s eyes widened. He turned to the Earthman beside him. “It is as I expected, Mr. Jones.” His lips thinned. “That Colonial Office! Understaffed! Inefficient! Bumbling…”

  The General frowned. “I don’t understand.”

  “No, of course,” said the ambassador. “But if our Colonial Office had kept track…” He waved a hand. “Look around at your people, sir.”

  The general looked first at the men behind the ambassador. Obviously human. At a gesture from the Krolian, he turned to the soldiers behind himself, then toward the frightened faces of the civilians behind the airport fences. The general shrugged, turned back to the Krolian. “The people of Earth are waiting for the answer to my question. Do you come as friends or conquerors?”

  The ambassador sighed. “The truth is, sir, that the question really has no answer. You must surely notice that we are of the same breed.”

  The general waited.

  “It should be obvious to you,” said the Krolian, “that we have already occupied Earth … about seven thousand years ago.”

  THE NOTHING

  If it hadn’t been for the fight with my father I’d never have gone down to the Tavern and then I wouldn’t have met the Nothing. This Nothing was really just an ordinary looking guy. He wasn’t worth special attention unless, like me, you were pretending you were Marla Graim, the feelies star, and him Sidney Harch meeting you in the bar to give you a spy capsule.

  It was all my father’s fault. Imagine him getting angry because I wouldn’t take a job burning brush. What kind of work is that for an eighteen-year-old girl anyway? I know my folks were hard pressed for money but that was no excuse for the way he lit into me.

  We had the fight over lunch but it was after six o’clock before I got the chance to sneak out of the house. I went down to the Tavern because I knew the old man would be madder than a tele in a lead barrel when he found out. There was no way I could keep it from him, of course. He pried me every time I came home.

  The Tavern is a crossroads place where the talent gets together to compare notes, and talk about jobs. I’d only been in there once before, and that time with my father. He warned me not to go there alone because a lot of the jags used the place. You could smell the stuff all over the main room. There was pink smoke from a hyro bowl drifting up around the rafters. Someone had a Venusian Oin filter going. There was a lot of talent there for so early in the evening.

  I found an empty corner of the bar and ordered a blue fire because I’d seen Marla Graim ask for one in the feelies. The bartender stared at me sharply and I suspected he was a tele, but he didn’t pry. After awhile he floated my drink up to me and ’ported away my money. I sipped the drink the way I’d seen Marla Graim do, but it was too sweet. I tried not to let my face show anything.

  The bar mirror gave me a good broad view of the room and I kept looking into it as though I was expecting somebody. I saw him in the mirror and immediately knew he was going to take the seat beside me. I’m not exactly a prescient, but sometimes those things are obvious.

  He came across the room, moving with a gladiator ease between the packed tables. That’s when I pretended I was Marla Graim waiting at a Port Said bar to pick up a spy capsule from Sidney Harch like in the feelie I’d seen Sunday. This fellow did look a little like Harch—curly hair, dark blue eyes, face all sharp angles as if it had been chiseled by a sculptor who’d left the job uncompleted.

  He took the stool beside me as I’d known he would, and ordered a blue fire, easy on the sugar. Naturally, I figured this was a get-acquainted gambit and wondered what to say to him. Suddenly, it struck me as an exciting idea to just ride along with the Marla Graim plot until it came time to leave.

  He couldn’t do anything to stop me even if he was a ’porter. You see, I’m a pyro and that’s a good enough defense for anyone. I glanced down at my circa-twenty skirt and shifted until the slit exposed my garter the way I’d seen Marla Graim do it. This blond lad didn’t give it a tumble. He finished his drink, and ordered another.

  I whiffed him for one of the cokes, but he was dry. No jag. The other stuff in the room was getting through to me, though, and I was feeling dizzy. I knew I’d have to leave soon and I’d never get another chance to be a Marla Graim type; so I said, “What’s yours?”

  Oh, he knew I was talking to him all right, but he didn’t even look up. It made me mad. A girl has some pride and there I’d unbent enough to start the conversation! There was an ashtray piled with scraps of paper in front of him. I concentrated on it and the paper suddenly flamed. I’m a good pyro when I want to be. Some men have been kind enough to say I could start a fire without the talent. But with a prying father like mine how could I ever know?

  The fire got this fellow’s attention. He knew I’d started it. He just glanced at me once and turned away. “Leave me alone,” he said. “I’m a Nothing.”

  I don’t know what it was. Maybe I have a little of the tele like that doctor said once, but I knew he was telling the truth. It wasn’t one of those gags like you see in the feelies. You know—where there are two comedians and one says, “What’s yours?” And the other one answers, “Nothing.”

  Only all the time he’s levitating the other guy’s chair and juggling half a dozen things behind his back, no hands. You know the gag. It’s been run into the ground. Well, when he said that, it kind of set me back. I’d never seen a real-life Nothing before. Oh, I knew there were some. In the government preserves and such, but I’d never been like this—right next to one.

  “Sorry,” I said. “I’m a pyro.”

  He glanced at the ashes in the tray and said, “Yeah, I know.”

  “There’s not much work for pyros any more,” I said. “It’s the only talent I have.” I turned and looked at him. Handsome in spite of being a Nothing. “What did you do?” I asked.

  “I ran away,” he said. “I’m a fugitive from the Sonoma Preserve.”

  That made my blood tingle. Not only a Nothing, but a fugitive, too. Just like in the feelies. I said, “Do you want to hide out at my place?”

  That brought him around. He looked me over and he actually blushed. Actually! I’d never seen a man blush before. That fellow certainly was loaded with firsts for me.

  “People might get the wrong idea when I’m caught,” he said. “I’m sure to be caught eventually. I always am.”

  I was really getting a feeling for that woman-of-the-world part. “Why not enjoy your freedom then?” I asked.

  I let him see a little more through the circa-twenty slit. He actually turned away! Imagine!

  That’s when the police came. They didn’t make any fuss. I’d noticed these two men standing just inside the door watching us. Only I’d thought they were watching me. They came across the room and one of them bent over this fellow.

  “All right, Claude,” he said. “Come quietly.”

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sp; The other took my arm and said, “You’ll have to come, too, sister.”

  I jerked away from him. “I’m not your sister,” I said.

  “Oh, leave her alone, fellows,” said this Claude. “I didn’t tell her anything. She was just trying to pick me up.”

  “Sorry,” said the cop. “She comes, too.”

  That’s when I began to get scared. “Look,” I said. “I don’t know what this is all about.”

  The man showed me the snout of a hypo gun in his pocket. “Stop the commotion and come quietly, sister, or I’ll have to use this,” he said.

  So who wants to go to sleep? I went quietly, praying we’d run into my father or someone I knew so I could explain things. But no such luck.

  The police had a plain old jet buggy outside with people clustered around looking at it. A ’porter in the crowd was having fun jiggling the rear end up and down off the ground. He was standing back with his hands in his pockets, grinning.

  The cop who’d done all the talking just looked toward this ’porter and the fellow lost his grin and hurried away. I knew then the cop was a tele, although he hadn’t touched my mind. They’re awfully sensitive about their code of ethics, some of those teles.

  It was fun riding in that old jet buggy, I’d never been in one before. One of the cops got in back with Claude and me. The other one drove. It was the strangest feeling, flying up over the bay on the tractors. Usually, whenever I wanted to go someplace, I’d just ask, polite like, was there a ’porter around and then I’d think of where I wanted to go and the ’porter would set me down there quick as a wink.

  Of course, I wound up in some old gent’s apartment now and then. Some ’porters do that sort of thing for a fee. But a pyro doesn’t have to worry about would-be Casanovas. No old gent is going to fool around when his clothes are on fire.

  Well, the jet buggy finally set down on an old hospital grounds way back up in the sticks and the cops took us to the main building and into a little office. Walking, mind you. It was shady in the office—not enough lights—and it took a minute for my eyes to adjust after the bright lights in the hall. When they did adjust and I saw the old codger behind the desk I did a real double take. It was Mensor Williams. Yeah. The Big All. Anything anybody else can do he can do better.