The Collected Stories of Frank Herbert

by Frank Herbert

  “Yeah, Sarg.”

  “Okay. Keep your eyes open, Wolfie.”

  The red glow of the phone died.

  Hulser trembled with rage. Wolfie!

  He thought of Sergeant Mike Chamberlain: tall, overbearing, the irritating nasal twang in his voice. And he thought of what he’d like to do to Chamberlain’s narrow, small-eyed face and its big nose. He considered calling back and asking for “Schnozzle” Chamberlain.

  Hulser grinned tightly. That’d get him! And he’d have to wait another four hours before he could do anything about it.

  But the thought of the certain consequences in arousing Chamberlain’s anger wiped the grin from Hulser’s face.

  Something moved on his central screen. The fox. Or was it a fox? It moved across the frozen terrain toward the shattered tank, stopped halfway.

  A fox investigating the strange odors of cordite and burned gas? he wondered. Or is it the enemy?

  With this thought came near panic. If any living flesh above a certain minimum size—roughly fifty kilos—moved too close to an OP without the proper IFF, the hut and all in it exploded in a blinding flash of thermite: everything incinerated to prevent the enemy from capturing the observer’s Life Detector shield.

  Hulser studied the grid of his central screen. It reminded him of a game he’d played as a boy: two children across a room from one another, ruled graph paper hidden behind books in their laps. Each player’s paper contained secretly marked squares: four in a row—a battleship, three in a row—a destroyer, two in a …

  Again the glow on his screen moved toward the tank crater.

  He stared at the grid intersection above the glowing spot, and far away in his mind a thought giggled at him: Call and tell ’em you have a battleship on your screen at O-6-C. That’d get you a Section Eight right out of this man’s army!

  Out of the army!

  His thoughts swerved abruptly to New Oakland, to Carol Jean. To think of her having our baby back there and—

  Again the (fox?) moved toward the tank crater.

  But his mind was hopelessly caught now in New Oakland. He thought of all the lonely years before Carol: to work five days a week at Planetary Chemicals … the library and endless pages of books (and another channel of his mind commented: You scattered your interests too widely!) … the tiny cubbyhole rooms of his apartment … the tasteless—

  Now, the (fox?) darted up to the tank crater, skirted it.

  Hulser’s mind noted the movement, went right on with its reverie: Then Carol! Why couldn’t we have found each other sooner? Just one month together and—

  Another small glowing object came on the screen near the point where he’d seen the first one. It, too, darted toward the tank crater.

  Hulser was back in the chill present, a deadly suspicion gnawing him: The enemy has a new type of shield, not as good as ours. It merely reduces image size!

  Or is it a pair of foxes?

  Indecision tore at him.

  They could have a new shield, he thought. We don’t have a corner on the scientific brains.

  And a piece of his mind wandered off in the new direction—the war within the war: the struggle for equipment superiority. A new weapon—a new shield—a better weapon—a better shield. It was like a terrible ladder dripping with maimed flesh.

  They could have a new shield, his mind repeated.

  And another corner of his mind began to think about the shields, the complex flicker-lattice that made human flesh transparent to—

  Abruptly, he froze. In all clarity, every diagram in place, every equation, every formula complete—all spread out in his mind was the instrument he knew could end this war. Uncontrolled shivering took over his body. He swallowed in a dry throat.

  His gaze stayed on the screen before him. The two glow spots joined, moved into the tank crater. Hulser bent into the cone of silence at his phone. “This is OP 114. I have two greenies at co-ordinates O-6-C-sub T-R. I think they’re setting up an OP!”

  “Are you sure?” It was Chamberlain’s nasal twang.

  “Of course I’m sure!”

  “We’ll see.”

  The phone went dead.

  * * *

  Hulser straightened, wet his lips with his tongue. Will they send a plane for a sky look? They don’t really trust me.

  A rending explosion at the tank crater answered him.

  Immediately, a rattle of small arms fire sprang up from the enemy lines. Bullets quested through the gray snow.

  It was an enemy OP! Now, they know we have an observer out here!

  Another bullet found the dome of the OP.

  Hulser stared at the hole in terror. What if they kill me? My idea will die with me! The war will go on and on and—He jerked toward the phone, screamed into it: “Get me out of here! Get me out of here! Get me out of here!”

  When they found him, Hulser was still mumbling the five words.

  Chamberlain’s lanky form crouched before the OP’s crawl hole. The three muffled figures behind him ignored the OP, their heads turning, eyes staring off into the snow, rifles at the ready. The enemy’s small arms fire had stopped.

  Another one’s broke, thought Chamberlain. I thought shame might make him last a little while longer!

  He dragged Hulser out into the snow, hissed: “What is it, you? Why’d you drag us out into this?”

  Hulser swallowed, said, “Sarge, please believe me. I know how to detonate enemy explosives from a distance without even knowing where the explosives are. I can—”

  “Detonate explosives from a distance?” Chamberlain’s eyes squinted until they looked like twin pieces of flint. Another one for the head shrinkers unless we can shock him out of it, he thought. He said, “You’ve gone off your rocker, you have. Now, you git down at them instruments and—”

  Hulser paled. “No, Sarg! I have to get back where—”

  “I could shoot your head off right where you—”

  Fear, frustration, anger—all of the complex pressure-borne emotions in Hulser—forced the words out of him: “You big-nosed, ignorant lump. I can end this war! You hear?” His voice climbed. “Take me back to the lieutenant! I’m gonna send your kind back under the rocks, you—”

  Chamberlain’s fist caught Hulser on the side of the head, sent him tumbling into the snow. Even as he fell, Hulser’s mind said: But you told him, man! You finally told him!

  The sergeant glanced back at his companions, thought, If the enemy heard him, we’ve had it! He motioned one of the other men in close. “Mitch, take the watch on this OP. We’ll have to get Hulser back.”

  The other nodded, ducked through the crawl hole.

  Chamberlain bent over Hulser. “You stinkin’ coward!” he hissed. “I’ve half a mind to kill you where you sit! But I’m gonna take you in so’s I can have the personal pleasure of watchin’ you crawl when they turn the heat on you! Now you git on your feet! An’ you git to walkin’!”

  * * *

  Major Tony Lipari—“Tony the Lip” to his men—leaned against the canvas-padded wall of his dugout, hands clasped behind his head. He was a thin, oily-looking man with black hair, parted in the middle and slicked to his head like two beetle wings. In civilian life he had sold athletic supplies from a wholesale house. He had once worn a turban to an office party, and it had been like opening a door on his appearance. Somewhere in his ancestry there had been a Moor.

  The major was tired (Casualty reports! Endless casualty reports!) and irritable, faintly nervous.

  We don’t have enough men to man the OPs now! he thought. Do we have to lose another one to the psych boys?

  He said, “The lieuten—” His voice came out in a nervous squeak, and he stopped, cleared his throat. “The lieutenant has told me the entire story, corporal. Frankly, it strikes me as utterly fantastic.”

  Corporal Hulser stood at attention before the major. “Do I have the major’s permission to speak?”

  Lipari nodded. “Please do.”

  “Sir, I
was a chemist … I mean as a civilian. I got into this branch because I’d dabbled in electronics and they happened to need L-D observers more than they needed chemists. Now, with our shields from—” He broke off, suddenly overwhelmed by the problem of convincing Major Lipari.

  He’s telling me we need L-D observers! thought Lipari. He said, “Well, go on, Hulser.”

  “Sir, do you know anything about chemistry?”

  “A little.”

  “What I mean is, do you understand Redox equations and substitution reactions of—”

  “Yes, yes. Go on!”

  Hulser swallowed, thought: He doesn’t understand. Why won’t he send me back to someone who does? He said, “Sir, you’re aware that the insulation layer of our L-D shield is a special kind of protection for—”

  “Certainly! Insulates the wearer from the electrical charge of the suit!”

  Hulser goggled at the major. “Insulates … Oh, no, sir. Begging the major’s pardon, but—”

  “Is this necessary, corporal?” asked Lipari. And he thought: If he’d only stop this act and get back to work! It’s so obvious he’s faking! If—

  Sir, didn’t you get the—”

  “I had a full quota of L-D shield orientation when they called me back into the service,” said Lipari. “Infantry’s my specialty, of course. Korea, you know. But I understand how to operate a shield. Go on, corporal.” He kicked his chair away from the wall.

  “Sir, what that insulation layer protects the wearer from is a kind of pseudo-substitution reaction in the skin. The suit’s field can confuse the body into producing nitrogen bubbles at—”

  “Yes, Hulser! I know all that! But what’s this have to do with your wonderful idea?”

  Hulser took a deep breath. “Sir, I can build a projector on the principle of the L-D suits that will produce an artificial substitution reaction in any explosive. I’m sure I can!”

  “You’re sure?”

  “Yes, sir. For example, I could set up such a reaction in Trinox that would produce fluorine and ionized hydrogen—in minute quantities, of course—but sufficient that any nearby field source would detonate—”

  “How would you make sure there was such a field in the enemy’s storage area?”

  “Sir! Everybody wears L-D shields of one kind or another! They’re field generators. Or an internal combustion motor … or … or just anything! If you have an explosive mixture collapsing from one system into another in the presence of fluorine and hydrogen—” He shrugged. “It’d explode if you looked cross-eyed at it!”

  Lipari cleared his throat. “I see.” Again he leaned back against the wall. The beginning of an eyestrain headache tugged at his temples. Now, the put-up-or-shut-up, he thought. He said, “How do we build this wonderful projector, corporal?”

  “Sir, I’ll have to sit down with some machinists and some E-techs and—”

  “Corporal, I’ll decide who sits down with whom among my men. Now. I’ll tell you what you do. You just draw up the specifications for your projector and leave them with me. I’ll see that they get into the proper hands through channels.”

  “Sir, it’s not that simple. I have all the specs in my head now, yes, but in anything like this you have to work out bugs that—”

  “We have plenty of technical experts who can do that,” said Lipari. And he thought: Why doesn’t he give up? I gave him the chance to duck out gracefully! Scribble something on some paper, give it to me. That’s the end of it!

  “But sir—”

  “Corporal! My orderly will give you paper and pencil. You just—”

  “Sir! It can’t be done that way!”

  Lipari rubbed his forehead. “Corporal Hulser, I am giving you an order. You will sit down and produce the plans and specifications for your projector. You will do it now.”

  Hulser tasted a sourness in his mouth. He swallowed. And that’s the last we’d ever hear of Corporal Larry Hulser, he thought. Tony the Lip would get the credit.

  He said, “Sir, after you submit my plans, what would you do if someone asked, for example, how the polar molecules of—”

  “You will explain all of these things in your outline. Do I make myself clear, corporal?”

  “Sir, it would take me six months to produce plans that could anticipate every—”

  “You’re stalling, corporal!” Major Lipari pushed himself forward, came to his feet. He lowered his voice. “Let’s face it, Hulser. You’re faking! I know it. You know it. You just had a bellyful of war and you decided you wanted out.”

  Hulser shook his head from side to side.

  “It’s not that simple, corporal. Now. I’ve shown you in every way I can that I understand this, that I’m willing to—”

  “Begging the major’s pardon, but—”

  “You will do one of two things, Corporal Hulser. You either produce the diagrams, sketches or whatever to prove that you do have a worthy idea, or you will go back to your unit. I’m done fooling with you!”

  “Sir, don’t you under—”

  “I could have you shot under the Articles of War!”

  And Lipari thought: That’s what he needs—a good shock!

  Bitter frustration almost overwhelmed Hulser. He felt the same kind of anger that had goaded him to attack Sergeant Chamberlain. “Major, enough people know about my idea by now that at least some of them would wonder if you hadn’t shot the goose that laid the golden egg!”

  Lipari’s headache was full-blown now. He pushed his face close to Hulser’s. “I have some alternatives to a firing squad, corporal!”

  Hulser returned Lipari’s angry glare. “It has occurred to me, sir, that this project would suddenly become ‘our’ project, and then ‘your’ project, and somewhere along the line a mere corporal would get lost.”

  Lipari’s mouth worked wordlessly. Presently, he said, “That did it, Hulser! I’m holding you for a general court! There’s one thing I can do without cooking any goose but yours!”

  And that ends the matter as far as I’m concerned, thought Lipari. What a day!

  He turned toward the door of his dugout: “Sergeant!”

  The door opened to admit Chamberlain’s beanpole figure. He crossed the room, came to attention before Lipari, saluted. “Sir?”

  “This man is under arrest, sergeant,” said Lipari. “Take him back to area headquarters under guard and have him held for a general court. On your way out send in my orderly.”

  Chamberlain saluted. “Yes, sir.” He turned, took Hulser’s arm. “Come along, Hulser.”

  Lipari turned away, groped on a corner shelf for his aspirin. He heard the door open and close behind him. And it was not until this moment that he asked himself: Could that crackpot actually have had a workable idea? He found the aspirin, shrugged the thought away. Fantastic!

  * * *

  Hulser sat on an iron cot with his head in his hands. The cell walls around him were flat, riveted steel. It was a space exactly the length of the cot, twice as wide as the cot. At his left, next to the foot of the bed, was a barred door. To his right, at the other end of the floor space, was a folding washbasin with water closet under. The cell smelled foul despite an overriding stink of disinfectant.

  Why don’t they get it over with? he asked himself. Three days of this madhouse! How long are they—

  The cell door rattled.

  Hulser looked up. A wizened figure in a colonel’s uniform stood on the other side of the bars. He was a tiny man, gray-haired, eyes like a curious bird, a dried parchment skin. In the proper costume he would have looked like a medieval sorcerer.

  A youthful MP sergeant stepped into view, unlocked the door, stood aside. The colonel entered the cell.

  “Well, well,” he said.

  Hulser came to his feet, saluted.

  “Will you be needing me, sir?” asked the MP sergeant.

  “Eh?” The colonel turned. “Oh. No, sergeant. Just leave that door open and—”

  “But sir—”

 
“Nobody could get out of this cell block, could they sergeant?”

  “No, sir. But—”

  “Then just leave the door open and run along.”

  “Yes, sir.” The sergeant saluted, frowned, turned away. His footsteps echoed down the metal floor of the corridor.

  The colonel turned back to Hulser. “So you’re the young man with the bright ideas.”

  Hulser cleared his throat. “Yes, sir.”

  The colonel glanced once around the cell. “I’m Colonel Page of General Savage’s staff. Chemical warfare.”

  Hulser nodded.

  “The general’s adjutant suggested that I come over and talk to you,” said Page. “He thought a chemist might—”

  “Page!” said Hulser. “You’re not the Dr. Edmond Page who did the work on pseudo-lithium?”

  The colonel’s face broke into a pleased smile. “Why … yes, I am.”

  “I read everything about your work that I could get my hands on,” said Hulser. “It struck me that if you’d just—” His voice trailed off.

  “Do go on,” said Page.

  Hulser swallowed. “Well, if you’d just moved from organic chemistry into inorganic, that—” He shrugged.

  “I might have induced direct chemical rather than organic reactions?” asked Page.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “That thought didn’t occur to me until I was on my way over here,” said Page. He gestured toward the cot. “Do sit down.”

  Hulser slumped back to the cot.

  Page looked around, finally squeezed past Hulser’s knees, sat down on the lid of the water closet. “Now, let’s find out just what your idea is.”

  Hulser stared at his hands.

  “I’ve discussed this with the general,” said Page. “We feel that you may know what you’re talking about. We would deeply appreciate a complete explanation.”

  “What do I have to lose?” asked Hulser.

  “You may have reason for feeling bitter,” said Page. “But after reading the charges against you I would say that you’ve been at least partly responsible for your present situation.” He glanced at his wristwatch. “Now, tell me exactly how you propose to detonate munitions at a distance … this projector you’ve talked about.”