The Collected Stories of Frank Herbert

by Frank Herbert

  “Let’s get this straight,” said Gwen. “My great-great-grandmother was in some kind of armed service. I read her diary once. She called it the ‘whackies’ or something like that.”

  “WACS,” said Finnister.

  “Yes,” said Gwen. “It was during the war with Spain.”

  “Japan,” said Owling.

  “What I’m driving at is, why all the sudden interest in women? My great-great-grandmother had one merry old time running away from some colonel who wanted … Well, you know. Is this some kind of a dodge to provide women for your space colonels?”

  Finnister scowled her blackest.

  Quickly suppressed chuckles sounded around the table.

  Owling decided to try a new tack. “My dear lady, our motives are of the highest. We need the abilities of women so that mankind can march side by side to the stars.”

  Gwen stared at him in open admiration. “Go-wan!” she said.

  “I mean it,” said Owling.

  “You’re a poet!” said Gwen. “Oh … and I’ve wronged you. Here I was—dirty-minded me—thinking you wanted women for base purposes. And all the time you wanted companions. Someone to share this glorious new adventure.”

  Again, Battlemont recognized the danger signals. He tried to squeeze himself into as small a target as possible. Most of the staff around the table saw the same signals, but they were intent, fascinated.

  “Exactly!” boomed Finnister.

  Gwen’s voice erupted in an angry snarl: “And we name all the little bastards after the stars in Virgo, ehhh?”

  It took a long moment for Finnister and Owling to see that they had been gulled. Finnister started to rise.

  “Siddown!” barked Gwen. She grinned. She was having a magnificent time. Rebellion carried a sense of euphoria.

  Owling opened his mouth, closed it without a howl.

  Finnister sank back into her chair.

  “Shall we get down to business?” snapped Gwen. “Let’s look at this glorified hunk of tin you want us to glamorize.”

  Finnister found something she could focus her shocked attention on. “Space armor is mostly plastic, not tin.”

  “Plastic-schmastic,” said Gwen. “I want to see your Iron Gertie.”

  General Owling took two deep breaths to calm his nerves, snapped open the briefcase, extracted a folder of design sketches. He pushed them toward Gwen—a hesitant motion as though he feared she might take his hand with them. He now recognized that the incredible intelligence report was correct: this astonishing female was the actual head of the agency.

  “Here’s—Iron Gertie,” he said, and forced a chuckle.

  Gwen leafed through the folder while the others watched.

  Battlemont stared at her. He realized something the rest of the staff did not: Gwen Everest was not being the usual Gwen Everest. There was a subtle difference. An abandon. Something was very wrong!

  Without looking up from the drawings, Gwen addressed herself to Finnister. “That uniform you’re wearing, General Finnister. You design that yourself?”

  “What? Oh, yes. I did.”

  Battlemont trembled.

  Gwen reached out, rapped one of Finnister’s hips. “Bony,” she said. She turned a page in the folder, shook her head.

  “Well!” exploded Finnister.

  Still without looking up, Gwen said: “Simmer down. How about the hat? You design that, too?”

  “Yesss!” It was a sibilant explosion.

  Gwen lifted her attention to the hat, spoke in a reasonable tone: “Possibly the most hideous thing I’ve ever seen.”

  “Well of all the—”

  “Are you a fashion designer?” asked Gwen politely.

  Finnister shook her head as though to clear it of cobwebs.

  “You are not a fashion designer?” pressed Gwen.

  Finnister bit the words off. “I have had some experience in choosing—”

  “The answer is no, then,” said Gwen. “Thought so.” She brought her attention back to the folder, turned a page.

  Finnister glared at her in open-mouthed rage.

  Gwen glanced up at Owling. “Why’d you put the finger on this agency?”

  Owling appeared to have trouble focusing his attention on Gwen’s question. Presently, he said: “You were … it was pointed out that this agency was one of the most successful in … if not the most successful…”

  “We were classified as experts, eh?”

  “Yes. If you want to put it that way.”

  “I want to put it that way.” She glanced at Finnister. “So we let the experts do the designing, is that clear? You people keep your greasy fingers off. Understood?” She shot a hard stare at Owling, back to Finnister.

  “I don’t know about you!” Finnister snapped at Owling, “but I’ve had all—”

  “If you value your military career you’ll just sit down and listen,” said Gwen. Again, she glared at Owling. “Do you understand?”

  Owling shook his head from side to side. Amazement dominated him. Abruptly, he realized that his head shaking could be interpreted as negative. He bobbed his head up and down, decided in mid-motion that this was undignified. He stopped, cleared his throat.

  What an astonishing female! he thought.

  Gwen pushed the folder of design sketches uptable to Leo Prim, the art director. “Tell me, General Owling,” she said, “why is the armor so bulky?”

  Leo Prim, who had opened the folder, began to chuckle.

  “Marvelous, isn’t it?” said Gwen.

  Someone farther uptable asked: “What is?”

  Gwen kept her attention on Owling. “Some jassack engineer in the Space Service designed a test model suit of armor like a gigantic woman—breasts and all.” She glanced at Finnister. “You ran a survey on the stupid thing, of course?”

  Finnister nodded. She was shocked speechless.

  “I could’ve saved you the trouble,” said Gwen. “One of the reasons you’d better listen carefully to what expert me has to say. No woman in her right mind would get into that thing. She’d feel big—and she’d feel naked.” Gwen shook her head. “Freud! What a combination!”

  Owling wet his lips with his tongue. “Ah, the armor has to provide sufficient shielding against radiation, and it must remain articulate under extremes of pressure and temperature,” he said. “It can’t be made any smaller and still permit a human being to fit into it.”

  “Okay,” said Gwen. “I have the beginnings of an idea.”

  She closed her eyes, thought: These military jerks are a couple of sitting ducks. Almost a shame to pot them. She opened her eyes, glanced at Battlemont. His eyes were closed. He appeared to be praying. Could be the ruination of poor André and his lovely people, too, she thought. What a marvelous collection of professional stranglers! Well, can’t be helped. When Gwen Everest goes out, she goes out in a blaze of glory! All flags flying! Full speed ahead! Damn the torpedoes!

  “Well?” said Owling.

  Fire one! thought Gwen. She said: “Presumably, you have specialists, experts who can advise us on technical details.”

  “At your beck and call whenever you say the word,” said Owling.

  Battlemont opened his eyes, stared at the back of Gwen’s neck. A ray of hope stabbed through his panic. Was it possible that Gwen was really taking over?

  “I’ll also want all the dope on which psychological types make the best WOMS,” said Gwen. “If there is such a thing as a best WOM.”

  Battlemont closed his eyes, shuddered.

  “I don’t believe I’ve ever been treated this highhandedly in my entire career!” blurted Finnister. “I’m not entirely sure that—”

  “Just a moment, please,” said Owling. He studied Gwen, who was smiling at him. The intelligence report said this woman was “probable genius” and should be handled delicately.

  “I’m only sorry the law doesn’t give us the right to draft women, too!” barked Finnister.

  “Then you wouldn’t really ha
ve this problem, would you?” asked Gwen. She turned her smile on Finnister. It was full of beatitudes.

  Owling said: “I know we have full authority to handle this at our own discretion, General Finnister, and I agree that we’ve been subjected to some abuse but…”

  “Abuse!” Finnister said.

  “And high time, too,” said Gwen.

  A violent shudder passed through Battlemont. He thought: We are doomed!

  “However,” said Owling, “we mustn’t let our personal feelings cloud a decision for the good of the service.”

  “I hear the bugles blowing,” murmured Gwen.

  “This agency was chosen as the one most likely to solve the problem,” said Owling.

  “There could have been a mistake!” said Finnister.

  “Not likely.”

  “You are determined to turn this thing over to … to…” Finnister broke off, tapped her palms on the tabletop.

  “It’s advisable,” said Owling. He thought: This Gwen Everest will solve our problem. No problem could resist her. No problem would dare!

  General Owling had become a Gwenophile.

  “Very well, then,” snarled Finnister. “I will reserve my judgment.”

  General Finnister had become a Gwenophobe.

  Which was part of Gwen Everest’s program.

  “I presume you two will be available for technical consultations from time to time,” said Gwen.

  “Our subordinates take care of details,” said Owling. “All General Finnister and I are interested in is the big picture, the key to the puzzle.”

  “Big picture, key to puzzle,” mused Gwen. “Wonderful idea.”

  “What?” Owling stared at her, puzzled.

  “Nothing,” said Gwen. “Just thinking out loud.”

  Owling stood up, looked at Finnister. “Shall we be going?”

  Finnister also stood up, turned toward the door at the end of the room. “Yesss!”

  Together, one on each side of the table, they marched the length of the room: tump-a-thump-a-tump-a-thump-a-tump … Just as they reached the door and Owling opened it, Gwen jumped to her feet. “Charrrrge!” she shouted.

  The two officers froze, almost turned, thought better of it. They left, slamming the door.

  Battlemont spoke plaintively into the silence. “Gwen, why do you destroy us?”

  “Destroy you? Don’t be silly!”

  “But, Gwen…”

  “Please be quiet, André; you’re interrupting my train of thought.” She turned to Leo Prim. “Leo, take those sketches and things of that big-breasted Bertha they designed. I want adecal workups on them, full projos, the entire campaign outlay.”

  “Big Bertha adecals, projos, the outlay,” said Prim. “Right!”

  Gwen, what are you doing?” asked Battlemont. “You said yourself that—”

  “You’re babbling, André,” said Gwen. She glanced up at the ceiling. An eye in one of the Cellini cupids winked at her. “We got the usual solid recordings of this conference, I presume?”

  “Of course,” said Battlemont.

  “Take those recordings, Leo,” said Gwen. “Do a sequence out of them featuring only General Sinister Sonnet Bonnet Finnister.”

  “What’d you call her?” asked Prim.

  Gwen explained about the Finnister nicknames. “The fashion trade knows all about her,” she finished. “A living horror.”

  “Yeah, okay,” said Prim. “A solid sequence of nothing but Finnister. What do you want it to show?”

  “Every angle of that uniform,” said Gwen. “And the hat. Freud! Don’t forget that hat!”

  Battlemont spoke plaintively. “I don’t understand.”

  “Good,” said Gwen. “Leo, send me Restivo and Jim Spark … a couple more of your best design people. Include yourself. We’ll…”

  “And, lo! Ben Adam’s name led all the rest,” said Battlemont.

  Gwen turned, stared down at him. For one of the rare times in their association, Battlemont had surprised her with something he said.

  I wonder if our dear André could be human? she mused.

  No! I must be going soft in the head. She said: “André, go take a meditation break until time to call our next conference. Eh? There’s a good fellow.”

  Always before when she abused me it was like a joke between us, thought Battlemont dolefully. But now she is trying to hurt. His concern now was for Gwen, not for the agency. My Gwen needs help. And I don’t know what to do.

  “Meditation break time,” said Gwen. “Or you could go to a mood bar. Why don’t you try the new Interdorma mediniche? A niche in time saves the mind!”

  “I prefer to remain awake for our last hours together,” said Battlemont. A sob clutched at his throat. He stood up to cover the moment, drew himself to attention, fixed Gwen with a despairing glare. “I feel the future crouching over us alike a great beast!” He turned his back on her, strode out through his private door.

  “I wonder what the devil he meant by that?” mused Gwen.

  Prim said: “This is the month of St. Freud. They go for prescience, extrasensory perception, that sort of thing.”

  “Oh, certainly,” she said. “I wrote the brochure.” But she found herself disturbed by Battlemont’s departure. He looked so pitiful, she thought. What if this little caper backfires and he gets drafted? It could happen. Leo and the rest of these stranglers could take it. But André … She gave a mental shrug. Too late to turn back now.

  Department heads began pressing toward Gwen along the table. “Say, Gwen, what about the production on…” “If I’m going to meet any deadlines I’ll need more…” “Will we have to drop our other…”

  “Shaddup!” bellowed Gwen.

  She smiled sweetly into the shocked silence. “I will meet with each of you privately, just as soon as I get in a fresh stock of crying towels. First things first, though. Number one problem: we get the monkey off our backs. Eh?”

  And she thought: You poor oafs! You aren’t even aware how close you are to disaster. You think Gwen is taking over as usual. But Gwen doesn’t care. Gwen doesn’t give a damn any more. Gwen is resigning in a blaze of glory! Into the valley of death rode the 600! Or was it 400? No matter. War is hell! I only regret that I have but one life to give for my agency. Give me liberty or give me to the WOMS.

  Leo Prim said: “You’re going for the throat on these two military types, is that it?”

  “Military tactics,” said Gwen. “No survivors! Take no prisoners! Death to the White Eyes!”

  “Huh?” said Prim.

  “Get right on that assignment I gave you,” she said.

  “Uhh…” Prim looked down at the folder Owling had left. “Workups on this Big Bertha thing … a solido on Finnister. Okay.” He shook his head. “You know, this business could shape up into a Complete Flap.”

  “It could be worse than that,” Gwen cautioned.

  Someone else said: “It’s absolutely the worst I’ve ever seen. Drafted!”

  And Gwen thought: Ooooh! Someone has trepidations! Abruptly, she said: “Absolutely worst flap.” She brightened. “That’s wonderful! One moment, all you lovely people.”

  There was sudden stillness in the preparations for departure.

  “It has been moved that we label this business the Absolutely Worst Flap,” she said.

  Chuckles from the staff.

  “You will note,” said Gwen, “that the initials A-W-F are the first three letters in the word awful.”

  Laughter.

  “Up to now,” said Gwen, “we’ve only had to contend with Minor, Medium and Complete Flaps. Now I give you the AWF! It rhymes with the grunt of someone being slugged in the stomach!”

  Into the laughter that filled the room, Prim said: “How about the U and L in awful? Can’t let them go to waste.”

  “UnLimited!” snapped Gwen. “Absolutely Worst Flap UnLimited!” She began to laugh, had to choke it off as the laughter edged into hysteria. Whatinell’s wrong with me? she wondere
d. She glared at Prim. “Let’s get cracking, men! Isn’t a damn one of you would look good in uniform.”

  The laughter shaded down into nervous gutterings. “That Gwen!”

  Gwen had to get out of there. It was like a feeling of nausea. She pushed her way down the side of the room. The sparkle had gone out of her rebellion. She felt that all of these people were pulling at her, taking bits of herself that she could never recapture. It made her angry. She wanted to kick, bite, claw. Instead, she smiled fixedly. “Excuse me. May I get through here? Sorry. Thank you. Excuse me.”

  And an image of André Battlemont kept intruding on her consciousness. Such a pitiful little fellow. So … well … sweet. Dammit! Sweet! In a despicable sort of way.

  Twenty-five days slipped off the calendar. Twenty-five days of splashing in a pool of confusion. Gwen’s element. She hurled herself into the problem. This one had to be just right. A tagline for her exit. A Gwen Everest signature at the bottom of the page.

  Technical experts from the military swarmed all through the agency. Experts on suit articulation. Experts on shielding. Pressure coefficients. Artificial atmosphere. Waste reclamation. Subminiature power elements. A locksmith. An expert on the new mutable plastics. (He had to be flown in from the West Coast.)

  Plus the fashion experts seen only by Gwen.

  It was quite a job making sure that each military expert saw only what his small technical world required.

  Came the day of the Big Picture. The very morning.

  Adjacent to her office Gwen maintained a special room about 20 feet square. She called it “my intimidation room.” It was almost Louis XV: insubstantial chairs, teetery little tables, glass gimcracks on the light fixtures, pastel cherubs on the wall panels.

  The chairs looked as though they might smash flat under the weight of a medium-sized man. Each (with the exception of a padded throne chair that slid from behind a wall panel for Gwen) had a seat that canted forward. The sitters kept sliding off, gently, imperceptibly.

  None of the tables had a top large enough for a note pad and an ashtray. One of these items had to be balanced in the lap or placed underfoot. That forced an occasional look at the carpet.

  The carpet had been produced with alarming psychological triggers. The uninitiated felt they were standing upside down in a fishbowl.