General Owling occupied one of the trick chairs. He tried to keep from staring at the cherub centered in a wall panel directly across from him, slightly to the right of the seated figure of André Battlemont. Battlemont looked ill. Owling pushed himself backward in the chair. His knees felt exposed. He glanced at General Finnister. She sat to his right beyond a spindly table. She pulled her skirt down as he watched. He wondered why she sat so forward on the chair.
Damned uncomfortable little chairs!
He noted that Battlemont had brought in one of the big conference room chairs for himself. Owling wondered why they all couldn’t have those big, square, solid, secure chairs. For that matter, why wasn’t this meeting being held in the big conference room? Full staff. The Big Picture! He glanced up at the wall panel opposite. Stupid damned cherub! He looked down at the rug, grimaced, tore his gaze away.
Finnister had looked at the rug when she came into the room, had almost lost her balance. Now, she tried to keep her attention off it. Her mind seethed with disquieting rumors. Individual reports from the technical experts failed to reveal a total image. It was like a jigsaw puzzle with pieces from separate puzzles all thrown together. She pushed herself backward in the chair. What an uncomfortable room. Intuition told her the place was subtly deliberate. Her latent anger at Gwen Everest flared. Where is that woman?
Battlemont cleared his throat, glanced at the door to his right through which Gwen was expected momentarily. Must she always be late? Gwen had avoided him for weeks. Too busy. Suddenly this morning she had to have André Battlemont front and center. A figurehead. A prop for her little show. He knew pretty much what she was doing, too. In the outward, physical sense. She might be able to keep things from some of the people around here, but André Battlemont ran his own intelligence system. As to what was going on in her mind, though, he couldn’t be sure. All he knew was that it didn’t fit. Not even for Gwen.
Finnister said: “Our technical people inform us that you’ve been pretty interested—” she pushed herself back in the chair—“in the charactristics of some of the newer mutable plastics.”
“That is true,” said Battlemont.
“Why?” asked Owling.
“Ahhh, perhaps we’d better wait for Miss Everest,” said Battlemont. “She is bringing a solido projector.”
“You have mockups already?” asked Owling.
“Yes.”
“Good! How many models?”
“One. Our receptionist. Beautiful girl.”
“What?” Finnister and Owling in unison.
“Oh! You mean … that is, we have the one to show you. It is really two … but only one of…” He shrugged, suppressed a shudder.
Finnister and Owling looked at each other.
Battlemont closed his eyes. Gwen, please hurry. He thought about her solution to the military problem, began to tremble. Her basic idea was sound, of course. Good psychological roots. But the military would never go for it. Especially that female general who walked like a sergeant. Battlemont’s eyes snapped open as he heard a door open.
Gwen came in pushing a portable display projector. A glance of mutual dislike passed between Gwen and Finnister, was masked by mutual bright smiles immediately.
“Good morning, everybody,” chirped Gwen.
Danger signal! thought Battlemont. She’s mad! She’s … He stopped the thought, focused on it. Maybe she is. We work her so hard.
“Anxious to see what you have there,” said Owling. “Just getting ready to ask for a progress report when you called this meeting.”
“We wanted to have something first that you could appreciate as an engineer,” said Gwen.
Owling nodded.
Finnister said: “Our people report that you’ve been very secretive about your work. Why?”
“The very walls have ears. Loose lips lose the Peace! Don’t be half safe!” Gwen positioned the projector in the center of the room, took the remote control, crossed to a panel which swung out to disgorge her chair. She sat down facing Finnister and Owling.
Seconds dragged past while she stared in fascination at Finnister’s knees.
“Gwen?” said Battlemont.
Finnister tugged down on the hem of her skirt.
“What do you have to show us?” demanded Owling. He pushed himself back in the chair.
“First,” said Gwen, “let us examine the perimeters of the problem. You must ask yourself: What do young women want when they enter the service?”
“Sounds sensible,” said Owling.
Finnister nodded, her dislike of Gwen submerged in attention to the words.
“They want several things,” said Gwen. “They want travel … adventure … the knight errant sort of thing. Tally-ho!”
Battlemont, Finnister and Owling snapped to shocked attention.
“Gives you pause when you think about it,” murmured Gwen. “All those women looking for something. Looking for the free ride. The brass ring. The pot at the end of the rainbow.”
She had them nodding again, Gwen noted. She raised her voice: “The old carrousel! The jingle-dingle joy journey!”
Battlemont looked at her sadly. Mad. Ohhh, my poor, poor Gwenny.
Owling said: “I … uh…”
“But they all want one commodity!” snapped Gwen. “And what’s that? Romance! That’s what’s that. And in the unconscious mind what’s that romance? That romance is sex!”
“I believe I’ve heard enough,” said Finnister.
“No,” said Owling. “Let’s … uh … this is all, I’m sure, preliminary. I want to know where … after all, the model … models they’ve developed…”
“What’s with sex when you get all the folderol off it?” demanded Gwen. “The psychological roots. What’s down there?”
Owling scratched his throat, stared at her. He had a basic distrust of subjective ideas, but he always came smack up against the fear that maybe (just maybe now) they were correct. Some of them appeared (and it could be appearance only) to work.
“I’ll tell you what’s down there,” muttered Gwen.
“That’s right!” said Gwen. “They can’t really get out. So we give them the symbol of getting out. For exchanging.”
“Exchanging?” asked Finnister.
“Certainly. A male astronaut sees a girl astronaut he likes. He asks her to trade keys. Very romantic. Symbolic of things that may happen when they return to Earth or get to a base where they can get out of the suits.”
“Miss Everest,” said Finnister, “as you so aptly pointed out earlier, no astronaut can see one of our women in this armor. And even if he could, I don’t believe that I’d…”
She froze, staring, shocked speechless.
Gwen had pushed a stud on the solido projector’s remote control. A suit of space armor appeared to be hanging in the center of the room. In the suit, wearing a form-fitting jacket, stood the agency’s busty receptionist. The suit of armor around her was transparent from the waist up.
“The bottom half remains opaque at all times,” said Gwen. “For reasons of modesty … the connections. However, the top half…”
Gwen pushed another stud. The transparent upper half faded through gray to black until it concealed the model.
“For privacy when desired,” said Gwen. “That’s how we’ve used the new mutable plastic. Gives the girl some control over her environment.”
Again, Gwen pushed the first stud. The upper half of the model reappeared.
Finnister gaped at the form-fitting uniform.
Gwen stood up, took a pointer, gestured in through the projection. “This uniform was designed by a leading couturier. It is made to reveal while concealing. A woman with only a fair figure will appear to good advantage in it. A woman with an excellent figure appears stunning, as you can see. Poor figures—” Gwen shrugged—“there are exercises for developing them. Or so I am told.”
Finnister interrupted in a cold voice. “And what do you propose to do with that … that uni … clo
thing?”
“This will be the regulation uniform for the WOMS,” said Gwen. “There’s a cute little hat goes with it. Very sexy.”
Battlemont said: “Perhaps the changeover could be made slowly so as to…”
“What changeover?” demanded Finnister. She leaped to her feet. “General Owling?”
Owling tore his attention from the model. “Yes?”
“Completely impractical! I will put up with no more!” barked Finnister.
Battlemont thought: I knew it. Oh, my poor Gwenny! They will destroy her, too. I knew it.
“We can’t waste any more time with this agency,” said Finnister. “Come, General.”
“Wait!” yelped Battlemont. He leaped to his feet. “Gwen, I told you…”
Finnister said: “It’s regrettable, but…”
“Perhaps we’re being a little hasty,” said Owling. “There may be something to salvage from this…”
“Yes!” said Battlemont. “Just a little more time is all we need to get a fresh…”
“I think not,” said Finnister.
Gwen smiled from one to the other, thought: What a prize lot of gooney birds! She felt a little drunk, as euphoric as if she had just come from a mood bar. Rebellion, it’s wonderful! Up the Irish! Or something.
Owling shrugged, thought: We have to stand together against civilians. General Finnister is right. Too bad, though. He got to his feet.
“Just a little more time,” pleaded Battlemont.
Too bad about André, thought Gwen. She had an inspiration, said: “One moment, please.”
Three pairs of eyes focused on her.
Finnister said: “If you think you can stop me from going through with our threat, dissuade yourself. I’m perfectly aware that you had that uni … that clothing designed to make me look hideous!”
“Why not?” asked Gwen. “I was only doing to you what you did to virtually every other woman in the WOMS.”
“Gwen!” pleaded Battlemont in horror.
“Be still, André,” said Gwen. “It’s just a matter of timing, anyway. Today. Tomorrow. Next week. Not really important.”
“Oh, my poor Gwenny,” sobbed Battlemont.
“I was going to wait,” said Gwen. “Possibly a week. At least until I’d turned in my resignation.”
“What’re you talking about?” asked Owling.
“Resignation!” gasped Battlemont.
“I just can’t toss poor André here to the wolves,” said Gwen. “The rest of our men, yes. Once they get inside they’ll chew your guts out, anyway.”
“What are you talking about?” asked Finnister.
“The rest of the men in this agency can take care of themselves … and you, too,” said Gwen. “Wolves among wolves. But André here is helpless. All he has is his position … money. He’s an accident. Put him someplace where money and position are less important, it’ll kill him.”
“Regrettable,” said Finnister. “Shall we be going, General Owling?”
“I was going to ruin both of you,” said Gwen. “But I’ll tell you what. You leave André alone and I’ll just give one of you the business.”
“Gwen, what are you saying?” whispered Battlemont.
“Yesss!” hissed Finnister. “Explain yourself!”
“I just want to know the pecking order here,” said Gwen. “Which one of you ranks the other?”
“What does that have to do with it?” asked Finnister.
“Just a minute,” said Owling. “That intelligence report.” He glared at Gwen. “I’m told you’ve prepared an adecal on the test model we made before coming to you.”
“Big Bertha,” said Gwen. “And it’s not just an adecal. I have everything needed for a full national campaign. Look!”
A solido of the breast-baring test model replaced the transparent suit hanging in the center of the room.
“The idea for Big Bertha here originated with General Owling,” said Gwen. “My campaign establishes that fact, then goes on to feature an animated model of Big Bertha. She is a living panic. Funniest thing you ever saw. General Owling, you will be the laughingstock of the nation by nightfall of the day I start this campaign.”
Owling took a step forward.
Battlemont said: “Gwen! They will destroy you!”
Owling pointed at the projection. “You … you wouldn’t!”
“But I would,” said Gwen. She smiled at him.
Battlemont tugged at Gwen’s arm. She shook him off.
“It would ruin me,” whispered Owling.
“Presumably, you are capable of going through with this threat,” said Finnister. “Regrettable.”
Owling whirled on Finnister. “We must stand together!” he said desperately.
“You bet,” said Gwen. She pushed another stud on the remote control.
A projection of General Finnister in her famous uniform replaced Big Bertha.
“You may as well know the whole story,” said Gwen. “I’m all set with another campaign on the designing of this uniform, right from the Sonnet Bonnet on down through the Sinister Finnister cape and those sneaky walking shoes. I start with a dummy model of the general clad in basic foundation garments. Then I go on to show how each element of the present WOMS uniform was designed for the … ah … Finnister.… ah … figure.”
“I’ll sue!” barked Finnister.
“Go ahead. Go ahead.” Gwen waved a sinuous arm.
She acts drunk! thought Battlemont. But she never drinks.
“I’m all set to go black market with these campaigns,” said Gwen. “You can’t stop me. I’ll prove every contention I make about that uniform. I’ll expose you. I’ll show why your enlistment drives flopped.”
Red suffused the Finnister face. “All right!” she snapped. “If you’re going to ruin us, I guess there’s nothing we can do about it. But mark this, Miss Everest. We’ll have the men of this agency in the service. You’ll have that on your conscience! And the men we draft will serve under friends of ours. I hope you know what that means!”
“You don’t have any friends,” said Gwen, but her voice lacked conviction. It’s backfiring, she thought. Oh, hell. I didn’t think they’d defy me.
“There may even be something we can do about you!” said Finnister. “A presidential order putting you in the service for reasons of national emergency. Or an emergency clause on some bill. And when we get our hands on you, Miss Everest…”
“André!” wailed Gwen. It was all getting out of hand. I didn’t want to hurt anybody, she thought. I just … She realized that she didn’t know what she had wanted.
Battlemont was electrified. In 22 years, Gwen Everest had never appealed to anyone for help. And now, for the first time, her appeal was to him! He stepped between Gwen and Finnister. “André is right here,” he said. He felt inspired. His Gwen had appealed to him! “You assassin!” he said, shaking a finger under the Finnister nose.
“Now, see here!” snapped Owling. “I won’t stand for any more of—”
“And you!” barked Battlemont, whirling. “We have recordings of every conference here, from the first, and including this one! They show what happened! Don’t you know what is wrong with this poor girl? You! You’ve driven her out of her mind!”
Gwen joined in the chorus: “What?”
“Be still, Gwen,” said Battlemont. “I will handle this.”
Gwen couldn’t take her attention off him. Battlemont was magnificent. “Yes, André.”
“I will prove it,” said Battlemont. “With Interdorma psychiatrists. With all the experts money can buy. You think you have seen something in those campaigns our Gwen set up? Hah! I will show you something.” He stabbed a finger at Owling. “Can the military drive you insane?”
“Oh, now see here,” said Owling. “This has gone—”
“Yes! It can drive you insane!” said Battlemont. “And we will show, step by step, how you drove our poor Gwen out of her mind with fear for her friends. Fear for me!” He slapped
himself on the chest, glared at Finnister. “And you know what we will do next? We will say to the public: This could happen to you! Who is next? You? Or you? Or you? Then what happens to your money from Congress? What happens to your enlistment quotas?”
“Now see here,” said Owling. “We didn’t…”
“Didn’t you?” snarled Battlemont. “You think this poor girl is in her right mind?”
“Well, but we didn’t…”
“Wait until you see our campaign,” said Battlemont. He took Gwen’s hand, patted it. “There, there, Gwenny. André will fix.”
“Yes, André,” she said. They were the only words she could find. She felt stupefied. He’s in love with me, she thought. Never before had she known anyone to be in love with her. Not even her parents, who had always been repelled by the intellect they had spawned. Gwen felt warmth seeping through her. A cog slipped into motion in her mind. It creaked somewhat from long idleness. She thought: He’s in love with me! She wanted to hug him.
“We seem to be at a stalemate,” muttered Owling.
Finnister said: “But we can’t just—”
“Shut up!” ordered Owling. “He’ll do it! Can’t you see that?”
“But if we draft—”
“He’ll do it for sure, then! Buy some other agency to run the campaign.”
“But we could turn around and draft—”
“You can’t draft everybody who disagrees with you, woman! Not in this country! You’d start a revolution!”
“I…” Finnister said helplessly.
“And it’s not just us he’d ruin,” said Owling. “The whole service. He’d strike right at the money. I know his type. He wasn’t bluffing. It’d be catastrophic!”
Owling shook his head, seeing a parade of crumbling military projects pass before his mind’s eye, all falling into an abyss labeled “NSF.”
“You are an intelligent man, General Owling,” said Battlemont.
“That Psych Branch!” snarled Owling. “Them and their bright ideas!”
“I told you they were fuzzyheads,” said Gwen.
“You be still, Gwen,” said Battlemont.
“Yes, André.”
“Well, what’re we going to do?” demanded Owling.
The Collected Stories of Frank Herbert Page 39
