The Collected Stories of Frank Herbert

by Frank Herbert

  “Thousands of them,” said Saim. “Each sealed in a giant container of inert gas. Each ready to destroy.” He leaned forward. “Will you at least look at the evidence?”

  ó Plar’s voice grew sharper. “No need, young man. You could manufacture any evidence you needed.”

  Saim started to speak, but ó Plar cut him off.

  “No! You came here to get me to stop the Millennial Display. You presumed to use our relationship for…”

  “Of course I want you to stop that display!”

  “But you did not tell me why.”

  “I did.”

  “Let’s look at it reasonably,” said ó Plar. “Under the guidance of the Blessed Priests, mankind has grown out of its violent childhood. We’ve enjoyed almost a thousand years of tranquillity. Just ten days now to the Millennial Display. Just ten days—and suddenly you’ve found a reason to stop that display.”

  “You must stop it,” pleaded Saim.

  “What harm can a few fireworks do to our people?” asked ó Plar.

  “I don’t have to tell you that,” said Saim. “We’ve never seen such things. We’re conditioned against all violence. I don’t even see how you could force yourself to arrange such a display. The inhibitions…” He shuddered. “Loud noises, great flashes of light in the night sky. There’ll be a panic!”

  So perceptive, thought ó Plar. This one was always so perceptive. He said: “We but remind people in a relatively mild way how things were in ancient days.”

  “Madness and panic,” said Saim.

  “A little, perhaps,” said ó Plar. He stilled the trembling of his left hand by gripping the staff. “The important thing is that we’ll create public revulsion at the things you young rebels are preaching.”

  “Uncle, we…”

  “I know what you’re saying,” said ó Plar. “Revive all the sciences of the Ancients! Expand to other planets! Expand! We don’t even fill our present living space!”

  “Uncle, that’s just it.” Saim felt like getting down on his knees. Instead, he leaned on the desk. “Mankind’s dying out. There’s no…” He shook his head “… no drive, no motive power.”

  “We’re adjusting to the normal requirements of our Mother Earth,” said ó Plar. “Nothing more. Well, we’re going to show the people what it is you preach. We’ll give them a display of ancient science.”

  “Haven’t you heard anything I said?” pleaded Saim. “Your display will set off a panic. It’ll be like a wave of fear following the line of darkness around the world. And the old weapons … they’re all set to detect that wave. Fear at a critical volume sets off the weapons!”

  ó Plar could feel the pressure of his own conditioning—so much more terrible and constricting than any pressures felt by the common herd. If they only knew …

  “So you’ve stumbled on to a place of the Elders,” said ó Plar. “Where is that place?”

  Saim’s lips remained closed. He could feel an emotion tugging at him. Anger? He tried to remember the angers of childhood, but couldn’t. The conditioning was too strong.

  ó Plar said: “We’ll find the place you profaned whether you tell us its location or not.”

  “Get it over with,” said Saim. And the sorrow he felt brought dampness to his eyes.

  “I will,” said ó Plar. He hesitated, sharing Saim’s sorrow. But there was nothing else to do. The requirements of the moment were clear to both of them. “There is a strip copper mine in Mon’tana Province,” he said. “They need an acolyte to learn the rituals from the resident.”

  “An acolyte? But, uncle I…”

  “Don’t think it’ll lead to priesthood,” said ó Plar. “You’ll be digging, too. You appear to like digging.”

  “But…”

  “Miners tend to be a profane lot,” said ó Plar. “It comes from all that digging, no doubt.”

  Saim said: “Uncle, I don’t care what you do to me, but won’t you at least examine…”

  “Enough!” ó Plar twisted an almost imperceptible ring on his staff. “Do you hear and obey?”

  Saim stiffened to attention, feeling a terrible outrage that ó Plar should think it necessary to use the power of the staff in this. Saim’s lips moved almost of their own volition: “I hear and obey.”

  “You will pack a minimal bag and leave at once for the Blessed of Heaven mine at Crystal, Mon’tana Province,” said ó Plar. “Orders will be waiting for you at the train terminal.” Again, he twisted the ring on his staff.

  Saim stood rigidly at attention. The signal of the staff filled his mind with a procession of terrors without names. There was the red unthing of the black place shaping his thoughts into forms he no longer recognized. There was the slimy green part-self hearing and obeying. There was …

  “Go!” ordered ó Plar.

  The signal relaxed its hold.

  ó Plar bowed his head, mumbled the litany of peace. His head was still bowed when he heard the door close. The tinkling of the water rhythm garden sounded overloud in the room.

  That was close, thought ó Plar. It’s getting more difficult every day for me to deal with the accidental. My conditioning is so strong … so sure … so absolute.

  Presently, he touched a button on his desk. The semi-opaque face and shoulders of a woman appeared in a moment, projected above the desk. She wore the blue robe of a Priestess-Historian of the Brox Family. Her dark hair was tied in a severe braid across one shoulder. Green eyes stared at ó Plar from above a thin nose and stiff mouth.

  “Will you give yourself up and submit to punishment?” asked ó Plar. It was a flat question, ritualistic.

  “You know I cannot,” she said. The answer carried the same lack of emphasis.

  ó Plar held his face rigid to hide the momentary surge of loathing. What this woman did might have an accidental necessity, but still …

  “Well, why have you called me?” asked the woman.

  ó Plar rapped his staff against the floor. “ó Katje! You must observe the forms!”

  “Sorry,” she said. “I presume your nephew has just left you.”

  “I sent him to a mine,” said ó Plar. “I gave him a jolt of the staff he’ll never forget.”

  “You gave him just enough to make him angry,” said ó Katje, “not enough to bind him. He’ll run away. Your staff isn’t functioning correctly today.”

  ó Plar started to rise from his chair.

  “You couldn’t catch him,” said ó Katje. “There’s nothing you can do. But no blame rests on you. It was an accident.”

  ó Plar relaxed. “Yes. An accident.” He stared at the woman, How to phrase this? he wondered. I must say a thing, yet not say it.

  “You’re not trying to trace my transmission signal again, are you?” asked ó Katje.

  “You know we’ve given up on that,” said ó Plar. “No. I wish to say something of the simulacrum. This accident may give you Saim and Ren and Jeni, but I will have the simulacrum. He’s unconditioned!”

  “I need good workers,” she said.

  “They’re hiding near the city,” said ó Plar. “Saim came in on foot. They’ve found one of the ancient caves, that’s what. The Elders hid them with devilish cunning, but sometimes an accident…” He broke off. Did she get the message?

  “How can you be sure you’ll get the simulacrum?” asked ó Katje.

  Damn that woman! thought ó Plar. Directly into the jaws of the inhibition! He said: “If you will not give yourself up and submit to punishment, there is no further need for us to talk. May you find a path of grace.”

  He broke the connection, watched the image fade. Fool woman. Flying directly … His thoughts dived off at a tangent. No! Not a fool! She was testing my inhibition! When I reacted … that’s when she knew for sure we were prepared to follow Saim: we saw the accident.

  Now, ó Plar sat back, worrying, wondering. The little signal generator he had stuck to the back of Saim’s robe during the embrace of greeting—it was sure to lead the acolyte guards di
rectly to the hidden cave. Part of him exulted at this thought, but part recoiled in horror. The careful accumulation of so many accidents …

  * * *

  George saw the door and stopped. The door had been forced and repaired. It was a perimeter door, leading to a defensive chamber. He knew that. But the ideas of perimeter and defensive chamber weren’t quite clear in his mind. They came in Ancienglis, a language with big gaps in it.

  Abruptly, everything around him seemed strange, as though his surroundings had stepped out of phase with his reality. Something dragged at his ankles. He looked down at the long white robe he was wearing. It was like a … a hospital gown, but longer.

  “Is something wrong, Jorj?”

  He whirled, saw a dark man with flat features, almond eyes. Almond eyes! Something wrong … dangerous … about almond eyes. He said: “You’re…”

  “I am Ren, your doctor,” And Ren tensed, wondering if there’d be some new violence from this simulacrum creature.

  “Oh.” George relaxed. “I’ve been sick.”

  “But you are well now.” Ren maintained his alert, watchful attitude. No telling what set this creature off.

  George took a deep breath.

  The door!

  He studied it. There were stains around it. Blood? He could hear voices behind it. He opened the door. It swung inward on silent hinges, revealing a chamber hewn out of grey rock. Indirect lighting gave the place a shadowless look of sterility. A man and woman stood in the chamber, talking. He knew the woman. Jeni. She came with food and sympathy in her eyes. But he didn’t know the man—grey eyes, short-cropped blond hair. A feeling of youngness about him.

  The man was speaking: “They didn’t stand a chance of catching me. I outran them easily. And when we got into the timber…” He broke off, sensing the watchers.

  Ren pushed past and into the room, said: “Saim, when did you get back?”

  “I just this minute arrived.” Saim spoke to Ren, but kept his attention on Ren’s companion, who advanced into the chamber, peering around. Saim found the sight of the simulacrum freed of the regenerative tank shocking and repulsive. He said: “Is something wrong with it?”

  “With Jorj? Nothing at all. He’s had a hard day’s problem solving and probing is all.”

  “My name is George,” George muttered. The words were flat as though he spoke to himself.

  “He speaks!” said Saim. It was a terrifying idea, as though this creature had reached a tentacle out into a new and more deeply profane dimension.

  Jeni said: “He looks tired, Ren.”

  George focused on Saim. “You’re…” His voice trailed off. His features grew slack. He stood silent, staring into nothing.

  “Is he all right?” asked Jeni.

  “Oh, yes.” Ren put a hand on George’s arm. “His name’s something like Maid-Jor or Jorj. We found the sonal pattern by tracing a course of least lip resistance.”

  “Major,” whispered George.

  “See?” said Ren. He knew he sounded prideful, but who else had ever revived a pile of bones—created life where death had lain for a thousand years? He turned back to Saim. “You spoke of running. Is something wrong?”

  “My uncle ordered me to a mine. I ran away.” Saim tore his attention away from the simulacrum, wondering: How could such a repulsive creature have so much attraction?

  “And you came directly here?” asked Ren.

  “I put the grease on my shoes and around the bottom of my robe. The basenjimeters won’t track me.”

  Fear edged Ren’s nerves. “You came by a circuitous path?”

  “Certainly. And I dropped through the fissure to the break under the tunnel where we…”

  “It’s different,” said George. The voices annoyed him. And this place …

  “His speech, said Saim. “It’s…”

  “Ren’s had him in the Educator,” said Jeni. She spoke quickly, feeling the tensions building up here, wanting to ease them.

  “You should hear him in Ancienglis,” said Ren. “Say something in Ancienglis for us, Jorj.”

  George drew himself up. “My name is Major George…” His thoughts veered out into emptiness, a black, enclosing place.

  “He’s overtired,” said Ren. “I had him in the Educator almost two hours followed by a long stimulous search session. We’re opening up broad areas, but there’s been no really big breakthrough yet.” He pulled gently at George’s arm. “Come along, Jorj.”

  George’s lips moved silently, then: “George. George. George.”

  They went out through the door, leaving it open. Ren’s voice came back to them: “That’s right, Jorj, in here.” Then: “Saim, I’ll see you in the lab in a few minutes.”

  They heard a door shut.

  “Where does Ren get off giving me orders?” asked Saim. He felt stirrings of … could it be anger?

  “Saim!” said Jeni. And she thought: Here he is starting to act jealous again. “Ren was just in a hurry.”

  “Well, there’s no giving of orders here,” said Saim.

  She touched his arm. “I missed you, Saim.”

  It was enough. The tensions melted from him. “I’m sorry it took so long,” said Saim. “My uncle was gone when I got there. At a Council meeting up north somewhere. I sat around cooling my heels for eight days before he got back. I didn’t dare try communicating. And I only had enough of that scent suppressor for one application; so I couldn’t come back without abandoning our plan.”

  “From what you said, you might just as well have abandoned it,” said Jeni. “Wasn’t there anything you could do to make your uncle believe?”

  “It wasn’t a matter of his believing,” said Saim. “Jeni, I had the funniest feeling that he believed me all right, but couldn’t do anything about it. As though something within him forced…” Saim shook his head. “I don’t know. It was odd.”

  “It’s all politics,” said Jeni. She felt … resentment. Yes. Resentment. One didn’t feel anger, of course. But resentment was permitted. Like a safety valve. “He knows that display will destroy all popular support for our program. This is just politics.”

  “But when I told him the display would set off a wave of fear to ignite these weapons, he didn’t react properly,” said Saim. “It was almost as though he hadn’t heard me. Or refused to hear me. Or … I don’t know.”

  Jeni put down a shudder of fear, thought: Ren should have gone, or I. It was a mistake sending Saim. He’s different … not like the Saim we knew … before.

  “We’d better get along to the lab,” said Saim.

  “There must be something we can do,” said Jeni. She felt desperate, trapped.

  “You should have heard him,” said Saim. His voice took on some of ó Plar’s querulous tone. “Don’t you realize what it’d mean to revive all the old sciences, you young whelp? Don’t you realize the violence and noise of just the Bessemer process?”

  “Bessemer process?”

  “A way of making steel,” said Saim. “I reminded him that I was a metallurgist. That’s when he first suggested I should get closer to my work. I knew then he was determined to send me to a mine.”

  “Saim! Jeni! Come along!” It was Ren calling from the lab.

  “Who’s he think he’s giving orders to?” asked Saim.

  “Oh, stop that,” said Jeni. She stood on tiptoes, kissed his cheek. “It’s just that he’s anxious to get on with our work.” She took his hand. “Come along.”

  They went out into the hall. Jeni closed the door behind them, barred it. They turned left down the hall, through an open door into a square room with yellow, sound-absorbent walls. One section of a wall was cluttered with recording controls and playback systems. Jeni sat down in front of a master control panel, flipped a warm-up switch.

  Saim looked around. This room disturbed him for a reason he couldn’t quite name.

  Ren stood almost in the centre of the room, beside a table strewn with notes and instruments. The Doctor rocked back and fort
h on the balls of his feet, studying Saim’s face. Incredible, thought Ren. Saim—as natural as ever. How powerful the conditioning of the Priest-Historians. They take the mind and the being, and they shape all to suit their needs. And we would never have suspected had it not been for the accident and the tank we stole.

  Jeni said: “Saim, tell Ren what happened.”

  Saim nodded, reviewed what he had told Jeni.

  “You ran away from the acolyte guards,” said Ren. He nodded. “Wasn’t that very close to violence?”

  “I told you once I was an atavist!” said Saim.

  “I’ve never doubted it,” said Ren. “Do you think you could actually strike someone, hurt him?”

  Saim paled.

  “Don’t be obscene!” said Jeni.

  Let them learn now what it really is that we’re doing, thought Ren. “I’m being practical,” he said. He pulled back a sleeve of his robe, exposed a purple bruise on his forearm. “This morning, the simulacrum struck me.”

  “Ren!” It was a double gasp.

  “Think about what is required to commit such violence,” said Ren.

  “Stop it!” wailed Jeni. She hid her face in her hands. What have we done? she asked herself. It started with Saim … because I love him … and couldn’t stand to lose him. But now …

  “You see how it affects us?” asked Ren. “I was never so frightened in my life.” He swallowed. “I was two people. One of me was in such a panic that the little detector instrument fairly buzzed. And part of…”

  “It detected your fear?” asked Saim.

  “Exactly!”

  “But couldn’t that set off the weapon?”

  Jeni lowered her hands from her face. “Not the fear from just one person,” she said. “It takes the fear from a multitude.”

  “Pay attention to what I’m saying,” said Ren. “I’m telling you something about this panic. It wasn’t at all what you feel from a jolt of the priest’s staff. Part of me was frightened, and part of me was watching. I saw the fright. It was most curious.”

  “You saw your fright?” asked Saim.

  Jeni turned away. It hurt her to look at Saim like this. He was her Saim of old, but somehow … so different. So intense.