High-Opp

by Frank Herbert

  The man on Movius’ right said, “Let’s go.” He took Movius’ arm, turned him around. “Out the door and don’t give us any trouble.”

  The clerk tipped the phone away from his mouth. “The big boss says for you to wait.”

  “We don’t take our orders from your boss,” said the one with the gun.

  The clerk reached under the counter. A clanging crash sounded from the front doors as a steel barrier dropped. “You’re not going anywhere,” said the clerk. “Not unless you happened to bring an oxy-torch in your side pocket.”

  The man with the gun looked to his companion. “We can’t do it in here,” he said. “They’d blast us first and ask questions later.”

  “I’m thinking,” said the other man.

  They mean to kill me! thought Movius. He suddenly slashed his right hand down at the gunman’s wrist, heard the gun clatter on the floor. Almost in the same motion, he brought up his left thumb, jamming it behind the other man’s ear, saw him collapse. Again he thanked fate for the years spent in the privileged gymnasiums, for Okashi’s patient teaching. The gunman was bending to pick up his weapon. Movius stepped back half a step, kicked the man alongside the head. The man sprawled forward onto his face. Movius stooped, picked up the gun, walked back to the clerk’s window. “They were going to kill me,” he said.

  The clerk was speaking rapidly into the phone. “Yes. Now he has the gun . . . Well, I don’t really know. It happened so fast I couldn’t follow it . . . Yes, I’ll have him sent right up . . . Yes, it’s the same man for CR-14.”

  Movius put the fap gun on the counter. “What do I do with this?”

  “Leave it right there,” said the clerk. “I’ll give it to him when he wakes up. You’re to report to the big boss.” He leaned through the wicket, pointed to his left. “Take that elevator all the way to the top—seventy-first floor. They’re expecting you.” He shook his head. “Man! That was beautiful.”

  The elevator let him out in a penthouse office, sunlight glaring into the place from too many windows. A male receptionist built like a Roman gladiator, even to the beaked nose, said “You the one snowed under the two bull-cons?”

  Movius nodded.

  The Roman gladiator hooked a thumb over his shoulder. “Go right in. You’re welcome.”

  Venetian blinds made the inner office gloomy after the reception room. Gerard, a frail-bodied man with a bald head two sizes too large for his body, was sitting with his back to the door, speaking into a Dictaphone. As Movius entered, he put down the Dictaphone, swiveled his chair. Gerard had dishwater blue eyes with lids which gave the impression of a chicken’s nictating membrane.

  “Well, so you’re . . .” Gerard stopped, stared intently at Movius. “I should pay more attention,” he said. “I didn’t put the name and face together.” He sat back, waved Movius to a chair across from him. “You’re the Daniel Movius who went out with Liaison a month or so ago.”

  “That’s right.” Movius dropped into the chair.

  Gerard wriggled in his chair and a glistening reflection of him in the polished surface of the desk matched the movement. “What happened?”

  What could he tell this man? Movius wondered. Gerard was one of the top twenty-five in government and, by all the stories, a powerful and ruthless man. Movius decided on partial truth, said, “The Coor wanted my fiancée.”

  “Oh?” Gerard’s voice became distant.

  Movius wondered if he had overplayed his hand, cursed himself for not thinking twice. Both Quilliam London and O’Brien had said Gerard hated The Coor, though.

  “The Coor, eh?” said Gerard.

  “Glass didn’t realize I was tired of her and looking for a way out,” said Movius. “When he took her off my hands, I married the woman I wanted.”

  Gerard leaned forward, a half-smile on his face. “What’s this about failing to report?”

  Play it cautiously, thought Movius. “I’m sure I don’t know,” he said. “I waited until my number came up—I saw it last night—and reported as soon as I could.”

  Gerard leaned back, pulled a phone from a recess in his desk, spoke into it. “Get me old owl guts Addington at Bu-Con.”

  It’s what O’Brien and London said, thought Movius. They hate each other at the top.

  Gerard stretched the muscles of his neck, wriggled in his chair. “Hello, is that you, owl guts?” he asked. “This same to you. What do you want with my new CR-14, Daniel Movius?” He waited, jerked his head up, glancing furtively at Movius. “Is that so? Well, that’s penalty service. What was the charge?” Another wait. “Can’t find it, eh? Maybe you’d better learn how to keep records over there.” Gerard wore a fierce grin. “Sure, I know where he is. He’s sitting right across from me . . . Sure, you can question him; right here in my office and no place else. And that’s final.” He paused listening, put a hand over the mouthpiece. “Somebody’s just telling him about his two flunkies you messed up.” Gerard turned back to the phone. “He did? Well isn’t that a shame? Why don’t you patch them up and bring them along for another go at him?” Gerard listened, said, “Goodbye, owl guts,” slammed down the receiver. He turned the fierce grin on Movius. “If you’re clean, Movius, I’ll throw everything I have behind you. I like nothing better than cobbing old owl guts. But you’d just better be clean. They won’t dare touch you if I’m behind you.”

  I only hope you’re right, thought Movius. He said, “I don’t know what the hell this is all about.”

  “They’re on their way over,” said O’Brien.

  Movius framed a mental picture of Addington going to the elevator, riding down, getting into his car, driving the two blocks to Bu-Trans, coming up the elevator here. Almost to the second when he felt they should arrive, Gladiator ushered the visitors into Gerard’s office. Addington did look like an owl—fat, dumpy body, round face, horn-rimmed glasses and a thin, pinched nose. He was accompanied by two men. With a start, Movius recognized a murderous glare. The other was an aide carrying a bulging briefcase.

  “Before we get off to any wrong starts,” said Gerard, “maybe I should remind everybody that no one gets out of this building alive without my say-so.” He rubbed a hand across his bald head.

  Addington sat down with a grunt, popped a white lozenge into his mouth. “Save the drama for those who appreciate it, bulb head.” The two aides remained standing. Addington had not shown that he even knew Movius was present. Suddenly, he whirled on Movius, said, “What we really want you for is murder!”

  Movius did not have to feign surprise. He looked from Addington to Gerard, back to Addington. “This is fantastic. I’ve been on my honeymoon. I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  Without taking his eyes from Movius, the Bu-Con chief reached up to his aide, took the briefcase, opened it on his lap. From the case he pulled a paper, glanced at it. “On the eve of Mid-summer Festival, you, Daniel Movius, in the company with another man as yet unidentified, did accost Howell Pescado and Birch Morfon in the Richmond Warrenate. You and companion did then attack Mr. Pescado and Mr. Morfon with such violence that Mr. Pescado died. You then stole Mr. Pescado’s gun and with it did wound Benjam Rousch, who had stopped to investigate the disturbance.”

  Movius shook his head. “I’ve never heard of these people. I’ve never been in such a fight.”

  Gerard leaned forward. The reflected image on the desk surface darted with him. “To hell with a street brawl! What’s this about Dan failing to report for the ALP?”

  Movius noted the use of his first name and knew the familiarity was aimed at making Addington unsure of their relationship.

  Addington flushed, spoke without looking up from the paper. “That was an error. He is not wanted on such a charge.”

  Gerard said, “Oh?” He leaned back, turned to Movius. “Did you knock over this Pescado?”

  “No.”

  “You say you’ve been on your honeymoon,” said Addington. “Isn’t it a fact that you were hiding out instead?”

&nbs
p; “Hiding from what?” asked Movius. He shrugged. “I have been staying pretty close to my bride, of course; except to come out and register my opps.”

  Addington hunted through the briefcase, extracted another paper. “That’s another thing, Movius. You registered opps everywhere from Killson Warrenate to Lascadou.”

  “Is there a law that says you have to register some special place?” asked Movius.

  “You were never in these places,” said Addington.

  “How do you know?” asked Movius.

  “Because we . . .” Addington broke off.

  Movius smiled. He thought of Gerard’s obvious hate for this man, decided to burn his bridges and play all out for Gerard. It was not difficult to put hate into his tone. “Look, you fat son-of-a-bitch!” he barked. “I’ve had all I’m taking from you! I’ve spent twelve years in the service of the government. Never once taken my off-time, always registered my opps, kept my nose clean. Two of your trained hounds put a gun on me downstairs and talked about killing me. I don’t know why I’m your target, but I’m telling you now to look out!” He glanced at the man he had thumbed. The aide had been edging toward Movius. “And if your brother here moves another inch toward me I’ll wipe up this office with him!” The aide took another involuntary step backwards.

  “Put up or shut up,” said Gerard. “Unless you can prove your charges, I’m backing Dan all the way.”

  Movius took a deep breath.

  Addington glared at Gerard. “I have two witnesses.”

  “No good.” Gerard shook his head. “Your friends know too much about lying. This has to be tied down with fingerprints, full laboratory evidence.”

  “I saw him myself!” raged Addington.

  “You’re an even bigger liar,” said Gerard.

  Addington’s face went purple. “I suppose Movius has been put through ocamine so he can take a lie-detector test without a quiver?”

  “I wouldn’t know,” said Gerard. “LD evidence won’t hold with me, anyway.” Gerard was obviously enjoying himself.

  Addington leaned forward, face flushed. “You know this man is guilty! You’re just aiding him to spite me! I’m warning you . . .”

  A buzzing sounded from beneath the desk, interrupting him. Gerard answered his phone, passed it across to Addington. “It’s for you, owl guts.”

  Addington snatched the phone, said, “Yes, this is Addington.” He listened, smiled. “You have? Well, hold her there.” He passed the phone back to Gerard, still smiling, turned to Movius. “We have your bride. You’re coming with us now or else.”

  Movius felt himself go almost blank. It was as though he watched another man rise slowly from his chair, take two steps toward Addington. The aide moved to cut him off.

  “Movius!” It was Gerard’s voice.

  The sharp tone of command restored some of Movius’ control. I got Grace into this, he thought. I can’t let them harm her. What can I do?

  “Well?” asked Addington.

  Movius fought to control his thoughts. How can I fight them? A desperate gamble flashed through his mind. He turned, walked around behind Gerard’s desk. From an inner pocket he withdrew his stylus, unscrewed the back cap, exposing the sharp edge of the re-load. Grasping Gerard’s hand, he made a short scratch on the back.

  “Ouch!” Gerard put the hand to his mouth, darted his other hand toward a pocket.

  Movius shook his head, put the stylus to his mouth, blew on it. Quietly, he capped the stylus, waited while he counted silently to fifteen. Addington and his aides were staring at him puzzled.

  “I have just released a quantity of high-dispersion poison gas in this room sufficient to kill five hundred people,” said Movius. “Mr. Gerard and myself are immunized. In thirty minutes you three will die in agony, every muscle of your bodies tearing violently.” He put the stylus back in his inside pocket.

  Addington jumped to his feet, leaned across the desk, bellowed at Gerard, “Stop this madman!”

  Gerard leaned back. “Why should I? I won’t be harmed.”

  One of Gerard’s hands remained beneath the desk. “And if you make a move to come around this desk, you’ll die much more quickly.”

  “You have thirty minutes in which to bring my wife up here unharmed,” said Movius. “In fact, if the antidote is to have the time to work, you have less than that. About fifteen minutes is all.”

  Gerard pushed the telephone across the desk. “I’d make the call if I were you.”

  “He’s bluffing,” said Addington in a faint voice.

  “I wouldn’t count on that,” said Gerard.

  “I have heard of such a gas,” said Addington slowly.

  “Bu-Trans has many resources,” said Gerard.

  “So that’s the way it is?” said Addington. Face pale, he took up the phone. “Get me Pearsons at Bu-Con.” He waited. “Ev, bring the Movius woman over to Bu-Trans right away. Don’t ask questions; just bring her! Come right on up to bulb-head’s office with her.” He slammed the phone onto the desk, sat down.

  Gerard quietly replaced the phone on its hook.

  “The first thing you notice is your heart beating more rapidly and much stronger,” said Movius. “You become very aware of your heartbeat.”

  The aide who had carried the briefcase suddenly paled, swayed, sat down in a hard-backed chair against the wall. He began to draw in deep breaths.

  “Some people don’t have as high a tolerance as others,” said Movius. He noticed that both Addington and the other aide were forcing in deep breaths. The seated aide suddenly pitched forward to the floor with a loud thump.

  Movius smiled. A little applied psychology plus a weak will equals a fainting spell, he thought. Now they’re convinced.

  Addington jumped to his feet. “Give me that antidote! I’m a sick man! I can already feel my heart pounding!”

  “When my wife gets here,” said Movius. “Not before.”

  “Sit down,” said Gerard. “Exertion only makes the poison work faster.”

  Addington slumped back into his chair, fumbled in a pocket, brought out a white pill which he put onto his tongue with a shaking hand. He flopped the pill into his mouth, gulped it. “You’re going to answer for this,” he said. He looked toward the door. “I should have told him to hurry.” He glanced at his wristwatch.

  A knock sounded on the door. “Come in,” said Gerard.

  The gladiator for the outer office appeared in the doorway, his bulk obscuring the view of whoever was behind him.

  “Everybody come in,” said Gerard.

  Gladiator stepped into the room, followed by Grace and a chunky, vapid-faced man with sadistic eyes. Grace—wrapped in a blanket, hair disheveled—had a short scratch on one cheek. Her eyes blazed fury. She shook herself free of vapid-face’s detaining hand, suddenly saw Movius. “Dan!”

  “Everything’s all right, dear,” said Movius. He went around the desk, put an arm around her shoulders. “Did they harm you?”

  She shook her head. “They were searching me.” She turned. “That creature and another one.”

  Vapid-face licked his lips. “Nice,” he said, leering at Movius.

  “You have your wife,” said Addington. “Give us the antidote.”

  “You’re all breathing a poison gas for which Mr. Movius has the only antidote,” said Gerard, looking at vapid-face.

  “Well?” said Addington.

  “First put all your weapons on Mr. Gerard’s desk,” said Movius.

  “See here!” said Addington.

  “Do as he says!” barked Gerard, voice harsh.

  Movius took out his stylus, made a minute scratch on the back of Grace’s hand, did the same for the gladiator.

  “On the desk,” said Movius. He capped the stylus, put it away, began patting Addington’s pockets, stooped to feel along his legs. The Bu-Con chief wore one tiny fap gun strapped to an ankle and two others in pocket holsters. His gunman aide also had one on the ankle and two in the pockets. The clerk had one in a lape
l holster. Vapid-face wore a poison dart stutter gun hanging from a shoulder strap inside his suit. A crease concealed the slit by which it could be brought out quickly.

  Gerard’s eyes widened when he saw the weapon. “That’s outlawed,” he said.

  “So it’s outlawed,” said Addington peevishly. “So’s poison gas.”

  Movius put the weapons on the desk. Gerard swept them all into a drawer.

  Movius bent over the unconscious clerk on the floor, made a deep slash in the back of the man’s hand with the sharp tip of the stylus. The clerk moaned, began to stir. Movius went to the gunman. Addington stepped forward. “I have to have that immediately!”

  “After him,” said Movius.

  Addington quivered, his eyes glittering behind the thick glasses.

  Movius made a deep slash in the aide’s hand, grabbed Addington’s hand, made an even deeper slash. Vapid-face stepped forward, held out his hand. Movius ignored him, capped the stylus and put it back in his pocket.

  “What about me?” the man asked.

  Movius turned to Grace. “Are you sure they didn’t harm you?”

  She blushed, broke off, and began to cry silently, to bring her hands from beneath the blanket to cover her face.

  “What about me?” vapid-face repeated.

  Movius’ face hardened. “You don’t get it.”

  Addington whirled on Gerard. “You can’t let him just . . .”

  “Dan is one of my most trusted aides,” said Gerard. “I give him a free hand in these matters. If he doesn’t think Ev should live, then I go by his judgment. Personally, I’m inclined to agree with him in this instance.”

  Vapid-face pushed through the group, leaned against Gerard’s desk, face contorted. “You can’t do this to me!”

  “You’re mistaken,” said Gerard coldly. “We’re doing it.”

  The man sank to his knees, clutching the edge of the desk. “Please! Look! I’m begging you!”

  Movius suddenly felt sickened.

  “Give it to him” said Grace.

  The man turned his contorted face toward her. “Thank you.”

  Movius brought out the stylus, uncapped it, bent and slashed the kneeling man across the cheek. “I want to recognize you next time! If you so much as look cross-eyed at my wife ever again I’ll get you and you can beg until your voice runs dry!”