High-Opp

by Frank Herbert

  “I’m familiar with the history,” said Movius.

  O’Brien glanced at him. “Yes, of course. Your father.” He turned back to the chart. “Now follow this yellow line. It’s a little faint against the white paper, but you can see that it coincides most remarkably with the rise and fall of civilization. The red line also is of interest and the brown one on top. Lines of cultural ascension. The others down at the bottom are individual surge lines.”

  Movius bent to peer more closely. “Individual?”

  “Persons who influenced the course of history.”

  Movius straightened. “What is the yellow line?”

  “It’s a blending of many things—economic activity, sun spots, lunar influences, atmospheric electrical changes, gravitational flow, magnetronic fluctuations on the earth’s surface, random impellation interpreted by charting cosmic rays . . .”

  “It slopes down here,” said Movius, pointing to the right. He looked back along the undulant course of the line. “Farther down than it’s ever been before. Is that the present crisis?”

  “Yes. Something special in the way of crises. We are in the bottom of the curve now. That means conditions are ripe for an upheaval. It will only take a catalyst.”

  “The Fall poll.”

  “I believe so. Many people are bitter about the polling. Your activity has a great deal to do with this, showing people how the Selector is by-passed, how the questions forecast the answers, how the whole thing is maneuvered. When they are asked to participate again in that day-long activity which they now consider farcical—that may be the push that’s needed.”

  “How bad will the crisis be?”

  “We can only guess. The mathematics and knowledge by which we made this prediction were centuries in gestation.”

  Movius smiled. “Now you need a midwife.”

  O’Brien appeared surprised, tugged at his ear, head cocked to one side. “Why, yes, I guess we do. I’d never quite thought of it in that way.”

  “How precious is the midwife?”

  O’Brien turned away. “I’ve been aware for some time that we’ve very much underestimated you, Movius.”

  “No.” Movius shook his head. “You’ve mis-estimated me.”

  “How is that?”

  “Is this business important enough to see me as Coordinator?”

  O’Brien whirled on him. “Are you trying to make a deal with me?”

  Movius stared down at him. “No. The fact is, I’ve come to a decision.”

  “What decision?” O’Brien bristled. He looked like a small hen demanding of a rooster where he had been until this hour.

  “You want to save the world from a catastrophe which would lose this valuable knowledge.” Movius pointed toward the chart. “That’s a laudable ambition, although of questionable value. I want to save the world from the cold brutality of such as you.”

  O’Brien’s eyes blazed. “Brutality! Is it brutal to . . .”

  “Oh, be quiet,” said Movius, his tone disgusted. “Who’s to be the judge of who we might argue here? Each of us thinks he knows his motives. The truth is, we actually know very little about our motivations and probably care less. The difference between us, O’Brien, is a matter of distance—the distance from our racial roots at which we operate. You’re far away; I’m close.”

  “Mmmmm,” said O’Brien.

  “And this loyalty index. I’ve been studying that. It really has damned little to do with loyalty.”

  “True,” said O’Brien. “The index could be said more truthfully to measure the degree of compassion a person feels for his fellow humans. Loyalty index is a popular catch phrase tacked onto the measurement because the higher the index the greater degree of loyalty to a cause or person.”

  “Much of your business is a sham,” said Movius. “I’ve decided that . . .”

  “Ah, yes, the decision,” O’Brien interrupted him. “When did you come to this decision, if I may ask?”

  Why would he want to know that? Movius wondered. He shrugged, said, “The other night . . . in bed.”

  “Ahhhh.” O’Brien made the sound as though he had seen a great light.

  “More of your stock in trade,” said Movius. “Ahhhhh. The witch doctor’s mysterious incantation.” He raised his hand as O’Brien started to speak “I just about have you figured, O’Brien. You set me up for this business. You picked me up when I came along, way back before I was Liaitor. You decided that here was something you could use. You . . .”

  “Just a moment.” O’Brien sounded bored. “Why should we want you?”

  “In a moment,” said Movius. He turned, marched to the chart which he knew plotted some element of his life. “You want to ride the tiger, O’Brien?” Movius reached up, ripped the chart from the wall. “Then wake up to the fact that your tiger is no longer tame. Prepare yourself for some scratches.”

  “You will not leave here alive,” said O’Brien.

  Movius smiled at him. “Don’t be rash, O’Brien. Find out your tiger’s strength first. A wounded tiger is much more dangerous than an unwounded tiger.”

  “So?”

  “This is a fallacy.” Movius kicked the chart on the floor. “No man can be reduced to a line on a chart with any hope that predictions from that line will be infallible. You cannot know what will stimulate a man’s awareness from minute to minute. The person you’ve charted here is many people—the son of a frustrated ex-teacher, a rising executive, a blind young man who lived in a world of his own projections, then the low-opped seeker after revenge, the focus point of a revolution.”

  “And now he’s the great lover,” said O’Brien tauntingly. “Movies, you’ve outlasted your usefulness.”

  “Is that your latest prediction?”

  “Yes. Primarily, because you’ve become aware of your position. We needed you for the figurehead of the revolution. You were valuable as long as you were ignorant of that fact. A man conscious of his own importance to such a movement does not have the reckless courage this job requires.”

  “You informed me yourself, you know,” said Movius. He put his hands in his pockets, watched O’Brien.

  The Bu-Psych head turned away. “That was my mistake. But it isn’t irreparable. There are other . . .”

  Movius interrupted him with an abrupt, barking laugh. “I warned, O’Brien, not to do anything rash. Listen carefully. I have a dozen men in your organization. They will kill you if you harm me. You have no way of . . .”

  “How could you? You haven’t had the time!”

  “Time? What is time? Rather, say I’ve had the opportunity. Now I’m going to tell you my decision. I’m taking over, O’Brien. You’ll listen to how you fit into my plans and you’ll do what I say or else.”

  O’Brien sounded more hesitant. “Oh?”

  “Today, I started a chain of events which will eventuate in by-passing the master opinion controls.”

  “That’s impossible!”

  “I’m happy to hear you say that, O’Brien. I’m hoping The Coor et al feel the same way.”

  “It is a known scientific fact that the control beam cannot be . . .”

  “Will you shut up?” Movius glowered at the man. “Save your double talk for someone you can impress. Nine years ago in the Comp Section another fellow and I figured out a way to tap the beam. We did it as an exercise for the very reason that people said it couldn’t be done. Then we dropped it because we didn’t see any value in it and knew it would cause a lot of trouble for us. People would want to know why we did it.”

  O’Brien’s mouth was open. He closed it with a snap.

  “I am about to demonstrate the danger of fixed-pattern thinking. The proper moves have been right in front of your nose for so long you haven’t been able to see them. You see through them.”

  O’Brien leaned back against his table. “Do go on.” His tone was patronizing.

  “The registration kiosks of the world are controlled from this city,” said Movius. “The small percen
tage of the population which constitutes a sample is called . . .”

  “If you mean that the questions are formulated here, transmitted from here and computed here, yes, that’s true. But what does that have to do with . . .”

  “What would happen if The Coor’s transmitter fed its questions into a relay station? Let us say that relay station is equipped with a staff of about four of your best semantic analysts, who then take his carefully prepared question and distort it to obtain precisely the answer The Coor does not want. Then this relay station puts the new question back on the beam. Say a three minute delay.”

  “It couldn’t be done!”

  “Couldn’t it? It’s going to be done. I’ve a crew working on it right this minute.”

  O’Brien shrugged. “All right then. You do it. Your interference would work once—maybe twice; then Glass would stop putting questions until he’d smoked you out. And what would you have accomplished?”

  “You have it figured the way I figure it,” said Movius. “But you miss the essential point.” He held up a hand, bent down a finger. “We wish to stage a revolution.” Another finger bent down. “One of the government’s strongest points is the inertia—the ‘Oh, what the hell?’ attitude of so many people who don’t feel they have cause to revolt. They’re a millstone around the neck of our revolution. Potential informers, potential enemies every one.” Another finger bent down. “And why? Because the government operates behind a mask of legality which they feel has the semantic label correct.”

  “You sound like Quilliam London,” muttered O’Brien.

  “Do I really?” Movius bent his other finger, clenched his hand into a fist. “We take away the government’s major tool of legality and they will be forced to come out from behind the mask. It’s either that or admit they’ve loaded the questions to get their own answers. They’d never do that.”

  “Everybody knows that anyway,” said O’Brien.

  “You make a common error,” said Movius. “Everybody knows this because I know. Before many people could know this they’d have to admit to themselves that they’d forged their own shackles and raised their own despots. Most people don’t have a strong enough ego to do that. History has never seen such a mass admission. No. People strike out at a scapegoat, someone or something else which absorbs all of the personal guilt.” Movius smiled. “I’m fitting Glass for so tight a hair coat you won’t be able to tell him from a goat—a scapegoat.”

  O’Brien straightened. “So you’re taking over. If you think your silly threat against my life is going to make me . . .”

  “How would you like to have Glass, Gerard, Addington and company learn about your secret organization, your charts, your plans, your position as advisor to the Seps?”

  The Bu-Psych chief paled.

  “That’s a much better threat, isn’t it? If anything happens to me they will learn.” He paused for effect. “You will select the expert staff I have requested. Four men. More would cause delay. Outline to this staff exactly what they will be doing. Have them ready for me at a half-hour’s notice.”

  O’Brien seemed in a trance. “Half an hour’s notice.” He swallowed. “You can’t . . .” He broke off, studied the look on Movius’ face. “Where will they report?”

  “At the new Separatist headquarters. It’s under the street between here and the Bureau of Education Building. The entrance is in your sub-basement, conduit tunnel two on your plans. We’re using your building air-conditioning system.”

  “Under my . . .”

  “We’re also going out with your phones through a section of your switchboard.”

  “But . . .”

  “The Sep movement really started here, O’Brien. It’s only fair that it make its big bid from here.”

  O’Brien sank into a chair.

  “In case Gerard goes for The Coor’s deal, I want asylum in Bu-Psych,” said Movius.

  O’Brien had trouble finding his voice. “Can’t do it,” he piped. “We haven’t the strength to fight an open . . .”

  “Then Grace and I will hide in the new headquarters.”

  “Grace and you . . .”

  Movius glanced at his watch. “I’m due back at Gerard’s office right now.”

  As he left the building, climbed into his car, Movius noted that it hadn’t been too difficult to turn the tables on the omnipotent O’Brien.

  Upstairs in Bu-Psych, O’Brien was repairing Movius’ torn decision chart, replacing it on the wall.

  Chapter 22

  Gerard leaned back in his chair, put a hand over the mouthpiece of his phone, glanced at Movius. He looked like a small bald devil sitting behind the big desk, Movius thought. Gerard said, “It’s . . .” He talked back to the phone. “Yes, I’m still waiting.” He leaned forward, scribbled on a slip of paper, “It’s Glass wanting to talk to me,” shoved the paper across the desk.

  Movius bit a hangnail off his thumb, retrieved the paper. He glanced at it, tossed it back to the desk.

  “Hello,” said Gerard. “Oh, hello, Helmut. Haven’t heard from you since last month’s conference . . .. Oh, I’ve been quite well, thank you. And you? . . . Good to hear it. What can I do for you? . . . Movius? Yes, I believe I have a man by that name working for me. His order came to us through the selector.” Gerard smiled at Movius as he listened. “Are you sure it’s the same man? You make him sound dreadful. Leader of the Seps? Goodness! Say . . . now that you remind me, wasn’t he once engaged to that blonde I saw with you at the Festival? I believe I heard some story about Movius throwing her over before you met her . . .”

  Movius smiled at the fierce grin on Gerard’s face.

  “Oh, that’s the way it was,” said Gerard. “I guess I had the story twisted. Well, what do you want me to do about him?” Gerard nodded, listened. “Oh, I couldn’t do that, Helmut. You should see the requirements I fed into the Sorter to get him. Why, they . . . Oh, you’ve seen his card. Well, then you understand when I say he’s a valuable man. I think this Sep business is nonsense . . . You don’t say . . . Have you really?” Gerard leaned back, stared at the ceiling, the phone held loosely against his ear. His expression became thoughtful. “I’ll tell you what, Helmut; let me consider it. I’ll call you back and let you know my decision.” He nodded. “Yes. Right away. Good opps.” He replaced the phone on its hook, looked at Movius pensively.

  “He wants to trade you something attractive for my hide,” said Movius.

  Gerard swung around to face his desk. “My own man in Addington’s job.”

  “He’s finally gotten wise to Addington,” said Movius. “What does he propose to do with owl guts?”

  “I can only guess. Hoist him out a window, maybe.”

  Movius thought of the three men Gerard had caused to be dropped from the window, fought down a shudder. He took a deep breath. “Why not ask Glass if you can put me in Addington’s job?”

  Gerard jerked his eyes up, suddenly leaned back and laughed.

  The realization came to Movius that Gerard actually had not come to a decision on The Coor’s office. He said, “You know what this means, don’t you?”

  The laughing stopped. “What?”

  “Glass is spooked.”

  “Because you knocked over a minor cog like Rafe Newton?” Gerard shook his head. “Even if Rafe was his nephew, don’t give yourself airs on that account.”

  “Newton? I wasn’t thinking about Newton.” Movius fell silent, looked at his fingernails. What would temp the man? How much would Gerard believe? He believed in the loyalty index, certainly.

  “You were saying,” prompted Gerard.

  “I’ve assumed you might want to be Coordinator,” said Movius.

  Steepled hands came up in front of Gerard’s mouth, masking his expression. “What ever gave you that idea?”

  Movius set his face in what he hoped was a candid, loyal expression. “I figured that if you were Coordinator and I was say in charge of Bu-Trans and Bu-Con, both of us might get a decent night’s sleep.”


  “You what?” Gerard leaned forward, hands flat on top of his desk.

  “Glass is afraid of a Sep uprising. He knows the Seps are organized as they’ve never been before and are all ready to move.”

  A crease appeared on Gerard’s forehead above his nose. He passed a hand across his bald head. “He made some crazy charge about you being the leader of the Seps.”

  Here it is, thought Movius. He said, “That was no crazy charge. I am just that.”

  Gerard arose half out of his chair, sank bank. He put a hand in his pocket.

  “What would happen if there was a Sep revolt in which The Coor was killed?”

  In a cautious tone, Gerard asked, “The Coor, Addington and a few others?”

  “That’s right. One man would not be enough.”

  An eager note crept into Gerard’s voice. “There are about fifty who would have to be eliminated.”

  “You know them all, of course?” asked Movius.

  “I could give you a complete list, including their habits and the easiest way to get them.” Gerard’s voice grew cool. “How could such a revolt be arranged and still . . .”

  “They will do what I say without question,” said Movius. “They were completely disorganized before I took over.”

  Gerard leaned forward, toyed with a stylus. “What did you plan to do?” he asked, looking at the stylus.

  Movius pressed his hands against his legs to steady them. “I hadn’t planned any farther ahead than killing Glass until I hooked up with you.”

  Gerard’s eyes glittered. “ Now you want to make me Coordinator? What’s to keep you from just taking the top spot yourself if you know the way?”

  Movius breathed a silent prayer to Gerard’s belief in the loyalty index. “You saved my life. Besides, what do I know about the job? You’ve served two terms in it.”

  “So I have.” Gerard seemed to bask in a memory, suddenly frowned. “But that was before Glass decided he could pass out the job as a payment for services.”

  “I propose we low-opp Glass,” said Movius.

  Gerard came to a decision. He reached down, jerked up the phone. “Get me Helmut Glass at Com-Burs.” He waited. “Helmut, this is Warren Gerard . . .. Yes, I’ve decided not to accept. Movius is too valuable to me . . . No, I’m not holding out for more . . . Sorry, I haven’t any price to name . . . I don’t think that would be advisable at all, Helmut . . . Certainly I realize you’re the head of the government, but you have to obey the opps just like the rest of us. Movius was legally opped to me by the Sorter. He’s a legal government employee working in my department. He’s . . . You’re a fatuous bastard yourself, Helmut!” Gerard slammed down the phone.