Frank Herbert - The Eyes of Heisenberg

The red triangle of a pharmacy outlet glowed on a pillar beside him. He passed it, glanced back at his escort.

He had come halfway across the continent in the tube with an entire car to himself except for the escort, an agent from T-Security. Deep into Central they’d come, the gray-suited T-Security agent always beside him.

Svengaard began climbing the steps.

Already, Central was beginning to weigh on him. There was a sense of something disastrous about the place. Even though he suspected the source of the feeling, he couldn’t shake it off. It was all the Folk nonsense you could never quite evade, he’d decided. The Folk were a people for the most part without legends or ancient myths except where such matters touched the Optimen. In the Folk memories, Central and the Optimen were fixed with sinister omens compounded of awesome fear and adulation.

Why did they summon me? Svengaard asked himself. The escort refused to say.

They were stopped by the wall and waited now, silent, nervous.

Even the agent was nervous, Svengaard saw.

Why did they summon me?

The agent cleared his throat, said, “You have all the protocol straight?”

“I think so,” Svengaard said.

“Once you get into the hall, keep pace with the acolyte who’ll escort you from there. You’ll be interviewed by the Tuyere—Nourse, Schruille and Calapine. Remember to use their names when you address them individually. Use no such words as death or kill or die. Avoid the very concepts if you can. Let them lead the interview. Best not to volunteer anything.”

Svengaard took a trembling breath.

Have they brought me here to advance me? he wondered. That must be it. I’ve served my apprenticeship under such men as Potter and Igan. I’m being promoted to Central.

“And don’t say ‘doctor,’ ” the escort said. “Doctors are pharmacists or genetic engineers in here.”

“I understand,” Svengaard said.

“Allgood wants a complete report on the interview afterward,” the agent said.

“Yes, of course,” Svengaard said.

The quarantine barrier lifted.

“In you go,” the agent said.

“You’re not coming with me?” Svengaard asked.

“Not invited,” the agent said. He turned, went down the steps.

Svengaard swallowed, entered the silver gloom of the portico, stepped through to find himself in the long hall with an escort of six acolytes, three to a side, swinging thuribles from which pink smoke wafted. He smelled the antiseptics in the smoke.

The big red globe at the end of the hall dominated the place. Its open segment showing flashing and winking lights; the moving shapes inside fascinated Svengaard.

The acolytes stopped him twenty paces from the opening and he looked up at the Tuyere, recognizing them through the power curtains—Nourse in the center flanked by Calapine and Schruille.

“I came,” Svengaard said, mouthing the greeting the agent had told him to use. He rubbed sweaty palms against his best tunic.

Nourse spoke with a rumbling voice, “You are the genetic engineer, Svengaard.”

“Thei Svengaard, yes… Nourse.” He took a deep breath, wondering if they’d caught the hesitation while he remembered to use the Optiman’s name.

Nourse smiled.

“You assisted recently in the genetic alteration of an embryo from a couple named Durant,” Nourse said. “The chief engineer at the cutting was Potter.”

“Yes, I was the assistant, Nourse.”

“There was an accident during this operation,” Calapine said.

There was a strange musical quality in her voice, and Svengaard recognized she hadn’t asked a question, but had reminded him of a detail to which she wanted him to give his attention. He felt the beginnings of a profound disquiet.

“An accident, yes… Calapine,” he said.

“You followed the operation closely?” Nourse asked.

“Yes, Nourse.” And Svengaard found his attention swinging to Schruille, who sat there brooding and silent.

“Now then,” Calapine said, “you will be able to tell us what it is Potter has concealed about this genetic alteration.”

Svengaard found that he had lost his voice. He could only shake his head.

“He concealed nothing?” Nourse asked. “Is that what you say?”

Svengaard nodded.

“We mean you no harm, Thei Svengaard,” Calapine said. “You may speak.”

Svengaard swallowed, cleared his throat. “I…” he said. “… the question… I saw nothing… concealed.” He fell silent, then remembered he was supposed to use her name and said, “Calapine,” just as Nourse started to speak.

Nourse broke off, scowled.

Calapine giggled.

Nourse said, “Yet you tell us you followed the genetic alteration.”

“I… wasn’t on the microscope with him every second,” Svengaard said. “Nourse. I… uh… the duties of the assistant—instructions to the computer nurse, keying the feeder tapes and so on.”

“Say now if the computer nurse was a special friend of yours,” Calapine ordered.

“I… she’d…” Svengaard wet his lips with his tongue. What do they want? “ We’d worked together for a number of years, Calapine. I can’t say she was a friend. We worked together.”

“Did you examine the embryo after the operation?” Nourse asked.

Schruille sat up, stared at Svengaard.

“No, Nourse,” Svengaard said. “My duties were to secure the vat, check life support systems.” He took a deep breath. Perhaps they were only testing him after all… but such odd questions!

“Say now if Potter is a special friend,” Calapine ordered.

“He was one of my teachers, Calapine, someone I’ve worked with on delicate genetic problems.”

“But not in your particular circle,” Norse said.

Svengaard shook his head. Again, he sensed menace. He didn’t know what to expect—perhaps that the great globe would roll over, crush him, reduce his body to scattered atoms. But no, the Optimen couldn’t do that. He studied the three faces as they became clear through the power curtains, seeking a sign. Clean, sterile faces. He could see the genetic markers in their features—they might be any Sterries of the Folk except for the Optiman aura of mystery. Folk rumor said they were sterile by choice, that they saw breeding as the beginning of death, but the genetic clues of their features spoke otherwise to Svengaard.

“Why did you call Potter on this particular problem?” Nourse asked.

Svengaard took a tight, quavering breath, said, “He… the embryo’s genetic configuration… near-Opt. Potter is familiar with our hospital. He… I have confidence in him; brilliant sur—genetic engineer.”

“Say now if you are friendly with any other of our pharmacists,” Calapine said.

“They… I work with them when they come to our facility,” Svengaard said.

“Calapine,” Nourse supplied.

A trill of laughter shook her.

A dark flush spread up from Svengaard’s collar. He began to feel angry. What kind of test was this? Couldn’t they do anything but sit there, mocking, questioning?

Anger gave Svengaard command of his voice and he said, “I’m only head of genetic engineering at one facility, Nourse—a lowly district engineer. I handle routine cuttings. When something requires a specialist, I follow orders, call a specialist. Potter was the indicated specialist for this case.”

“One of the specialists,” Nourse said.

“One I know and respect,” Svengaard said. He didn’t bother adding the Optiman’s name.

“Say now if you are angry,” Calapine ordered, and there was that musical quality in her voice.

“I’m angry.”

“Say why.”

“Why am I here?” Svengaard asked. “What kind of interrogation is this? Have I done something wrong? Am I to be censured?”