Frank Herbert - The Eyes of Heisenberg

Presently, the others joined him. Boumour and Igan supported Svengaard between them. The bindings on Svengaard’s feet had been released, but he appeared barely able to stand. Lizbeth walked with the bent-over care that said she wasn’t sure her incision had healed despite the enzymic speed-up medication.

“We will lodge here during daylight,” Glisson said. “This man will direct you to quarters.”

“What word from Seatac?” Igan asked.

Glisson looked at the old man, said, “Answer.”

The oldster shrugged. “Courier through here couple of hours ago. Said no survivors.”

“Any report on a Dr. Potter?” Svengaard croaked.

Glisson whirled, stared at Svengaard.

“Dunno,” the old man said. “What route he take?”

Igan cleared his throat, glanced at Glisson, then at the old man. “Potter? I believe he was in the group coming out by the power tubes.”

The old man flicked a glance at the ventilator tower growing more distinct among the trees by the second as daylight crept across the mountains. “Nobody come through the tubes,” he said. “They shut off the ventilators and flooded the tubes with that gas first thing.” He looked at Igan, “Ventilators been going again for about three hours.”

Glisson studied Svengaard, asked, “Why are you interested in Potter?”

Svengaard remained silent.

“Answer me!” Glisson ordered.

Svengaard tried to swallow. His throat ached. He felt driven into a corner. Glisson’s words enraged him. Without warning, Svengaard lurched forward dragging Igan and Boumour, lashed out at Glisson with a foot.

The Cyborg dodged with a blurring movement, caught the foot, jerked Svengaard from the two surgeons, whirled, swung Svengaard wide and released him. Svengaard landed on his back, skidded across the ground, stopped. Before he could move, Glisson was standing over him. Svengaard lay there sobbing.

“Why are you interested in Potter?” Glisson demanded.

“Go away, go away, go away!” Svengaard sobbed.

Glisson straightened, looked around at Igan and Boumour. “You understand this?”

Igan shrugged. “It’s emotion.”

“Perhaps a shock reaction,” Boumour said.

Through their hands, Harvey signaled Lizbeth, “ He’s been in shock, but this mean’s he’s coming out of it. These are medical people! Can’t they read anything?”

“Glisson reads it,” she answered. “ He was testing them.”

Glisson turned around, looked squarely at Harvey. The bold understanding in the Cyborg’s eyes shot a pang of fear through Harvey.

“Careful,” Lizbeth signaled. “ He’s suspicious of us.”

“Take Svengaard inside,” Glisson said.

Svengaard looked up at their driver. Glisson, the Durants called him. But the old man from the building had labeled Glisson a Cyborg. Was it possible? Were the half-men being revived to challenge the Optimen once more? Was that the reason for Seatac’s death?

Boumour and Igan lifted him, checked the fetters on his hands. “Let’s have no more foolishness,” Boumour said.

Are they like Glisson? Svengaard asked himself. Are they, too, part man, part machine? And what about the Durants?

Svengaard could feel the tear dampness in his eyes. Hysteria, he thought. Coming out of shock. He began to wonder at himself then with an odd feeling of guilt. Why does Potter’s death strike me more deeply than the death of an entire megalopolis, the extinction of my wife and friends? What did Potter symbolize to me?

Boumour and Igan half carried, half walked him into the building, down a narrow hall and into a poorly lighted, gloomy big room with a ceiling that went up to bare beams two stories above. They dropped him onto a dusty couch—bare plastic and hydraulic contour-shapers that adjusted reluctantly. The light came from two glowglobes high up under the beams. It exposed oddments of furniture scattered around the room and mounds of strange shapes covered by slick, glistening fabric. A table to his left, he realized, was made of planks. Wood! A contour cot lay beyond it, and an ancient roll-top desk with a missing drawer, and mismatched chairs. A stained, soot-blackened fireplace, with an iron crane reaching across its mouth like a gibbet, occupied half the wall across from him. The entire room smelled of dampness and rot. The floor creaked as people moved. Wood flooring!

Svengaard looked up at tiny windows admitting a sparse gray daylight that grew brighter by the second. Even at its brightest he knew it wouldn’t dispel the gloom of this place. Here was sadness that made him think of people without number—dead, forgotten. Tears rolled down his cheeks.

What’s wrong with me? he wondered.

There came a sound from the yard of the van’s turbines being ignited. He heard it lift, leave… fade away. Harvey and Lizbeth entered the room.

Lizbeth looked at Svengaard, then at Boumour and Igan who had taken up vigil on the cot. With her crouched, protective walk, she crossed to Svengaard, touched his shoulder. She saw his tears, evidence of humanity, and she wished then that he were her doctor. Perhaps there was a way. She decided to ask Harvey.

“Please trust us,” she said. “We won’t harm you. They are the ones who killed your wife and friends, not us.”

Svengaard pulled away.

How dare she have pity on me? he thought. But she had reached some chord in him. He could feel himself shattering.

Oppressive silence settled over the room.

Harvey came up, guided his wife to a chair at the table.

“It’s wood,” she said, touching the surface, wonder in her voice. Then, “Harvey, I’m very hungry.”

“They’ll bring food as soon as they’ve disposed of the van,” he said.

She clutched his hand and Svengaard watched, fascinated by the nervous movement of her fingers.

Glisson and the old man returned presently, slamming the door behind them. The building creaked with their movement.

“We’ll have a forest patrol vehicle for the next stage,” Glisson said. “Much safer. There’s a thing you all should know now.” The Cyborg moved a cold, weighted stare from face to face. “There was a marker on top of the van’s load section which we abandoned last night.”

“Marker?” Lizbeth said.

“A device for tracing us, following us,” Glisson said.

“Ohhh!” Lizbeth put a hand over her mouth.

“I do not know how closely they were following,” Glisson said. “I was altered for this task and certain of my devices were left behind. They may know where we are right now.”

Harvey shook his head. “But why…?”

“Why haven’t they moved against us?” Glisson asked. “It’s obvious. They hope we’ll lead them to the vitals of our organization.” Something like rage came into the Cyborg’s features. “It may be we can surprise them.”

In the Survey Room, the great globe’s instrumented inner walls lay relatively quiescent. Calapine and Schruille of the Tuyere occupied the triple thrones. The dais turned slowly, allowing them to scan the entire surface. Kaleidoscopic colors from the instruments played a somnolent visible melody across Calapine’s features—a wash of greens, reds, purples.

She felt tired with a definite emotion of self-pity. There was something wrong with the enzymic analyzers. She felt sure of it, wondering if the Underground had somehow compromised the function of the pharmacy computers.

Schruille was no help. He’d laughed at the suggestion.

Allgood’s features appeared on a call screen before Calapine. She stopped the turning dais as he bowed, said, “I call to report, Calapine.” She noted the dark circles under his eyes, the drugged awareness in the way he held his head stiffly erect.