Frank Herbert - The Godmakers

Spencer cleared his throat, swallowed. He appeared powerless to take his attention from Orne’s mouth.

“My analysis,” Orne said, “Says that about thirty or forty years ago the conspirators first began breeding a few males, grooming them for really choice top positions. Other Nathian males—the accidents where sex-determination failed—didn’t learn about the conspiracy. The new ones, however, became full-fledged members when they reached maturity. That’s the course they had planned for me, I believe.”

Polly glared at him, looked back at her hands.

Diana looked away when Orne tried to catch her eye.

Orne said: “That part of their plan was scheduled to come to a head with this election. If they pulled this one off, they could move in more boldly.”

“You’re in this way over your head, boy,” Polly growled. “You’re too late to do anything about us. Anything!”

“We’ll see about that!” Spencer snapped. He seemed to have regained his self-control. “Some key arrests, the full glare of publicity on your…”

“No,” Orne said. “You’re not thinking clearly, Admiral. She’s right. It’s too late for that approach. It probably was too late a hundred years ago. These women were too firmly entrenched even then.”

Spencer stiffened, glared at Orne. “Young man, if I give the word, this place will be a shambles.”

“I know,” Orne said. “Another Hamal, another Sheleb.”

“We can’t just ignore this!” Spencer snarled.

“Perhaps not ignore it,” Orne said. “But we’ll do something close to that. We have no choice. It’s time we learned about the hoe and the handle.”

“The what? ” Spencer blared.

“It’s right there in the I-A curriculum,” Orne said. “Primitive societies discovered this way out of the constant temptation toward lethal violence. One village would make the head of the hoe, the next village down the line would make only the handles. Neither would think of invading the other’s special area of manufacture.”

Polly looked up, studied Orne’s face. Diana appeared confused.

“You know what I think?” Spencer asked. “In your attempt to confuse this issue you’ve just proved that once a Nathian, you’re always a Nathian.”

“There’s no such thing,” Orne said. “Five hundred years of crossbreeding with other peoples saw to that. Now, there’s merely a secret society of extremely astute political scientists.” He smiled wryly at Polly, glanced back to Spencer. “Think of your own wife, sir. In all honesty, would you be ComGo today if she hadn’t guided your career?”

Spencer’s face darkened. He drew in his chin, tried to stare Orne down, failed. Presently, he chuckled wryly.

“Sobie is beginning to come to his senses as I knew he would,” Polly said. “You’re just about through, Lewis. We’ll deal with the ones we have to deal with, and you’re not one of them.”

“Don’t underestimate your future son-in-law,” Orne said.

“Ha!” Diana barked. “I hate you, Lewis Orne!”

“You’ll get over that,” Orne said, his voice mild.

“Ohhhhhh!” Diana quivered with fury.

“I think I hold most of the trumps,” Spencer said, his attention on Polly.

“You hold very little if you don’t understand the situation fully,” Orne said.

Spencer turned a speculative stare on Orne. “Explain.”

“Government’s a dubious glory,” Orne said. “You pay for your power and wealth by balancing on the sharp edge of the blade. That great amorphous thing out there—the people—has turned and swallowed many governments. They can do it in the flash of an angry uprising. The way you prevent that is by giving good government, not perfect government—but good. Otherwise, sooner or later, your turn comes. It’s a point the political genius, my mother, made frequently. It stuck with me.” He frowned. “My objection to politics was the compromises you make to get elected… and I never liked women running my life.”

Stetson moved out from the wall. “It’s pretty clear,” he said. Heads turned toward him. “To stay in power, the Nathians had to give us fairly good government. Admit it. The fact is obvious. On the other hand, if we expose them, we give a bunch of political amateurs, every fanatic and power-hungry demagogue in the universe, just the weapons they need to sweep them into office.”

“After that, chaos,” Orne said. “So we let the Nathians continue—with two minor alterations.”

“We alter nothing,” Polly said.

“You haven’t learned the lesson of the hoe and the handle,” Orne said.

“And you haven’t learned the lesson of real political power,” Polly countered. “It occurs to me, Lewis, that you don’t have a leg to stand on. You have me, but you’ll get nothing out of me. The rest of the organization can go on without me. You don’t dare expose us. You’d discredit too many important people. We hold the whip hand.”

“We have the hoe and the handle,” Orne said. “The I-A could have ninety percent of your organization in protective custody within ten days.”

“You couldn’t find them!” Polly snapped.

“How, Lew?” Stetson asked.

“Nomads,” Orne said. “This house is a glorified tent. Men on the outside, women on the inside. Look for inner courtyard construction. It may be instinctive with Nathian blood.”

“Is that enough?” Spencer asked.

“Add an inclination for odd musical instruments,” Orne said. “The kaithra, the tambour, the oboe—all nomad instruments. Add female dominance of the family, an odd twist on the nomad heritage, but not unique. Dig into political backgrounds where women have guided their men to power. We’ll miss damn few of them.”

Polly stared at him with open mouth.

Spencer said: “Things are moving too fast for me. I know just one thing for sure. I’m dedicated to preventing another Rim War. That’s my oath. If I have to jail every last one of…”

“An hour after this conspiracy became known, you wouldn’t be in a position to jail anyone,” Orne said. “The husband of a Nathian! You’d be in jail yourself or more likely dead at the hands of a mob.”

Spencer paled.

Stetson nodded his agreement with Orne.

“Tell us about the hoe and the handle,” Polly said. “What’s your suggestion for compromise?”

“Number one: veto power on any candidate you put up,” Orne said. “Number two: You can never hold more than half of the top offices.”

“Who vetoes our candidates?” Polly asked.

“Admiral Spencer, Stet, myself… anyone else we deem trustworthy,” Orne said.

“You think you’re God or something?” Polly demanded.

“No more than you do,” Orne said. “I remember my mother’s lessons well. This is a check and balance system. You cut the pie, we get first choice on which pieces to take. One group makes the head of the hoe, another makes the handle. We assemble it together.”

There was a protracted silence broken when Spencer said: “It doesn’t seem right just to…”

“No political compromise is ever totally right,” Orne said.

“You keep patching things that always have flaws in them,” Polly said. “That’s how government is.” She chuckled, glanced at Orne. “All right, Lewis, we accept.” She looked at Spencer, who shrugged glumly.

Polly returned her attention to Orne, said: “Just answer me one question, Lewis: How’d you know I was boss lady?”

“Easy,” Orne said. “Those records we found said the… Nathian”—he’d almost said traitor —“family on Marak carried the code name ‘The Head.’ Your name, Polly, contains the ancient word Poll which means ‘head.’”