Frank Herbert - The Green Brain

The lawn appeared to be in motion, reaching out toward them like a wave curling on a beach. Already the wave had cut them off from the entrance to the house. It still was some ten paces away, but moving in rapidly.

Joao clutched his father’s arm. He spoke quietly, hoping not to alarm the old man further, mindful of the weak heart. “We must get to my truck, Father. We must run across them.”

“Them?”

“Those are like the insect we saw inside, Father—millions of them. They are attacking. Perhaps they’re not beetles after all. Perhaps they’re like army ants. We must make it to the truck. I have equipment and supplies there to fight them off. We’ll be safe in the truck. It’s a bandeirante truck, Father. You must run with me, do you understand? I’ll help you, but you must not stumble and fall into them.”

“I understand.”

They began to run, Joao holding his father’s arm, pointing the way with the light.

Let his heart be strong enough , Joao prayed.

They were into the wave of insects then, but the creatures leaped aside, opening a path which closed behind the running men.

The white form of the airtruck loomed out of the shadows at the far curve of the driveway about fifteen meters ahead.

“Joao… my heart,” the elder Martinho gasped.

“You can make it,” Joao panted. “Faster!” He almost lifted his father from the ground for the last few paces.

They were at the wide rear doors into the truck’s lab compartment now. Joao yanked open the doors, slapped the light switch on the left wall, reached for a hood and sprayrifle. He stopped, stared into the yellow-lighted interior.

Two men sat there— sertao Indians, by the look of them, with bright glaring eyes and bang-cut black hair beneath straw hats. They looked to be identical twins, even to the same mud-gray clothing and sandals, leather shoulder bags. The beetle-like insects crawled around them, up the lab walls, over the instruments and vials.

“What the devil?” Joao blurted.

One of the pair lifted a qena flute, gestured with it. He spoke in a rasping, oddly inflected voice: “Enter. You will not be harmed if you obey.”

Joao felt his father sag, caught the old man in his arms. How light he felt. The old man breathed in short, painful gasps. His face was a pale blue. Sweat stood out on his forehead.

“Joao,” the Prefect whispered. “Pain… my chest.”

“The medicine,” Joao said. “Where is your medicine?”

“House,” the old man said. “Desk.”

“It appears to be dying,” one of the Indians rasped.

Still holding his father in his arms, Joao whirled toward the pair, blazed: “I don’t know who you are or why you loosed those bugs here, but my father’s dying and needs help. Get out of my way!”

“Obey or both die,” said the Indian with the flute. “Enter.”

“He needs his medicine and a doctor,” Joao pleaded. He didn’t like the way the Indian pointed that flute. The motion suggested the instrument was actually a weapon.

“What part has failed?” asked the other Indian. He stared curiously at Joao’s father. The old man’s breathing had become shallow and rapid.

“It’s his heart,” Joao said. “I know you farmers don’t think he’s acted fast enough for…”

“Not farmers,” said the one with the flute. “Heart?”

“Pump,” said the other.

“Pump,” said the Indian with the flute. He stood up from the bench at the front of the lab, gestured down.

“Put… father here.” The other one got off the bench, stood aside.

In spite of fear for his father, Joao was caught by the strange appearance of this pair, the fine, scale-like lines in their skin, the glittering brilliance of their eyes. Were they hopped up on some jungle narcotic?

“Put father here,” repeated the one with the flute. Again, he pointed at the bench. “Help can be…”

“Attained,” said the other one.

“Attained,” said the one with the flute.

Joao focused now, the masses of insects around the walls, the waiting quietude in their ranks. They were like the one in the study. Identical.

The old man’s breathing now was very shallow, very rapid. Joao felt the fluttering of each breath in his arms and against his chest.

He’s dying , Joao thought in desperation.

“Help can be attained,” repeated the Indian with the flute. “If you obey, we will not harm.”

The Indian lifted his flute, pointed it at Joao. “Obey.”

There was no mistaking the gesture. The thing was a weapon.

Slowly, Joao stepped up into the truck, crossed to the bench, lowered his father gently onto the padded surface.

The Indian with the flute motioned him to step back and he obeyed.

The other Indian bent over the elder Martinho’s head, raised an eyelid. There was a professional directness about the gesture that startled Joao. The Indian pushed gently on the dying man’s diaphragm, removed the Prefect’s belt, loosened his collar. A stubby brown finger was placed against the artery in the old man’s neck.

“Very weak,” the Indian rasped.

Joao took another look at the Indian, wondering at a sertao backwoodsman who behaved like a doctor.

“Hospital,” the Indian agreed.

“Hospital?” asked the one with the flute.

A low, stridulant hissing came from the other Indian.

“Hospital,” said the one with the flute.

That stridulant hissing! Joao stared at the Indian beside the Prefect. That sound had been reminiscent of the call that had echoed across the lawn.

The one with the flute poked him, said, “You. Go into front and maneuver this…”

“Vehicle,” said the one beside Joao’s father.

“Vehicle,” said the one with the flute.

“Hospital?” Joao pleaded.

“Hospital,” agreed the one with the flute.

Once more, Joao looked at his father. The old man was so still. The other Indian already was strapping the elder Martinho to the bench in preparation for flight. How competent the man appeared in spite of his backwoods look.

“Obey,” said the one with the flute.

Joao opened the hatch into the front compartment, slipped through, felt the armed Indian follow. A few drops of rain spattered darkly against the curved windshield. Joao squeezed into the operator’s seat. The compartment went dark as the hatch was closed. Solenoids threw the automatic hatch dogs with a dull thump. Joao turned on the dash standby lights, noted how the Indian crouched behind him, flute pointed and ready.

A dart gun of some kind , Joao guessed. Probably poison .

He punched the igniter button on the dash, strapped himself in while waiting for the turbines to build up speed. The Indian still crouched behind him without safety harness—vulnerable now if the airtruck were spun sharply.

Joao flicked the communications switch on the lower left corner of the dash, looked into the tiny screen there giving him a view of the lab compartment. The rear doors were open. He closed them by hydraulic remote. His father lay securely strapped to the bench, the other Indian seated at his head.

The turbines reached their whining peak.

Joao switched on the lights, engaged hydrostatic drive. The truck lifted about ten centimeters, angled upward as Joao increased pump displacement. He turned left onto the street, lifted another two meters to increase speed, headed toward the lights of a boulevard.

The Indian spoke beside his ear: “Turn toward the mountain over there.” A hand came forward, pointed to the right.

The Alejandro Clinic is in the foothills , Joao thought. Yes, that’s the correct direction .

Joao made the indicated turn down a cross street that angled toward the boulevard.