Frank Herbert - High-Opp

A car turned at the end of the street.

“Let’s get out of here!” Navvy took Movius’ arm, led the way running between the buildings and around the rear. As they turned the corner, Movius glanced back, saw the car stop beside the fallen attackers, disgorge four men. One man he recognized—Loren Addington, the fat chief of Bu-Con. Movius felt the gun in his hand, all of the hate seeming to flow out through that hand. Here was one of the Com-Burs High-Opps who had put him in this position. He lifted the gun, fired twice at the figures beside the car, saw one topple, clutching his side. Not Addington, though; the fat man ducked behind his car.

Movius felt Navvy tugging at his arm. “Come on!”

They found an open service entrance to a Warren, ran down a flight of steps to a boiler room, behind the boiler to the conduit tunnel. “Thank Roper for standard construction,” panted Navvy. “We’re somewhere under Richmond Warrenate. Have to get out of here before they block off the tunnels, smoke us out. We’ll head northeast.”

It seemed they were an hour running in the tunnels, down ladders, up ladders, twisting, turning. Movius was hopelessly turning around. For some reason, he didn’t think about that. He was remembering the fight. He couldn’t explain to himself why the action had left him feeling refreshed. It was as though he had needed the violence. The battle had been like a catharsis, easing the tensions inside him. He felt washed clean, ignored the pain in his jaw where the man had kicked him.

Navvy slowed and Movius began to consider the implications of the fight. He called out softly, “How did they know where to find us?”

Navvy stopped, wiped perspiration from his forehead. “I’ve been thinking about that, too. I think someone spotted you talking to Clancy.”

“Oh?”

“And they made Clancy talk.”

“How much did Clancy know?”

“Only that I was going to meet my friends near that sewer service dome.”

“Fine friends!”

“They may have been picked up.”

“And Clancy didn’t know anything else?”

Navvy shook his head. “Not even where we meet. He’s new.”

“What will they do to Clancy?”

“A body in the river. He knew the chance he took.”

Movius thought about Clancy, quick-moving, alive. Now a dead thing in the river. So that’s the kind of a fight it is? But I knew that. In a subdued tone, he said, “Let’s go.”

They stayed in the tunnels, first on one level, then another. Twice they smelled the residue of chlorine. The tunnel opened finally into another boiler room, from there into a smaller storage room occupied by five people, four men and a woman. The room pulsed with a faint vibration which made him uneasy, his skin tingly. Then he recognized it—he was near an unmounted scrambler, a portable one. No spy beam could penetrate this room. It wouldn’t even react to the room. No room. He was almost close enough to touch the people before he recognized the woman as the mouse-creature who had directed him here—Grace London. Strange that he had remembered her as sallow, grey. Her face held a clean, lively look now. And her hair was out of the bun, rolling back softly from her forehead. She wasn’t beautiful, but she had something. He decided the word was vitality.

An old man stood beside her. That would be Navvy’s father, Quilliam London. The old man snorted. “You gave us a scare.”

“What happened to our escort?” asked Navvy.

“I sent Bowden and Ladde,” said Quilliam London. “They were picked up by a patrol. That stupid Bowden had a grease pencil in his pocket with some grit from a concrete wall still in it. They knew what he’d been writing on the walls.”

Navvy paled. “Did they take them in for…”

“They tried to fight their way out of it,” said Quilliam London. “Now we need two more couriers.” He turned to Movius. “Good to see you, Mr. Movius. Won’t you sit down?”

Come into my parlour , thought Movius. He had an instant feeling of dislike for the old man. Too cold about those poor couriers.

Quilliam London motioned for Navvy to pull out folding chairs from a corner of the storage room. A flickering orange glow from the open door of the boiler room washed over the old man’s face as he turned. It gave him a hawk-like, demoniacal look. The others in the room moved closer and Movius saw that one of those he had thought to be a man actually was another woman, a flat-chested giant… Eyes widening, he recognized her. The cook. Marie something, from the Warren. The one who had silenced the LP tough. Movius nodded to her.

“Sit down,” said Quilliam London. Movius took one of the chairs. The old man bent his stiff frame into a chair opposite and scratched at his chin. “My son here is a very discerning young man, Mr. Movius. He feels you would be valuable to our cause. For that reason, I’ve gathered here some people whose information you will find interesting. First, Mr. Janus Peterson.” London sounded vaguely like the announcer at the festival shows.

A beefy, muscular man on Movius’ right hitched a chair forward. As the man moved closer, Movius saw that he was built like a barrel, with really tremendous girth. Janus Peterson. He had large, wide-set blue eyes which blinked rapidly before he spoke. A flat nose gave him the look of a fighter.

Peterson’s eyes blinked like shutters. “Mr. Movius, my brother-in-law works in Bu-Labor.” The voice was husky. “He’s a kind of a clerk. He give me this today.” The men extended a piece of paper. Movius took the paper, glanced at it, looked back to Peterson. The man said, “That’s a carbon of an order sent out to Bu-Supply today. It says to get an issue of Arctic clothing ready for a Daniel Movius who is going into the ALP. That’s your number, ain’t it?”

Movius looked at the number. Yes, it was his. He nodded. So this was the LP grapevine. Efficient. He gave Navvy a searching look. Navvy winked at him.

Quilliam London grasped the arm of a man at his right, leaned forward. “This is Arthur VanDyne. He’s in Bu-Labor.” Again that vague suggestion of a man announcing the next act. Something a little off-beat here.

Arthur VanDyne was a pale-faced, frightened-looking little man who sat on the edge of his chair, knees close together. “I’m a file clerk, Mr. Movius,” he said. The man’s voice was high-pitched, squeaky. “Sometimes when I’m working in the files I hear things. They’re high, the files, you understand, and if someone is on the other side of the files, in the other aisle, talking, you can hear them quite well if you put your ear to the metal.”

Movius had a mental picture of Arthur VanDyne with his pale, frightened face bent close to a filing case, listening. It was a disquieting picture, somehow. He wondered how many there were like this. Frightened. Listening.

VanDyne cleared his throat in a precise manner, found a handkerchief and dabbed at his lips. “I heard two of the confidential clerks talking today.” He replaced the handkerchief in a pocket, clasped his hands in his lap. “They’re the ones who work directly out of the chief’s office. One said, ‘We got this order out of the Sorter today, but the chief said to lose it for about six weeks. Why do you suppose he wants us to do that?’ And the other one said, ‘Don’t ask too many questions. What’s the guy’s name?’ Then the first one said, ‘Daniel Movius, number…’” He fumbled in a pocket. “Here, I wrote it down.”

Movius took the paper. It was his number.

VanDyne went on: “Then the second one asked, ‘Where’s he going?’ And the first one said, ‘CR-14 in Bu-Trans, whatever that is.’ And that’s all I know, Mr. Movius.”

“We’ve already met, haven’t we, Mr. Movius?” It was the big cook, still with that casual look of authority the cooks had.