Frank Herbert - High-Opp

Movius nodded, wondering what connection she had with this business. One thing sure—she’d saved him from a nasty time back there in the Warren dining room.

“My sister is in Bu-Trans,” said the woman. “Her name is Tyle Cotton and she works in the armory, passing out weapons. She used to be…” The woman paused, wet her lips with her tongue.

“She used to run his bedroom,” the cook said. “That was before she got blocky like me. Gerard’s a big-headed little squirt, bald as an egg, really little, but he likes his women large. The bigger the better, but curvy, not square.” Again the cook wet her lips with her tongue. “My sister hates Gerard; and she’s been working with the head of CR-14, Rafe Newton, to get Gerard.”

“Oh?” That agreed with what O’Brien had said.

“CR-14 is the spy outfit for the government,” said the woman. “It’s really important. It used to be Gerard’s ace in the hole; now he’s losing it.”

“What’s this have to do with me?” asked Movius.

Quilliam London extended a long, bony finger, tapped Movius on the knee. “Gerard fed some job specifications into the Sorter today. He doesn’t know yet, as Arthur here pointed out, that your card came up fitting those specifications. He will know it, though, given time.”

“About six weeks?” asked Movius.

London nodded, scratched his chin. “If you report for work, Gerard is going to give you the job of cleaning out this Department CR-14.”

“Just like that?”

“You fit his specifications.” London narrowed his eyes almost to slits. “You know what we are, of course?”

“You’re Seps.”

“That’s right. Can you imagine how valuable it would be to us to have a man in the government’s spy organization?”

“I have a rough idea.” Movius glanced at Navvy standing behind his father. “Can you hide me?”

Quilliam London said, “I believe so.”

“There’s one thing still not clear to me,” said Movius. “Why did Glass do this to me?”

The old man stood up, unbending slowly. He looked like a knobby walking stick. “Mr. Glass wanted your fiancée. We have found that Mr. Glass usually gets what he wants and keeps it until he is tired of it.”

That was what O’Brien had said. It must be true then. Movius felt more confidence in the LP grapevine than he had in O’Brien. Helmut Glass! You want somebody’s woman? You just flick a little finger and that somebody falls over dead. Not yet, Helmut!

“What kind of an organization do you have?” asked Movius.

London put his thick-veined hands on his knees. “We don’t have anything worthy of the name.”

“But the Separatist…”

“A great many disjointed, bitter people from Cairo to Kalamazoo, but without any binding force.”

Movius let a glance flick over the people around him. “What do you do?”

“These are my students,” said Quilliam London. “I have a class in semantics. I teach people how to avoid the controlling influences of others. It’s largely a matter of discovering what the other person actually wants.”

“Why do you do it?”

A kind of fire came into London’s eyes, like the moving orange light from the boiler room behind him. The other people in the room stirred restlessly. Grace London coughed.

“I’m going to beat them,” said the old man. “Now we’re a herd following the whim of their loaded questions. When we start seeing through their questions to the things they secretly want, their days are numbered.”

“And I can help in this?”

London permitted a slight touch of scorn to creep into his voice. “That should be obvious from the trouble we’ve taken on your behalf.”

“How do I fit into this?”

“You’re an expert at influencing people,” said London.

It was not the answer Movius had expected. “Me?”

“Yes. The Liaitor. You smoothed the way between differing groups. You influenced people who were themselves experts at influencing people. You made people see things your way, somewhere between their two opposed stands. You influenced them.”

“I’d never thought of it that way.”

London’s eyes widened. “Then how did you operate?”

“I’d just sit down and listen to what the people had to say and, somehow, a compromise they’d accept always occurred to me.”

“I see.” The way Quilliam London said it made it plain he didn’t see, but that he would let it go. “What do you know about Bu-Psych?”

Did he imagine it or did the room suddenly become tense. Maybe they had seen O’Brien’s driver let him out. Perhaps this was the point to tell them about the visit with O’Brien. Yes, this was the place. He told them.

“And he knew I’d seen you in the Warren?” asked Grace London, her voice flat.

Movius looked at her. She didn’t seem surprised. “That’s right.”

Quilliam London’s voice broke in, too eager. “We’ve a spy of our own to find.” He looked around at Navvy. “Get on that right away, Navvy.”

“Yes.” Navvy didn’t look at his father.

“Perhaps some planted information,” said Movius. “Trace it out the other end.”

“What I had in mind,” said London.

They didn’t seem very concerned , thought Movius. It’s no wonder they’ve never made any progress. All theory and no action. They need someone to pull things together. With some good organization, O’Brien would never be able to get a line on them.

He said, “And you’ve no master coordination at all?” Still it seemed almost unbelievable.

“None.”

Again Movius thought they became tense.

Quilliam London said, “The Separatist movement is contained in the massive unrest of the populace. There are other schools such as mine. I’ve heard rumors. Auckland, Berlin, Paris… But it is well for one person not to know too much. Bu-Con has sharp eyes and large ears.”

This could be pulled together into a tight organization , thought Movius. He stood up, went to the door of the boiler room, turned. “Navvy.” How different the name sounded here in the car.

“Yes, sir.” Still the air .

“Could your friends smuggle my things out of the other Warren?”

“Is it necessary?”

Was it necessary? Movius clenched, unclenched his firsts. “I’ve personal papers, reports, notes and other things I’ll be needing.”

“Right.” Another silence. Navvy pulled at his lower lip. “Needing for what?”

Movius ignored the question, returned to his chair. “How could I have remained so blind.”

“Protective coloration,” said London.

“What?”

“In a world where seeing too much is dangerous, blindness is a virtue.”

In that moment, the old man reminded Movius of his own father. Too bad they’d never met. Movius stood up, pounding a fist into the palm of his hand. No coordination. No organization. Nothing with which to strike back. He felt angry with these people. So much they could have done and they’d done absolutely nothing. “Why don’t you have an organization?”

“We’ve never had anyone with the drive and ability to lead us,” said Quilliam London.

Again that tense stillness in the room.

No one to lead them. It was as though they were asking him to take over. Movius returned to the boiler room door, looked at the dancing flame. I’d have to play it delicately, more delicately than anything I met as Liaitor. In the orange flame he seemed to see an image of Helmut Glass. It brought a quick knotting of hate. Movius turned slowly, strode back to Quilliam London. “All right, London.” His voice had the old commanding power of the Liaitor, but with overtones of violence he’d never suspected were in him. “I’ve just put the question, cast the opp and polled myself into your job.”