Frank Herbert - High-Opp

The blood flushed into Movius’ face. “You mean that’s the chance I take!”

“Of course, of course,” said London. “But Gerard does have a big organization.”

“Why would he want to protect me?”

“He needs you.”

Movius’ voice showed scorn. “Like he needs an extra car and driver.”

London ignored the bitter tone. “The Coor and Gerard are about ready for a showdown on the CR-14 issue and The Coor holds the edge right now. Gerard needs help.”

“And you think I fit Gerard’s requirements?”

“I know you do. I’ve seen your Sorter card. There’s a deviation of .00001 from the requirements and they were tough.” London pursed his lips. “High loyalty index, resourcefulness, adaptability, knowledge of the government, no attachments to anyone high in the government…”

“Why couldn’t I stay in hiding, organize from here?” Movius walked to the corner of the room and back. “That seems the most logical…”

“It’s not.” London faced him from the doorway. “If Glass succeeds in taking over Bu-Trans, he’ll have the strength to capture every other department of the government. Our enemy will no longer be divided and they will crack down on the Seps all over the world.”

“So I have to save Gerard’s neck to save our necks, is that it?”

“That’s it. We need a divided government. We need the time to gain strength.”

“Even so…”

“This is the way things are,” said London.

“I meant about the wife,” said Movius. “Is that necessary?”

“I believe so. You have to present a good front to Gerard.”

Movius shrugged. “Well, where do I find a wife?”

“We thought you might have some woman friend.”

Movius thought of his friends. A pack of averted faces! All except Phil Henry. He shook his head. “I know one man I think I could trust. The only woman friend I had is probably sleeping with The Coor right now.” He clenched his fists, thrust them into his pockets.

“Miss Lang?”

Movius stared at the wall. “Yes.”

“No others?”

“None I could trust.”

They were silent while Movius clenched and unclenched his fists until the muscles pained him. “Maybe there’s someone in your classes,” he said. “It doesn’t have to be a real marriage.”

“It has to be convincing, though,” said London. He lifted the curtain at the doorway, dropped it. “I’ll see what I can do.”

“We’ve another problem,” said Movius. “You know what Glass will do first. He’ll have my number called on the next minor opp. When I go out to register, his men will bottle off the area and comb it. If I don’t go out, they sentence me to penalty service the minute I show my face.”

“We thought of that,” said London. “One of the things we do this morning is make a rubber stamp of your thumbprint. Somebody we trust will report you in miles from here. We’ll scatter your registrations until they think you have wings.”

Movius paced across the room and back. “That should work.” He stopped, looked up at London. “I want to start organizing. We should put out an appeal for recruits, get cell meetings.”

London pointed to a stack of boxes against the back wall of the room. “There’s a duplicator in there somewhere. Grace knows how to operate it. You start drafting the appeal. I’ll send Grace down with our skunk and EMASI! plate.”

“Every Man A Separate Individual,” said Movius.

“You’ll make a good Separatist yet,” said London.

Movius shook his head. “You have it wrong. I’m already a Sep. I’ll do the making of Seps. Send Grace along.”

London’s eyes held an odd, speculative light. “I wonder if we made the right choice?” he said.

“Choice of what?”

“Nothing,” said London. “I was thinking out loud.”

O’Brien stared at the pigeons on the ledge, wishing they’d stop their senseless cooing and take off to wherever it was they went in the afternoons. Without turning, he said, “What’s he doing now?” He turned. “He’s had a week to get things moving.”

Quilliam London turned away from the multi-colored wall chart. “He’s back in his room with Janus Peterson and about a dozen others. He’s appointing cell chiefs. He’s named Janus…”

“Cells?” O’Brien glanced sharply at London. “I had no idea Movius read history.”

“His father taught it before it was low-opped.”

“Oh, yes. Slipped my mind for a moment. Of course he’d know history. I’m letting myself get too nervous. Must quiet down.” O’Brien tugged at his ear.

“He and Grace have put together a strong appeal for recruits,” said London. “It’s really a masterpiece. It picks up and magnifies every one of the little things you hear the LP’s griping about.”

O’Brien took his chair at the end of the table, sat down. “What about the marriage?”

London rubbed a finger against his cheek. “Grace is willing. She’ll be along in a…”

The door opened; Grace slipped in, sank into a chair beside her father. “He’s a slave driver,” she said. “But he certainly knows how to get things going.” She was breathing rapidly as though she had been running.

“We were just talking about the marriage idea,” said O’Brien. “It’d be a good thing to have a trusted operative such as yourself near him all the time. And a platonic alliance such as this wouldn’t…”

Grace stood up, went to the window and appeared to be watching the pigeons. She said, “I think…” broke off and put a hand to the glass in front of her.

“Not backing out are you?” asked O’Brien.

She turned, looked from O’Brien to her father. “Father, I…”

London frowned. “Are you maybe getting to like him a little too much?”

“Of course not!” She turned back to the window.

“I was just asking,” said London. “After all, you have been seeing a great deal of him these past few days and the man is charming.”

“It’s just so cold-blooded,” said Grace, addressing the window.

O’Brien gave his ear a particularly sharp tug. “Revolution is always cold-blooded.”

“I suppose so.” She looked at her hands, rubbed a finger against the glass. “Well, if we’re going to do it, let’s get it over with.” She turned, looked at O’Brien. “Can you get the marriage registry in so it won’t be found until we need it?”

“All taken care of,” said O’Brien.

“Maybe we’d better get someone else,” said London.

Grace shook her head. “No. Nathan is right. I’m the obvious one for the job.”

“But…”

“No buts , Father. It was your idea, remember?”

“I was afraid you’d remind me of that.”

It was altogether unlike what Movius had imagined his wedding ceremony would be. Navvy came for him at a quarter past seven in the cell-like room off the tunnel.

“Pastor Dillon had to wait until after his regular rounds before he could come,” said Navvy. He sat down on the cot, slapped his knee.

Movius almost told him to call it off. He felt a sudden weariness, realized he’d been working steadily since five that morning. So damned much to do, so many people to see and screen. Those tri-di recordings to make and ship off overseas and to the rest of the country.

“You ready?” asked Navvy. He looked up at Movius, an impersonal, scanning look that made Movius uncomfortable.

“Just a minute.” He went back to the washroom, washed ink stains off his hands. Again he wondered if it wouldn’t be simpler to smuggle him onto one of the skytrains. Personal appearances at the new organizations were much more effective. People liked to see a man before accepting him as a leader. The tri-di recordings were good, though, especially when magnified. Movius dried his hands, returned to Navvy.