Frank Herbert - High-Opp

“Let’s go,” said Navvy. He lifted himself to his feet.

Movius sought in his mind for something else to use as a delay. Nothing. “May as well,” he said.

In the boiler room the flickering orange light gave an evil cast to the walls. It was almost unbearably hot in the room. Movius felt the perspiration start under his arms, knew he would be sticky and uncomfortable before this was finished.

Pastor Dillon was a frail-bodied man with an angular head, glazed, remote eyes, sing-song voice. “And this is the bride/groom,” he said. He held a worn black book opened in his hands. The Bible. Another history book. They’d low-opp that, too, if they dared.

Grace and her father were arguing in whispers. Movius heard her say, “It’s only a temporary…” She broke off as she saw Movius.

“I understand how things are sometimes,” said Pastor Dillon, who also had overheard her. “If you’d like, I could pre-date the license and ceremony, make it appear that the little one was…”

“Not necessary!” snapped Quilliam London. He glared at the pastor, patted Grace’s shoulder. “As you will, my dear.”

Again Movius had the impulse to back out, get another woman for the role. He kept wanting to say something all the while Pastor Dillon intoned the ancient ceremony, but he couldn’t find his voice except to respond as directed.

“God bless you and this holy union,” said Pastor Dillon in his strange sing-song. “May He watch over you and ever keep you in His holy grace… Amen.”

Grace , thought Movius. Holy Grace . He felt a decidedly unholy impulse to comment on this, but the impulse was stifled when he turned and saw two tears running down her cheeks.

“Kiss her,” said Pastor Dillon.

“Wha… what?”

“Kiss her. It’s customary.”

London nodded for him. The hunter eyes had lost some of their directness. Stiffly, Movius took Grace in his arms, kissed her lips, surprised at the salt taste of tears. It was unlike any other kiss of his experience—tremulous, haunting.

Pastor Dillon gave a final blessing, turned, labored up the stairs at the end of the boiler room. They heard a door open, close.

“Well,” said Movius.

London took his daughter’s arm. “Good night.”

Grace did not look at him.

Father and daughter followed the route taken by the pastor, leaving Navvy and Movius in the baleful orange light of the boiler room. It had never more reminded him of the Biblical hell. Low-opp that, too! he thought.

Movius found himself unaccountably angry with Navvy. He said, “I can find my way back alone. Go on with them!”

Navvy looked at him, shrugged, went up the stairs.

The hidden room was a dank, cold place after the boiler room. Movius turned off the light, threw himself onto the cot. The memory of Grace’s low voice answering Pastor Dillon, the frightened look on her face, the tears, the tremulous kiss, all kept intruding on his other thoughts. He sat up, undressed in the dark, crawled between the blankets, feeling somehow cheated.

In the days that followed, Movius found himself often brought up sharp as he looked at Grace. That’s my wife! Great Gallup!

And Grace, when she saw him looking at her this way, blushed, went more quickly about her work.

There wasn’t much time for personal thoughts, though. More cells were being organized, more recorded speeches made. The local organization passed the sixteen thousand mark.

In one month, nine of Movius’ couriers were caught, but they destroyed their packages with their incendiaries, killed themselves with a quick poison in a false tooth.

Helmut Glass, his square face set in an angry frown, paced his office atop the Com-Burs Building. It was a sybarite’s office—soft carpets, chairs with deep cushions, a bar in the corner, dark paneling. An aroma of some wood perfume mingled in the air with the smoky residue of rare tobacco.

Across from Glass, on a coffee-brown leather couch, sat Loren Addington, director of the Bureau of Control. A fat man with puffy, sadistic eyes which he hid behind thick lenses. A red toupee, obvious in its false youthfulness, replaced his lost hair.

Beside Addington sat Rafe Newton, whose youth fitted the pale reddish cast of his hair. Someday he might have eyes like his uncle, Helmut Glass—hard and unforgiving—and a fat body like his fifth cousin, Loren Addington. Now he had the look of a hungry wolf waiting for one of his pack mates to stumble.

“It’s the biggest movement we’ve ever encountered,” said Glass. He dropped into the chair at his desk. “And we don’t have a single line into it. I can sense the size of it. Those couriers. Men have to be strongly indoctrinated to give up their lives.” He looked up into Addington’s owlish eyes. “What about the packages they carried?”

Addington fumbled in his pocket, pulled out a pill which he popped into his mouth. “They appear to have been tri-di reels, but there wasn’t enough left to reconstruct.”

“Where’d they get the incendiaries?” demanded Glass.

“I don’t know.” Addington chewed placidly on his pill.

“You don’t know.” Glass mimicked Addington’s tone. The fat man did not change expression. “Do you know anything?”

Addington swallowed the pill. “A rumor.”

“What, what is it?”

“You call Movius?”

Glass scowled. “And there’s another loose end. You haven’t found him yet.” He seemed at the breaking point of exasperation.

“There’s a rumor going around the Warrens that he’s the new boss of the Sep movement.”

“Well, trace the rumor,” said Glass.

“Haven’t had any luck.”

Glass turned to Newton. “What about you, Rafe?”

Newton’s eyes took on a glaze of familial cordiality. “I’ve been too busy working on Gerard.”

“I believe we’d better hold off on Gerard,” said Glass. “Let it ride for awhile and concentrate on the Seps. Make a few surprise raids at random. Shake down the Warrens. Haul in some people for special questioning. I don’t think we have much…”

“But I’m almost ready to move on Gerard,” said Newton. His eyes had regained some of their wolfish look.

“Oh? How close?”

“Another two weeks. We’re working on his male secretary now.”

“Too long,” said Glass. He turned back to Addington, missed the quick light of anger in Newton’s eyes. “I want this thing smashed. Don’t bother checking that rumor about Movius. Just find him and dump him in the river. And don’t take…”

A door at the end of the office opened. Cecelia Lang stood in the doorway. She wore a pair of shimmering black Top Rank coveralls cut to display her figure. “Helmut,” she said, her voice keyed to the tone she knew made Glass squirm.

“Just a few minutes,” said Glass.

“But you said you wouldn’t be long.”

Newton’s lips twitched into a smile, quickly erased.

“It’ll just be a few seconds now,” said Glass.

Cecelia waited in the doorway.

Glass turned back to the two men on the couch. “Find that man and get rid of him.” He stood up, strode toward Cecelia.

“I don’t like to be kept waiting,” said Cecelia, taking his arm.

“I know you don’t dear,” said The Coor. “I’m sorry, but it was some important business. Now let’s go to…”

They passed out of sight and hearing. Newton turned a grin on fifth cousin Loren Addington, sobered when he received no response.

On the forty-seventh day following his low-opp, Movius received orders to report to Bu-Trans. The orders came out in the District Circular without any special notice attached to them.