Frank Herbert - High-Opp

Movius stood in the hidden room, the paper in his hands. “They want to bring me out in the open and knock me over,” he said. “I’m sure of it.”

Grace, working with the duplicator on the table they had installed in a corner of the room, missed catching a card as the machine disgorged it. The other cards piled up, jamming, until she shut down the machine.

Quilliam London, who always seemed to make it a point to be present when Grace was in the room, sat on Movius’ cot, writing in a notebook. “We’ve made good preparations, he said. “Gerard has heard reports about you which make him practically drool. You’re the answer to his dreams.”

Movius balled the District Circular into a crumpled wad, threw it into the corner.

“It’s not the ALP,” said Quilliam. “It’s Bu-Trans.”

“Target practice for The Coor’s thuggees,” said Movius.

“It’s early yet,” said Quilliam London. “You and Grace had better go down to District Housing and ask for quarters.”

Movius stared at him. “Why, I hadn’t…”

“You’ll have to make it look good,” said London. “They won’t be expecting you to come right out there tonight.” There was a touch of grimness at the corners of his lean mouth. “The honeymoon is over.”

The transport whined to a stop at the corner, waited while the morning’s human cargo jostled and pushed abroad, a mood of impatient anger about them. The standard aroma of the standard breakfast puffed out on their breaths. Another LP, Daniel Movius, allowed himself to be crushed into the transport, found a space as far back as he could push. Furtive glances at his companions showed nothing he could mark as unusual. He could only assume that Bu-Con and The Coor had not had men watching District Housing, that they had not expected a hunted man to come out openly and register.

It had been a strange experience at District Housing. The clerk, with that nervous officiousness of those with petty powers, had grumbled about his paper work, assigned them quarters half a mile from Quilliam London’s apartment. Grace had held Movius’ arm as they’d stood there. When they were back in the street, she’d said, “We’d better go out there now. Get off the streets.”

It was a standard Warren apartment—F5MC—floor 5, married couple. Two rooms nine by ten, double bed, sitting room with couch and chair, standard wall TV, collapsible table and a smoking stand. The bathroom was four by four, closet five by four. More space for the wedded; marriage had to have some advantages.

Movius tested the springs on the couch. “It’ll do. You take the bedroom.”

Grace opened the door between the rooms, suddenly fled into the bedroom. Movius caught a fleeting glimpse of her contorted face; he jumped up, followed. “What’s wrong?”

She was drying her eyes on a corner of a blanket. “Nothing.”

“Well, it’s obviously something.”

“I guess it’s just that this is so different from what I’d imagined.” She looked around her with an empty expression.

Movius found himself remembering the wedding ceremony, his desperate feeling of wrongness. “I’m sorry. I guess there are some things we didn’t consider.”

“Such as?” She sniffled.

“Human feelings maybe.” He shrugged. “But it can’t be helped.” He felt like an executive telling his secretary he was sorry she couldn’t have the night off but there was all this work to do. He remembered all the hours Grace had worked beside him, ignoring obvious fatigue. Movius walked into the bedroom, patted her shoulder, “Believe me, if there was some other way…”

She pulled away and suddenly, without warning, turned on him, eyes glittering with tears. “Of course there’s no other way as long as you’re filled with hate for that egotistical drive for revenge.” She fell silent, put a hand to her mouth. “I’m sorry. I didn’t…”

Again he had that feeling of being cheated, of missing something. Rather stiffly, he said, “I thought it was what you wanted, too.”

Grace looked at the floor, turned her back on him. “Yes, of course.”

He stepped closer, disturbed, put his hands on her shoulders. Her hair gave off a faint fragrance. The memory of that tremulous kiss came back to him. She leaned back slightly against his hands, just a faint pressure. It was enough. He had an abrupt, glaring touch of insight, thought, Great Roper! She’s in love with me! The thought made him drop his hands, pull away. There she was, vital certainly, but really on the plain side, much too thing-featured and intense, like the ones he saw sitting in the parks on festival days, listening to ancient music. The wrong kind of fire inside to attract him. It was tragic when he thought about it.

He said, “These aren’t times for anything but hate.”

She sighed. “No. I guess not.”

They had gone to their separate rooms, Movius to twist and turn on the too-short couch, tortured by one word in Grace’s accusation— egotistical . He thought, All I want is a clean government for everyone. And far back in his mind something sniggered and said, “With you at the top!”

The transport turned on the parkway—Government Avenue—began making frequent stops to disgorge writhing blobs of workers. Movius saw his stop coming, worked his way forward, was squeezed out with the rest into the chill morning air.

There was the building: Bu-Trans. A towering concrete hive, its tiled floors clicking to purposeful feet. A container for efficient scurrying hither and yon, papers clutched in hands. Machines clacking and buzzing, pneumo-tubes whacking out their cartridges with more bits of paper. A sum total of officiousness.

Movius joined the inbound stream of workers, broke away in the cavernous lobby to go to the window labeled STARTING CLERK. The clerk’s tired eyes peered out of a steel wicket. “Name and number?”

“Daniel Movius, 662843509, LP.”

The clerk turned to check the records. Movius leaned on the counter to wait, became conscious of two men, one standing on either side of him. Something hard pressed against his left side. He looked down, saw a fap gun in the hand of the man on his left.

“Daniel Movius?” asked the one of the right.

“Yes.” Movius looked at the man, mind churning. This was what he had feared. He said, “Why?”

“We’ll ask the questions.” The man began patting Movius’ pockets, stooped to feel along his legs. Presently, he stood up, said, “He’s not carrying it.”

The pressure was removed from Movius’ left side.

“Where’ve you been, Movius?” asked the man on the right.

“With my wife,” said Movius, forcing his voice to remain even and questioning. “We’ve been on our honeymoon. I…”

The starting clerk returned to the window. “You report to Department CR-14.” He suddenly noticed the two men beside Movius. “You must take your places in line,” he said. “We serve everybody in his proper turn.”

The man on the right flashed a badge and identification card. “Bu-Con,” he said. “This man is a fugitive from work report.”

The clerk gave a glance to the badge and card, glanced down to papers he held in his hand. “I don’t see how that can be. I have his work order here in my hand. It came through yesterday. He’s reporting well within the forty-eight-hour limit.” The clerk reached out, grasped Movius’ thumb, held thumb and papers under the facsimile-eye on his counter. “Same man.”

“We’ll tell you if it’s the same man or not,” said the one on Movius’ right.

The clerk leaned forward, said, “Look, bull-con, I’ve identified this man as one assigned to CR-14. I’m going to call them upstairs and report what’s going on.” He pulled a phone from beneath the counter, put it to his ear.