Frank Herbert - High-Opp

The man on Movius’ left rested his fap-gun on the counter, said, “Put away the phone, sonny.”

“If you pull that trigger, the guard in our tower will drop you in your tracks,” said the clerk. “We don’t trust you bull-con illegitimates over here in Bu-Trans.” He bent over the phone. “Get me Mr. Gerard, will you, beautiful? I’ll wait.”

“Movius is going with us,” said the man on the right.

“That may be,” said the clerk. “But I’m reporting this to the top all the same.” Again he moved the phone closer to his mouth. “Mr. Gerard?” He waited. “Mr. Gerard? This is Bailey downstairs. Daniel Movius, the new CR-14, just reported and there are a couple of bull-cons here threatening to take him away on a charge of failure to report.” A rasping sound issued from the phone. “Sure it’s a phony,” said the clerk.

The man on Movius’ right said, “Let’s go.” He took Movius’ arm, turned him around. “Out the door and don’t give us any trouble.”

The clerk tipped the phone away from his mouth. “The big boss says for you to wait.”

“We don’t take our orders from your boss,” said the one with the gun.

The clerk reached under the counter. A clanging crash sounded from the front doors as a steel barrier dropped. “You’re not going anywhere,” said the clerk. “Not unless you happened to bring an oxy-torch in your side pocket.”

The man with the gun looked to his companion. “We can’t do it in here,” he said. “They’d blast us first and ask questions later.”

“I’m thinking,” said the other man.

They mean to kill me! thought Movius. He suddenly slashed his right hand down at the gunman’s wrist, heard the gun clatter on the floor. Almost in the same motion, he brought up his left thumb, jamming it behind the other man’s ear, saw him collapse. Again he thanked fate for the years spent in the privileged gymnasiums, for Okashi’s patient teaching. The gunman was bending to pick up his weapon. Movius stepped back half a step, kicked the man alongside the head. The man sprawled forward onto his face. Movius stooped, picked up the gun, walked back to the clerk’s window. “They were going to kill me,” he said.

The clerk was speaking rapidly into the phone. “Yes. Now he has the gun… Well, I don’t really know. It happened so fast I couldn’t follow it… Yes, I’ll have him sent right up… Yes, it’s the same man for CR-14.”

Movius put the fap gun on the counter. “What do I do with this?”

“Leave it right there,” said the clerk. “I’ll give it to him when he wakes up. You’re to report to the big boss.” He leaned through the wicket, pointed to his left. “Take that elevator all the way to the top—seventy-first floor. They’re expecting you.” He shook his head. “Man! That was beautiful.”

The elevator let him out in a penthouse office, sunlight glaring into the place from too many windows. A male receptionist built like a Roman gladiator, even to the beaked nose, said “You the one snowed under the two bull-cons?”

Movius nodded.

The Roman gladiator hooked a thumb over his shoulder. “Go right in. You’re welcome.”

Venetian blinds made the inner office gloomy after the reception room. Gerard, a frail-bodied man with a bald head two sizes too large for his body, was sitting with his back to the door, speaking into a Dictaphone. As Movius entered, he put down the Dictaphone, swiveled his chair. Gerard had dishwater blue eyes with lids which gave the impression of a chicken’s nictating membrane.

“Well, so you’re…” Gerard stopped, stared intently at Movius. “I should pay more attention,” he said. “I didn’t put the name and face together.” He sat back, waved Movius to a chair across from him. “You’re the Daniel Movius who went out with Liaison a month or so ago.”

“That’s right.” Movius dropped into the chair.

Gerard wriggled in his chair and a glistening reflection of him in the polished surface of the desk matched the movement. “What happened?”

What could he tell this man? Movius wondered. Gerard was one of the top twenty-five in government and, by all the stories, a powerful and ruthless man. Movius decided on partial truth, said, “The Coor wanted my fiancée.”

“Oh?” Gerard’s voice became distant.

Movius wondered if he had overplayed his hand, cursed himself for not thinking twice. Both Quilliam London and O’Brien had said Gerard hated The Coor, though.

“The Coor, eh?” said Gerard.

“Glass didn’t realize I was tired of her and looking for a way out,” said Movius. “When he took her off my hands, I married the woman I wanted.”

Gerard leaned forward, a half-smile on his face. “What’s this about failing to report?”

Play it cautiously , thought Movius. “I’m sure I don’t know,” he said. “I waited until my number came up—I saw it last night—and reported as soon as I could.”

Gerard leaned back, pulled a phone from a recess in his desk, spoke into it. “Get me old owl guts Addington at Bu-Con.”

It’s what O’Brien and London said , thought Movius. They hate each other at the top.

Gerard stretched the muscles of his neck, wriggled in his chair. “Hello, is that you, owl guts?” he asked. “This same to you. What do you want with my new CR-14, Daniel Movius?” He waited, jerked his head up, glancing furtively at Movius. “Is that so? Well, that’s penalty service. What was the charge?” Another wait. “Can’t find it, eh? Maybe you’d better learn how to keep records over there.” Gerard wore a fierce grin. “Sure, I know where he is. He’s sitting right across from me… Sure, you can question him; right here in my office and no place else. And that’s final.” He paused listening, put a hand over the mouthpiece. “Somebody’s just telling him about his two flunkies you messed up.” Gerard turned back to the phone. “He did? Well isn’t that a shame? Why don’t you patch them up and bring them along for another go at him?” Gerard listened, said, “Goodbye, owl guts,” slammed down the receiver. He turned the fierce grin on Movius. “If you’re clean, Movius, I’ll throw everything I have behind you. I like nothing better than cobbing old owl guts. But you’d just better be clean. They won’t dare touch you if I’m behind you.”

I only hope you’re right , thought Movius. He said, “I don’t know what the hell this is all about.”

“They’re on their way over,” said O’Brien.

Movius framed a mental picture of Addington going to the elevator, riding down, getting into his car, driving the two blocks to Bu-Trans, coming up the elevator here. Almost to the second when he felt they should arrive, Gladiator ushered the visitors into Gerard’s office. Addington did look like an owl—fat, dumpy body, round face, horn-rimmed glasses and a thin, pinched nose. He was accompanied by two men. With a start, Movius recognized a murderous glare. The other was an aide carrying a bulging briefcase.

“Before we get off to any wrong starts,” said Gerard, “maybe I should remind everybody that no one gets out of this building alive without my say-so.” He rubbed a hand across his bald head.

Addington sat down with a grunt, popped a white lozenge into his mouth. “Save the drama for those who appreciate it, bulb head.” The two aides remained standing. Addington had not shown that he even knew Movius was present. Suddenly, he whirled on Movius, said, “What we really want you for is murder!”

Movius did not have to feign surprise. He looked from Addington to Gerard, back to Addington. “This is fantastic. I’ve been on my honeymoon. I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Without taking his eyes from Movius, the Bu-Con chief reached up to his aide, took the briefcase, opened it on his lap. From the case he pulled a paper, glanced at it. “On the eve of Mid-summer Festival, you, Daniel Movius, in the company with another man as yet unidentified, did accost Howell Pescado and Birch Morfon in the Richmond Warrenate. You and companion did then attack Mr. Pescado and Mr. Morfon with such violence that Mr. Pescado died. You then stole Mr. Pescado’s gun and with it did wound Benjam Rousch, who had stopped to investigate the disturbance.”