Frank Herbert - High-Opp

“And the new wife?”

“Leave her alone until you get rid of Movius. But pick up her father and the brother. The brother used to drive for Movius. That must be where he met the woman.”

Newton lowered his eyes. “The father and brother have disappeared.”

Glass lost his temper. “People can’t just disappear! Find them! You hear me? Drag in the wife…”

“I thought you said to leave her alone?” Newton sounded like a small boy objecting to a reprimand.

The Coor calmed himself, tightened his lips into a thin line. “So I did. Let that stand.”

“Okay, but…”

“Drag her in for questioning after you get Movius. Get your information.” Glass raised his voice to a roar. “And don’t let him slip through your fingers again!”

The apartment was higher on the hill than the Third Rank quarters had occupied before the low-opp. There was a feeling of silence, isolation in the new apartment never found in a Warren. And space. No sensation of the walls creeping closer with each passing day. The china clinked with a more refined tone. The blankets rustled more softly. Workers spoke in hushed undertones.

Grace came out of the bedroom with its twin beds and subtly richer furnishings. She scuffed a toe against the thick pile of the living room rug. Movius was sitting in one of the deep chairs looking out the floor-to-ceiling windows at the city.

“There’s a kitchen,” she said. “A dining room and a private kitchen-service tube if we want the regular meals. And the bathroom must be ten feet square. It has a tub.” She sat down on the arm of Movius’ chair.

“The privileges of the High-Opp,” said Movius. “There’s another one, too. We have a master scrambler on the roof. No spy beams can look in on the High-Opp.” He glanced up at her. “We don’t have to pretend we’re making love here. We can talk right out.”

She blushed.

“Where did you learn to shoot a fap gun?” he demanded.

She slipped from the chair arm, stood up, walked away from him. “My father taught me.”

“Your father has never…” He broke off, wondering if that were true.

She whirled on him. “My mother was killed in the educator riots! My father fought his way out with a stolen gun to save us! He still has it!”

So Grace had lost her mother the way he’d lost his. How the rioters had enjoyed killing the women, the breeders. He said, “I’m sorry. My mother got it the same way. I never knew her.” His voice had flat undertones.

“They didn’t tell me,” she said.

“They? Who are they?”

“I mean my father.”

The old bean pole? he thought. He said, “How would your father know?”

“He made inquiries.”

“Oh.”

So they had made inquiries. He let the silence grow cold between them. Grace returned to the arm of his chair.

“Why is Gerard putting an untried man into a tough spot?” he asked.

“You’re not exactly untried,” she said. “He has your Sorter record and he saw you in action today. Remember that.”

“He may be in a shakier position than he lets on,” said Movius. “He mentioned two attempts on his life.” He lifted himself from the chair, paced across the room and back, clenching and unclenching his fists. “But this is like grabbing at straws.”

She stood, walked to the window, turned around, silhouetted against the view of the city, her face in shadow. “Dan, please be careful.”

Her words touched off a flash of anger in his. She would have to go all female on him at a time like this. “Mind your own business!” he snapped.

Her eyes widened, she turned, ran into the bedroom. He heard the bathroom door slam, water turned on full force. Even above the noise of the water he could hear her sobs.

He flung himself into the chair and stared at nothing. And why do I keep thinking about the helpless way she looked at me today, standing there in Gerard’s office in that blanket? He gritted his teeth. And why did I get so angry because another man saw Grace unclothed? An isolated fragment of the wedding ceremony flitted through his mind, “…to cherish and to protect…”

Grace returned, stood in the doorway. Movius thrust his hands into his pockets to still their restless movements.

“Do we have any sleeping pills?” she asked. Her voice gave only a faint hint of the tears.

“I don’t know. Why?”

“I haven’t been sleeping well lately. There are none in the bathroom.”

“High-Opp apartments should come equipped with sleeping tablets,” he said. “Send out for some. Phone’s over there in the hall.”

“Would you go down to the servo-mat in the lobby and get me some?” she asked. “It would be quicker.”

The request coincided with his feelings. He felt he had to get away from the apartment, be by himself to think. He couldn’t think with her standing there staring at him.

“I’ll get them,” he said. He got to his feet, walked past her to the hall door without looking at her.

She stopped him at the door. “Dan.”

He waited, hand on the knob. “Yes?”

“Thank you for saving me from Bu-Con. I know it would have been much simpler just to let them have me.”

“I was lucky.” Then he thought, Lucky! Anyone but that fat hypochondriac Addington would have pulled a gun first and called for a showdown.

He went out into the hall. An empty elevator stood open at his level. He stepped inside, punched for the lobby. The door closed and there was a sharp hissing sound. Instead of going down, the elevator surged upward. Movius punched the DOWN button a second time, noticed a strange tang in the air. He sniffed at it, felt the darkness sweet over him. “The Coor!” he thought. “Of all the dumb…”

“We must give him the idea that Bu-Psych is omnipotent,” said O’Brien, leaning back in his chair, steepling his fingers before his mouth. “He must grow to feel that we know every move he makes.” O’Brien lowered his hands, leaned forward.

Grace stood at the end of the table, back to the chart with the single red line. The line had been carried perhaps an inch farther along its journey, rising slightly.

“I understand,” she said. “It’s the only way you can control him”

“I wanted a chance to talk to you, anyway,” said O’Brien. He leaned back, pressed his fingers against his greying temples. “I learned today that you’ve been asking questions of one of our consultants.”

She turned her profile to him, stared at the chart on the other wall.

O’Brien leaned forward. “Why did you ask what kind of a husband a man with a high loyalty index makes?”

“I was curious.” Her tone was defiant.

“And your curiosity was satisfied? You found out they make extremely devoted husbands.” He slapped his hand against the table top to startle her. “Grace! If you were called upon to eliminate him today, what would you do?”

She paled. “Maybe you’d better get somebody else.”

“We can’t. We don’t dare arouse his suspicions.”

“Then I’d have to… to do it,” she said, her voice low. She turned, looked at O’Brien. “Nate, what is the loyalty index, really?”

“I don’t know if I can answer that question in simple terms,” he said. “Essentially, though, I guess you could say it measures the feeling a person has for the welfare of others.”

She nodded. “Where is he?”

“Let’s not get sentimental,” said O’Brien. “He’s under hypnos now, being examined. We want to know how he feels toward you.” O’Brien leaned back.

Her hands began to tremble and she clasped them tightly together. “He’s very resourceful,” she said.