Frank Herbert - High-Opp

O’Brien looked at her hands, the knuckles so white where she clasped them. He tugged at an ear. “Yes. Now we want to know how he operates in CR-14. He knows Newton will be out to kill him as he did the other man Gerard sent down. He also knows that Gerard’s threat may not keep Addington and The Coor away.”

She turned a piercing stare upon him. “What do you think Dan will do?”

O’Brien glanced at the red line on the chart. “Our treatment has been pretty drastic. He has been thrown into a tough problem situation. My guess is he’ll show his ruthless side. He’ll stamp on Newton the way he’d stamp on an insect. Addington and The Coor, too, given the chance. It’s a delicate situation, but one calculated to win Gerard’s trust if he succeeds. That’s what Gerard would like to do to his enemies—stamp on them—if he dared. I believe Gerard is taken in by the loyalty index. He thinks he has won Movius’ loyalty. Gerard doesn’t know too much about the variants on the index.”

“What about my father?” she asked. “Does he have a ruthless side, too?”

“All revolutionaries have a ruthless side,” he said. “They have to be practical. That means doing the thing that is necessary. Your father and brother had to go into hiding today. We had planned on it.”

“Hiding?”

“You’ve been recognized as Mrs. Movius,” said O’Brien. “Your relations, therefore, know something. They might be… uh, persuaded to reveal what they know.”

Grace sighed, looked down at her hands.

“You have been remembering that you are a woman,” said O’Brien. “You must put that memory aside. You are a Bu-Psych operative. When this is all over, the crisis past, you can find some nice young man…”

He watched, calculatingly, as Grace turned away, went to the door, opened it slowly. She kept her face averted as she spoke. “I’ll leave now if you don’t mind. We can’t let him see me here when you bring him out.”

“Of course.”

She closed the door behind her.

O’Brien jerked to his feet, stood at the window, staring out over the city where lights were beginning to spring alive in the dusk. “Such weak tools,” he whispered. “Put a little strain on one and it bends out of shape.”

It was the same hard pallet in the same red-walled cell. Movius sat up, put his feet over the edge. What was O’Brien trying to prove? Something Quilliam London had said came back to Movius: “Find out what the other man wants.” He’d used that idea once before this day—on Gerard. All right, what did O’Brien want? Why this method of bringing him in? To make him believe that Bu-Psych was omnipotent, maybe that they could pick him up any time. But that could mean that underneath it all O’Brien was unsure. The man who knows his own strength doesn’t stand around flexing his muscles. The thought gave him confidence. He got to his feet, waited until the end door opened, strode to meet O’Brien as the Bu-Psych chief entered.

“Let’s talk outside,” said Movius. “Your red walls have lost their potency.”

O’Brien hesitated for the briefest instant. “Of course.” He tossed a canvas chair onto the pallet, turned and led the way out of the cell. “My office is over here.” He opened the door for Movius, followed him into the room of the charts.

Movius glanced swiftly around the room, saw the chair he knew must be O’Brien’s at the end of the table, strode to it, sat down. O’Brien appeared not to notice.

“I wanted to hear from your own lips what happened with Warren Gerard today,” said O’Brien. He lowered himself into the chair usually occupied by Quilliam London, unconsciously assumed London’s pose of reserved superiority.

From my own lips , thought Movius. That could mean he already has heard the story. From who? Addington? Gerard? The gladiator? One of Addington’s men? Grace? But she was back at the apartment. He glanced at the windows. Nearly dark. He had entered the elevator shortly after noon. Grace could have been here. Why had they kept him unconscious so long?

“Your report is the price of your continued freedom,” said O’Brien. “Let’s have the story.”

Movius sat back. The story? All right. A bare recounting . He held out no essential details, watched the unmoving way O’Brien accepted the information. Yes, he had heard it before. Movius finished, waited.

O’Brien said, “How is your marriage with Grace London coming?”

Now why would O’Brien be interested in his married life? Out of some perverse impulse, Movius said, “We’re expecting our first baby in the Spring.”

He hadn’t expected the reaction from O’Brien. The Bu-Psych chief jerked to attention, took two deep breaths, suddenly jumped to his feet. “I just thought of something,” he said and dashed out of the room.

That hit him, thought Movius. Why?

In a moment, O’Brien returned, sat down, wiped his forehead with a handkerchief. “Important business I forgot to attend to,” he said lamely.

“Let me ask a question,” said Movius. “The last time I was here you spoke about a crisis. What is this crisis?”

O’Brien waited a full minute before answering, head lowered, staring upward at Movius.

I hit him hard with that remark about Grace, thought Movius. But why? What difference could it make to him?

O’Brien stirred in his chair, rubbed the greying temples with the tips of his fingers. “Our civilization is nearing a catastrophic crisis.” He nodded toward the side wall chart with its multi-colored lines. “There’s the course of history as far back as we know it. Civilizations arose and fell. But we’ve learned something—their crises were predictable from various indications. We have charted these indications and know we are approaching such a crisis. Our work indicates it will be of such a nature that it could leave nothing upon which to build a new civilization.”

Movius thought of the stirrings and rumblings in the Warrens, of the old people and their warnings of terrible omens. He multiplied what he had seen by the world’s LP population, the reports of his own Sep couriers. This brought another thought: strange that O’Brien had not asked about the Sep movement. The indications were that he still had his spy in the Seps. Navvy hadn’t reported success in his search. Could it be Navvy? He thought about this, returned to O’Brien’s warning. He said, “The crisis would leave no one alive?”

“Certainly there would be people left alive.” O’Brien’s tone said it was a foolish question. “The whole population never participates in a revolution.”

“Civilizations aren’t built by charts on walls,” said Movius. “People build civilizations.”

O’Brien frowned. “But what kind of a civilization? One that would not profit from our mistakes, from our lessons. We seek to raise humanity above its past heights.”

A story from one of his father’s books came back to Movius. A Greek mythological hero, Antaeus, had gained his strength from touching the earth. He said, “You fancy yourself as Hercules and the people as Antaeus. You should remember what happened to Antaeus when he stayed too long from his source of strength.”

The classical reference brought a sharp look of questioning from O’Brien. “You are a philosopher.”

“A civilization without your kind of people might take a new and better course,” said Movius.

O’Brien’s eyes narrowed to slits; he sat back, lowered his chin.

Movius looked past O’Brien to the other chart, noted the single red line moving upward to the right. Without being told, he suddenly realized that single line had something to do with his life. It was a flash of prescience. With the thought, he knew he must not let O’Brien suspect the chart’s secret was known. Movius pushed himself up from the chair. I’m important to him in some way, he thought. But what way? It’s not as a spy. That’s a cover for something else. And Grace is important to him, too. How?