Frank Herbert - High-Opp

“You have your information,” said Movius. “Next time contact me in a more conventional manner. Otherwise I might not be as cooperative.” He strode around the table, stopped beside O’Brien. “Have a car ready for me downstairs.” The mood of perversity returned. “My wife will be worried. I don’t want her worrying too much… in her condition.”

O’Brien took three deep breaths. “See that you keep your reports complete and accurate.” His voice exposed a mood of petulance quickly masked. “We need the information to predict the exact moment of crisis.”

“Don’t you know already?”

“We think it will coincide with The Coor’s Fall poll.”

Movius smiled. “Ah, the big holiday when all we have to do is bind our chains more tightly.”

“We’re almost certain of it,” said O’Brien.

“And I’m part of your omnipotence,” said Movius.

A cold smile touched O’Brien’s lips. “That is correct.”

“Who’s spying on me?” asked Movius.

“You’d never in a million years guess.”

Movius shrugged.

“We’ll contact you,” said O’Brien, “the next time we need some information.”

“You’re so thoughtful,” said Movius.

Grace was pacing the floor when he arrived. “Where have you been?” she demanded. “I’ve been frantic!”

Her worry seemed natural, but there was a false note in it somewhere, as though she were worried about something else. He said, “Sit down.”

She went to a chair by the window, sank into it. Movius took a chair opposite her.

Was Grace the spy? It would be logical. But then again…

He leaned forward, told her about the visit with O’Brien, omitting the barb with which he had stung the Bu-Psych chief.

Grace clenched her hands tightly in her lap. “He’s a cruel and callous man.”

“You’ve met him?”

She chewed her lower lip. “I’ve heard about him.”

The pause before she spoke, her nervousness. She was obviously lying. Movius said, “O’Brien thinks…”

The phone in the hall rang once. Grace jumped to her feet, ran to the phone. “Hello.”

Movius turned, watched her, saw Grace glance his direction.

“I can’t,” she said. “It’s impossible.” She listened. “Why, that’s not true! It’s just not true! We haven’t…” Again she listened. “I don’t know why… I told you I can’t do it and that’s final!” She slammed the phone into its cradle, strode back to her chair, sat down. Her lips were compressed and she was shivering.

“Who was that?”

She glanced at him, suddenly turned to face him with that stare he found so uncomfortable. “That was my father.”

Something had upset old Quilliam. Movius said, “What did he want?”

“To see me.” Her eyes remained unwavering.

“Why did he want to see you?”

“He’s heard I was pregnant.”

A sharply indrawn breath was Movius’ first reaction. He exhaled slowly, a stillness coming over him. It was less than an hour since he’d shocked O’Brien with that claim. London! The old man was the spy! He was the kind—a calculating one like O’Brien. All logic and no human feelings. A man with no instincts to trust. He’d pushed them so far under. The pattern began to take shape. Movius looked at Grace. She had pulled back into her chair, was avoiding his eyes. Movius felt a wave of pity for Grace. She was the spy in his house, but he couldn’t find it in him to criticize her for it. Her tears and unhappiness showed clearly how her sympathies were torn. The pity became hate for Quilliam London. Imagine a father using his own daughter as a common pawn in such a game! The cold brutality of it left him numb.

“What are you thinking?” asked Grace.

Every mannerism betrayed her. She was in love with the man she was committed to betray. Again Movius felt the pity for her. He gave a short, mirthless laugh, stood up, went into the bedroom. The city was a dull glow of lights beyond the terrace.

Grace followed him, turned on the bedroom lights.

So it was Grace, he thought. And Navvy, too. The whole damned family! He said, “Dress in the bathroom. I’ll turn my back while you get in bed.”

She went to the closet, pulled out a nightgown. “Our things came while you were out. There were some extras with a card from Mr. Gerard.”

“He’s taking very good care of us,” said Movius. “We’re so valuable to him.” He couldn’t mask the bitterness in his voice.

She remained silent, went into the bathroom.

Movius slipped out of his clothes and into bed, turned his face to the wall. Such a strange relationship they had. He wondered if he shouldn’t end it immediately, discarded that idea, telling himself it was because such a move would reveal his knowledge. He heard the door open, waited for Grace to get into bed. Her voice startled him, coming from right above him. “Dan, I’m frightened.”

He turned over, saw her standing beside his bed in a thin nightgown, the almost girlish curves outlined against the lights behind her.

She saw the direction of his gaze, took an involuntary step backward, then shrugged. “We’re married,” she said. “I guess it doesn’t really matter.” She sat on the edge of his bed, looked toward the windows, hands clasped in her lap.

Movius suddenly realized she had a nice profile. Sweet. Her breasts were fuller than he had thought, rising and falling gently with her breathing.

“I think it was the brutality of those men who searched me.” She twisted her hands in her lap. “And the way you reacted. Violence! It leaves me with a sick feeling, disgusted.”

Poor Grace, he thought. She was in way over her head and couldn’t see which direction to turn. So defenseless. He wanted to reach out, pat her shoulder, comfort her. The poor kid. Somehow he couldn’t do it. That damned callous Quilliam! She stood up, went to her own bed, crawled under the covers, lay back. There was something elfin about her, he thought. Yes, sweet was the word. Sweet and elfin.

“If I could make it to be some other way, I would,” he said. He reached up to the switch on the wall over his head, preparing to turn off the light. A glance at Grace showed the tears running down her cheeks. He clicked the switch, lay back in the darkness.

“You know, don’t you?” she asked, her voice remote.

Had she realized her position is no longer secret? he wondered. “Know what?” he asked.

“That I love you.” The voice so small, so faint.

His feeling was consternation. He didn’t know what to say, waited, feeling like a coward and a fool.

“I understand how it is,” she said. “I’ll hold to our bargain. You can have me any way you want, Dan.”

“Thanks,” he said and could have bitten off his tongue the instant he’d spoken. Sure, thanks for giving me your life, everything you have. Thanks for being so brave in the giving. Sorry it leaves you so poor, old thing. Can’t be helped, I guess.

A dry sob came from Grace’s direction.

This could be even more complex, he thought. She loves me, yet she has to report to her father, who reports to O’Brien. So she offers herself to me to make it up, to ease her conscious. But that was too complicated; that was O’Brien’s type of thinking.

“I don’t know what to say,” he said.

“I understand. I know you don’t love me.”

“I don’t know how I feel. I thought all I had room for was hate. I guess I’m still numb inside.”

He was surprised to find this was true.

Through the silence he could hear her uneven breathing. Suddenly, he realized how it must be for a woman like her—something tossed about by the cold logic of men. He remembered that Quilliam London knew she was supposed to be pregnant. And the old man’s first thought had not been of his daughter’s welfare. No. It had been about his precious plans. What made men like Quilliam London? Maybe it was fighting a system they hated and always losing. Or, never quite winning.