Frank Herbert - High-Opp

The red-haired man turned away from the map, came up to Movius. “Are you Movius?” A colorless voice. The narrow-set eyes stared at Movius’ lapel.

You shifty-eyed low-opp, thought Movius. You know who I am. He said, “That’s right.”

“I’m Newton.” The eyes came up, flicked over Movius’ face, back to the lapel. “I run this department. I’ll explain your duties later.” He hooked a thumb over his shoulder toward a cubbyhole near the end. “Your office is number five. Somebody should’ve told you.”

Movius felt tension rising in the room.

Newton took his arm. “Here, I’ll show you the place and where things are.” He steered Movius across the room.

Yes, there was tension in the room. The two at the map had stopped talking. Movius glanced back. They had turned and were watching his progress toward the little office, Movius felt every sense in his body come was a trap! They had decided to get rid of him quickly. A compartment. What kind of a trap?

“In here.” Newton was urging him to go ahead.

Movius pulled back, brushed his hand over the bulge of the gun in his lapel holster. “You first, Mr. Newton.”

Tension in the room was electric. Movius flashed his left hand down to Newton’s elbow and, using upward leverage, thrust the red-haired man into the office. Newton’s scream was cut off by a stuttering sound, the shattering of glass. Movius slapped his lapel and the tiny gun dropped into his hand. He waved the muzzle across the two by the map and the man and woman who had come out of the end office. The four were in various stages of thrusting hands into pockets.

“Bring your hands out empty,” said Movius.

The hands come out of the pockets empty.

“Over against the wall.” He motioned with the gun. Their faces showed shock and fright. “Face the wall and lean against it with your hands.” He knew he did not need to look into the office. Rafe Newton had the reputation for laying excellent traps.

The four had eleven guns and an evil-looking dart projector designed from a stylus. After he had disarmed them, Movius ordered them to a position near the window, backed up to his cubbyhole. He glanced inside. Newton was sprawled on the floor in a spreading pool of blood. Atop a filing cabinet beside the door was a black box with a stutter gun fastened to it. Electric eye trigger. He had heard of them. Movius turned back to the four he had disarmed.

“All right. Walk ahead of me. Go slowly; don’t make any quick movements. We’re going upstairs.”

Warren Gerard stared at the four Movius had lined up against the office wall. “They were to be witnesses to your dreadful accident, eh?” He leaned forward, peered at each one. They fidgeted. “You’re somewhat of a problem.”

The woman cleared her throat, glanced sideways at the three men with her. “Make us an offer.”

Gerard leaned back. “Oh? You’re for sale?” He turned to Movius. “See anything you’d like to buy?”

“I’ve been thinking,” said Movius. “Say we call in Bu-Con and explain that there has been an accident. We show them Newton’s prints on the trap gun.” He looked at the woman. “They are on the trap gun, aren’t they?”

“On the electric eye box. He was going to get rid of the box, leave the gun on the floor with your prints on it. An accident with a gun.”

“On the box,” said Movius. “That’s even better. We’ll say he must’ve been setting a trap for somebody. We’ve no idea who.”

“What’s in it for us?” asked the woman.

The anger flared in Movius. That had been a close one down there. Too close. “There’s immunity from falling seventy-one floors to the courtyard!” he barked, glaring at her.

“You don’t give us any choice,” said one of the men.

“Nobody’s giving you a choice,” said Movius. “Just her.”

“But…”

“Shut up!” Movius turned to Gerard, who was grinning broadly, a cold, sadistic grin. “Do you have anyone who could look after these three? I’ll have to go down with what’s-her-name here to see if the job’s done right.”

Gerard pulled a gun from a drawer. “I’ve still some I can trust. Go ahead.”

Addington sent six men from Bu-Con. Movius had never seen them before, but they knew him, called him by name. They took photographs, measured, dusted for fingerprints, listened to the woman’s story.

“Who was Newton laying the trap for?” A sharp glance at Movius.

She shrugged. “Your guess is as good as mine.”

“The fingerprints check.” The Bu-Con man studied the woman. “Tell us what happened in your own words.”

The story came out of her mouth with a pat sureness, as though it had been rehearsed. She was merely substituting Newton’s name for Movius.

They took her name. “Tyle Cotton.” And that caused Movius to stare. The cook’s sister , he thought. Now he saw the resemblance. She reminded him of the big, ungainly Marie Cotton. And Gerard’s ex-mistress. Bulb-head hadn’t batted an eye while looking at her, not shown by any sign that he knew her. A cold fish, Gerard.

“Mr. Movius, would you care to come over to Bu-Con and give your statement?”

He almost laughed. “Yes, I’d care. I’d care so much that I’m not going to do it.”

The Bu-Con men tensed.

“If you want out of this building alive you’ll just go quietly,” said Movius. “You know who he was setting the trap gun for. It backfired when he got careless.”

The investigator made a short note on a pad, waved his men out of the room, followed them. Presently, three men arrived with a stretcher, carted away what was left of Newton. Movius remained in the office with Tyle Cotton.

“What did they pay you for this?” asked Movius.

She turned a calculating look on him. “Promises.”

“What kind of promises?” The answer had surprised him; he’d figured she was the kind to work for revenge.

“Two ranks up and all that goes with it.”

He looked at the SIX above her lapel number. “When were you going to collect?”

She looked upward, her face going hard. “When Gerard was low-opped.”

“He’s not going to be,” said Movius.

“Oh?”

“Never accept promises as payment,” said Movius. “Take what you can get in your hands.” He turned. “Come along.”

Back in Gerard’s office, Movius waved her to a chair. Gerard was standing by an open window, looking down. He closed the window, turned. Just before he closed the window, Movius had heard the faint sound of sirens. With a sick feeling, he had the sudden sure knowledge of what could be seen far down on the paving beneath the window. Three men. He shivered.

“What now?” asked Gerard. Again he gave no sign he had ever seen Tyle Cotton before.

Movius went around the desk, pulled the green pad from a drawer. This was the one, DISTRICT HOUSING—SPECIAL ORDER stamped in the corner. He filled out a fourth rank housing order for Tyle Cotton, forged Gerard’s name to it, tore the order off the pad. He held it toward the woman, but did not release it.

“What the price?” she asked, eyeing the order.

“A list of names.”

She glanced toward the window. She knew what was down in the parking area, too.

Gerard found a white notepad and stylus, pushed them across the desk, not looking at her.

What’s he thinking? Movius wondered.

Tyle Cotton hitched her chair forward, began writing. Movius put the housing order beside the notepad. It was a long list. She finished, took up the housing order.

“You can go now,” said Movius. “Report back in the morning.” He watched until the door closed behind her.

“Do you trust her?” asked Gerard. He picked up the list, began reading the names silently, his lips moving.