Frank Herbert - High-Opp

“Did you get the word to Phil Henry?”

“I sent a man right after I left you before.”

Movius got to his feet. “Thanks for coming clean with me, Janus. Will you explain to the others that I understand how it is?”

“We knew you would,” said Peterson. “We talked it over before I came back here.”

“He does understand,” said Grace. “That’s why we need him.”

Peterson gave Grace a piercing look. “Just see that nobody ,” he emphasized the word, pausing after it, “gets in here who don’t belong in here.” He propelled his huge body toward the door, opened it as the chimes rang.

Over Peterson’s shoulder, Movius caught a glimpse of Navvy’s face. Peterson suddenly thrust himself against Navvy, there was a short scuffle; Peterson pulled away, exposing Navvy, who was rubbing his wrist. “Don’t try them tricks on the man who taught ’em to you,” said Peterson. He pocketed a fap gun.

Navvy’s face was flushed. “I came to find out.”

Peterson took Navvy by the collar, hauled him inside, shut the door. “Find out what?”

“If she is.” He looked at his sister. Grace was standing beside Movius.

“It’s my fault,” she said. “O’Brien loaned us a car today and I let Navvy bring me in the building, the basement driveway, with it. I assumed he’d got right on out. He’s been waiting to come up here instead.”

Movius nodded.

“You want to find out if your sister is what?” demanded Peterson.

“Like O’Brien said.”

“What did O’Brien say?”

“That she was pregnant and had gone back on us.”

“O’Brien’s a cold potato who needs more time in the fire,” said Peterson. “Dan knows all about him and your father and about you and Grace, too!” He propelled Navvy roughly into the room. “I got a question for you, Navvy London.”

Navvy didn’t look at him, stared from Movius to Grace, back to Movius.

“How long you figure it’ll be before your father or O’Brien tosses you into some hot spot that suits their high and mighty convenience?” demanded Peterson.

A pouting look came onto Navvy’s face. It was unlike him and it surprised Movius.

In a stiff manner, Navvy said, “I’m ready to serve wherever I’m needed.”

Peterson curled his lip. “All self-sacrifice. Now ain’t that pretty?” He raised his voice to a near bellow. “And what kind of government do you think their kind’d set up? I’ll tell you what kind! One where you or me wouldn’t count, where everybody’d be expected to give in to the needs of whoever was running things.” Peterson grabbed Navvy’s shoulder, shook him. “You dumb head! What kind of a Sep do you think you are? That’s the kind of government we got now!” He pushed Navvy farther into a chair.

“I never thought,” said Navvy, sinking into a chair.

“Of course you never thought!” growled Peterson. “That’s the trouble with us. We never thought because we believed that smart thinking could solve everything—somebody else’s thinking.”

O’Brien’s male secretary opened the door softly, peered in at his boss. The Bu-Psych chief stood at the table which served him as a desk, working with a circular slide rule, pausing to jot notations onto a sheet of paper. Beads of perspiration went unnoticed on his cheeks below the greying temples.

“Movius is downstairs,” said the secretary.

O’Brien looked up. “Movius?” It was as though he didn’t know the name. Then, “Movius!”

The secretary nodded. “His driver just let him out. He walked right in and asked to see you.”

O’Brien moved around to his chair, sat down, tugged at his ear. “Well, send him up then.” He managed to look surprised when the secretary ushered Movius into the room. “Something special to report?”

Movius looked down at O’Brien. “No remarks about coming to you openly like this? No recriminations?”

“Who needs to know why you’re here?”

“Perhaps Quilliam London,” said Movius. He sat down across from O’Brien, enjoying the way the man glowered at him. “You rather upset Quilliam the other night. You should be more considerate.” He stared at O’Brien until the latter looked away. “That’s often the trouble with psychological people—so much logic that they have no human feelings.”

“Why are you here?” asked O’Brien.

“For advice. My informants tell me Glass is ready to make a deal with Gerard. I’m the price.”

“Your infor…”

“Some of them used to be your informants,” said Movius. “I want to know how desperately you feel about this crisis?”

O’Brien sighed. “You really want to know, do you?” He stood up, went to the big chart. “Look at this.” He pointed. “This blue line is the course of civilization. Here’s the Greeks. This bump’s the Romans. Back here’s the Chinese. Here are the Mongols. Genghis Khan here… Kublai Khan on this slope. This is the Anglo-American. Over here is Motojai, pre-Unity.”

“I’m familiar with the history,” said Movius.

O’Brien glanced at him. “Yes, of course. Your father.” He turned back to the chart. “Now follow this yellow line. It’s a little faint against the white paper, but you can see that it coincides most remarkably with the rise and fall of civilization. The red line also is of interest and the brown one on top. Lines of cultural ascension. The others down at the bottom are individual surge lines.”

Movius bent to peer more closely. “Individual?”

“Persons who influenced the course of history.”

Movius straightened. “What is the yellow line?”

“It’s a blending of many things—economic activity, sun spots, lunar influences, atmospheric electrical changes, gravitational flow, magnetronic fluctuations on the earth’s surface, random impellation interpreted by charting cosmic rays…”

“It slopes down here,” said Movius, pointing to the right. He looked back along the undulant course of the line. “Farther down than it’s ever been before. Is that the present crisis?”

“Yes. Something special in the way of crises. We are in the bottom of the curve now. That means conditions are ripe for an upheaval. It will only take a catalyst.”

“The Fall poll.”

“I believe so. Many people are bitter about the polling. Your activity has a great deal to do with this, showing people how the Selector is by-passed, how the questions forecast the answers, how the whole thing is maneuvered. When they are asked to participate again in that day-long activity which they now consider farcical—that may be the push that’s needed.”

“How bad will the crisis be?”

“We can only guess. The mathematics and knowledge by which we made this prediction were centuries in gestation.”

Movius smiled. “Now you need a midwife.”

O’Brien appeared surprised, tugged at his ear, head cocked to one side. “Why, yes, I guess we do. I’d never quite thought of it in that way.”

“How precious is the midwife?”

O’Brien turned away. “I’ve been aware for some time that we’ve very much underestimated you, Movius.”

“No.” Movius shook his head. “You’ve mis-estimated me.”

“How is that?”

“Is this business important enough to see me as Coordinator?”

O’Brien whirled on him. “Are you trying to make a deal with me?”

Movius stared down at him. “No. The fact is, I’ve come to a decision.”

“What decision?” O’Brien bristled. He looked like a small hen demanding of a rooster where he had been until this hour.

“You want to save the world from a catastrophe which would lose this valuable knowledge.” Movius pointed toward the chart. “That’s a laudable ambition, although of questionable value. I want to save the world from the cold brutality of such as you.”