Frank Herbert - High-Opp

“You said yourself that the crisis would come at the time of the Fall poll,” said O’Brien.

“I have revised my opinion.”

“The revision seems to have come at the very time Movius seems in a position to win the revolt and take over the government.”

London’s eyes blazed. “Are you trying to say that…”

O’Brien stopped him with a curt wave of the hand. He stood up, the look of tiredness more pronounced. “I had hoped to avoid this, Quilliam.” He brought a rolled chart from beneath the table, opened it to show that it was transparent. A single blue line slanted across it, curving up and down. The transparent chart fitted over the chart on Movius. O’Brien taped it in place. The blue line on the transparent chart showed a flatter gradient, more sharp downslopes than the red line on the chart beneath it. The difference was pronounced. The red line climbed at a steep angle. “This blue line charts the decision index of a man named Quilliam London,” said O’Brien.

London’s cheeks flushed; he compressed his lips, breathed noisily through his nose. “That was an evil turn to do an old friend, Nate.” His voice was low, controlled.

“I had to do it, Quilliam. If it’s any consolation, I’ve a chart on myself here. It’s about the same as yours.”

“That man is dangerous,” insisted London.

“He’s dangerous to us if we threaten him,” agreed O’Brien. “Only if we threaten him.”

“Have you given up then?” London looked down at the little psychologist.

“Given up? No, I wouldn’t call it that.” O’Brien turned away from the wall. “A psychologist looks for many things in people and events. I missed a point in observing Movius, although he has not missed this point in observing himself. He has said at least once…”

“Bah!”

“Don’t interrupt. Movius has his roots deep in the unbeatable wellspring of the collective unconscious, that living juggernaut which actually governs…”

“Nonsense! That is not logical!” London seemed at the end of his patience.

“That is exactly correct,” said O’Brien. “Movius is not using logic. He is depending upon instinct. He is in contact with his feelings. There is an ancient colloquialism which precisely fits this situation: Movius is flying by the seat of his pants. ”

“Of all the utter…” London broke off, gritted his teeth. “You’re going to sit by and let him destroy everything we’ve planned.”

O’Brien shook his head. “I’ve explained the significance of our work to Movius as well as I am able. I’m hoping he will use the knowledge to advantage. That would preserve it.”

“You’re hoping!” The old man’s tone was taunting. “You’re not planning—you’re hoping! ” Suddenly, the old fierceness returned to London. “What about our plans, Nate? I ask you that!”

O’Brien shrugged. “Sometimes the best laid plans…” He broke off. “Someone has come along who demonstrate without question he has greater planning ability than we have. I consider it wise to turn the planning end over to him.”

“In the worst crisis time in all history? Movius doesn’t appreciate the first significance of a crisis!” London turned his back on O’Brien. “You’ve lost your spine, Nate. This isn’t like you.”

A note of pleading came into O’Brien’s voice. “No, Quilliam. I’ve awakened. As I listened to Movius…”

“Listened to Movius! Great Gallup! For six weeks I ate, slept and drank Movius! He’s nothing but a monumental ego!”

“We mustn’t interfere with him,” said O’Brien. “I’m convinced of it.”

“Well, I’m not convinced!” London strode to the table, picked up the wig which disguised his hair, stuffed the cheek-distenders into his mouth. He picked up the infirmary bag, went to the door. “Movius is a positive threat to all of our plans. He is going to be eliminated.”

“Just a moment.”

The command stopped London at the door. The old man turned, the disguise making him look youthful in a bizarre way. “Yes?”

“Who will do the eliminating?”

London patted the infirmary bag. “I will.” The hunter’s eyes stared back at O’Brien.

“Why can’t Navvy do it?”

A vague sag drew at London’s shoulders. “You know Navvy’s gone over to Movius. He hypnotizes people.”

O’Brien said, “Quilliam, your own children oppose you and agree with me.”

“It makes no difference,” said London. “I’ve come to my decision. We’re going on without him.” He slammed the door behind him.

O’Brien sat down at his table, waited almost a minute. With a wary sadness, he picked up his phone. “Security, please. Wilson? This is O’Brien. Quilliam London just left my office about a minute ago. He’s disguised as an infirmary attendant. You’ll know his walk. I want him followed. If he goes anywhere near Movius’ apartment he is to be stopped.” O’Brien hesitated. “Be careful. I believe he has a stutter gun in that infirmary bag.” He listened, spoke again in a lower tone. “Yes… shot if necessary.”

It was late when Movius entered his apartment building. He saw the woman standing in the elevator. She was turned half away from him, face averted. Something vaguely familiar about her, but he was anxious to get upstairs to Grace. They had a lot of things to do if they were going to get out of the apartment tonight and into the hidden quarters beneath Bu-Psych. He punched for the fiftieth floor, stepped back as the door closed. Then he thought maybe this woman doesn’t want to go that high. He turned to her, started to shape the question. It never got past his lips.

Cecelia Lang!

“Hello, Dan.” She smiled, a slow, controlled movement of lips which never reached the eyes.

That soft, silky voice. It had made him shiver once. Now it filled him with a kind of dread. He found his throat was dry and had to swallow before he could speak. “Hello, Cecie.”

Just like that— hello and hello . What does she want? As though in answer to his thoughts, Cecelia pushed the red EMERGENCY STOP button, said, “I want to talk to you, Dan.” She moved closer, giving him the benefit of a subtle perfume. “You haven’t been around to see me.”

No, by Roper! he thought. He took a deep breath. “My wife and I don’t get out much.” He gave the words the extra barb of flatness.

“Little Grace? She wouldn’t interfere if you really wanted to come see me.” She moved closer, put an arm beneath his. He could see the cold glints in the edges of her eyes.

Little Grace? he thought. Little Grace! The word implied she knew Grace. But Grace had hinted at something like that. She’d said Bu-Psych had been watching him for a long time. Sure they had. Four years of tantalizing, never-give-in Cecelia Lang. The woman with the warm, soft, promising body and eyes that always said no . He could picture Cecelia running to O’Brien with her reports and recalled the piercing questions she’d sometimes asked. And with this knowledge came another thought: When the time was ripe they had her vamp The Coor so he’d low-opp me!

The anger became a raging furnace inside him. He fought to keep the damper closed. “What do you want, Cecie?” He forced the words out without any special emphasis, as though it was of no great moment to him whatever she wanted.

Cecelia slitted her eyes, muscles tensing for the barest fraction of a second. She had sensed a wrong note. “You, silly,” she said. “I want you.”

Movius pushed her away gently, looked her up and down. “Take off your clothes.”

“What?” Her surprise was not an act.