Frank Herbert - High-Opp

“We’ll both lead you,” said Grace.

“Never mind, dears,” said Cecelia. “This won’t be the first time I’ve crawled out the back way. I suppose it opens into the boiler room as usual.”

Movius nodded.

“Thank Roper for standard construction,” she said and left them, closing the door softly behind her.

Grace turned toward him. “Well?” An ominous note.

Movius avoided her eyes, went to a chair by the terrace windows.

Grace followed him. “I deserve some sort of explanation.”

“I lost my temper.” His voice was gruff, curt.

“That’s what she said. What were you going to do, attack her in the elevator?”

“I said I was sorry. I apologized.”

Grace sat on the arm of his chair. “When you lived next door to her down the hill, did you…”

“Good Gallup, no!” In a lower tone: “Why do you think I lost my temper? It was all that stored up frustration.”

“Oh, so you wanted to!” Petulance ruled her voice. “I suppose you’ve had lots of women.”

Movius jerked up out of the chair, whirled on her. “I’m twenty-nine-years-old, Grace. I’ve been a damned fool at least once every year of my life. I happen to love you and that’s different. Let’s drop the other thing, shall we? That’s the past.”

Her expression softened. “I’m just being female. But Cecelia Lang makes me jealous.”

“Of course she does. I was engaged to her once. You know all about the job she did on me, keeping me in cold storage for O’Brien, making her little reports.”

Grace came to him, put her arms around his waist, her head against his chest. “I won’t be jealous any…” She broke off, pushed away. “I let this petty jealousy push the other thing right out of my mind.”

“Your father.”

“He can be terrible when he’s angry.” She put her hand to a cheek. It reminded Movius of someone feeling a bruise. “He’s so cold, like a god sitting in judgment.”

“Pure intellect,” said Movius. “It loses touch with the world sooner or later.”

“I’m going to find him. I’ve got to.” She turned away.

“No, you’re not.” He moved up behind her, took her shoulders.

“I am. It’s the only way.”

“Damn it, I won’t let you!”

“You’re not going to stop me!”

Movius chuckled; the chuckle became laughter. “We sound like a couple of children, darling.” He turned her around, took her in his arms.

“It’s just that I’m so afraid for you,” she whispered.

“I’ll have him picked up tomorrow,” said Movius. “Then you can talk to him.”

“Who’ll pick him up?”

“Janus can do it if anyone can.”

In the end he had to kiss her more than a dozen times before she’d agree to wait.

It was always dusk in The Coor’s office, a sort of refined gloom. Light was absorbed by the dark paneling, the dark rug, the thick draperies. Now the dusk inside matched that outside.

“We finally have a line on him,” said Addington. He took off his thick glasses, giving his face the appearance of a slab of red meat with two holes in the top and a wide slit in the bottom. “His wife was seen going into the Bu-Psych Building today.” Addington polished the glasses as he spoke, returned them to his face. Again he was the owl. “She was disguised, but one of our men—Curren—spotted her from seeing her out in the Roper Road Warren the day Movius was low-opped.”

“The day Movius was what?” asked Glass, staring down from his position leaning back against his desk.

“Let’s not play games among ourselves,” said Addington. He found a white lozenge in a pocket, popped it into his mouth, squirmed into a more comfortable position on the leather couch.

Glass pushed himself away from the desk, pointed a finger at Addington. “Nate O’Brien! He’s been talking crisis for years. Do you suppose he could be manufacturing a crisis of his own?”

“Pick him up and ask him,” said Addington.

The Coor shook his head. “I’m beginning to see it. O’Brien and Gerard together and Roper knows what other departments; but those two are doing the thinking. No wonder Gerard is so bold.”

“Where does Movius fit into this?” Addington swallowed the lozenge, fumbled in his pocket for another.

“I wish I knew. I’m tempted to raid his apartment.”

Addington paled. “That’d mean open war. Maybe that’s what they want.”

Glass showed his teeth in a superior smile. “You’re afraid I’d send you against that Army Gerard keeps on the building. Well, aren’t you, owl guts?”

Addington flushed. “Great Gallup! Don’t you start calling me that too.”

“Why didn’t you pick up the Movius woman when you’d spotted her?” demanded Glass.

“They took her home by copter, same way they’ve been moving Movius around.”

“How many men would we need to crack that apartment?” asked Glass.

Addington shook his head. “I don’t know. And anyway, I don’t think Movius and his wife are there anymore. Gerard threw two extra crews of guards around the building yesterday, hauled off half of them today. Bu-Trans copters made half a dozen trips from the apartment to the Bu-Psych Building. I think they’re holed up with O’Brien.”

“Then how many to crack Bu-Psych?”

“Helmut, don’t talk foolishness. We don’t know how many departments are in this. We don’t know how many guards.”

“Then find out!” bellowed Glass. “You be ready to move the night of the seventh. They’re planning something and I’ve a suspicion it will be aimed at the Fall poll. Well, we’re going to strike first. Bring in every man you can trust. Raid your sub-districts in other cities for men.”

“But that only gives me two days. I’ll need…”

“You’ve had two months! Great Gallup! You’ve had two years! Get moving!”

Addington hoisted himself to his feet with a grunt. He shook his head, waddled from the room.

Gerard went to another door, opened it. “Cecie, I’ve a job for you. You remember Daniel Movius? Well, he’s making trouble for the government and I want you to…”

Movius took the elevator to the Bu-Psych sub-basement. He glanced at his watch—six-thirty. There were so many loose ends, but they couldn’t be helped now. Another half hour.

The room was a contrast in crudity and efficiency. Rough concrete walls enclosed a scene of hurrying messengers, clacking typewriters, people conducting low-voiced conversations on phones. It was a space about eighty feet long, perhaps half that wide, a row of concrete pillars down the middle. Early in the city’s history it had been built for printing machinery never installed. Forgotten and walled off, it had been re-discovered by a Sep in Bu-Plan.

Movius entered through the access tunnel his men had hacked out. What he saw in the room pleased him. The tall black box of a scrambler dominated one end of the room, beside it an emergency generator. A large map of the world covered the opposite wall. Red pins showed Sep organizations which were ready to attack. Yellow pins indicated danger areas. A liquid incendiary tube ran along the top of the map, ready to destroy it. Every record in the room was guarded the same way.

Along one wall was a row of desks, secretaries working at typewriters. Between pillars and walls were other desks, some occupied, some empty—district cell chiefs. In the opposite aisle, more desks—area coordinators. In a far corner, two desks and a typesetting and facsimile transceiver identical to the one in The Bureau of Communication which controlled the world’s opp registration kiosks.

O’Brien and a short, chunky man stood in front of the transceiver as Movius approached. The chunky man was speaking, pointing to a square black screen above the transceiver. “…basic fallacy. They think there’s no way to tell when a message is on the beam or what scramble pattern the message is taking. Dan’s idea when we first worked on it was to make a device which would show us the message and its scramble pattern as a motion. He…”