Frank Herbert - High-Opp

Movius put a hand on the chunky man’s shoulder. “Hello, Phil.”

“Oh, hello, Dan. I was just explaining to Mr. O’Brien here…”

“I heard you.” Movius glanced across at O’Brien. “We’re as ready as we’ll ever be.” He walked to the corner desk, dropped into the chair.

Behind O’Brien he could see a round table with four men seated around it, three talking, one doodling on a scratch pad. They were men of different sizes and shapes, but with a stamp of sameness to them. One was constructing an intricate doodle like a maze. It was a significant doodle for the men at the table. They were the Bu-Psych semantic analysts, masters at maze-like thinking.

O’Brien went to the table, addressed the doodler. “I think we’ll have some work for you pretty soon, Jim.”

The man, a thin-faced individual with grey hair like a disarrayed mop, pushed away his notepad. “It’s about time.”

Movius looked at his watch, listened to it. “Where’s Peterson? He was due back here with Grace an hour ago.”

Someone came into the room at the far end. A post blocked the view. Movius shifted to one side. Navvy, and hurrying. He stopped at the desk.

“I couldn’t find him,” said Navvy. “I thought sure I could find him. He’s not in any of his regular haunts.”

“Quilliam London can be as elusive as a mosquito if he wants,” said O’Brien. “He slipped right away from my men.”

“This isn’t good,” said Movius.

O’Brien rubbed the grey spots at his temples. “He could ruin everything. He knows too much about our plans.”

“I should never have let Grace go out,” said Movius. He slapped the palm of his hand against the desktop in irritation. “She was just like you, Navvy, sure she could find him.”

“He’s a master of disguise,” said Navvy. “I hate to admit it, but I could have passed him a dozen times and never recognized him. I thought I’d know his walk, but…” He shrugged. “Then I hoped he’d recognize me and contact me.” Navvy lowered his eyes. “I… uh, took off my disguise a couple of times just in the hopes…”

In unison, both Movius and O’Brien barked, “You what?”

“I wasn’t followed,” said Navvy. “The bull-con isn’t made who could tail me.”

“That wasn’t what I was thinking,” said Movius. He looked at O’Brien, an unspoken question in his eyes.

O’Brien held out both hands, palms up. “She might get the same notion. After all, she’s his sister. Who knows?”

Movius jumped to his feet. “Navvy, do you have any idea where…” From his standing position, Movius saw Janus Peterson’s bulky figure come through the door, hurry toward them. He was alone.

Peterson was breathing rapidly. He came up to the desk, took a deep breath, swallowed before speaking. “Dan, I…”

“Where’s Grace?”

“I had no idea she was going to pull a stunt like that,” said Peterson.

Movius walked around the desk. “Where is she?”

“Bu-Con has her. The Coor. They took her to Com-Burs.”

In a flat tone, Movius said, “She took off her disguise.”

Peterson nodded. “At the festival grounds. Lots of old timers hang around there. She was hoping Quilliam would spot her. I didn’t know what she was going to do. I swear.” He took a gulping breath. “She went into a comfort station, came out the other side without a disguise. I didn’t know what to do. I saw a young fellow on the path spot her and I knew if I went to her, I’d be tabbed. She saw this fellow the same time I did—maybe she recognized him. She started to run. Just like that they were all around her. They seemed to come up out of the ground. I faced back, watched them hustle her into a car.”

Movius clenched his fists. “How do you know they went to Com-Burs?”

“I spotted a Bu-Trans truck, gave them the sign and followed the car.”

“In a truck?” asked O’Brien.

“They never look at trucks,” said Peterson.

“Bu-Con does,” said Movius. “Are you certain you weren’t followed?”

“Not unless they came through some garbage tubes…” Peterson lowered his eyes. “It’s my fault they got her, Dan. Give me some men and…”

Movius turned his back. “No.” He looked across at O’Brien. “Contact Cecelia Lang.”

O’Brien nodded. “Right.” He left the room.

“Janus, get your guards into the tunnel, see that O’Brien’s Security force is alerted. The Fall poll preliminary starts in a few minutes.”

“What about Grace?” asked Navvy.

“I’m hoping the confusion will give Cecelia a chance to act.” Movius compressed his lips. “We can’t carry off an open attack. They’d use Grace as a shield.”

O’Brien returned. “Couldn’t reach Cecelia. If she sees them bring in Grace, she’ll know what to do. She knows their methods of questioning.”

Movius picked up a phone, punched the button which put him into a special section of the master switchboard, dialed a number, waited. “Give me Gerard, please… Gerard? This is Dan. Monkey-shines.” He waited for Gerard to respond to the code word, said, “We’re ready to move. Call in every fighting man you have. Bring them across to the Bu-Psych Building. Ferry them by copter.” He put down the phone, went to the map, stared at it.

O’Brien joined him. “Quite a few danger points, Dan.”

Movius nodded. “Charts and pins in a map don’t tell it all. Bu-Con has been throwing its weight around. Raids on the Warrens. People disappearing. Our own rumor campaign about Bu-Con torture chambers has people raging.” He turned to O’Brien. “That’s the important thing to watch—the temper of the people. Now, all we have to do is make Glass show his hand, come out from behind that front of high and mighty legality.”

“If you could make him take over full control without the opps,” said O’Brien.

“We’ll have more recruits than we can use,” said Movius.

“Delicately, Dan. He mustn’t suspect what you’re actually trying to do.”

Movius turned, thrust his hands into his pockets. “It’s one minute to seven. The preliminary starts in one minute.”

Phil Henry sat down at the transceiver.

“Tap the beam,” said Movius.

Henry swung a control board in front of him, flicked a switch. The screen above a transceiver gleamed silver, a pulsing purple rope stretching diagonally across it. The purple rope suddenly showed a moving white band, juggling, dancing, shimmering. Henry’s fingers darted over the controls. Another purple rope came up from the bottom center of the screen, matched itself to the moving white band, contacted it. The white stopped. Immediately, the transceiver in front of Henry began to clack out a message.

Movius and O’Brien stepped forward to look over his shoulder.

“Just warming up,” said Henry.

On the printer tape they could read,” BXBBG… MORE IMPORTANT THAN YOUR OPPS. NOTHING MORE IMPORTANT THAN YOUR OPPS. NOTHING MORE IMPORTANT THAN YOUR OPPS. NOTHING MORE IMPORTANT THAN YOUR OPPS. NOTHING MORE IMPORTANT THAN YOUR OPPS. MAY THE MAJORITY RULE.” The machine stopped typing, continued a low humming.

“Won’t they know we’ve stopped the message?” asked O’Brien.

“Not a chance,” said Movius. “This isn’t the door they’re guarding. They believe the beam can’t be tapped. It’s in all the manuals. There is no way to tap a communications beam short of its terminal. ”

The transceiver clacked twice—“XX,” began to chatter with its message.

Work had stopped in the room. People stood in a quarter circle around the corner looking at the activity. The four men at the table pulled note paper to a handy position. They were the star performers now.

Movius ripped the printer tape out of the machine. “They’re after Bu-Trans first.” He read it aloud: “Would you favor reducing the number of government employees through a merging of the Bureau of Transportation and the Bureau of Control under the direction of the Bureau of Control?” He put the tape on the table.