Frank Herbert - High-Opp

Privileges.

How many generations had counted good foods a privilege?

He was finishing the mashed potatoes when a man bent over his table. The man exuded a steaming odor of perspiration.

“New here, ain’t you?” He touched Movius’ lapel. “What’s a Third Ranker doing eating in a Warren Dining Room? Get caught out late?”

They were never as bold as this in the streets. Only among their own, with that solid feeling of approval, of common hate behind them.

“I live here,” said Movius.

“Oh?” The man’s eyes were two tiny ink dots, bird eyes, unwinking. “What’s a Third Ranker doing living in a Warren?”

“I’m back where I started,” said Movius.

The man reached out, grasped Movius’ lapel, jerked it. “Then get rid of that damn’ T, mister. An’ put some dye on that fancy color. You ain’t no bettern’ the rest of us!”

“Leave him alone, Mike.”

Movius looked up to his left. The speaker was a giant of a woman in a cook’s uniform and carrying a long cleaver. “He just come in today,” she said. “Low-opped this morning.”

“Keep your nose out of this, Marie Cotton,” said the man. “We know he was just low-opped.”

She leaned toward him. “You want a little something extra in your mashed potatoes? Some glass, maybe?” She held the cleaver under his chin. “Some of your own gore?”

The man drew back.

The cook stared at him, pressing him back with her eyes until he returned to his seat, face red. She turned to Movius. “Our seamstress is just down the hall from you. She’ll do that job on your lapels for some extras from your rations or some loose credits.” The woman turned, marched toward the kitchen, suddenly stopped and announced to the room, “We got a peaceful Warren here. We ain’t never had no trouble and we ain’t gonna have none.”

Memory came back to Movius out of his childhood. The cooks ran the Warrens. District Housing appointed managers, of course, but tenants laughed at a manager’s orders. A manager was just one step above an LP. Look at’im puttin’ on airs! A cook, though—she could make your food bitter, put something in it to make you sick, give you short portions. You didn’t cross a cook.

Just one element of the situation bothered Movius. Why had the cook defended him? A fresh low-opp should have been fair game. He took his tray to the wash dump, returned to his room. The question about the book was put out of his mind. It was almost time to follow the instructions given by Navvy’s sitter. If he was going to follow them. What was her name? Gladys? No. Grace. That was it, Grace. He remembered Navvy talking about her and about their father. The old man had a peculiar first name. Quilliam, Quilliam London. He’d been a professor of some kind once until his classes were low-opped.

Her instructions said he was to go to the Carhouse, see this Clancy. Well, why not? At least it was something different. And Navvy was right this morning. (Damn his secretive manner.)

The dusk flowed with after-dinner noises of children, giggling couples, cat-calls. A man standing across the street watched Movius’ retreating back, threw down a cigaret, turned and followed. Soon he picked up a companion. They strolled along, not talking like the other strollers.

Movius turned a corner, saw a long car facing him, dim in the gathering darkness. The car headlights turned on, blinding him and in that instant something sharp bit into his arm. A needle! Unconsciousness swept over his mind. He didn’t even feel the hands support him, ease him into the car. Just time for one brief thought: I should have been more caref…

It was a cell, barren of everything except a hard pallet. Movius opened his eyes, felt the pallet beneath him, absorbed a first awareness of his surroundings. The memory came back slowly—the street, the headlights, the stinging in his arm. He jerked upright, stared around him. The cell was about eight feet long, six wide, eight high. No doors or windows. That was odd. And the walls, a disturbing shade of red. He swung his feet to the floor, rubbed his arm where the needle had punctured it. Who?

The answer came almost immediately. An end wall swung back, admitting a pinch-faced man carrying a canvas chair. Movius recognized him immediately: Nathan O’Brien, chief of Bu-Psych. What does Bu-Psych want with me? And O’Brien? Movius remembered him as a man who always held something in reserve, never fully committing himself.

O’Brien opened his canvas chair, sat down opposite Movius, calculated, deliberate movements. The dark eyes snapped up at Movius. “Hello, Dan.”

What does he expect me to say? Hello, Nate? Movius stared back silently, waiting.

“Sorry if we’ve inconvenienced you in any way.”

“I’ll bet you are,” said Movius. He decided he had enough hate left over for O’Brien, another part of the system that had degraded him.

“We had to do it that way,” said O’Brien. “Two of the Coor’s men were following you. No time to explain. They were waiting for a quiet stretch in which to pick you up.”

Movius jerked his head around, looked into O’Brien’s eyes. “Pick me up? Why would the Coor want me? I thought he was just going to send me off to the ALP.”

O’Brien rubbed at a greying temple. “I see you already know. And why is he doing it? Let’s say that he likes to demonstrate that he can do away with a person and he doesn’t want you running out on his plans. You happen to be a… well, an inconvenience. It’s a much greater demonstration of power when you use violent methods on a mere inconvenience.”

“I don’t believe it.”

“That’s your privilege, Dan.”

Movius felt the anger rising in him. He raised his voice. “How could he do it? Can he predict the opp? And if so, how?” He almost shouted the last words.

O’Brien spoke in a quiet, even voice. “The Coor could predict the opp several ways. He and the rest of Com-Burs—myself included—can frame the question to make the answer practically a foregone conclusion. When The Coor wants to be absolutely certain, he sends the question out with a code number held only by a selection of people who know how to answer things his way.”

“He can’t bypass the Selector,” said Movius, his voice more subdued.

“Do you really believe that?” asked O’Brien.

Movius shrugged. What could he believe? As sure as Roper, Glass had made a point of telling him the answer to the question was known before it should have been known.

O’Brien said, “You ought to see my list of district governors, city mayors, managers, their assistants and the families of all of them, who have special numbers manually filed in the Selector. Who ever questions the operator of the Selector when he comes back and says, ‘This is the code number?’”

“I suppose the question on my department was sent through on one of those numbers.”

O’Brien nodded. “Number 089. In view of the question, it was hardly necessary, but The Coor evidently wanted to be certain.”

Movius caught himself taking short, jerky breaths, fought to control his nerves. “How do they keep a secret like that? So many people!”

“There are two answers,” said O’Brien. “They don’t keep it a secret. I’ll wager you’ve heard it and…”

“Yes, but just a rumor.”

“What else is a good secret? It’s no secret. I know it. Lots of other people know it. You know it. The other answer is that they do keep it a secret. They…”

Movius held up his hand. “You just said…”

“I know. But it is kept a secret from the main body of the LP. The Seps try to spread the word, but who believes the Seps? Those harebrains! Besides, believing Seps can be dangerous. How are you going to believe something when you don’t listen to it in the first place?”