Frank Herbert - High-Opp

You fatuous, self-satisfied low-opp , thought Movius. Got me right where you want me, haven’t you? You and your big head full of intricate thoughts! We’ll see, damn you!

The Carhouse was a sprawling two-story building pierced by deep, gloomy ramps to the parking levels. Movius noticed the Sep slogan, EMASI! scrawled on a wall where a cleaning crew had missed it. Perhaps on purpose.

Every Man A Separate Individual!

Unless he gets stamped STANDARD first, thought Movius.

At one corner of the building an arrow sign read OFFICE. Movius followed the arrow inside, found one man, a thin, straw-colored figure whose energy ran to quick, short movements of hands and eyes.

“You Movius?”

“Yes.”

“Take these.” He handed Movius a key and note. “Down that ramp, second door on your left. It’s locker eighty.” He seemed anxious for Movius to be gone.

Movius said, “Thanks,” followed the man’s directions.

It was between shifts and the Carhouse was a cavern of echoing footfalls, distant humming of power transmitters. The locker room held a thick odor of perspiration and dust as though in colloidal suspension. It was a long narrow place, steel lockers on both sides, benches down the center. Easy to imagine the room clanging with slammed doors and hurrying men at shift change. The clothes in locker eighty smelled of machine oil, fitted him loosely. Movius ran a hand along the bottom of the locker. As he had expected, it came away greasy. He smeared a streak of the grease along one jaw, spread it around his hands, under his nails. A rag on one of the locker hooks took off some of the grease, leaving enough for effect.

From the pockets of his good suit, Movius transferred the few items he carried—identification, penknife, stylus, notepad. He rolled the good suit into a bundle, tossed it into the locker.

Clancy’s note told him to take the employee’s elevator to the City Repair Service subway, catch shuttle fifty-one to the Bennington sub-prime generator station. Movius located the elevator in a side hall, descended to the subway, boarded the shuttle. He was relieved to find he was the only passenger. What could he tell a foreman he was doing? The automatic conductor flashed DESTINATION? He punched for Bennington, took a seat by the door. Now what? He wondered. This morning the Liaitor would have turned in any Sep he found. Now I have to ask them to hide me. The shuttle began to tremble as it gathered speed. Movius leaned back, waited.

Presently, the shuttle began to slow, rocking gently. It stopped, the front light flashing BENNINGTON. Movius stepped out onto the platform, immediately felt the humming presence of the generators through his shoes. A stranger leaned against the wall at one side of the platform. Movius glanced at him, looked away. I have to act casual , he thought. He risked another look. Navvy! He was wearing off-duty browns, but his complexion was ruddy, cheeks fatter, hair a difficult color. Movius strode toward him.

Navvy pushed away from the wall. “How did you recognize me?”

“The slouch,” said Movius. “I could always tell my car by the look of you slouched against it.”

Navvy grinned. “I’ll have to work on that. Come on.”

“Where?”

“My father’s place. Were you followed?”

“Who would want to follow me?”

“The Coor’s thuggees.”

Movius remembered what O’Brien had said about followers. “There were some earlier, but I don’t think they followed me here.” He debated telling Navvy about O’Brien, decided to wait, see what the situation was.

“I suspect we’d better do some ducking about,” said Navvy. “This way.” They went into the service elevator. Navvy took it up, stopped between floors. He did something complicated to the controls with a piece of string, led the way out the escape hatch and into a conduit tunnel so low they had to bend their heads to walk. Movius heard the elevator start up behind them.

That’s a trick I’ll have to learn , he thought.

Navvy produced a tiny flashlight, picked away between the maze of pipes. His shadow was a hovering bat on the ceiling. The tunnel smelled of dampness and some chemical, acrid and biting in the nostrils. He couldn’t place it. Several times Navvy glanced back to see if Movius was still following.

“Smell the chlorine?” asked Navvy. “They caught eight Seps in here last month. Gassed them all.”

Movius felt a trapped sensation, imagined himself caught in here with the rolling clouds of gas pouring down on him. Navvy showed no sign he even considered this possibility. Movius thought of all the times he had sat behind Navvy in the car, never once suspecting him of this sort of knowledge. Never questioned how Navvy got the car to some destination. Never thought of him being a Sep. If Grace was a Sep, as O’Brien had said, then Navvy had to be one, too. And the father, also. Probably a ringleader, that one.

The tunnel branched. They took the left turning. Movius felt his neck beginning to ache from the bent-over walking. It seemed they had come five miles.

“How far have we come?” he whispered.

Navvy spoke over his shoulders in a normal tone. “A little over a mile. There’s a turning down here about a quarter of a mile. We take that for about a hundred yards to another elevator.”

The elevator well was a faintly-illuminated grey hole, narrow rungs of a ladder going up the wall beside the tunnel mouth. Navvy leaned out, grasped a rung, climbed upward. Movius followed. They came out in a sewer service dome. Navvy fiddled with the lock, opened the door a crack, peered out. “Come on.” He ducked through; Movius followed. The door clicked shut behind them.

It was another Warrenate, gloomy under the dim illumination of widely spaced street lights. Movius could distinguish the outline of the Council Hills section above the building on his right. Clouds over the hills held a rosy glow. Lights in the towering apartments had a warm look of elevated privacy. Behind one of those lights up there—Cecelia and Helmut. Or maybe they were one of the dark places. The tired muscles in his fingers reminded him he had been clenching and unclenching his fists.

“This way,” said Navvy.

They crossed the street, strolled down the walk, trying to act casual.

“We’re to meet a couple of men who’ll tell us which route is open,” said Navvy. “Lots of Bu-Con patrols out tonight.”

Three men came out from between buildings on their left, approached, walking abreast. When they were about ten feet away, Movius recognized the one on the right. The Coor’s bodyguard from the hallway outside Cecelia’s apartment. Something glinted in the man’s hand. Instinctively, Movius ducked, crying out a warning to Navvy. He dove toward the man, heard the sharp fap! of a gun over his head. The men went down before him. Movius got the gun hand, brought the edge of his other hand down hard above the bridge of the man’s nose, remembering all the times in the gym when Okashi had cautioned him to use this blow lightly. It could kill a man. The gunman went limp.

Movius rolled over, avoiding the full force of a kick aimed at his head by another of the men. It caught him on the jaw and he tasted blood. Movius rolled away, hooked a toe behind the kicker’s ankle, slammed his other foot into the man’s knee. There was a crack of broken bones. The man screamed and toppled over backwards. Movius charged to his feet, kicked a hand away from a gun pocket, brought the foot down on the man’s face. He whirled, saw Navvy rolling on the sidewalk with the third one. Movius grabbed up the fap-gun which had fallen from the body guard’s hand, waited until Navvy’s opponent rolled uppermost, and cracked the man on the head with the gun. Navvy stood up, feeling gingerly of his neck.