Eye by Frank Herbert
"It will strengthen you for the trials ahead as Secretary of the Bureau," McKie said. "The Secretary, you must bear in mind, has no immunities from sabotage whatsoever."
"But," Bolin said, "the Secretary's legal orders carrying out his Constitutional functions must be obeyed by all agents."
McKie nodded, seeing in the glitter of Bolin's eyes a vista of peeping Tom assignments with endless detailed reports to the Secretary of Sabotage—at least until the fellow's curiosity had been satisfied and his need for revenge satiated.
But the others in the courtarena, not having McKie's insight, merely wondered at the question: What did he really mean by that?
THE ROAD TO DUNE
You have arrived on the planet Arrakis. You will embark on a walking tour of epic proportions. Rarely does a visitor on the road to Dune make his or her way without an Imperium guide. Here is a sampling from such a guide, complete with illustrations.
Your walking tour of Arrakis must include this approach across the dunes to the Grand Palace at Arrakeen (background). From a distance, the dimensions of this construction are deceptive, especially when hazed by wind-blown dust. The largest man-made structure ever built, the Grand Palace could cover more than ten of the Imperium's most populous cities under the one roof, a fact that becomes more apparent when you leam Atreides attendants and their families, housed spaciously in the Palace Annex (foreground), number some thirty-five million souls.
(Following pages) When you walk into the Grand Reception Hall of the Palace at Arrakeen, be prepared to feel dwarfed before an immensity never before conceived. A statue of St. Alia Atreides (foreground), shown as "The Soother of Pains," stands twenty-two meters tall but is one of the smallest adornments in the hall. Two hundred such statues could be stacked one atop the other against the entrance pillars (background) and still fall short of the doorway's capitol arch, which itself is almost a thousand meters below the first beams upholding the lower roof.
If you are numbered among "the heartfelt pilgrims" you will cross the last thousand meters of this approach to the Temple of Alia on your knees. Those thousand meters fall well within the sweeping curves (background) leading your eyes up to the transcendant symbols dedicating this Temple to St. Alia of the Knife. The famed "Sun-Sweep Window" (left face of the Temple) incorporates every solar calendar known to human history in the one translucent display whose brilliant colors, driven by the sun of Dune, thread through the interior on prismatic pathways.
On each pilgrimage, one hundred are chosen by lot to make the three-day climb up secret passages of the Grand Palace and, half-way up, may look down from this vantage on Muad'Dib's personal omi- thopter. It sits on His private landing platform against an inner wall of the Palace. A narrow strip of windows in Atreides family quarters glisten on the high wall (left). An attendant has just made the regular inspection of the 'thopter, returning to the Palace with a traditional Fremen cry heard clearly from the observation stop: "His water is secure!"
This Ixian heating device, set like a giant pearl in an ornate stand, greets you in a smaller passage of the Grand Palace. The ring-bound queue of the attendant servicing the device marks him as a city Fremen. On your walking tour of Arrakis, you will see many such Ixian artifacts, some set with rare gems, all worked in precious metals by dedicated artisans, some of whom devote years to the completion of a single decorative line. Attention to detail can be seen on this space heater. It incorporates twenty precious metals in each lapped scale.
(Following pages) Rarely, in a private passage of the Grand Palace, the walking pilgrim will encounter the Reverend Mother Gaius Helen Mohiam. The famed Bene Gesserit graciously paused here to be recorded in the light of a glowglobe. Note her wedding bands. They signify her eternal bond to the Sisterhood. The glowglobe is of an ancient design and may have come from Caladan in the original Atreides migration. The cracked vascule rim on the lower left side of the globe could indicate rough treatment in the Harkonnen attack. Many artifacts from those troubled times survived and were restored on orders of Muad'Dib himself.
This authentic visage of the Princess Irulan, Muad'Dib's virgin consort, should be committed to memory before your walking tour of Arrakis. The pilgrim should beware of false images. You will be beset by tradesmen hawking such mementoes. Irulan authorized only this portrait for official sale to pilgrims.
The face of Duncan Idaho, ghola warrior, teacher, friend and advisor of Muad'Dib stares out at you from this official portrait. It is sold to pilgrims on the walking tour of Arrakis only in Palace shops. All proceeds go to support retired Fremen and provide for the education of Fremen orphans.
BY THE BOOK
You will take your work seriously. Infinite numbers of yet-unborn humankind depend upon you who keep open the communications lines through negative space. Let the angle-transmission networks fail and Man will fail.
"You and the Haigh Company" (Employees Handbook)
He was too old for this kind of work even if his name was Ivar Norris Gump, admittedly the best troubleshooter in the company's 900-year history. If it'd been anyone but his old friend Poss Washington calling for help, there'd have been a polite refusal signed "Ing." Semi-retirement gave a troubleshooter the right to turn down dangerous assignments.
Now, after three hours on duty in a full vac suit within a Skoamoff tube's blank darkness, Ing ached with tiredness. It impaired his mental clarity and his ability to survive and he knew it.
You will take your work seriously at all times, he thought. Axiom: A troubleshooter shall not get into trouble.
Ing shook his head at the handbook's educated ignorance, took a deep breath and tried to relax. Right now he should be back home on Mars, his only concerns the routine maintenance of the Phobos Relay and an occasional lecture to new 'shooters.
Damn that Poss, he thought.
The big trouble was in here, though—in the tube, and six good men had died trying to find it. They were six men he had helped train—and that was another reason he had come. They were all caught up in the same dream.
Around Ing stretched an airless tubular cave twelve kilometers long, two kilometers diameter. It was a lightless hole carved through lava rock beneath the moon's Mare Nectaris. Here was the home of the "Beam"—the beautiful, deadly, vitally serious beam, a tamed violence which suddenly had become balky.
Ing thought of all the history which had gone into this tube. Some nine hundred years ago the Seedling Compact had been signed. In addition to its Solar System Communications duties, the Haigh Company had taken over then the sending out of small containers, their size severely limited by the mass an angtrans pulse could push. Each container held twenty female rabbits. In the rabbit uteri, dormant, their metabolism almost at a standstill, lay two hundred human embryos nestled with embryos of cattle, all the domestic stock needed to start a new human economy. With the rabbits went plant seeds, insect eggs and design tapes for tools.
The containers were rigged to fold out on a planet's surface to provide a shielded living area. There the embryos would be machine-transferred into inflatable gestation vats, brought to full term, cared for and educated by mechanicals until the human seed could fend for itself.
Each container had been pushed to trans-light speed by ang- trans pulses—"like pumping a common garden swing," said the popular literature. The life mechanism was controlled by signals transmitted through the "Beam" whose tiny impulses went "around the comer" to bridge in milliseconds distances which took matter centuries to traverse.
Ing glanced up at the miniature beam sealed behind its quartz window in his suit. There was the hope and the frustration. If they could only put a little beam such as that in each container, the big beam could home on it. But under that harsh bombardment, beam anodes lasted no longer than a month. They made-do with reflection plates on the containers, then, with beam-bounce and programmed approximations. And somewhere the programmed approximations were breaking down.
Now, with the first Seedling Compact vessel about to lan
Ing could feel himself being drawn toward that frail cargo out there. His instincts were in communion with those containers which would drift into limbo unless the beam was brought under control. The embyros would surely die eventually and the dream would die with them.
Much of humanity feared the containers had fallen into the hands of alien life, that the human embyros were being taken over by something out there. Panic ruled in some quarters and there were shouts that the SC containers betrayed enough human secrets to make the entire race vulnerable.
To Ing and the six before him, the locus of the problem seemed obvious. It lay in here and in the anomaly math newly derived to explain how the beam might be deflected from the containers. What to do about that appeared equally obvious.
But six men had died following that obvious course. They had died here in this utter blackness.
Sometimes it helped to quote the book.
Often you didn't know what you hunted here—a bit of stray radiation perhaps, a few cosmic rays that had penetrated a weak spot in the force-baffle shielding, a dust leak caused by a moon* quake, or a touch of heat, a hot spot coming up from the depths. The big beam wouldn't tolerate much interference. Put a pinhead flake of dust in its path at the wrong moment, let a tiny flicker of light intersect it, and it went whiplash wild. It writhed like a giant snake, tore whole sections off the tube walls. Beam auroras danced in the sky above the moon then and the human attendants scurried.
A troubleshooter at the wrong spot in the tube died.
Ing pulled his hands into his suit's barrel top, adjusted his own tiny beam scope, the unit that linked him through a short reach of angspace to beam control. He checked his instruments, read his position from the modulated contact ripple through the soles of his shielded suit.
He wondered what his daughter, Lisa, was doing about now. Probably getting the boys, his grandsons, ready for the slotride to school. It made Ing feel suddenly old to think that one of his grandsons already was in Mars Polytechnic aiming for a Haigh Company career in the footsteps of his famous grandfather.
The vac suit was hot and smelly around Ing after a three- hour tour. He noted from a dial that his canned-cold temperature balance system still had an hour and ten minutes before red-line.
It's the cleaners, Ing told himself. It has to be the vacuum cleaners. It's the old familiar cussedness of inanimate objects.
What did the handbook say? "Frequently it pays to look first for the characteristics of devices in use which may be such that an essential pragmatic approach offers the best chance for success. It often is possible to solve an accident or malfunction problem with straightforward and uncomplicated approaches, deliberately ignoring their more subtle aspects."
He slipped his hands back into his suit's arms, shielded his particle counter with an armored hand, cracked open the cover, peered in at the luminous dial. Immediately, an angry voice crackled in the speakers:
"Douse that light! We're beaming!"
Ing snapped the lid closed by reflex, said: "I'm in the backboard shadow. Can't see the beam." Then: "Why wasn't I told you're beaming?"
Another voice rumbled from the speakers: "It's Poss here, Ing. I'm monitoring your position by sono, told them to go ahead without disturbing you."
"What's the Supetrans doing monitoring a troubleshooter?" Ing asked.
"All right, Ing."
Ing chuckled, then: "What're you doing, testing?"
"Yes. We've an inner-space transport to beam down on Titan, thought we'd run it from here."
"Did I foul the beam?"
"We're still tracking clean."
Inner-space transmission open and reliable, Ing thought, but the long reach out to the stars was muddied. Maybe the scare mongers were right. Maybe it was outside interference, an alien intelligence.
"We've lost two cleaners on this transmission," Washington said. "Any sign of them?"
"Negative."
They'd lost two cleaners on the transmission, Ing thought. That was getting to be routine. The flitting vacuum cleaners—supported by the beam's field, patrolling its length for the slightest trace of interference, had to be replaced at the rate of about a hundred a year normally, but the rate had been going up. As the beam grew bigger, unleashed more power for the long reach, the cleaners proved less and less effective at dodging the angtrans throw, the controlled whiplash. No part of a cleaner survived contact with the beam. They were energy-charged in phase with the beam, keyed for instant dissolution to add their energy to the transmission.
"It's the damned cleaners," Ing said.
"That's what you all keep saying," Washington said.
Ing began prowling to his right. Somewhere off there the glassite floor curved gradually upward and became a wall— and then a ceiling. But the opposite side was always two kilometers away, and the moon's gravity, light as that was, imposed limits on how far he could walk up the wall. It wasn't like the little Phobos beam where they could use a low-power magnafield outside and walk right around the tube.
He wondered then if he was going to insist on riding one of the cleaners... the way the six others had done.
Ing's shuffling, cautious footsteps brought him out of the anode backboard's shadow. He turned, saw a pencil line of glowing purple stretching away from him to the cathode twelve kilometers distant. He knew there actually was no purple glow, that what he saw was a visual simulation created on the oneway surface of his faceplate, a reaction to the beam's presence displayed there for his benefit alone.
Washington's voice in his speaker said: "Sono has you in Zone Yellow. Take it easy, Ing."
Ing altered course to the right, studied the beam.
Intermittent breaks in the purple line betrayed the presence between himself and that lambent energy of the robot vacuum cleaners policing the perimeter, hanging on the sine lines of the beam field like porpoises gamboling on a bow wave.
"Transport's down," Washington said. "We're phasing into a long-throw test. Ten-minute program."
Ing nodded to himself, imagined Washington sitting there in the armored bubble of the control room, a giant, with a brooding face, eyes alert and glittering. Old Poss didn't want to believe it was the cleaners, that was sure. If it was the cleaners, someone was going to have to ride the wild goose. There'd be more deaths... more rides... until they tested out the new theory. It certainly was a helluva time for someone to come up with an anomaly hole in the angtrans math. But that's what someone back at one of the trans-time computers on Earth had done... and if he was right—then the problem had to be the cleaners.
Ing studied the shadow breaks in the beam—robotic torpedoes, sensor-trained to collect the tiniest debris. One of the shadows suddenly reached away from him in both directions until the entire beam was hidden. A cleaner was approaching him. Ing waited for it to identify the Authorized Intruder markings which he could see the same way he saw the beam.
The beam reappeared.
"Cleaner just looked you over," Washington said. "You're getting in pretty close."
Ing heard the worry in his friend's voice, said: "I'm all right long's I stay up here close to the board."
He tried to picture in his mind then the cleaner lifting over him and returning to its station along the beam.
"I'm plotting you against the beam," Washington said. "Your shadow width says you're approaching Zone Red. Don't crowd it, Ing. I'd rather not have to clean a fried troubleshooter out of there."
"Hate to put you to all that extra work," Ing said.
"Give yourself plenty of 'lash room."
"I'm milking the beam thickness against my helmet crosshairs, Poss. Relax."
Ing advanced another two steps, sent his gaze traversing the beam's length, seeking the beginnings of the controlled whiplash which would throw the test message into angspace. The chained energy of the purple rope
He backed off four steps. The throw was a chancy thing when you were this close—and if interfering radiation ever touched that beam...
Ing crouched, sighted along the beam, waited for the throw. An experienced troubleshooter could tell more from the way the beam whipped than banks of instruments could reveal. Did it push out a double bow? Look for faulty field focus. Did it waver up and down? Possible misalignment of vertical hold. Did it split or spread into two loops? Synchronization problem.
But you had to be in here close and alert to that fractional margin between good seeing and good night! forever.
Cleaners began paying more attention to him in this close, but he planted himself with his AI markings visible to them, allowing them to fix his position and go on about their business.
To Ing's trained eye, the cleaner action appeared more intense, faster than normal. That agreed with all the previous reports—unless a perimeter gap had admitted stray foreign particles, or perhaps tiny shades dislodged from the tube's walls by the pulse of the moon's own life.
Ing wondered then if there could be an overlooked hole in the fanatic quadruple-lock controls giving access to the tube. But they'd been sniffing along that line since the first sign of trouble. Not likely a hole would've escaped the inspectors. No—it was in here. And cleaner action was increased, a definite lift in tempo.
"Program condition?" Ing asked.
"Transmission's still Whorf positive, but we haven't found an angspace opening yet."