Hellstrom''s Hive by Frank Herbert
Peruge paused for effect, glanced once around the table. “The message is quite direct. It instructs the bearer of the subject papers to transmit his future reports through a man in Washington, D.C. The man is named. He is the senator whose activities we have come to question.”
Peruge wanted to laugh. Their reaction was precisely what the Chief had said it would be. He had their undivided attention, a thing seldom granted in this room of giants.
The man directly at his left said, “No doubt of that?”
“None whatsoever.”
From Dzule Peruge’s original report on Joseph Merrivale.
Subject has no detectable inhibiting emotions of warmth toward his fellows, but he counterfeits these reactions quite well. His administrative abilities are adequate for the necessary tasks, but he lacks qualities of initiative and daring. He is exactly what we had in mind, a man who can keep his division running smoothly and can, if directed, send his people to their deaths without a qualm. Promotion recommended.
As he left the conference, Peruge allowed himself a small sense of triumph. There had been a few touchy moments with that bitch, but he had managed them well, all things considered. He still could not understand why they had ever allowed a woman onto that board.
It was raining when he reached the street, freshening the evening air, but also imparting a smell of wetted dust that Peruge particularly disliked. He hailed a cab.
The driver, as luck would have it, was a woman. Peruge settled back into the seat with a sigh of resignation and said, “Take me to the Statler.”
There was no telling where women would intrude next, he thought. They were essentially frail things and should not be allowed into these occupations. He had that judgment from observations of his mother who had gone through life torn by conflicting attitudes toward her ancestry and toward the demands of her sex. That she knew about, she had black, Cherokee, Portuguese, and Cajun ancestors. Sometimes, she had been proud of her progenitors. “Never forget, boy, that your ancestors were here before the first white thief set foot on these shores.” Other times, she would remind him, “We were sailors under Henry the Navigator when most sailors never came back from a long voyage.” But she could temper these outbursts of bitter pride with cautious warnings: “Dzule, you look white enough for nobody ever to know about the niggers in our blood. Play the white game, boy; that’s the only way to win in this world.”
And he had won the field this day, no doubt about that. The bitch of the board room had tried to cross-examine him about Hellstrom’s corporate activities, trying to catch him in a contradiction. The Chief had warned him about that. “They’ll try to take advantage of you and check up on the Agency. I’m trusting you to give them blow for blow.” That was the Chief for you: like a father to those he trusted.
Peruge had never known his own father, who had been only the first in a long line of men who partook of Juanita Peruge’s favors. Her family name had been Brown, a commonplace easily discarded for the more mysterious Peruge. The father had stayed with Juanita long enough to name the infant Dzule for a half-remembered uncle, then he had gone commercial fishing on a voyage that would have satisfied the Navigator’s worst fears. His boat was lost in a storm off Campiche.
Tragedy had been the firming cement of Juanita’s character. It offered her the splendor of a lifelong search to replace a love that time made ever more romantic and unattainable. And for Dzule, she created a myth of the mighty John (originally Juan) Peruge: tall, bronzed, capable of any great deed he might envision. A jealous God had taken him, which said something pertinent about gods.
It was this tragedy, seen through his mother’s fantasies, that made Dzule forgive any of her offenses against morality. His earliest and strongest image of women told him that they could not withstand life’s crueler torments except by seeking the pleasures of the bed. That was just the way they were and one had to accept it. Others might deny this, but obviously they were hiding identical behavior in their own women.
The Agency had been a natural place for Dzule Peruge to find himself. Here, the strong sought their place in life. Here, those who took the blinders from their eyes naturally gravitated. And most important, it was a last outpost of swashbuckling. In the Agency, no dream was too remote, provided that you recognized most humans as essentially frail – especially women.
The bitch of the board was no exception. There was a weakness in her; had to be. She was clever, though, with her own brand of driving ruthlessness.
Peruge stared out of the taxi’s window at the rain-washed streets, reviewing the encounter in the board room. She had opened the attack by bringing out her own copy of the Hellstrom file. She had found the entries she wanted, referred to them, and said, “You tell us Hellstrom’s company is private, incorporated in 1958; one chief stockholder, himself, and three officers – Hellstrom, a Miss Fancy Kalotermi, and a Miss Mimeca Tichenum.” She’d put down the file and stared down the long table at him. “The disturbing thing to many of us is that, although two women signed their names to these incorporation documents in front of witnesses, duly notarized, you show no other record of them.”
Peruge’s response, he thought, had suited the attack. He shrugged and said, “That’s correct. We don’t know where they came from, where educated, nothing. They both sound foreign, but the notary in Fosterville was satisfied with their identities, and the attorney saw no objection to their being officers in a corporation doing business in this country. Mimeca could be an oriental name, as some of you have indicated, and the other one does sound Greek; we just do not know. This is not a page we intend to keep in its present blank state. We are exploring this avenue.”
“Do they live at Hellstrom’s farm?” she asked.
“Apparently.”
“Any description of them?”
“Vague: dark hair, possessed of general female characteristics.”
“General female characteristics,” she mused. “I wonder how you’d describe me. Well, no matter. What is their relationship to Hellstrom?”
Peruge had taken his time with the response. He knew how he appeared to women. He was tall, six feet four inches, and imposing, 221 pounds. His sandy hair held a distinct touch of red which his eyebrows carried to a darker tone. His eyes were that dark brown often mistaken for black, deeply socketed above a rather abbreviated nose, wide mouth, and square chin. The whole effect was dominantly masculine. He sent this machismo message down the table with a sudden grin.
“Madame, I would not describe you to anyone, not even to myself. Such is my responsibility to the Agency that you remain nameless and faceless. As to these other women, Hellstrom trusted them sufficiently to want them as officers of his corporation, which makes us extremely curious about them. We intend to satisfy that curiosity. You’ll note the documents list the Kalotermi woman as vice-president and the other one as secretary-treasurer, yet each has but a one percent interest in the corporation.”
“How old are they?” she asked, glowering at him.
“Adult.”
“Do they travel with Hellstrom?”
“We have no record of that.”
“And you don’t even know whether these women have husbands or male attachments of any other nature?” she pressed.
Peruge’s heavy brows tended to draw down in thought or anger, and he brought them into this position, holding his voice flat and level to betray no upset at his present ignorance. “We don’t know this; no.”
She suspected his distress, though, because she moved to the same attack on Hellstrom. “And Hellstrom, is he married or otherwise entangled?”
“Not that we know. The reports tell you all that we have at this time.”
“All?” she sneered. “How old is Hellstrom?”
“We’re guessing at thirty-four. That’s farm and ranching country and he was educated at home for the first seven years. His grandmother, Trova Hellstrom, was an accredited teacher.”
“I’ve done my homework,” she said, tapping
“Old enough.”
“You say he lectures and does an occasional seminar or colloquium, and he’s been on the faculties of several universities. How does he get these dangerous assignments?”
“On his reputation.”
“Hmmmph! What do we know of his other associates?”
“His technical people, business connections – you’ve seen the file.”
“And he banks in Switzerland. Interesting. Any indication of his worth?”
“Only what’s in the file.”
“Have you considered making discreet inquiries of his lawyers?”
“Do you take us for cretins?” Peruge asked.
She stared at him silently for a moment. “I said discreet.”
“His legal counsel, as you’ve seen there, is a native of Fosterville, which is a small town,” Peruge explained carefully. “A liaison between two dogs cannot be undertaken discreetly in such a setting.”
“Hmmmph.”
Peruge looked down at the folders in front of him. She knew, of course, as did the rest of them, that he was not telling the full story. That was expected, but she had no way of guessing the actuality. She had nothing but her suspicions.
“Have any of our people ever met this Hellstrom?” she asked.
Peruge looked up, wondering: Why are they letting her be their spokesman? Most unusual. “As you perhaps know, the Chief has connections to a vice-president of the bank that handles financial matters for the film company that usually markets Hellstrom’s productions. This vice-president has met Hellstrom socially and we have his report, which will be in your hands shortly.”
“This bank does no work for Hellstrom’s own company?”
“No.”
“Have we made overtures through our Swiss connections?”
“There’s no provable fraud involved and we cannot, therefore, gain open access to the Swiss records. We are still pursuing this, however.”
“What is the vice-president’s impression of Hellstrom?”
“A capable man in his own fields, rather quiet, with occasional bursts of concentrated energy where his own interests are concerned – specifically, when the subject of ecology arises.”
“What salaries does Hellstrom pay his employees?”
“Union scale where that’s indicated, guild scale, but we have no tax returns for some of them.”
“The two women on his corporation records?”
“Apparently they serve him for something other than money. We believe they live on the farm, but they have declared no income. It has been suggested that Hellstrom is less than generous or that fraud is involved. We cannot say as yet. Such records as we’ve seen indicate that his film company makes no profit. All of the income appears to be taken by ongoing activities of an apparently legal, that is to say, educational nature.”
“Could that farm be some sort of subversive school?”
“Some of the younger people allegedly stay there for an education in film making and in ecology. That’s detailed in the file.”
“Detailed,” she said, her voice flat. “Can we presume his installations have been inspected, building inspectors and that sort? Oregon must have laws about such things.”
“He was inspected by local people, and the accuracy of information based on those inspections remains in question. We will update your files as we are able.”
“Hellstrom’s technical people, cameramen and such, are they all recognized in the industry?”
“They have done work that has attracted praise.”
“But the people themselves, are they admired?”
“One could say so.”
“What would you say?”
“The question has little meaning except as an indicator for further investigations. It is our opinion that successful people in that industry tend to achieve a surface admiration from their fellows, but this surface attitude conceals an often quite profound hostility. Admiration in the usual sense has little to do with the situation except as it may indicate competence or income.”
“How much traveling has Hellstrom done since the report in our hands?”
“One trip to Kenya and two days at Stanford.”
“Is he away at the moment?”
“Possibly. I would have to consult our most recent reports to be sure. We have just fielded a new team, as you know. You will be informed, of course.”
“Your previous reports show him staying away from his farm for two weeks to a month at a time. Who minds the store while he’s away?”
“We do not as yet know.”
“How thorough have our investigations of him been during his more vulnerable travel periods?”
“We’ve had his luggage searched and found only cameras, film, technical works, papers, that sort of thing. The most common subject matter for any written material in his possession has been insects. He appears most thorough where his specialty is concerned. We have found nothing incriminating.”
“What about planting something on him?”
“It is contraindicated because of his stature in education. Too many would believe his protestations.”
She sat back then, quiet for a moment. Presently, she said, “You will inform the Chief that there must be a profit in this somewhere. We are not satisfied.”
Not satisfied! Peruge thought, tapping his finger impatiently on the taxi’s black plastic seat. But they were afraid, and that was enough for the time being. If the actual material of the Project 40 file panned out, if it developed along the lines he and the Chief had purposely not reported, there would be profits enough for all, including Dzule Peruge. It would never be a weapon, of course. The thing created too much heat in its own circuits. But at low temperatures, that heat might be translated into an induced heat for metal and plastic products. At the very least, it would transform metallurgy, reducing present costs by a breathtaking factor. There’d be profit in that!
Brood instructions for selected workers.
We use the language of the Outside, but with our own meanings. It is important that the key distinctions not be confused. The practices of concealment demand this. Because we are virtually defenseless against the best forces of the Outside, our major defense remains in their never learning that we live among them, patterning ourselves after Hive creatures.
As the afternoon above Hellstrom’s valley wore on, Depeaux began reflecting on the briefing sessions with Merrivale. It was a matter of emphasis, but he began to wonder just how many agents had been wasted on this project. Merrivale was a very queer duck – that damned affected British accent and all. There had been times when he gave off the distinct impression that he admired Hellstrom. It was Merrivale’s pattern to admire only success, but it was an admiration always tinged with fear. The closer to Merrivale the success occurred, the greater his fear.
The isolated valley continued to bake in the hot autumn sun. Depeaux grew somnolent and there were moments when his eyelids drooped.
He forced himself to concentrate on the farm buildings. If the last reports were to be believed, Hellstrom himself was somewhere down there in one of those buildings. Nothing showed itself to confirm this assumption, however.
Why would Merrivale admire Hellstrom?
An abrupt slamming sound shocked Depeaux into full awareness. He saw movement at the far-left corner of the barn-studio. A wheeled cart came into view. It was an odd vehicle, reminiscent of an old-fashioned railway baggage cart, the hand-pulled kind used in stations. It had high slat sides and big spoked wheels. A high-pitched voice called out a command from somewhere behind the building, but Depeaux could not make out the words. It had sounded like “work a load.” That made no sense, though.
A young woman strode from behind the barn to the front of the cart and, at first, Depeaux thought she was nude. The binoculars revealed skin-colored briefs, but she wore no bra, no blouse. Her feet we
The powerful glasses put Depeaux right up next to the young woman as she lowered a steering bar that had been caught upright at the front of the cart. She had firm breasts with dark nipples. He was so intent on watching her that he almost missed the approach of another young woman clad the same way, noticing her only when a strange third hand entered his field of vision. The young women were enough alike to be sisters, but they didn’t fit the descriptions he had of the women who served as officers of Hellstrom’s corporation. Their hair was light gold.
The young women took the steering bar and, pulling on it, trundled the cart toward the north gate. They moved with a bouncing urgency Depeaux found inconsistent with the long wait that box had enjoyed outside the gate. He saw no other reason for the cart. They were going to get the box. What was in that damned thing? And why were they almost nude? He recalled how the two deliverymen had strained in moving the box, wondered if the two women were expected to get that heavy object onto their cart. Surely, others would come out and help.
With increasing amazement, he watched the women open the gate, wheel the cart into position, drop its end, and tip the box into the cart’s bed. They lifted the heavy box with a muscular ease that astonished him, displaying a far easier time with it than had the men who delivered it. Briskly, they closed the end of the cart and trotted back toward the barn with the same sense of urgency they’d shown on the outward trip. In far less time than he’d expected, they were at the barn and out of sight behind it. Again, there came that abrupt slamming sound. A door?
Depeaux estimated the whole incident had taken no more than five minutes. Astonishing! They were amazons! Yet, they’d appeared at first to be no more than well-developed, nubile young females. Was Hellstrom’s farm a hideout for health nuts, a kind of inland muscle beach? The nudity argued for some such answer as that. Depeaux didn’t like that answer, though. Everything about the women had been too casually businesslike. They weren’t muscle fanatics. They’d just been two workers going about a job and it had been a job they knew well enough not to need excess words or motions in executing it. Why women for that kind of work?