High-Opp by Frank Herbert
Movius wondered how long Gerard had been wanting to say that to Glass. The words had been spoken with such relish. He felt a tired aching in his hands, looked down and saw he had been clenching and unclenching his fists.
Gerard breathed deeply, eyes glazed with excitement. “What do you need, Dan? You name it. Anything in the organization.”
“We’ve a tough few days ahead of us,” said Movius. “We’re keyed to go the night before the Fall poll. That’s four days away. The word is that Glass will put a few preliminary questions to the opp on the seven o’clock that night in preparation for the following day’s heavy polling. We’ve a surprise waiting for him.”
“What do I provide?”
“Treble the guard on the apartment until tomorrow. My wife and I are going into hiding. Set up a few scattered power failures for tonight, tomorrow and the next day, a few unexplained explosions. Give them something to investigate and worry about.” Movius became thoughtful. “Bu-Trans services the relay ship. Now . . .”
“Only the movable machinery,” said Gerard. “We service it, but we don’t staff it except with a few technicians.”
“Could something happen to just the power transmission?” asked Movius.
Gerard tapped his teeth with the tip of the stylus. “I believe so. When would you want this to happen?”
“At seven o’clock the night before the Fall poll, the moment The Coor puts his first preliminary on the beam.”
“They have emergency power,” said Gerard. “You want that put out, too?”
“No, just the relay. Every moving vehicle in the city that depends on the transmitter should come to a stop. Let me have a turbo-copter for my own transportation. How many have you?”
“This is Bu-Trans,” said Gerard. “We control most of the world’s supply. There are about two thousand in the city here, perhaps twenty-five thousand more at sub-depots around the world.”
Movius was stunned. He’d been blind! “How could we contact them?”
“Over the routing teletype,” said Gerard. He bent his bald head toward Movius. “What’s on your mind?”
Movius slapped a hand onto the desk. “I’m going to send five girls up here with some lists of code names. You send out the orders to people you can trust. Those copters are to be put at the disposal of the people with these code names. This revolt is going to be fought from the air.”
He was almost to the new Sep headquarters before a sudden thought struck him: What if Gerard does an about face? He’d hold the key to the whole revolt. They could pick up the district leaders one by one as the men checked in for their copters. Well, it was too late to turn back now.
Chapter 23
“I shall kill him when he returns to his apartment tonight,” said Quilliam London. He paced to the windows where the pigeons were conducting their morning watch on the streets, strode back to the table, slammed a fist down on the wood. “He’s too dangerous! We’ll have to get along without him.”
“Don’t be hasty, Quilliam.” O’Brien rubbed at a greying temple. “I’ve been doing some re-evaluating of our records on Movius. The job he has done is little short of a miracle. In just two months he has eighteen million people so organized they’re ready to die for him.”
“Most of those district organizations already were in existence,” said London.
“But not unified. Not unified.” O’Brien lifted a sheaf of papers on the table, let them drop. “Reports, reports! You should see them. No wonder Glass was ready to make a deal with Gerard. No wonder Gerard is hypnotized by the man. Big thefts of arms. Whole warehouses. EMASI! scrawls all over. There were nine power failures in this city alone last night. They’ve never been this bold! Movius has inspired them and we have to control that unifying force!”
“High-Opp!” London’s voice took on a sour bitterness. “We lost control of Movius when he walked in here and started giving you orders.”
“But the diabolical cleverness of the man! Bypass the poll control, force The Coor into the open. Make him take off his mask.”
“What difference does it make with a revolution under our noses?” demanded London. “This man will blunder us into an open battle before we’re ready.”
“But . . .”
London cut him off. “You said yourself his idea would only work twice at the most and then Glass would move to smoke him out.”
“I see you miss the point,” said O’Brien. He tipped his head, worked a fingernail at the corner of his eye. “My work of re-evaluation includes a study of our position relative to Movius.” He found whatever it was in the corner of his eye, straightened his head. “We chose Movius for a number of reasons.” O’Brien ticked them off on his fingers. “Susceptibility to our methods of, shall we say, ignition? Brilliance of intellect, high achievement, ability to make correct decisions, ambition . . .”
“Don’t forget the loyalty index,” said London coldly. “You know damned well he’s out for number one now. And he’ll be cautious. He’s lost the essential boldness.”
“Maybe, maybe not,” said O’Brien. He studied London.
“He has you enthralled, too,” said London. “Bah!”
“Perhaps we chose our figurehead with more skill than we supposed,” said O’Brien. “Let’s not forget that a crisis time requires strong measures and a strong hand to execute them.”
“Execute!” London stamped across the room to the master chart. “He’ll likely ruin everything. It’s damned strange, Nate. Only last week our positions were reversed. You were wanting him eliminated and I was saying we should wait.”
“You know, I was just thinking the same thing,” said O’Brien. He ran a hand through his hair. “It’s odd, Quilliam, but we’ve never discussed one vital element of our plans. I believe we’ve tacitly avoided it.”
London turned away from the chart. “And what would that be?”
“After the revolution, who did you plan should be Coordinator?”
The old man drew himself up. He had never looked more like an ancient hunter—knobby, austere. “Myself, of course. Who else is qualified to render dispassionate judgments?”
A look of tiredness washed over O’Brien’s face. “I guess I’d anticipated that.” He looked up at London. “I had thought, though, that our object was to give the government back to the people.”
“When they’re ready for it,” said London in a clipped tone.
O’Brien smiled vaguely. “Movius would say they’ve always been ready for it.”
London banged a fist against the master chart beside him. “Movius! Did Movius devise this? Did Movius anticipate the course of history?”
“Who did do these things?” O’Brien’s voice was low.
“We did,” said London.
“Allow me to correct you.” O’Brien raised his voice. “Because of the accident of time which placed us at this point in history, and for no other reason, we are in a position to reap the benefits of five hundred years of work by thousands of others. Without their work we’d have nothing. And as far as predicting the course of history, are we sure—certain sure—that we were the force that brought Movius on stage?”
London curled his lip. “Don’t turn metaphysical on me, Nate. I can forgive you anything but that. Your other argument has spoken for me. Because of all this work, we are in a position to save the best of one civilization for the next one. But our work and the work of those before us is being endangered by this egoistical upstart, Daniel Movius!”
O’Brien cocked his head to one side. “On what do you base this judgment?”
“On my ability to interpret the course of events and decide when the time is ripe. Movius is moving too rapidly.” He shook his head. “Much too rapidly.”
“You said yourself that the crisis would come at the time of the Fall poll,” said O’Brien.
“I have revised my opinion.”
“The revision seems to have come at the very time Movius seems in a position to win the revolt and take over the gov
London’s eyes blazed. “Are you trying to say that . . .”
O’Brien stopped him with a curt wave of the hand. He stood up, the look of tiredness more pronounced. “I had hoped to avoid this, Quilliam.” He brought a rolled chart from beneath the table, opened it to show that it was transparent. A single blue line slanted across it, curving up and down. The transparent chart fitted over the chart on Movius. O’Brien taped it in place. The blue line on the transparent chart showed a flatter gradient, more sharp downslopes than the red line on the chart beneath it. The difference was pronounced. The red line climbed at a steep angle. “This blue line charts the decision index of a man named Quilliam London,” said O’Brien.
London’s cheeks flushed; he compressed his lips, breathed noisily through his nose. “That was an evil turn to do an old friend, Nate.” His voice was low, controlled.
“I had to do it, Quilliam. If it’s any consolation, I’ve a chart on myself here. It’s about the same as yours.”
“That man is dangerous,” insisted London.
“He’s dangerous to us if we threaten him,” agreed O’Brien. “Only if we threaten him.”
“Have you given up then?” London looked down at the little psychologist.
“Given up? No, I wouldn’t call it that.” O’Brien turned away from the wall. “A psychologist looks for many things in people and events. I missed a point in observing Movius, although he has not missed this point in observing himself. He has said at least once . . .”
“Bah!”
“Don’t interrupt. Movius has his roots deep in the unbeatable wellspring of the collective unconscious, that living juggernaut which actually governs . . .”
“Nonsense! That is not logical!” London seemed at the end of his patience.
“That is exactly correct,” said O’Brien. “Movius is not using logic. He is depending upon instinct. He is in contact with his feelings. There is an ancient colloquialism which precisely fits this situation: Movius is flying by the seat of his pants.”
“Of all the utter . . .” London broke off, gritted his teeth. “You’re going to sit by and let him destroy everything we’ve planned.”
O’Brien shook his head. “I’ve explained the significance of our work to Movius as well as I am able. I’m hoping he will use the knowledge to advantage. That would preserve it.”
“You’re hoping!” The old man’s tone was taunting. “You’re not planning—you’re hoping!” Suddenly, the old fierceness returned to London. “What about our plans, Nate? I ask you that!”
O’Brien shrugged. “Sometimes the best laid plans . . .” He broke off. “Someone has come along who demonstrate without question he has greater planning ability than we have. I consider it wise to turn the planning end over to him.”
“In the worst crisis time in all history? Movius doesn’t appreciate the first significance of a crisis!” London turned his back on O’Brien. “You’ve lost your spine, Nate. This isn’t like you.”
A note of pleading came into O’Brien’s voice. “No, Quilliam. I’ve awakened. As I listened to Movius . . .”
“Listened to Movius! Great Gallup! For six weeks I ate, slept and drank Movius! He’s nothing but a monumental ego!”
“We mustn’t interfere with him,” said O’Brien. “I’m convinced of it.”
“Well, I’m not convinced!” London strode to the table, picked up the wig which disguised his hair, stuffed the cheek-distenders into his mouth. He picked up the infirmary bag, went to the door. “Movius is a positive threat to all of our plans. He is going to be eliminated.”
“Just a moment.”
The command stopped London at the door. The old man turned, the disguise making him look youthful in a bizarre way. “Yes?”
“Who will do the eliminating?”
London patted the infirmary bag. “I will.” The hunter’s eyes stared back at O’Brien.
“Why can’t Navvy do it?”
A vague sag drew at London’s shoulders. “You know Navvy’s gone over to Movius. He hypnotizes people.”
O’Brien said, “Quilliam, your own children oppose you and agree with me.”
“It makes no difference,” said London. “I’ve come to my decision. We’re going on without him.” He slammed the door behind him.
O’Brien sat down at his table, waited almost a minute. With a wary sadness, he picked up his phone. “Security, please. Wilson? This is O’Brien. Quilliam London just left my office about a minute ago. He’s disguised as an infirmary attendant. You’ll know his walk. I want him followed. If he goes anywhere near Movius’ apartment he is to be stopped.” O’Brien hesitated. “Be careful. I believe he has a stutter gun in that infirmary bag.” He listened, spoke again in a lower tone. “Yes . . . shot if necessary.”
Chapter 24
It was late when Movius entered his apartment building. He saw the woman standing in the elevator. She was turned half away from him, face averted. Something vaguely familiar about her, but he was anxious to get upstairs to Grace. They had a lot of things to do if they were going to get out of the apartment tonight and into the hidden quarters beneath Bu-Psych. He punched for the fiftieth floor, stepped back as the door closed. Then he thought maybe this woman doesn’t want to go that high. He turned to her, started to shape the question. It never got past his lips.
Cecelia Lang!
“Hello, Dan.” She smiled, a slow, controlled movement of lips which never reached the eyes.
That soft, silky voice. It had made him shiver once. Now it filled him with a kind of dread. He found his throat was dry and had to swallow before he could speak. “Hello, Cecie.”
Just like that—hello and hello. What does she want? As though in answer to his thoughts, Cecelia pushed the red EMERGENCY STOP button, said, “I want to talk to you, Dan.” She moved closer, giving him the benefit of a subtle perfume. “You haven’t been around to see me.”
No, by Roper! he thought. He took a deep breath. “My wife and I don’t get out much.” He gave the words the extra barb of flatness.
“Little Grace? She wouldn’t interfere if you really wanted to come see me.” She moved closer, put an arm beneath his. He could see the cold glints in the edges of her eyes.
Little Grace? he thought. Little Grace! The word implied she knew Grace. But Grace had hinted at something like that. She’d said Bu-Psych had been watching him for a long time. Sure they had. Four years of tantalizing, never-give-in Cecelia Lang. The woman with the warm, soft, promising body and eyes that always said no. He could picture Cecelia running to O’Brien with her reports and recalled the piercing questions she’d sometimes asked. And with this knowledge came another thought: When the time was ripe they had her vamp The Coor so he’d low-opp me!
The anger became a raging furnace inside him. He fought to keep the damper closed. “What do you want, Cecie?” He forced the words out without any special emphasis, as though it was of no great moment to him whatever she wanted.
Cecelia slitted her eyes, muscles tensing for the barest fraction of a second. She had sensed a wrong note. “You, silly,” she said. “I want you.”
Movius pushed her away gently, looked her up and down. “Take off your clothes.”
“What?” Her surprise was not an act.
“Take off your clothes,” said Movius in a reasonable tone. “I want to see what I’m being offered.”
“Dan, please!”
He mimicked her. “Dan, please!” His hand darted out, grasped the top of her suit, ripped it open.
“Dan! I’ll scream!” She drew back, clutching the torn place.
“Go ahead. I doubt anybody would hear you down here in the elevator.”
She backed farther away, suddenly tried to dart around him toward the controls. He caught her arm, ripped the suit farther open. She fought him, but subsided, breathing hard, when he pinned her arms behind her back. “Dan, I came to you for help. I’m in danger.”
He ignored her, ripped the suit
“Dan, wait! Later. I have an apartment. We can go there.” She stared up at him with a kind of hungry fascination.
Movius looked down at her pink skin, remembering all the nights he had stayed awake, wondering what Cecelia’s flesh would feel like. Now let the bitch taste a little of her own medicine. Somehow, it wasn’t the kind of revenge he’d imagined. It was flat, unsatisfying. He picked up the thread of her gasping protests.
“You’re in danger?”
“Yes; oh, yes. Terrible danger!”
How had she ever followed him? he wondered. She was so obvious.
“Yes. We have so little time.” She glanced down at her exposed skin. “Later, we can . . .”
He pushed her away from him, feeling a little sick with himself. “Who’s waiting there with a gun?”
She started to speak, wet her lips with her tongue. “I don’t . . .”
“Don’t give me any more lies!” He shouted it. “You played me like a fish on a hook. Four years you played me for that omnipotent low-opp O’Brien!”
“Dan, I . . .” She was crowded back into the corner, arms up covering her breasts.
“Make him hate everything!” he shouted. “That was the scheme, wasn’t it?” He lowered his voice. “You didn’t realize you could make me hate myself.” The torn coveralls were beginning to slip down over her hips. “Cover yourself.”
She shook her head. “I didn’t . . .”