High-Opp by Frank Herbert
“I said cover yourself!”
He turned, punched the button for his floor. Cecelia pulled up the bottoms of her coveralls, tried ineffectually to repair the tops. It was no use; they were too badly ripped. She tied the torn sleeves around her waist. The elevator door snicked open.
“I’m not going out there like this,” she hissed.
“Then stay here.” He strode out of the elevator without looking back, stopped at the door of his room, unlocked it. Cecelia slipped past him as he opened the door. He went in, slammed the door.
Grace stood in the middle of the living room, a hand to her cheek, staring at Cecelia who had stopped a few feet away. Movius walked past them as though it were the most natural thing in the world for him to come home with a woman who was nude from the waist up.
“She tried to bait me into a trap,” he said. “Now we have to find out who the triggerman is.” He sank into a chair, his back to them.
“Who?” asked Grace, voice over-controlled.
There was a long silence punctuated by a sob from Cecelia.
“You’d better tell us,” insisted Grace.
“But you don’t understand,” said Cecelia. She sounded as though she were about to break into tears.
“Tell us, or I think I’ll kill you myself!” said Grace.
“You’re all crazy,” gasped Cecelia.
“That does it,” said Movius. “She’s told us who.”
“It’s Glass,” said Grace. “You’ve gone over to him.”
Movius came out of his chair and turned in one motion. “No! It’s Quilliam. Has to be.”
Cecelia was backing toward the door, ignoring her semi-nudity.
“Get her some clothes,” said Movius. Then to Cecelia, “You’d better tell the whole thing, Cecie.” Somehow, the old familiar name sounded inappropriate for this frightened woman.
“But I thought . . .” Cecelia suddenly sat down on the floor, buried her head in her hands and began to cry.
Movius turned away, went into the kitchen and took a long time mixing a stiff drink. There was a sour, sick taste in his mouth over what he had done in the elevator. Cecelia had just been taking orders. The person he should’ve knocked around was that self-satisfied O’Brien or Quilliam. He took the drink back into the living room. No sign of the woman. They came out of the bedroom in a moment with Cecelia in one of Grace’s suits. He gave Cecelia the drink. She took it without comment, drained it without removing it from her mouth.
Grace was chewing her lower lip, a sure sign she was shaken. “It was my father.”
Cecelia put the empty glass on a table. “I didn’t know. He called my private number, said he had an urgent job for me. I was to get you out of your apartment and down to . . .”
“Just a minute.” Movius stepped to the phone, called O’Brien. He told the Bu-Psych chief what had happened, waited a long minute before O’Brien sighed, said, “Dan, I was hoping to cover it up without your finding out.”
“Why?” Movius bit off the word.
O’Brien’s voice sounded old and tired. “Quilliam had his eyes on the post of Coordinator. It’s . . .”
“You mean he’d . . .”
“It’s a complicated thing,” said O’Brien. “Briefly, though, it’s like this: he wants the power so he can revenge himself on the ones who killed his wife. Basically, he hates the LPs, blames them for what happened. I think he’s a sick man and dangerous.”
“A fine time to tell me,” said Movius.
“I’m sorry,” said O’Brien and sounded it. “I’ve known Quilliam so long and seen him so often, it just never got through to me what was driving him until his own actions made it imperative.”
“This is awkward,” said Movius.
“You mean because of Grace?”
“Of course that’s what I mean!”
“I’ve put a special guard around your apartment. That’s the best I can do. Get Cecelia out of there some way so she isn’t recognized. We need her right where she is with Glass.”
“The guard may help,” said Movius. “Gerard’s men are like a sieve. Janus comes and goes through them at will.”
“My men know how to recognize Quilliam.”
“Right.” Movius put the phone on its hook, returned to the living room. “Your father is out to kill me.” Grace sat down in a chair, turned her face away. “O’Brien has a guard on the building which may or may not be enough. We’re getting out of here tonight anyway.”
“If I could just go to him,” murmured Grace. “I’m sure I could explain.” She spoke as though she were talking to herself.
“O’Brien says he won’t listen to reason.”
“I didn’t know,” said Cecelia. “I’m kind of out of touch with things where I am. I’ve always taken orders either from Mr. O’Brien or Mr. London. He just called . . . I didn’t know.”
“Never mind,” said Movius. “What’s done is done.” He thrust his hands deeply into his pockets, glared at the floor. “Cecie, I apologize. Revenge is no good; it doesn’t matter whose revenge.”
She gave a shaky laugh, spoke in a voice totally unlike the tones which once had been familiar. “I asked for it. You just surprised me. The Dan Movius I knew wouldn’t have done that.” Her voice gained strength; the silky tones reappeared. “He’d have come groveling after me.” Cecelia turned to Grace, gave a flippant salute. “I think you have yourself a man, honey. Keep him occupied or I may come back on my own time.” She started to leave.
“Just a minute,” said Movius. “O’Brien wants you out of here without being recognized. I’ll have to lead you through the conduit tunnel.”
“We’ll both lead you,” said Grace.
“Never mind, dears,” said Cecelia. “This won’t be the first time I’ve crawled out the back way. I suppose it opens into the boiler room as usual.”
Movius nodded.
“Thank Roper for standard construction,” she said and left them, closing the door softly behind her.
Grace turned toward him. “Well?” An ominous note.
Movius avoided her eyes, went to a chair by the terrace windows.
Grace followed him. “I deserve some sort of explanation.”
“I lost my temper.” His voice was gruff, curt.
“That’s what she said. What were you going to do, attack her in the elevator?”
“I said I was sorry. I apologized.”
Grace sat on the arm of his chair. “When you lived next door to her down the hill, did you . . .”
“Good Gallup, no!” In a lower tone: “Why do you think I lost my temper? It was all that stored up frustration.”
“Oh, so you wanted to!” Petulance ruled her voice. “I suppose you’ve had lots of women.”
Movius jerked up out of the chair, whirled on her. “I’m twenty-nine-years-old, Grace. I’ve been a damned fool at least once every year of my life. I happen to love you and that’s different. Let’s drop the other thing, shall we? That’s the past.”
Her expression softened. “I’m just being female. But Cecelia Lang makes me jealous.”
“Of course she does. I was engaged to her once. You know all about the job she did on me, keeping me in cold storage for O’Brien, making her little reports.”
Grace came to him, put her arms around his waist, her head against his chest. “I won’t be jealous any . . .” She broke off, pushed away. “I let this petty jealousy push the other thing right out of my mind.”
“Your father.”
“He can be terrible when he’s angry.” She put her hand to a cheek. It reminded Movius of someone feeling a bruise. “He’s so cold, like a god sitting in judgment.”
“Pure intellect,” said Movius. “It loses touch with the world sooner or later.”
“I’m going to find him. I’ve got to.” She turned away.
“No, you’re not.” He moved up behind her, took her shoulders.
“I am. It’s the only way.”
“Damn it, I won’t let you!
“You’re not going to stop me!”
Movius chuckled; the chuckle became laughter. “We sound like a couple of children, darling.” He turned her around, took her in his arms.
“It’s just that I’m so afraid for you,” she whispered.
“I’ll have him picked up tomorrow,” said Movius. “Then you can talk to him.”
“Who’ll pick him up?”
“Janus can do it if anyone can.”
In the end he had to kiss her more than a dozen times before she’d agree to wait.
Chapter 25
It was always dusk in The Coor’s office, a sort of refined gloom. Light was absorbed by the dark paneling, the dark rug, the thick draperies. Now the dusk inside matched that outside.
“We finally have a line on him,” said Addington. He took off his thick glasses, giving his face the appearance of a slab of red meat with two holes in the top and a wide slit in the bottom. “His wife was seen going into the Bu-Psych Building today.” Addington polished the glasses as he spoke, returned them to his face. Again he was the owl. “She was disguised, but one of our men—Curren—spotted her from seeing her out in the Roper Road Warren the day Movius was low-opped.”
“The day Movius was what?” asked Glass, staring down from his position leaning back against his desk.
“Let’s not play games among ourselves,” said Addington. He found a white lozenge in a pocket, popped it into his mouth, squirmed into a more comfortable position on the leather couch.
Glass pushed himself away from the desk, pointed a finger at Addington. “Nate O’Brien! He’s been talking crisis for years. Do you suppose he could be manufacturing a crisis of his own?”
“Pick him up and ask him,” said Addington.
The Coor shook his head. “I’m beginning to see it. O’Brien and Gerard together and Roper knows what other departments; but those two are doing the thinking. No wonder Gerard is so bold.”
“Where does Movius fit into this?” Addington swallowed the lozenge, fumbled in his pocket for another.
“I wish I knew. I’m tempted to raid his apartment.”
Addington paled. “That’d mean open war. Maybe that’s what they want.”
Glass showed his teeth in a superior smile. “You’re afraid I’d send you against that Army Gerard keeps on the building. Well, aren’t you, owl guts?”
Addington flushed. “Great Gallup! Don’t you start calling me that too.”
“Why didn’t you pick up the Movius woman when you’d spotted her?” demanded Glass.
“They took her home by copter, same way they’ve been moving Movius around.”
“How many men would we need to crack that apartment?” asked Glass.
Addington shook his head. “I don’t know. And anyway, I don’t think Movius and his wife are there anymore. Gerard threw two extra crews of guards around the building yesterday, hauled off half of them today. Bu-Trans copters made half a dozen trips from the apartment to the Bu-Psych Building. I think they’re holed up with O’Brien.”
“Then how many to crack Bu-Psych?”
“Helmut, don’t talk foolishness. We don’t know how many departments are in this. We don’t know how many guards.”
“Then find out!” bellowed Glass. “You be ready to move the night of the seventh. They’re planning something and I’ve a suspicion it will be aimed at the Fall poll. Well, we’re going to strike first. Bring in every man you can trust. Raid your sub-districts in other cities for men.”
“But that only gives me two days. I’ll need . . .”
“You’ve had two months! Great Gallup! You’ve had two years! Get moving!”
Addington hoisted himself to his feet with a grunt. He shook his head, waddled from the room.
Gerard went to another door, opened it. “Cecie, I’ve a job for you. You remember Daniel Movius? Well, he’s making trouble for the government and I want you to . . .”
Chapter 26
Movius took the elevator to the Bu-Psych sub-basement. He glanced at his watch—six-thirty. There were so many loose ends, but they couldn’t be helped now. Another half hour.
The room was a contrast in crudity and efficiency. Rough concrete walls enclosed a scene of hurrying messengers, clacking typewriters, people conducting low-voiced conversations on phones. It was a space about eighty feet long, perhaps half that wide, a row of concrete pillars down the middle. Early in the city’s history it had been built for printing machinery never installed. Forgotten and walled off, it had been re-discovered by a Sep in Bu-Plan.
Movius entered through the access tunnel his men had hacked out. What he saw in the room pleased him. The tall black box of a scrambler dominated one end of the room, beside it an emergency generator. A large map of the world covered the opposite wall. Red pins showed Sep organizations which were ready to attack. Yellow pins indicated danger areas. A liquid incendiary tube ran along the top of the map, ready to destroy it. Every record in the room was guarded the same way.
Along one wall was a row of desks, secretaries working at typewriters. Between pillars and walls were other desks, some occupied, some empty—district cell chiefs. In the opposite aisle, more desks—area coordinators. In a far corner, two desks and a typesetting and facsimile transceiver identical to the one in The Bureau of Communication which controlled the world’s opp registration kiosks.
O’Brien and a short, chunky man stood in front of the transceiver as Movius approached. The chunky man was speaking, pointing to a square black screen above the transceiver. “ . . .basic fallacy. They think there’s no way to tell when a message is on the beam or what scramble pattern the message is taking. Dan’s idea when we first worked on it was to make a device which would show us the message and its scramble pattern as a motion. He . . .”
Movius put a hand on the chunky man’s shoulder. “Hello, Phil.”
“Oh, hello, Dan. I was just explaining to Mr. O’Brien here . . .”
“I heard you.” Movius glanced across at O’Brien. “We’re as ready as we’ll ever be.” He walked to the corner desk, dropped into the chair.
Behind O’Brien he could see a round table with four men seated around it, three talking, one doodling on a scratch pad. They were men of different sizes and shapes, but with a stamp of sameness to them. One was constructing an intricate doodle like a maze. It was a significant doodle for the men at the table. They were the Bu-Psych semantic analysts, masters at maze-like thinking.
O’Brien went to the table, addressed the doodler. “I think we’ll have some work for you pretty soon, Jim.”
The man, a thin-faced individual with grey hair like a disarrayed mop, pushed away his notepad. “It’s about time.”
Movius looked at his watch, listened to it. “Where’s Peterson? He was due back here with Grace an hour ago.”
Someone came into the room at the far end. A post blocked the view. Movius shifted to one side. Navvy, and hurrying. He stopped at the desk.
“I couldn’t find him,” said Navvy. “I thought sure I could find him. He’s not in any of his regular haunts.”
“Quilliam London can be as elusive as a mosquito if he wants,” said O’Brien. “He slipped right away from my men.”
“This isn’t good,” said Movius.
O’Brien rubbed the grey spots at his temples. “He could ruin everything. He knows too much about our plans.”
“I should never have let Grace go out,” said Movius. He slapped the palm of his hand against the desktop in irritation. “She was just like you, Navvy, sure she could find him.”
“He’s a master of disguise,” said Navvy. “I hate to admit it, but I could have passed him a dozen times and never recognized him. I thought I’d know his walk, but . . .” He shrugged. “Then I hoped he’d recognize me and contact me.” Navvy lowered his eyes. “I . . . uh, took off my disguise a couple of times just in the hopes . . .”
In unison, both Movius and O’Brien barked, “You what?”
“I was
“That wasn’t what I was thinking,” said Movius. He looked at O’Brien, an unspoken question in his eyes.
O’Brien held out both hands, palms up. “She might get the same notion. After all, she’s his sister. Who knows?”
Movius jumped to his feet. “Navvy, do you have any idea where . . .” From his standing position, Movius saw Janus Peterson’s bulky figure come through the door, hurry toward them. He was alone.
Peterson was breathing rapidly. He came up to the desk, took a deep breath, swallowed before speaking. “Dan, I . . .”
“Where’s Grace?”
“I had no idea she was going to pull a stunt like that,” said Peterson.
Movius walked around the desk. “Where is she?”
“Bu-Con has her. The Coor. They took her to Com-Burs.”
In a flat tone, Movius said, “She took off her disguise.”
Peterson nodded. “At the festival grounds. Lots of old timers hang around there. She was hoping Quilliam would spot her. I didn’t know what she was going to do. I swear.” He took a gulping breath. “She went into a comfort station, came out the other side without a disguise. I didn’t know what to do. I saw a young fellow on the path spot her and I knew if I went to her, I’d be tabbed. She saw this fellow the same time I did—maybe she recognized him. She started to run. Just like that they were all around her. They seemed to come up out of the ground. I faced back, watched them hustle her into a car.”
Movius clenched his fists. “How do you know they went to Com-Burs?”
“I spotted a Bu-Trans truck, gave them the sign and followed the car.”
“In a truck?” asked O’Brien.
“They never look at trucks,” said Peterson.
“Bu-Con does,” said Movius. “Are you certain you weren’t followed?”
“Not unless they came through some garbage tubes . . .” Peterson lowered his eyes. “It’s my fault they got her, Dan. Give me some men and . . .”
Movius turned his back. “No.” He looked across at O’Brien. “Contact Cecelia Lang.”