High-Opp by Frank Herbert
Now it’s just plain Movius, he thought. It used to be Mr. Movius. That glorified janitor!
“You no longer live here, Movius.” The manager’s face reminded him of a rabbit, a particularly gloating rabbit. “I have your new address right here.” He handed Movius a narrow strip of paper torn from a notepad.
Movius glanced at it, read: “Roper Road, 8100-4790DRB.” A Warren! Well, he’d expected that. DR for downstairs rear, B for bachelor. No tick rug in the lobby there; bare to the hard tiles. No isolation there; turmoil. A Warren.
The manager stood looking at him, obviously enjoying his discomfiture. “Your effects already have been moved.”
Already moved! he thought. Scarcely two hours and already moved. As though they wanted to cover him up, like an unsightly mistake.
“Was there any mail for me?” asked Movius.
“No, but I believe there was a tele-message on the printer. Just a moment.” He walked around a corner, returned with another piece of paper.
The note was brief:
“Dan,
“Just got the word. Comp Section still needs good hands. We could put through a special request—Phil Henry.”
Movius put the note in his pocket. Phil Henry. How long had it been? With a feeling of guilt, Movius realized he had not seen Phil Henry for almost a year. He remember the bushy-browed eager look of the man when they’d worked together back in Comp. Almost a year. Movius shook his head, turned to the manager.
“Is Miss Lang in her apartment? I’d like to see her.”
“Miss Lang?”
The anger came out in his voice. “Yes, Miss Lang. She wasn’t at work. I’d like to know if she’s home.”
“I’ll see if Miss Lang wishes to see you,” said the manager. He went into his cubbyhole. Movius heard him talking on the phone.
One of the privileges of Upper Rank quarters, thought Movius. No unauthorized visitors. Ergo: he had to ask permission to visit his fiancée. He wondered what would happen to her now. Probably a quick shift into another section. Only the top felt the heavy blow of a low-opp. Trained underlings were always needed somewhere.
The manager spent a long time on the phone, finally emerged, grinned at Movius before speaking. “You may go up.” The grin was a positive smirk.
Movius went to the elevator, punched for the thirty-third floor. Why hadn’t Cecelia been at the office? She seldom failed to report on time, often rode down with him. Movius thought of all the effort he had put out to get her this apartment next to his, the favors he had promised, the extra credits spent. And Cecelia only a twelfth ranker. That had made it difficult.
The elevator stopped, the door snicked back. Movius turned left, passed his own door, 3307, saw it was open and a cleaning crew working inside. The urge to pause and have a last look around the rooms swept over him. But he couldn’t face the thought of explaining to the cleaning crew, accepting their smiles of superiority. He turned away, noticed two men loitering in the doorway opposite ’07, Cecelia’s apartment. One of the men looked familiar. He had seen the fellow somewhere. The two men showed interest in Movius as he knocked on Cecelia’s door. One moved across the hall, hand in pocket. “Just a . . .”
The door opened, revealing Cecelia—chic, blonde, wearing dress coveralls the color of her hair. Her mouth was startling with a wild orange lipstick. The effect was a gold statue come to life.
Movius stepped forward to take her in his arms, ignored the man behind him. “Cecie, I . . .”
She put him off, extending her right hand as though for him to kiss. With her other hand she waved away the man in the hall. “Dan, how nice you could come by. Come in, won’t you? I’ve a guest.” She took his hand.
There’s something wrong with her voice, thought Movius. He said, “Who was that in the hall?”
“Nobody important; come along.” She led him into the apartment.
A wide-bodied man with crew-cut iron-grey hair and a face like a square-hewn plank stood up from the couch. He was putting a handkerchief into a side pocket. The handkerchief showed orange stains the color of Cecelia’s lipstick. Movius paused. Now he knew the reason for the men in the hall. Bodyguards. This was Helmut Glass, Coordinator of All Bureaus: The Coor. Although the directors of the top bureaus shared nearly equal powers, this man was titular head of government, the top of the pyramid.
“Sorry about your job,” said Glass. His left eye squinted, the muscles of the cheek rippling with a nervous tic. “I just heard about it a couple of hours ago.”
On the tip of Movius’ tongue was the urge to say, “Then my driver knew it before you did.” But his thoughts skipped a beat. It was now eleven o’clock. Two hours subtracted from eleven left nine o’clock, about the same time Navvy had been making the prediction. The Coor could not have known two hours ago unless his information came from a source similar to Navvy’s or from foreknowledge. But how could he predict the Opp?
“Just about two hours ago,” repeated Glass. “I was shocked.”
He’s emphasizing the point, thought Movius. It’s a calculated lie. And how could Glass be shocked at the knowledge? He and the other top bureau chiefs—Com-Burs—had framed the question. The man wants me to lose my temper, thought Movius. He wants me to call him a liar. Sorry, Mr. Glass.
In an even tone, Movius said, “That gave you just enough time to get over here and comfort Cecie, didn’t it?”
The Coor’s eyes widened, narrowed. “Cecelia . . .” He turned toward her.
Cecelia stepped to one side, said, “Helmut has transferred me to his department. Isn’t that lucky? Now I won’t lose my apartment.”
Not The Coordinator has transferred me . . . Isn’t this cozy? And dear Helmut received a big kiss when he made the announcement.
Glass put a lighter flame to the cigaret, looked at Movius through a blue cloud of smoke—distant, untouchable. “We can always use a good secretary. When I heard your department was low-opped and Cecelia out of a job, I snapped her up.” A streamer of cigaret smoke blew toward Movius. “Don’t know what we’re going to do about you, Dan. Something will probably turn up, though.” Again the tie rippled the Coor’s cheek, squinted his eye.
So it’s Helmut and Cecelia, thought Movius. He looked at Cecelia, wondering how he could get her away alone to talk to her. Something about the way she was looking at him—half laughing, superior—reminded him of a fact buried far down in his memory. Cecelia Lang had been engaged to another man once. What was the fellow’s name? Brownley or something like that. He’d been the head of the now defunct Department of Antiquities and had gone out and gotten himself into one of the penalty services for failure to report the discovery of an ancient library. And now that he thought about it, Movius recalled that Cecelia had been transferred to Liaison the day after what’s-his-name Brownley was low-opped.
Looking at Cecelia with her cream-washed skin and eyes he could never see past, Movius thought, I inherited her.
He said, “I was wondering if I could see you tonight.”
A perfectly formed look of disappointment came onto her face. He had the sudden disquieting picture of Cecilia practicing that look before her mirror. “Oh, I’m sorry,” she said, “but Helmut has asked me . . .”
“Tonight is Summer Festival,” said Glass. “Had you forgotten? Cecelia said you hadn’t asked her; so I invited her.”
It wasn’t what they said nor even their actions—taken singly. It was a combination of things more subtle than gross perception is accustomed to noting. Movius felt a wall descend between himself and these two. So this was how Brownley had felt. Sorry, Brownley. I didn’t know. For a moment, Movius failed to recognize the feelings inside himself—the tension like hunger. Then he knew it—hate, a boiling hurt, struggling for expression. He thrust his hands into his pockets, clenched his fists.
“You do see, don’t you?” asked Cecelia. Again that vague hint of superior laughter.
“I see,” said Movius, startled to find his voice high-pitched. Glass looked
Cecelia turned away. Glass grinned at him, insolent, assured. Only the tic, briefly touching the man’s cheek hinted at something less than assurance.
Movius whirled, almost ran from the room, not seeing, moving by memory. He was in the Common Transport headed for his new address in the Warrens before he could calm his nerves.
Without using a word that could be challenged, Cecelia had just given him the gate. He recognized that she had done the job with a masterful touch. It was typical of her, typical of the way she had always handled him, holding him a tantalizing arms-length away even after they were engaged.
A maddening woman. And what did he really know about her? The name—Cecelia Lang. The lovely, enticing body. But he didn’t know that except from looking at her and longing. Many men had enjoyed that privilege. What else did he know about her? Now that he put it to the question, he realized there was a little else he knew about Cecelia Lang. She had never talked about her parents except to say that once her mother had possessed the morals of slum goat. Maybe she’d never known her father. From all Cecelia had ever said about herself, she might well have started life at the age of twenty-one. Or perhaps at nineteen. He seemed to remember hearing somewhere that she’d known Brownley two years. Brother Brownley.
Chalk up another averted face; a lovely, cleverly averted face. Cecelia Lang.
His new address was so far back in the Warrens of the river flat that the Transport was almost empty when they neared it. Movius watched the corner numbers, stood up when they passed 8,000. A man’s voice whispered hoarsely behind him, “I’ll bet he has a cute little LP out here he doesn’t want his driver to know about.”
Movius became acutely conscious of the color of his clothing, the T above his lapel number. Even without these things he knew there would be something in his manner to brand him High-Opp. How long would it take for that to wear off?
The Transport stopped. Movius stepped down. Forty-seven was four blocks away along a curving street filled with screeching LP children who grew quiet as he approached, stared silently as he passed. An occasional woman sat on a doorstep staring at nothing. Where the privileged sections rarely heard loud noises, quiet was the exception here—until the workers came home and fell into weary sleep. Even then sounds filtered through the night: giggles, screeches, curses. And the smell. A fetid notice of unwashed closeness. Movius walked through it as though in a dream, hearing his heels click against the concrete, remembering his childhood in a Warren such as this, conscious of the eyes which followed him.
It was a building like all the others—lifeless windows and a door like a gaping mouth. A Warren. How long had it been? Eleven years? No. Twelve years. Great Gallup! Twelve years! Since the day he’d made the Calculation Corps, that breeding ground of the middle ranks. That was where he’d met Phil Henry. They had been two eager beginners. Eager to learn. Eager to believe anything good about a system which gave them this tremendous opportunity. He wondered how much Phil Henry still believed. Then there was Phil’s offer. The Computer Section; it was only four stages above LP and fourteen ranks from the top. A few privileges. Better housing. Pride held him back, the memory that he’d not seen Phil for almost a year, had ignored an old friend. Yes, Phil was a friend. No face averted there. Later on he’d look up Phil. Not now.
A thought came back to him: Comp Section, fourteen ranks from the top. Had he been aiming for the top? He realized with a shock that something in him had been doing just that, something unconscious and driving. And all the while his conscious self had moved along placidly like a passenger in a commuter tube deep under the earth.
A gang of children raced between Movius and the Warren, ran off down the street shouting.
There was the Warren. His Warren. He was back to the beginning now; nothing to do but wait until his various talents went through the sorter, came up with an open job. That took time. Maybe a month; maybe more. He didn’t look forward to wearing the LP’s on his lapels, having old acquaintances appear not to notice. Well, inside then; off the streets.
He found room ninety, paused outside the door. He could picture it, identical to the one in his memory—seven by nine feet, narrow bed, standard bedding, a bathroom three and one-half feet square (shower opposite toilet, washbasin under shower, just enough room to stand erect), beside the bathroom a closet of the same size. Three and one-half goes into seven twice and seven feet is the Opinion-prescribed width of a standard bachelor room. The plastic walls with their memorized pipes and conduits subtracted perhaps three-quarters of an inch.
May the Majority rule!
Movius opened the door, drew back when he saw a strange woman sitting on the bed, a small grey mouse of a woman with sallow complexion and hair drawn back tightly in a worker’s bun. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I thought this was my room. The door . . .”
She jumped up, held out a sheet of paper, said, “Darling, I couldn’t stay away any longer. I had to see you.”
This is a joke, thought Movius. He noted a stack of Transport Department moving boxes in a corner, one on the bed. His?
“Please come in. Don’t be mad at me.” She beckoned to him frantically.
Movius put down the briefcase, closed the door. The click of the door roused him and he started to re-open it. She shook her head violently, waved the paper at him. “Darling, what’s wrong?” she demanded. “Are you tired of me already?”
He moved forward, accepted the paper, read it. The words took a while coming through because the woman went on rambling about her passion for him and the cruelty of men. It was neat block printing; “Do not say a word aloud. We may be overheard. You are in terrible danger. Come to the bed, pretend you are making love to me.”
When she was certain he had read the entire message, she grabbed it from him, crammed it into her mouth, chewed it and swallowed it with a convulsive gulp. She took his hand, dragged him to the bed, put her mouth close to his ear. “Say something, you fool,” she whispered. “Don’t you know what to say to a woman?”
He found the anger inside him where shock had hidden it. More people pushing him around! He jerked her to him, hissed in her ear, “Who are you? What’s the meaning of this?”
“I’m Grace London, Navvy’s sister. He sent me as soon as he found out. Pay close attention. You’re to be transferred to the Arctic Labor Pool for weather survey.”
Her eyes made him uncomfortable, staring at him so queerly. This obviously was more grapevine poppycock! But he remembered the accuracy of Navvy’s other prediction. It was as though the thought opened a door on the Arctic, letting in a blast of icy air. “That’s penalty service,” he whispered, subdued. “High mortality.” Roper’s name! Had they read his angry thoughts?
“Oh, darling, I’m so happy you’re not mad at me,” she said. “Kiss me again.” She made a low smacking around with her lips, bent and whispered, “It will be discovered too late. A big mistake. So sorry. Eulogies for poor dead Mr. Movius. Posthumous restoration of rank.”
A dead High-Opp, he thought. Her mood of urgency began to creep through his numbness. He muttered, “Darling, I’ve missed you, too.” He moved to make the bedsprings squeak, whispered, “Why?”
“No time for explanations,” she whispered and blushed as he again squeaked the springs. “Do exactly what I say. After I’ve gone, wait for darkness, then go out and catch a Commerce Transport. Ride it to the end of the line and go into the Carhouse. Find Clancy in the office. He’ll give you the keys to his locker, a change of clothes and instructions where to go from there.” She squeezed his hand, said in a loud, clear voice, “Darling, why don’t you come to my place tonight? This is too open here.” The springs protested as she stood.
Still in a semi-fog, he arose, watched her open the door, glance up and down the hallway, duck out.
The air held the charged feeling of static electricity after she had gone. As the mood of it melted away, he felt let down, unsure. Pop-mag pap! he th
But he had been low-opped. And the official question, when put to closer scrutiny, appeared to have been phrased toward that end. “For tax economy reasons!” But who would want to spy on . . . Then he remembered. A privilege of the top five ranks was an apartment in a building where freedom from spy beams was maintained by a master scrambler on the roof. A High-Opp phone could not be tapped for the same reason. He’d been living away from this sort of thing for too long. Bu-Con was always spying on the Warrens, looking for Sep activity.
Movius cleared the box off the corner of his bed, lay back. Navvy had sent his sister. Sometimes drivers were unaccountably loyal. He’d had more freedom than most drivers, too. Birthdays off, personal trips. Now, maybe Navvy was returning the favor.
The bed felt hard, uncomfortable beneath him, more like a gymnasium mat than a bed. Gymnasium! He’d lost his privilege card for the gymnasium. No more sessions on the mat with Okashi, no more steam baths, no masseuse. No more of anything that had made his life bearable. They’d even take his library permit for the reserved stacks. Back to the apathy of the Warrens.
What have I come to? he wondered. Climbing up through the bureaus and departments was enough once. The competitive game. In fact, as he thought about it, that was all there had been. Pay attention to the game, live by the rules, believe the rules. Looking at his world now was like awakening after the loss of a pair of dark glasses which had obscured his vision.
Cecelia and Helmut!
He pounded a fist against the bed until it hurt. Cecelia had been an expensive trinket, a badge of office.
The Red Slip. Opinion SD22240368523ZX.
Almighty Opinion!
The full import of his loss began to come through to his consciousness. He caught himself sighing, felt like a shell vacuumed of everything but weary resentment.
Navvy had sent his sister. Navvy was right this morning. Is he right this time? What am I going to do? The question conjured up a vision of Movius’ father. “Never ask what you’re going to do, son. Ask how you’re going to do it.” Ah, yes. His positive father, full of history, discipline and good intentions gone astray. A history teacher in an age which sought to forget its own past, living out his life as a common laborer in the LP Warrens, ladling the knowledge of remembering contraband books into his son.