Man of Two Worlds by Frank Herbert
Ryll, observing, was horrified. Don’t do it, Lutt!
Stay out of this or I will!
To the colonel, Lutt said: “I want this first vorcamera transmission to be something very dramatic, preferably in your headquarters during a battle.”
“And who will have access to the transmission?”
“Our subscribers on Earth.”
“And the Chinese would become aware of this?”
“I’m sure of it, in time.”
“The Chinese are devious,” the colonel said. “You must not reveal the location of your broadcast. It is in your own interest, as well. The Chinese use antipersonnel weapons our ray defenses find difficult to stop. We have some robotroops> of course, but the Chinese have none.”
Roweena chimed in: “The Legion is mostly gallant, brave men fighting for Legion and Country.”
“You must have Legion cameramen,” Lutt said. “Could one of them run the camera while Roweena and I do the interviews? That way we could ensure nothing sensitive is transmitted.”
Roweena was suddenly excited. “You want me on camera?”
“You’re the new bureau chief,” Lutt said.
“Will video pick this up?” the colonel asked.
“Not immediately, but they’re sure to want in on it later.”
“How many of these special cameras do you have?”
“Three.”
“Are they difficult to use?”
“They might be dangerous on a battlefield. They’re rigged to self-destruct if anyone tampers with them.”
“I was about to suggest we send one of your cameras to the front. But these new Chinese missiles often go out of control, killing more of their own troops than ours. And there are so many more of the enemy. It is clear they do not mind killing everyone on a battlefield as long as our boys get it, too.”
“Is that any way to fight a war?” Roweena asked.
“Are there rules?” Lutt asked.
“Very few in this war,” the colonel said. “Well, I will see what I can do for you. The sergeant will escort you back to your hotel and make the arrests. There will be heads chopped.”
“I didn’t know you still used the guillotine,” Lutt said.
“It was a figure of speech, dear fellow. Actually, we throw them armorless into the nearest lava cauldron. Quick, and there’s no mess to clean up afterward.”
Roweena linked arms with the colonel and smiled at Lutt. “Thanks for the job, boss, but Paul and I have other business to attend to right now.”
The colonel grinned down at her. “Oh, indeed, we do.” He turned the grin toward Lutt. “I will send a Legion PTV for you when we get your clearance. The usual passes and things will be sent to Uno or arranged there. I advise you to wait at the hotel.”
“What’s a PTV?” Lutt asked.
“Personal Transport Vehicle. They’re pilotless and coded to follow an ion track. You will be reasonably safe. I’m sure you understand we cannot provide you with an escort everywhere.”
When they were safely back in their room, Ryll almost exploded with indignation. Reasonably safe! I can’t practice providing us with replacement inceram. I can’t even make us something decent to eat unless we’re down in that restaurant and then only if you order something in which I can conceal—
Will you shut up? I have to call the Enquirer and see how they’re doing. You re-idmage my armor while I’m doing that
Our armor!
Oh, yes. We are a growing, boy, aren’t we. And tonight, we’ll have a really good meal. I’m sure that nice waiter can provide us with a superb rendition of pesto Genovese.
Ryll subsided into shielded and sullen reflection. Bazeel! This evil Earther was going to observe the effect on Dreen flesh for sure. This called for desperate countermeasures. But was it possible to take over their shared flesh? And even so, could a Dreen simulate Earther behavior under these circumstances?
***
There was this dumb or Okie driving across Texas and it took him three months ‘cause ever’ time he saw one of those “Clean Restrooms Ahead” signs he stopped and he cleaned the restrooms.
—Story told by Lorna Subiyama
Jongleur teetered on the edge of a fretful frenzy, rocking back and forth—left feet, right feet, left feet. . . Habiba sat on the saddle of command at the peak of her cone directly above him. Dreenor’s morning sun, dimmed by an incomplete shield, gave her dark skin an olive cast.
What was Habiba doing? Reconstituting the Earth-erasure project and now—so much effort into the shield while other matters suffered. The shield idmaging had improved, though, and Habiba’s prediction of “success soon” gave heart to some.
Not to Jongleur.
“That’s enough for now,” Habiba said. “Give them a rest and we’ll try it again this afternoon.” The cone immediately brightened. “Well, what is it, Jongleur? The new ship again?”
“The replacement erasure ship progresses according to plan, Habiba. Mugly says it will be ready soon.”
Jongleur noted with a twinge of regret that he no longer had difficulty referring to erasure. Earth’s problems did that to one. Surely Habiba did not intend to order the erasure, though. This must be a project to occupy Mugly and keep him out of trouble. Or was it?
“It’s the overnight report from Earth, Habiba. Are you sure you cannot assign some superior idmagers to—”
“I told you not to bother me with that until the shield is perfected, Jongleur. Give me the report.”
“Prosik has managed to send a message through one of our operatives. The first erasure ship was, indeed, damaged and—”
“I thought as much. Where is Prosik? Is the ship unable to complete its mission?”
“Habiba!”
“I have thought long and hard about my former objections to the erasure of Earth, Jongleur. Difficult problems may require difficult answers.”
“Former objections?”
“Well . . . almost former. I would sooner achieve a peaceful solution. Tell me, what of Prosik and the ship?”
“One activation system and the erasure mechanisms survive but the Earthers continue to dismantle the ship. They are almost certain to set off the self-destruct sequence.”
“Prosik is unable to recapture the ship?”
“Unfortunately, Prosik is on his way to Venus.”
“To that hellish place? For what reason? Did you not send orders that he—”
“Habiba, please let me explain.”
“Very well, but I am displeased.”
“An Earther destroyed one of the ship’s activation systems and, in the explosion, was killed. Prosik assumed that one’s guise but . . . but . . .”
“Well?”
Smelling the faint effluvia of Habiba’s anger, Jongleur spoke hastily.
“The guise Prosik assumed was that of the Zone Patrol guard responsible for protecting the wreckage of the ship. He was blamed for the explosion and is being sent to Venus as punishment.”
“Then have him escape and assume another guise.”
“That would surely arouse suspicion, Habiba. No ordinary Earther escapes from Zone Patrol incarceration. Even our own Dreen captives find it virtually impossible, although they are guarded much more severely.”
“Of what possible use is it to have Prosik on Venus?”
“You recall we speculated about my son and . . .”
“The merger with that Hanson creature, yes.”
“Hanson is on Venus.”
“Jongleur, are you still trying to rescue your son?”
“I have issued no such orders, Habiba. But Hanson does know part of the secret of the Spirals. We must learn what he is doing.”
“Earth! Oh, if only this problem were behind us. How can Prosik get word to us from Venus?”
“Hanson plans to transmit news broadcasts via the Spirals. We, of course, can listen to those and—”
“Prosik does not sound bright enough to gain access to this equipment. I’m sorry, Jon
“That is all any of us can do, Habiba.”
“We do what we must, yes. That is always the way of it. Well, get on with it. I will want to know immediately when the new erasure ship is completed.”
“They will work on it until the next shield effort, Habiba. I am following your orders to have the best idmagers drop their other works and join the shield effort when you command it. Are you sure we require the erasure ship?”
“In the past, we have left too much to chance. We no longer can afford such luxury.”
As he left the sanctum, Jongleur thought sadly that Habiba was coming to sound more and more like Mugly. Oh, what a desperate state of affairs this awful Earth had produced!
***
We do not deal with a situation such as yours in this department, monsieur.
—Typical response of the French bureaucracy on Venus
Lutt awoke the next morning with another severe hangover and ideas about the effects of pesto Genovese on Dreen flesh.
Was it the herbs, the basil, Ryll baby?
Ryll remained uncommunicative in a painful near-stupor. The bazeel effect felt more intense than it had before and he wondered if he were forming an addiction.
A vidcom call intruded on their wake-up agony. It was the concierge with word that the Legion was sending a PTV for Monsieur Andriessen. The concierge sounded impressed.
The PTV was a snub-nosed, short-winged little rocket with a cargo pod tucked under its belly that swallowed his equipment. It carried another armored passenger of impressive dimensions whose every movement joggled the PTV. They were strapped in securely and on their way across a glowing, pitted landscape before Lutt made identification through the thick faceplate.
“Lorna Subiyama?”
“Y’all act surprised. This thing’s goin’ to the front, isn’t it?”
She displayed a black inceram chip with PASS inscribed on it in English. “This allows me three days of action, Buster.”
“Do they know what kind of story you intend to . . .”
“Oh, that! They think I’m doin’ some glamour stuff for Sleep-A-Vision, Dallas. You know, brain-contact news for busy execs.” Her voice took on an advertising jingle tone: “News in color while y’all dream. Let your neurons learn and scheme.”
“And you’re going to the front?”
“They gotta drop one passenger first. That you, Buster?”
“I have some high-level interviews to do.”
“No shit! How’d you do that?”
“Influence. How’d you get that pass?”
“It wasn’t easy.”
“Did they send you to the Tribunal?”
“Along with seventy-’leven other poor slobs. Then to a dump on Ruecan D’Arnee where they sent me to a little office in Place Beaumair and on and on . . . I’ve seen petty bureaucrats but these French make a fine art of juggling the buck.”
“You got your pass, though,” Lutt said, adjusting his suit’s outside spin valve because he had begun feeling too warm.
“They never sent me to the same office twice and that made me believe I was making progress. No direct answers, of course. Always, ‘We send inquiries such as yours to this address.’ And they’d hand me a little card or slip of paper.”
He felt the suit’s cooling mechanism at work and spoke with a sense of relief. “But how’d you get through the red tape?”
“Green influence. Moola. Yankee dolla.”
“Venus is no place to be locked up in a military brig.”
“Never fear. But I was damn near ready to give it up for the day. Then I thought I’d try one more of their stupid offices. Remember that building with no visible foundation?”
“The one we saw on the way in, yes. What about it?”
“Dusty little hole was up near the top o’ that un. Had a woman in it. Crazy! She was wearin’ custom inceram armor made to look like a cowgirl’s duds—Western boots, helmet like a Stetson . . . I mean it was all there. And she had those shifty color-changin’ contacts in her eyes, green one instant, blue the next. Ah tell y’ it was somethin’.”
“Sounds different from the others.”
“You better believe it, Buster. Right there on her bazoom she had a big yeller rose. Texas, Buster. Texas! I just reached over and kissed that rose.”
“And you paid her off?”
“Shit, no! But us Texans know each other. She just kinda grinned and asked me if they’d been chasin’ my ass all ‘cross town. And I said my feet felt like they’d been roped and branded and she said she was gonna quit for the day and why didn’t we have a drink somewhere?”
“But how’d that get your pass?”
“I tell you, Buster, mos’ Texans do their bess work with a drink in front of ’em. Sue Ellen, thass mah new frien’, she took me t’this cute li’l bar down near the spacedocks and she tol’ me all ‘bout the Triple Ells.”
“What in hell are the Triple Ells?”
“Low-Level Legionnaires. They have a mos’ peculiar code of honor. Won’ ask for a bribe. But if y’all freely volunteer a few hunnerd francs . . . I mean, how you think someone like Sue Ellen kin buy that fancy armor?”
“So you bought your pass.”
“Three days at the front—eighteen hundred francs. Sue Ellen set it up for me and we didn’t even have to leave that bar. Got myself a nice lay out of it, too. Big ol’ horny Legion sergeant with stripes tattooed up his ass.”
Ryll intruded with an observation: Could they be sending her to the front to be killed?
“You have any trouble on the streets?” Lutt asked.
“Not much. A few con artists tried to hustle me but I stayed out of alleys and I always made sure there were lots of strays in my herd. Never get yourself into a tight spot with only a few pedestrians on Venus.”
“You heard about the Chinese scatter rockets?”
“One of ’em is s’posed to take out six hunnerd square meters. I mean, Buster, that’s worse’n oil-field nitro.”
“That’s what you’re going to find at the front.”
The Legion may not like it if you warn her, Ryll cautioned.
“I’m just going to dip in and dip out so I can say I’ve been there,” Subiyama said. “War correspondent, y’all hear? Then I’ll cover the five o’clock follies like the rest of my drinkin’ buddies. Say! Any chance you can ring me in on these interviews of yours?”
“No way! I don’t want any part of that story about the captain’s hand.”
“Chicken, huh?”
“You go ahead and make your nightmares for busy execs. Venus isn’t exactly a hotbed of good news and pretty dreams.”
Subiyama guffawed, then: “Venus a hotbed! That’s sirloin choice, Buster. I tell you that was one hot bed I had last night. May have set a record. Fourteen times in eight hours. One real horny stud, my sergeant. Almost like he’d just discovered Texas sex.”
Disgusting! Ryll intruded.
Wish I liked fat women, Lutt countered. This one might be fun.
Fun!
“This PTV is sure one fast piece of machinery,” Subiyama said, peering out the armor glass on her side.
Lutt looked out his side. The PTV hugged the broiling surface to avoid detection by the Chinese. The Uno concierge had told him not to worry about this.
“They are guided by a mag-pull system, monsieur.”
Lutt had no idea what a mag-pull system might be but it was taking the PTV along a deep canyon of flowing red lava at the moment. Presently, they climbed over a high mountain range and through a pass. The peaks displayed a pale blue color, relatively cool at altitude but no doubt still plenty hot.
The pass disgorged them onto a high golden plateau.
“How you coverin’ your stories?” Subiyama asked. “Don’t see any equipment.” She lifted a dark inceram box from beside her. “Got me a new inceram-shielded electronic clipboard. This ‘ere sucker records, takes notes, ever-’thi
“My cameras are in the cargo pod,” Lutt said.
“You ever meet old L.H. himself?” she asked.
“Oh, yeah.”
“That ol’ whore chaser! My mamma tells me about the time once down in Wes’ Texas, she and a couple of friends with nothin’ to do were in this bar. In comes this big guy with a loud voice and says nobody else pays for the rest of the night. It was him, all right. He left with one of Mamma’s friends.”
I’m not all that different from Father, Lutt thought.
You are a driven breed, Ryll told him.
I guess we are. Father’d never admit we’re alike. I have trouble doing it myself.
But it’s true. Like father, like son.
Is it that way with Dreens, too?
Parents always seek to impart only the best.
Who decides what’s best?
Better pay attention. She’s talking to you.
“I said I think we’re gettin’ there,” Subiyama said. “This thing’s slowed down considerable.”
Lutt stared ahead at a glowing yellow streak surrounded by the inevitable orange of Venus’s heat-baked atmosphere. The PTV banked sharply to the right and, far across the plateau, Lutt saw explosive flashes of brilliant green and purple.
“That sure looks like artillery fire,” Subiyama said. “Hear that?”
As though her words had created the sounds, Lutt heard the distant thump and higher-pitched pop-a-tat of explosives.
“If that’s the front, it doesn’t look all that far away,” Subiyama said.
The PTV banked right and the surface shaded into the dark brown of a rift valley, appearing cooler and more solid, as though the planet were creating illusions to make them unwary. Inceram gray bunkers were visible along each side of a flat, blackened area that glowed yellow at its edges. The concierge had said the yellow was a signal of mag-pull guidance.
Lutt began to wonder about mag-pull technology. It might be French for one of the conventional ion-track systems but that yellow glow suggested something different. Would it be worthwhile prying into the way it worked? It might be a military secret. Curiosity would only raise hackles. Perhaps a few private questions, though, to Roweena Humperman?