The Dosadi Experiment by Frank Herbert
“I’ve no idea what you …”
“Enough!” Broey shouted. His ventricles wheezed as he inhaled.
Gar held himself very quiet.
Broey leaned toward him, noting that this exchange amused Tria.
“It’s too soon to make decisions we cannot change! This is a time for ambiguity.”
Irritated by his own display of anger, Broey arose and hurried into his adjoining office, where he locked the door. It was obvious that those two had no more idea than he where Jedrik had gone to ground. But it was still his game. She couldn’t hide forever. Seated once more in his office, he called Security.
“Has Bahrank returned?”
A senior Gowachin officer hurried into the screen’s view, looked up.
“Not yet.”
“What precautions to learn where he delivers his cargo?”
“We know his entry gate. It’ll be simple to track him.”
“I don’t want Gar’s people to know what you’re doing.”
“Understood.”
“That other matter?”
“Pcharky may have been the last one. He could be dead, too. The killers were thorough.”
“Keep searching.”
Broey put down a sense of disquiet. Some very un-Dosadi things were happening in Chu … and on the Rim. He felt that things occurred which his spies could not uncover. Presently, he returned to the more pressing matter.
“Bahrank is not to be interfered with until afterward.”
“Understood.”
“Pick him up well clear of his delivery point and bring him to your section. I will interview him personally.”
“Sir, his addiction to …”
“I know the hold she has on him. I’m counting on it.”
“We’ve not yet secured any of that substance, sir, although we’re still trying.”
“I want success, not excuses. Who’s in charge of that?”
“Kidge, sir. He’s very efficient in this …”
“Is Kidge available?”
“One moment, sir. I’ll put him on.”
Kidge had a phlegmatic Gowachin face and rumbling voice.
“Do you want a status report, sir?”
“Yes.”
“My Rim contacts believe the addictive substance is derived from a plant called ‘tibac.’ We have no prior record of such a plant, but the outer Rabble has been cultivating it lately. According to my contacts, it’s extremely addictive to Humans, even more so to us.”
“No record? What’s its origin? Do they say?”
“I talked personally to a Human who’d recently returned from upriver where the outer Rabble reportedly has extensive plantations of this ‘tibac.’ I promised my informant a place in the Warrens if he provides me with a complete report on the stuff and a kilo packet of it. This informant says the cultivators believe tibac has religious significance. I didn’t see any point in exploring that.”
“When do you expect him to deliver?”
“By nightfall at the latest.”
Broey held his silence for a moment. Religious significance. More than likely the plant came from beyond the God Wall then, as Kidge implied. But why? What were they doing?
“Do you have new instructions?” Kidge asked.
“Get that substance up to me as soon as you can.”
Kidge fidgeted. He obviously had another question, but was unwilling to ask it. Broey glared at him.
“Yes? What is it?”
“Don’t you want the substance tested first?”
It was a baffling question. Had Kidge withheld vital information about the dangers of this tibac? One never knew from what quarter an attack might come. But Kidge was held in his own special bondage. He knew what could happen to him if he failed Broey. And Jedrik had handled this stuff. But why had Kidge asked this question? Faced with such unknowns, Broey tended to withdraw into himself, eyes veiled by the nictating membrane while he weighed the possibilities. Presently, he stirred, looked at Kidge in the screen.
“If there’s enough of it, feed some to volunteers—both Human and Gowachin. Get the rest of it up to me immediately, even while you’re testing, but in a sealed container.”
“Sir, there are rumors about this stuff. It’ll be difficult getting real volunteers.”
“You’ll think of something.”
Broey broke the connection, returned to the outer room to make his political peace with Gar and Tria. He was not ready to blunt that pair … not yet.
They were sitting just as he’d left them. Tria was speaking:
“ … the highest probability and I have to go on that.”
Gar merely nodded.
Broey seated himself, nodded to Tria, who continued as though there’d been no hiatus.
“Clearly, Jedrik’s a genius. And her Loyalty Index! That has to be false, contrived. And look at her decisions: one questionable decision in four years. One!”
Gar moved a finger along the red line on the chart. It was a curiously sensuous gesture, as though he were stroking flesh.
Broey gave him a verbal prod.
“Yes, Gar, what is it?”
“I was just wondering if Jedrik could be another …”
His glance darted ceilingward, back to the chart. They all understood his allusion to intruders from beyond the God Wall.
Broey looked at Gar as though awakening from an interrupted thought. What’d that fool Gar mean by raising such a question at this juncture? The required responses were so obvious.
“I agree with Tria’s analysis,” Broey said. “As to your question …” He gave a Human shrug. “Jedrik reveals some of the classic requirements, but …” Again, that shrug. “This is still the world God gave us.”
Colored as they were by his years in the Sacred Congregation, Broey’s words took on an unctuous overtone, but in this room the message was strictly secular.
“The others have been such disappointments,” Gar said. “Especially Havvy.” He moved the statuette to a more central position on the chart.
“We failed because we were too eager,” Tria said, her voice snappish. “Poor timing.”
Gar scratched his chin with his thumb. Tria sometimes disturbed him by that accusatory tone she took toward their failures. He said:
“But … if she turns out to be one of them and we haven’t allowed for it …”
“We’ll look through that gate when we come to it,” Broey said. “If we come to it. Even another failure could have its uses. The food factories will give us a substantial increase at the next harvest. That means we can postpone the more troublesome political decisions which have been bothering us.”
Broey let this thought hang between them while he set himself to identifying the lines of activity revealed by what had happened in this room today. Yes, the Humans betrayed unmistakable signs that they behaved according to a secret plan. Things were going well, then: they’d attempt to supersede him soon … and fail.
A door behind Tria opened. A fat Human female entered. Her body bulbed in green coveralls and her round face appeared to float in a halo of yellow hair.
Her cheeks betrayed the telltale lividity of dacon addiction. She spoke subserviently to Gar.
“You told me to interrupt if …”
“Yes, yes.”
Gar waved to indicate she could speak freely. The gesture’s significance did not escape Broey. Another part of their set piece.
“We’ve located Havvy but Jedrik’s not with him.”
Gar nodded, addressed Broey:
“Whether Jedrik’s an agent or another puppet, this whole thing smells of something they have set in motion.”
Once more, his gaze darted ceilingward.
“I will act on that assumption,” Tria said. She pushed her chair back, arose. “I’m going into the Warrens.”
Broey looked up at her. Again, he felt his talons twitch beneath their sheaths. He said:
“Don’t interfere with them.”
Gar forced hi
Tria had seen it, too, of course, but she made no comment, merely turned and followed the fat woman out of the room.
Gar arose like a folding ruler being opened to its limit. “I’d best be getting along. There are many matters requiring my personal attention.”
“We depend on you for a great deal,” Broey said.
He was not yet ready to release Gar, however. Let Tria get well on her way. Best to keep those two apart for a spell. He said:
“Before you go, Gar. Several things still bother me. Why was Jedrik so precipitate? And why destroy her records? What was it that we were not supposed to see?”
“Perhaps it was an attempt to confuse us,” Gar said, quoting Tria. “One thing’s sure: it wasn’t just an angry gesture.”
“There must be a clue somewhere,” Broey said.
“Would you have us risk an interrogation of Havvy?”
“Of course not!”
Gar showed no sign that he recognized Broey’s anger. He said:
“Despite what you and Tria say, I don’t think we can afford another mistake at this time. Havvy was … well …”
“If you recall,” Broey said, “Havvy was not one of Tria’s mistakes. She went along with us under protest. I wish now we’d listened to her.” He waved a hand idly in dismissal. “Go see to your important affairs.” He watched Gar leave.
Yes, on the basis of the Human’s behavior it was reasonable to assume he knew nothing as yet about this infiltrator Bahrank was bringing through the gates. Gar would’ve concealed such valuable information, would not have dared raise the issue of a God Wall intrusion … Or would he? Broey nodded to himself. This must be handled with great delicacy.
We will now explore the particular imprint which various governments make upon the individual. First, be sure you recognize the primary governing force. For example, take a careful look at Human history. Humans have been known to submit to many constraints: to rule by Autarchs, by Plutarchs, by the power seekers of the many Republics, by Oligarchs, by tyrant Majorities and Minorities, by the hidden suasions of Polls, by profound instincts and shallow juvenilities. And always, the governing force as we wish you now to understand this concept was whatever the individual believed had control over his immediate survival. Survival sets the pattern of imprint. During much of Human history (and the pattern is similar with most sentient species), Corporation presidents held more survival in their casual remarks than did the figurehead officials. We of the ConSentiency cannot forget this as we keep watch on the Multiworld Corporations. We dare not even forget it of ourselves. Where you work for your own survival, this dominates your imprint, this dominates what you believe.
—Instruction Manual
Bureau of Sabotage
Never do what your enemy wants you to do, McKie reminded himself.
In this moment, Aritch was the enemy, having placed the binding oath of Legum upon an agent of BuSab, having demanded information to which he had no right. The old Gowachin’s behavior was consistent with the demands of his own legal system, but it immediately magnified the area of conflict by an enormous factor. McKie chose a minimal response.
“I’m here because Tandaloor is the heart of the Gowachin Federation.”
Aritch, who’d been sitting with his eyes closed to emphasize the formal client-Legum relationship, opened his eyes to glare at McKie.
“I remind you once that I am your client”
Signs indicating a dangerous new tension in the Wreave servant were increasing, but McKie was forced to concentrate his attention on Aritch.
“You name your self client. Very well. The client must answer truthfully such questions as the Legum asks when the legal issues demand it.”
Aritch continued to glare at McKie, latent fire in the yellow eyes. Now, the battle was truly joined.
McKie sensed how fragile was the relationship upon which his survival depended. The Gowachin, signatories to the great ConSentiency Pact binding the species of the known universe, were legally subject to certain BuSab intrusions. But Aritch had placed them on another footing. If the Gowachin Federation disagreed with McKie/Agent, they could take him into the Courtarena as a Legum who had wronged a client. With the entire Gowachin Bar arrayed against him, McKie did not doubt which Legum would taste the knife. His one hope lay in avoiding immediate litigation. That was, after all, the real basis of Gowachin Law.
Moving a step closer to specifics, McKie said:
“My Bureau has uncovered a matter of embarrassment to the Gowachin Federation.”
Aritch blinked twice.
“As we suspected.”
McKie shook his head. They didn’t suspect, they knew. He counted on this: that the Gowachin understood why he’d answered their summons. If any Sentiency under the Pact could understand his position, it had to be the Gowachin. BuSab reflected Gowachin philosophy. Centuries had passed since the great convulsion out of which BuSab had originated, but the ConSentiency had never been allowed to forget that birth. It was taught to the young of every species.
“Once, long ago, a tyrannical majority captured the government. They said they would make all individuals equal. They meant they would not let any individual be better than another at doing anything. Excellence was to be suppressed or concealed. The tyrants made their government act with great speed ‘in the name of the people.’ They removed delays and red tape wherever found. There was little deliberation. Unaware that they acted out of an unconscious compulsion to prevent all change, the tyrants tried to enforce a grey sameness upon every population.
“Thus the powerful governmental machine blundered along at increasingly reckless speed. It took commerce and all the important elements of society with it. Laws were thought of and passed within hours. Every society came to be twisted into a suicidal pattern. People became unprepared for those changes which the universe demands. They were unable to change.
“It was the time of brittle money, ‘appropriated in the morning and gone by nightfall,’ as you learned earlier. In their passion for sameness, the tyrants made themselves more and more powerful. All others grew correspondingly weaker and weaker. New bureaus and directorates, odd ministries, leaped into existence for the most improbable purposes. These became the citadels of a new aristocracy, rulers who kept the giant wheel of government careening along, spreading destruction, violence, and chaos wherever they touched.
“In those desperate times, a handful of people (the Five Ears, their makeup and species never revealed) created the Sabotage Corps to slow that runaway wheel of government. The original corps was bloody, violent, and cruel. Gradually, the original efforts were replaced by more subtle methods. The governmental wheel slowed, became more manageable. Deliberation returned.
“Over the generations, that original Corps became a Bureau, the Bureau of Sabotage, with its present Ministerial powers, preferring diversion to violence, but ready for violence when the need arises.”
They were words from McKie’s own teens, generators of a concept modified by his experiences in the Bureau. Now, he was aware that this directorate composed of all the known sentient species was headed into its own entropic corridors. Someday, the Bureau would dissolve or be dissolved, but the universe still needed them. The old imprints remained, the old futile seeking after absolutes of sameness. It was the ancient conflict between what the individual saw as personal needs for immediate survival and what the totality required if any were to survive. And now it was the Gowachin versus the ConSentiency, and Aritch was the champion of his people.
McKie studied the High Magister carefully, sensitive to the unrelieved tensions in the Wreave attendant. Would there be violence in this room? It was a question which remained unanswered as McKie spoke.
“You have observed that I am in a difficult po
He let his voice trail off. Gowachin disliked dangling implications.
Aritch’s claws slid from the sheaths of his webbed fingers.
“Your client wishes to hear of this evidence.”
Before speaking, McKie rested his hand on the latch of the box in his lap.
“Many people from two species have disappeared. Two species: Gowachin and Human. Singly, these were small matters, but these disappearances have been going on for a long time—perhaps twelve or fifteen generations by the old Human reckoning. Taken together, these disappearances are massive. We’ve learned that there’s a planet called Dosadi where these people were taken. Such evidence as we have has been examined carefully. It all leads to the Gowachin Federation.”
Aritch’s fingers splayed, a sign of acute embarrassment. Whether assumed or real, McKie could not tell.
“Does your Bureau accuse the Gowachin?”
“You know the function of my Bureau. We do not yet know the location of Dosadi, but we’ll find it.”
Aritch remained silent. He knew BuSab had never given up on a problem.
McKie raised the blue box.
“Having thrust this upon me, you’ve made me guardian of your fate, client. You’ve no rights to inquire as to my methods. I will not follow old law.”
Aritch nodded.
“It was my argument that you’d react thus.”
He raised his right hand.
The rhythmic “death flexion” swept over the Wreave and her fighting mandibles darted from her facial slit.
At the first movement from her, McKie whipped open the blue box, snatched out book and knife. He spoke with a firmness his body did not feel:
“If she makes the slightest move toward me, my blood will defile this book.” He placed the knife against his own wrist. “Does your Servant of the Box know the consequences? The history of the Running Phylum would end. Another Phylum would be presumed to’ve accepted the Law from its Giver. The name of this Phylum’s last High Magister would be erased from living thought. Gowachin would eat their own eggs at the merest hint that they had Running Phylum blood in their veins.”