The Worlds of Frank Herbert by Frank Herbert

  'But the eyes,' Choon said. 'Who could conceive of such eyes? Not in our wildest imaginations ... '

  'Perhaps you offend our visitor,' Autoga said. He glanced at Beirut, the stalked eyes bending outward quizzically.

  'And the articulation of the legs and arms,' one of the other natives ventured.

  'You're repeating old arguments, Tura,' Autoga said.

  * * * *

  Beirut suddenly had a picture of himself as he must appear to these natives. Their eyes had obvious advantages over his. He had seen them look behind themselves without turning their heads. The double thumb arrangement looked useful. They must think one thumb an odd limitation. He began to chuckle.

  'What is this noise?' Autoga asked.

  'I'm laughing,' Beirut said.

  'I will render that: 'I'm laughing at myself,'' the computer said. Sounds issued from the lingua pack.

  'A person who can laugh at himself has taken a major step toward the highest civilization,' Autoga said. 'No offense intended.'

  'The theories of Picheck that the concerted wish for a deity must produce same are here demonstrated,' Choon said. 'It's not quite the shape of entity I had envisioned, however, but we ...'

  'Why don't we inquire?' Autoga asked and turned to Beirut . 'Are you a deity?'

  'I'm a mortal human being, nothing more,' Beirut said.

  The lingua pack remained silent.

  'Translate that!' Beirut blared.

  The computer spoke for him alone: 'The experience, training and memory banks available suggest that it would be safer for you to pose as a deity. Their natural awe would enable you to ... '

  'We're not going to fool these characters for five minutes,' Beirut said. 'They've built spaceships. They have advanced electronic techniques. You heard their radio. They've had a civilization for more than twenty-five million years.' He paused. 'Haven't they?'

  'Definitely. The cast figure was an advanced form and technique.'

  'Then translate my words!'

  Beirut grew conscious that he had been speaking aloud and the natives were following his words and the movements of his mouth with a rapt intensity.

  'Translate,' Autoga said. 'That would be chtsuyop, no?'

  'You must speak subvocally,' the computer said. 'They are beginning to break down your language.'

  'They're doing it in their heads, you stupid pile of electronic junk,' Beirut said. 'I have to use you! And you think I can pose as a god with these people?'

  'I will translate because you command it and my override circuits cannot circumvent your command,' the computer said.

  'A computer!' Autoga said. 'He has a translating computer in his vehicle! How quaint.'

  'Translate,' Beirut said.

  Sounds issued from the lingua pack.

  'I am vindicated,' Autoga said. 'And you will note that I did it on nothing more than the design of the vehicle and the cut of his clothing, plus the artifacts, of course.'

  'This is why you are in command,' Choon said. 'I suffer your correction and instruction abysmally.'

  Autoga looked at Beirut. 'What will you require - other than the repair of your vehicle?'

  'Don't you want to know where I'm from?' Beirut asked.

  'You are from somewhere,' Autoga said. 'It has been theorized that other suns and worlds might exist beyond the hydrogen cloud from which we were formed. Your presence suggests this theory is true.'

  'But ... but don't you want contact with us ... trade, exchange ideas?'

  'It is now apparent,' Autoga said, 'that the empty universe theory has been disproved. However, a primitive such as yourself, even you must realize such interchange would be pointless.'

  'But we ...'

  'We well know that the enclosure of our universe has forced us in upon ourselves,' Choon said. 'If that's what you were going to say?'

  'He was going into boring detail about what he has to offer us,' Autoga said. 'I suggest we get about doing what has to be done. Spispi, you and Tura take care of the computer in his vehicle. Choon and I will ... '

  'What're you doing?' Beirut asked. He leaped to his feet. At least, he thought he leaped to his feet, but in a moment he grew conscious that he was still sitting on the ground, the five natives facing him, staring.

  'They are erasing some of my circuits!' the computer wailed. 'A magneto-gravitic field encloses me and the ... aroo, tut-tut, jingle bells, jingle bells.'

  'This is very interesting,' Autoga said presently. 'He has made contact with a civilization of our level at some previous time. You will note the residual inhibition against lengthy travel away from his home. We'll make the inhibition stronger this time.'

  Beirut stared at the chattering natives with a sense of deja vu. The speaker in his neck remained silent. His lingua pack made no sound. He felt movement in his mind like spiders crawling along his nerves.

  'Who do you suppose he could've contacted?' Choon asked.

  'Not one of our groups, of course,' Autoga said. 'Before we stay out in the light of s'Chareecha and plant ourselves for the next seeding, we must start a flow of inquiry.'

  'Who will talk to us about such things?' Choon asked. 'We are mere herdsmen.'

  'Perhaps we should listen more often to the entertainment broadcasts,' Spispi said. 'Something may have been said.'

  'We may be simple herdsmen whose inquiry will not go very far,' Autoga said, 'but this has been an experience to afford us many hours of conversation. Imagine having the empty universe theory refuted!'

  * * * *

  Beirut awoke in the control seat of his ship, smelled in the stink of the place his own sweat touched by the chemistry of fear. A glance at the instrument panel showed that he had succumbed to the push and turned ship. He was headed back out of the cloud without having found anything in it.

  An odd sadness came over Beirut.

  I'll find my planet some day, he thought. I'll have alabaster buildings and sheltered waters for sailing and long stretches of prairie for game animals.

  The automatic log showed turn-around at ninety-four days.

  I stood it longer than Bingaling, he thought.

  He remembered the conversation with Bingaling then and the curious reference to a previous attempt at the cloud. Maybe I did, he thought. Maybe I forgot because the push got so tough.

  Presently, his mind turned to thoughts of Capella Base, of going home. Just the thought of it eased the pressures of the push which was still faintly with him. The push ... the push - it had beaten him again. Next trip out, he decided, he'd head the opposite direction, see what was to be found out there.

  Almost idly then Beirut wondered about the push. Why do we call it the push? he wondered. Why, don't we call it the pull? The question interested him enough to put it to the computer. 'Tut-tut,' the computer said.

  * * * *

  The GM Effect

  By Frank Herbert, 1965

  * * * *

  It was a balmy fall evening and as Dr Valeric Sabantoce seated himself at the long table in Meade Hall's basement seminar room, he thought of how the weather would be sensationalized tomorrow by the newspapers and wire services. They would be sure to remark on the general clemency of the elements, pointing out how Nature's smiling aspect made the night's tragedy so much more horrible.

  Sabantoce was a short, rotund man with a wild shock of black hair that looked as though it had never known a comb. His round face with its look of infant innocence invariably led strangers to an incorrect impression - unless they were at once exposed to his ribald wit or caught the weighted stare of his deeply-socketed brown eyes.

  Fourteen people sat around the long table now - nine students and five faculty - with Professor Joshua Latchley in the chairman's seat at the head.

  'Now that we're all here,' Latchley said, 'I can tell you the purpose of tonight's meeting. We are faced with a most terrible decision. We ... ahhh -'

  Latchley fell silent, chewed at his lower lip. He was conscious of the figure he cut here - a tall, ungai
nly bald man in thick-lensed glasses ... the constant air of apology he wore as though it were a shield. Tonight, he felt that this appearance was a disguise. Who could guess - except Sabantoce, of course - at the daring exposed by this seemingly innocent gathering?

  'Don't leave 'em hanging there, Josh,' Sabantoce said.

  'Yes ... ahh, yes,' Latchley said. 'It has occurred to me that Dr Sabantoce and I have a special demonstration to present here tonight, but before we expose you to that experiment, as it were, perhaps we should recapitulate somewhat.'

  Sabantoce, wondering what had diverted Latchley, glanced around the table - saw that they were not all there. Dr Richard Marmon was missing.

  Did he suspect and make a break for it? Sabantoce wondered. He realized then that Latchley was stalling for time while Marmon was being hunted out and brought in here.

  Latchley rubbed his shiny pate. He had no desire to be here, he thought. But this had to be done. He knew that outside on the campus the special 9 P.M. hush had fallen over Yankton Technical Institute and this was his favorite hour for strolling - perhaps up to the frosh pond to listen to the frogs and the couples and to think on the etymological derivations of-

  He became conscious of restless coughing and shuffling around the table, realized he had permitted his mind to wander. He was infamous for it, Latchley knew. He cleared his throat. Where the devil was that Marmon? Couldn't they find him?

  'As you know,' Latchley said, 'we've made no particular efforts to keep our discovery secret, although we've tried to discourage wild speculation and outside discussion. Our intention was to conduct thorough tests before publishing. All of you - both the student ... ahh, 'guinea pigs' and your professors of the faculty committee - have been most co-operative. But inevitably news of what we are doing here has spread - sometimes in a very hysterical and distorted manner.'

  'What Professor Latchley is saying,' Sabantoce interrupted, 'is that the fat's in the fire.'

  Expressions of curiosity appeared on the faces of the students who, up to this moment, had been trying to conceal their boredom. Old Dr Inkton had a fit of coughing.

  'There's an old Malay expression,' Sabantoce said, 'that when one plays Bumps-a-Daisy with a porcupine, one is necessarily jumpy. Now, all of us should've known this porcupine was loaded.'

  'Thank you, Dr Sabantoce,' Latchley said. 'I feel ... and I know this is a most unusual course ... that all of you should share in the decision that must be made here tonight. Each of you, by participating in this project, has become involved far more deeply here than is the usual case with scientific experiments of this general type. And since you student assistants have been kept somewhat in the dark, perhaps Dr Sabantoce, as original discoverer of the GM effect, should fill you in on some of the background.'

  Stall it is, Sabantoce thought.

  'Discovery of the genetic memory, or GM effect, was an accident,' Sabantoce said picking up his cue. 'Dr Marmon and I were looking for a hormonal method of removing fat from the body. Our Compound 105 had given excellent results on mice and hamsters. We had six generations without apparent side effects and that morning I had decided to try 105 on myself.'

  Sabantoce allowed himself a self-deprecating grin, said: 'You may remember I had a few excess pounds then.'

  The responsive laughter told him he had successfully lightened the mood which had grown a bit heavy after Latchley's portentous tone.

  Josh is a damn' fool, Sabantoce told himself. I warned him to keep it light. This is a dangerous business.

  * * * *

  'It was eight minutes after ten A.M. when I took that first dosage,' Sabantoce said. 'I remember it was a very pleasant spring morning and I could hear Carl Kychre's class down the hall reciting a Greek ode. In a few minutes I began to feel somewhat euphoric - almost drunk, but very gently so - and I sat down on a lab stool. Presently, I began reciting with Kychre's class, swinging my arm to the rhythm of it. The next thing I knew, there was Carl in the lab door with some students peering in behind him and I realized I might have been a bit loud.'

  'That's magnificent archaic Greek but it is disturbing my class,' Carl said.

  Sabantoce waited for laughter to subside.

  'I suddenly realized I was two people,' Sabantoce said. 'I was perfectly aware of where I was and who I was, but I also knew quite certainly that I was a Hoplite soldier named Zagreut recently returned from a mercenary venture on Kyrene. It was the double exposure effect that so many of you have remarked. I had all the memories and thoughts of this Hoplite, including his very particular and earthy inclinations toward a female who was uppermost in his/my awareness. And there was this other thing we've all noticed: I was thinking his/my thoughts in Greek, but they were cross-linked to my dominant present and its English-based awareness. I could translate at will. It was a very heady experience, this realization that I was two people.'

  One of the graduate students said: 'You were a whole mob, Doctor.'

  Again, there was laughter. Even old Inkton joined in.

  'I must've looked a bit peculiar to poor Carl,' Sabantoce said. 'He came into the lab and said: 'Are you all right?' I told him to get Dr Marmon down there fast ... which he did. And speaking of Marmon, do any of you know where he is?'

  Silence greeted the question; then Latchley said: 'He's being ... summoned.'

  'So,' Sabantoce said. 'Well, to get on: Marmon and I locked ourselves in the lab and began exploring this thing. Within a few minutes we found out you could direct the subject's awareness into any stratum of his genetic inheritance, there to be illuminated by an ancestor of his choice; and we were caught immediately by the realization that this discovery gave an entirely new interpretation to the concept of instinct and to theories of memory storage. When I say we were excited, that's the understatement of the century.'

  The talkative graduate student said 'Did the effect fade the way it does with the rest of us?'

  'In about an hour,' Sabantoce said. 'Of course, it didn't fade completely, as you know. That old Hoplite's right here with me, so to speak - along with the rest of the mob. A touch of 105 and I have him full on - all his direct memories up to the conception-moment of my next ancestor in his line. I have some overlaps, too, and later memories of his through parallel ancestry and later siblings. I'm also linked to his maternal line, of course - and two of you are tied into this same fabric, as you know. The big thing here is that the remarkably accurate memories of that Hoplite play hob with several accepted histories of the period. In fact, he was our first intimation that much recorded history is a crock.'

  Old Inkton leaned forward, coughed hoarsely, said: 'Isn't it about time, doctor, that we did something about that?'

  'In a way, that's why we're here tonight,' Sabantoce said. And he thought: Still no sign of Marmon. I hope Josh knows what he's talking about. But we have to stall some more.

  'Since only a few of us know the full story on some of our more sensational discoveries, we're going to give you a brief outline of those discoveries,' Sabantoce said. He put on his most disarming smile, gestured to Latchley. 'Professor Latchley, as historian-coordinator of that phase in our investigations, can carry on from here.'

  Latchley cleared his throat, exchanged a knowing look with Sabantoce. Did Marmon suspect? Latchley asked himself. He couldn't possibly know ... but he might have suspected.

  * * * *

  'Several obvious aspects of this research method confront one immediately,' Latchley said, breaking his attention away from Sabantoce and the worry about Marmon. 'As regards any major incident of history - say, a battle - we find a broad selection of subjects on the victorious side and, sometimes, no selection at all on the defeated side. Through the numerous cross references found within even this small group, for example, we find remarkably few adjacent and incidental memories within the Troy quadrant of the Trojan wars - some female subjects, of course, but few males. The male bloodlines were virtually wiped out.'

  Again, Latchley sensed restlessness in his audience and felt
a moment of jealousy. Their attention didn't wander when Sabantoce was speaking. The reason was obvious: Sabantoce gave them the dirt, so to speak.

  Latchley forced his apologetic smile, said: 'Perhaps you'd like a little of the real dirt.'

  They did perk up, by heaven!

  'As many have suspected,' Latchley said, 'our evidence makes it conclusive that Henry Tudor did order the murder of the two princes in the Tower ... at the same time he set into motion the propaganda against Richard III. Henry proves to've been a most vile sort - devious, cruel, cowardly, murderous - political murder was an accepted part of his regime.' Latchley shuddered. 'And thanks to his sex drive, he's an ancestor of many of us.'