The Collected Stories of Frank Herbert (97 page)

“Maybe you're doing something wrong then,” the young woman said. “Seems awful funny to me when the only crimes are put right on the law itself.”

A very pertinent observation,
Smeg thought.

Abruptly, Painter heaved himself into motion, lurched through the crowd of children toward the sheriff.

The blonde young woman turned, said: “Daddy! You stay out'n this.”

“You be still now, you hear, Barton Marie?” Painter growled.

“You know you can't do anything,” she wailed. “He'll only send me away.”

“Good! I say good!” Painter barked. He pushed in front of the young woman, stood glaring up at the sheriff.

“Now, Josh,” the sheriff said, his voice mild.

They fell silent, measuring each other.

In this moment, Smeg's attention was caught by a figure walking toward them on the road into the village. The figure emerged from the dust—a young man carrying a large black case.

Rick!

Smeg stared at his offspring. The young man walked like a puppet, loose at the knees. His eyes stared ahead with a blank seeking.

The mindcloud,
Smeg thought.
Rick was young, weak. He'd been calling out, wide open when the mindcloud struck. The force that had staggered a secondary ancestor had stunned the young Slorin. He was coming now blindly toward the irritation source.

“Who that coming there?” the sheriff called. “That the one parked this car illegal?”

“Rick!” Smeg shouted.

Rick stopped.

“Stay where you are!” Smeg called. This time, he sent an awakening probe into the youth.

Rick stared around him, awareness creeping into his eyes. He focused on Smeg, mouth falling open.

“Dad!”

“Who're you?” the sheriff demanded, staring at Smeg. A jolt from the mindcloud jarred Smeg.

There was only one way to do this, Smeg realized. Fight fire with fire. The natives already had felt the mindcloud.

Smeg began opening the enclosing mental shields, dropped them abruptly and lashed out at the sheriff. The Slorin polymorph staggered back, slumped onto the truck seat. His human shape twisted, writhed.

“Who're you?” the sheriff gasped.

Shifting to the Slorin gutturals, Smeg said: “I will ask the questions here. Identify yourself.”

Smeg moved forward, a path through the children opening for him. Gently, he moved Painter and the young woman aside.

“Do you understand me?” Smeg demanded.

“I … understand you.” The Slorin gutturals were rough and halting, but recognizable.

In a softer tone, Smeg said: “The universe has many crossroads where friends can meet. Identify yourself.”

“Min … I think. Pzilimin.” The sheriff straightened himself on the seat, restored some of his human shape to its previous form. “Who are you?”

“I am Sumctroxelunsmeg, secondary ancestor.”

“What's a secondary ancestor?”

Smeg sighed. It was pretty much as he had feared. The name, Pzilimin, that was the primary clue—a tertiary ancestor from the
Scattership.
But this poor Slorin had been damaged, somehow, lost part of his detail memory. In the process, he had created a situation here that might be impossible to rectify. The extent of the local mess had to be examined now, though.

“I will answer your questions later,” Smeg said. “Meanwhile—”

“You know this critter?” Painter asked. “You part of the conspiracy?”

Shifting to English, Smeg said: “Mr. Painter, let the government handle its own problems. This man is one of our problems.”

“Well, he sure is a problem and that's the truth.”

“Will you let me handle him?”

“You sure you can do it?”

“I … think so.”

“I sure hope so.”

Smeg nodded, turned back to the sheriff. “Have you any idea what you've done here?” he asked in basic Slorin.

“I … found myself a suitable official position and filled it to the best of my ability. Never betray your niche. I remember that. Never betray your niche.”

“Do you know what you are?”

“I'm … a Slorin?”

“Correct. A Slorin tertiary ancestor. Have you any idea how you were injured?”

“I … no. Injured?” He looked around at the people drawing closer, all staring curiously. “I … woke up out there in the … field. Couldn't … remember—”

“Very well, we'll—”

“I remembered one thing! We were supposed to lower the crime rate, prepare a suitable society in which … in which … I … don't know.”

Smeg stared across the children's heads at Rick who had come to a stop behind the truck, returned his attention to Pzilimin.

“I have the crime rate here almost down to an irreducible minimum,” the Slorin sheriff said.

Smeg passed a hand across his eyes. Irreducible minimum! He dropped his hand, glared up at the poor fool. “You have made these people aware of Slorin,” he accused. “You've made them aware of themselves, which is worse. You've started them thinking about what's behind the law. Something every native law enforcement offical on this planet knows by instinct, and you, a Slorin—injured or not—couldn't see it.”

“See what?” Pzilimin asked.

“Without crime there's no need for law enforcement officers! We are here to prepare niches in which Slorin can thrive. And you begin by doing yourself out of a job! The first rule in any position is to maintain enough of the required activity for that job to insure your continued employment. Not only that, you must increase your scope, open more such positions. This is what is meant by not betraying your niche.”

“But … we're supposed to create a society in which … in which—”

“You were supposed to reduce the incident of violence, you fool! You must channel the crime into more easily manageable patterns. You left them violence! One of them shot at you.”

“Oh … they've tried worse than that.”

Smeg looked to his right, met Painter's questioning gaze.

“He another Hungarian?” Painter asked.

“Ah-h-h, yes!” Smeg said, leaping at this opportunity.

“Thought so, you two talking that foreign language there.” Painter glared up at Pzilimin. “He oughta be dee-ported.”

“That's the very thing,” Smeg agreed. “That's why I'm here.”

“Well, by gollies!” Painter said. He sobered. “I better warn you, though. Sheriff, he got some kind of machine sort of that scrambles your mind. Can't hardly think when he turns it on. Carries it in his pocket, I suspect.”

“We know all about that,” Smeg said. “I have a machine of the same kind myself. It's a defense secret and he had no right to use it.”

“I'll bet you ain't Department of Agriculture at all,” Painter said. “I bet you're with the CIA.”

“We won't talk about that,” Smeg said. “I trust, however, that you and your friends won't mention what has happened here.”

“We're true blue Americans, all of us, Mr. Smeg. You don't have to worry about us.”

“Excellent,” Smeg said. And he thought:
How convenient. Do they think me an utter fool?
Smoothly he turned back to Pzilimin, asked: “Did you follow all that?”

“They think you're a secret agent.”

“So it seems. Our task of extracting you from this situation has been facilitated. Now tell me, what have done about their children?”

“Their children?”

“You heard me.”

“Well … I just erased all those little tracks in their little minds and put 'em on a train headed north, the ones I sent away to punish their folks. These creatures have a very strong protective instinct toward the young. Don't have to worry about their—”

“I know about their instincts, Pzilimin. We'll have to find those children, restore them and return them.”

“How'll we find them?”

“Very simple. We'll travel back and forth across this continent, listening on the narrow band. We will listen for you, Pzilimin. You cannot erase a mind without putting your own patterns in it.”

“Is that what happened when I tried to change the adult?”

Smeg goggled at him, senses reeling. Pzilmin couldn't have done that, Smeg told himself. He couldn't have converted a native into a Slorin-patterned, full-power broadcast unit and turned it loose on this planet. No Slorin could be that stupid! “Who?” he managed.

“Mr. McNabry.”

McNabry? McNabry?
Smeg knew he'd heard the name somewhere.
McNabry? Widow McNabry!

“Sheriff, he say something about Widow McNabry?” Painter asked. “I thought I heard him—”

“What happened to the late Mr. McNabry?” Smeg demanded, whirling on Painter.

“Oh, he drowned down south of here. In the river. Never did find his body.”

Smeg rounded on Pzilimin. “Did you—”

“Oh, no! He just ran off. We had this report he drowned and I just—”

“In effect, you killed a native.”

“I didn't do it on purpose.”

“Pzilimin, get down off that vehicle and into the rear seat of my machine over here. We will forget that I'm illegally parked, shall we?”

“What're you going to do?”

“I'm going to take you away from here. Now, get down off of there!”

“Yes, sir.” Pzilimin moved to obey. There was a suggestion of rubbery, nonhuman action to his knees that made Smeg shudder.

“Rick,” Smeg called. “You will drive.”

“Yes, Dad.”

Smeg turned to Painter. “I hope you all realize the serious consequences to yourselves if any of this should get out?”

“We sure do, Mr. Smeg. Depend on it.”

“I am depending on it,” Smeg said. And he thought:
Let them analyze that little statement … after we're gone.
More and more he was thanking the Slorin god who'd prompted him to change places with Rick. One wrong move and this could've been a disaster. With a curt nod to Painter, he strode to his car, climbed into the rear beside Pzilimin. “Let's go, Rick.”

Presently, they were turned around, headed back toward the state capital. Rick instinctively was pressing the Plymouth to the limit of its speed on this dirt road. Without turning, he spoke over his shoulder to Smeg:

“That was real cool, Dad, the way you handled that. We go right back to the garage now?”

“We disappear at the first opportunity,” Smeg said.

“Disappear?” Pzilimin asked.

“We're going pupa, all of us, and come out into new niches.”

“Why?” Rick said.

“Don't argue with me! That village back there wasn't what it seemed.”

Pzilimin stared at him. “But you said we'd have to find their children and—”

“That was for their benefit, playing the game of ignorance. I suspect they've already found their children. Faster, Rick.”

“I'm going as fast as I dare right now, Dad.”

“No matter. They're not going to chase us.” Smeg took off his Western hat, scratched where the band had pressed into his temples.

“What was that village, Dad?” Rick asked.

“I'm not sure,” Smeg said. “But they made it too easy for us to get Pzilimin out of there. I suspect they are the source of the disaster which set us down here without our ship.”

“Then why didn't they just … eliminate Pzilimin and—”

“Why didn't Pzilimin simply eliminate those who opposed him?” Smeg asked. “Violence begets violence, Rick. This is a lesson many sentient beings have learned. They had their own good reasons for handling it this way.”

“What'll we do?” Rick asked.

“We'll go to earth, like foxes, Rick. We will employ the utmost caution and investigate this situation. That is what we'll do.”

“Don't they know that … back there?”

“Indeed, they must. This should be very interesting.”

*   *   *

Painter stood in the street staring after the retreating car until it was lost in a dust cloud. He nodded to himself once.

A tall fat man came up beside him, said: “Well, Josh, it worked.”

“Told you it would,” Painter said. “I knew dang well another capsule of them Slorin got away from us when we took their ship.”

The blonde young woman moved around in front of them, said: “My dad sure is smart.”

“You listen to me now, Barton Marie,” Painter said. “Next time you find a blob of something jes' lyin' in a field, you leave it alone, hear?”

“How was I to know it'd be so strong?” she asked.

“That's jes' it!” Painter snapped. “You never know. That's why you leaves such things alone. It was you made him so gol dang strong, pokin' him that way. Slorin aren't all that strong 'less'n you ignite 'em, hear?”

“Yes, Dad.”

“Dang near five years of him,” the fat man said. “I don't think I coulda stood another year. He was gettin' worse all the time.”

“They always do,” Painter said.

“What about that Smeg?” the fat man asked.

“That was a wise ol' Slorin,” Painter agreed. “Seven syllables if I heard his full name rightly.”

“Think he suspects?”

“Pretty sure he does.”

“What we gonna do?”

“What we allus do. We got their ship. We're gonna move out for a spell.”

“Oh-h-h, not again!” the fat man complained.

Painter slapped the man's paunch. “What you howling about, Jim? You changed from McNabry into this when you had to. That's the way life is. You change when you have to.”

“I was just beginning to get used to this place.”

Barton Marie stamped her foot. “But this is such a nice body!”

“There's other bodies, child,” Painter said. “Jes' as nice.”

“How long do you think we got?” Jim asked.