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Authors: Frank Herbert

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BOOK: The Eyes of Heisenberg
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“You're not satisfied with Igan's explanation?” Boumour asked. He appeared outraged by the thought.
“He said it was natural,” Harvey said. “How can sickness be natural?”
“She has received medication,” Svengaard said. “Do you know what it was?”
“It had the same markings as the pill he gave her in the van,” Harvey said. “A tranquilizer he called it then.”
Svengaard approached Lizbeth, looked at her eyes, her skin. “Bring the kit,” he said, nodding to Harvey. He guided Lizbeth to an empty pad, finding himself fascinated by the idea of this examination. Once he had thought of this as
disgusting; now, the idea that Lizbeth carried an embryo in her in the ancient way held only mystery for him, a profound curiosity.
Lizbeth sent a questioning look at Harvey as Svengaard eased her back onto the pad. Harvey nodded reassuringly. She tried to smile, but a strange fear had come over her. The fear didn't originate with Svengaard. His hands were full of gentle assurance. But the prospect of being examined frightened her. She could feel terror warring with the drug Igan had given her.
Svengaard opened the kit, remembering the diagrams and explanations from the study tapes of his school years. They had been the subject of ribald jokes then, but even the jokes helped him now because they tended to fix vital facts in his mind.
Cling to the wall, for if you fall,
You then must learn to do the crawl!
In his memory, he could hear the chant and the uproarious burst of laughter.
Svengaard bent to his examination, excluding all else but the patient and himself. Blood pressure … enzymes … hormone production … bodily secretions …
Presently, he sat back, frowned.
“Is something wrong?” Harvey asked.
Boumour stood, arms folded, behind Harvey. “Yes, do tell us,” he said.
“Menstrual hormone complex is much too high,” Svengaard said. And he thought, “
Cling to the wall …
”
“The embryo controls these changes,” Boumour sneered.
“Yes,” Svengaard said. “But why this shift in hormone production?”
“From your superior knowledge, you'll now tell us,” Boumour said.
Svengaard ignored the mocking tone, looked up at Boumour. “You've done this before. Have you had any spontaneous abortions in your patients?”
Boumour frowned.
“Well?” Svengaard said.
“A few.” He supplied the information grudgingly.
“I suspect the embryo isn't firmly attached to the endometrium,” Svengaard said. “To the wall of the uterus,” he said, recognizing Harvey's need for explanation. “The embryo must cling to the uterus wall. The way of this is prepared by hormones present during the menstrual cycle.”
Boumour shrugged. “Well, we expect to loose a certain percentage.”
“My wife is not a
certain percentage,”
Harvey growled. He turned, focused a glare on Boumour that sent the man retreating three steps.
“But these things happen,” Boumour said. He looked at Svengaard, who was preparing a slapshot ampule from Igan's kit. “What're you doing?”
“Giving her a little enzymic stimulation to produce the hormones she needs,” Svengaard said. He glanced at Harvey, seeing the man's fears and need for reassurance. “It's the best thing we can do now, Durant. It should work if her system hasn't been too upset by all this.” He waved a hand indicating their flight, the emotional stress, the exertion.
“Do whatever you think you should,” Harvey said. “I know it's your best.”
Svengaard administered the shot, patted Lizbeth's arm. “Try to rest. Relax. Don't move around unless it's necessary.”
Lizbeth nodded. She had been reading Svengaard, seeing his genuine concern for her. His attempt to reassure Harvey had touched her, but there were fears she couldn't suppress.
“Glisson,” she whispered.
Svengaard saw the direction of her thoughts, and said, “I won't permit him to move you until I'm sure you're all right. He and his guide will just have to wait.”
“
You
won't permit!” Boumour sneered.
As though to punctuate his words, the ground around them rumbled and shook. Dust puffed through the low entrance and, like a magician's trick, Glisson materialized there as the concealing dust settled.
At the first sign of disturbance, Harvey had dropped to the floor beside Lizbeth. He held her shoulders, shielded her with his body.
Svengaard still knelt beside the medical kit.
Boumour had whirled to stare at Glisson. “Sonics?” Boumour hissed.
“Not sonics,” Glisson said. The Cyborg's usually flat voice carried a sing-song twang.
“He has no arms,” Harvey said.
They all noticed it then. From the shoulders down where Glisson's arms had been now dangled only the empty linkages for Cyborg prosthetic attachments.
“They
have sealed us in here,” Glisson said. Again, that sing-song twang as though something about him had been broken. “As you can see, I am disarmed. Do you not think that amusing? Do you see now why we could never fight
them
openly? When they wish it, they can destroy anything … anyone.”
“Igan?” Boumour whispered.
“Igans are easy to destroy,” Glisson said. “I have seen it. Accept the fact.”
“But what'll we do?” Harvey demanded.
“Do?” Glisson looked down at him. “We will wait.”
“One of you could stand off an entire Security force to get Potter away,” Boumour said. “But all you can do now is wait?”
“Violence is not my function,” Glisson said. “You will see.”
“What'll they do?” Lizbeth hissed.
“Whatever they wish to do,” Glisson said.
“T
here, it is done,” Calapine said.
She looked at Schruille and Nourse in the reflectors.
Schruille indicated the kinesthetic analogue relays of the Survey Globe's inner wall. “Did you observe Svengaard's emotion?”
“He was properly horrified,” Calapine said.
Schruille pursed his lips, studied her reflection. A session with the pharmacy had restored her composure, but she occupied her throne in a subdued mood. The kaleidoscopic play of lights from the wall gave an unhealthy cast to her skin. There was a definite flush to her features.
Nourse glanced up at the observer lights—the span of arctic wall glowed with a dull red intensity, every position occupied. With hardly an exception, the Optiman community watched developments.
“We have a decision to make,” Nourse said.
“You look pale, Nourse,” Calapine said. “Did you have pharmacy trouble?”
“No more than you.” He spoke defensively. “A simple enzymic heterodyning. It's pretty well damped out.”
“I say bring them here now,” Schruille said.
“To what purpose?” Nourse asked. “We have the pattern of their flight very well fixed. Why let them escape again?”
“I don't like the thought of unregistered self-viables—who knows how many—running loose out there,” Schruille said.
“Are you sure we could take them alive?” Calapine asked.
“The Cyborg admits ineffectiveness against us,” Schruille said.
“Unless that's a trick,” Nourse said.
“I don't think so,” Calapine said. “And once we have them here we can extract the information we need from their raw brains with the utmost precision.”
Nouse turned, stared at her. He couldn't understand what had happened to Calapine. She spoke with the callous brutality of a Folk woman. She was like an awakened ghoul, as though violence were her rising bell.
What is her setting bell?
he wondered. And he was shocked at his own thought.
“If they have means of destroying themselves?” Nourse asked. “I remind you of the computer nurse and a sad number of our own surgeons who appear to be in league with these criminals. We were powerless to prevent their self-destruction.”
“How callous you are, Nourse,” Calapine said.
“Callous? I?” He shook his head. “I merely wish to prevent further pain. Let us destroy them ourselves and go on from here.”
“Glisson's a full Cyborg,” Schruille said. “Can you imagine what his memory banks would reveal?”
“I remember the one who escorted Potter,” Nourse said. “Let us take no risk. His quietude could be a trick.”
“A contact narcotic in their present cell,” Schruille said. “That's my suggestion.”
“How do you know it'll work on the Cyborgs?” Nourse asked.
“Then they could escape once more,” Schruille said. He shrugged. “What does it matter?”
“Into another megalopolis,” Nourse said. “Is that it?”
“We know the infection's widespread,” Schruille said.
“Certainly, there were cells right here in Central. We've cleaned out those, but the—”
“I say stop them now!” Nourse snapped.
“I agree with Schruille,” Calapine said. “What's the risk?”
“The sooner we stop them the sooner we can return to our own pursuits,” Nourse said.
“This
is
our pursuit,” Schruille said.
“You like the idea of sterilizing another megalopolis, don't you, Schruille?” Nourse sneered. “Which one this time? How about Loovil?”
“Once was enough,” Schruille said. “But likes and dislikes really have nothing to do with it.”
“Let us put it to a vote then,” Calapine said.
“Because you're two to one against me, eh?” Nourse said.
“She means a
full
vote,” Schruille said. He looked up at the observation lights. “We've obviously a full quorum.”
Nouse stared at the indicators knowing he'd been neatly trapped. He dared not protest a full vote—any vote. And his two companions appeared so sure of themselves.
“This is our pursuit.
”
“We've allowed the Cyborgs to interfere,” Nourse said, “because they increased the proportion of viables in the genetic reserve. Did we do this merely to destroy the genetic reserve?”
Schruille indicated a bank of binary pyramids on the Globe's wall. “If they endanger us, certainly. But the issue is unregistered self-viables, their possible immunity to the contraceptive gas. Where else could they have produced the substitute embryo?”
“If it comes down to it, we don't need any of them,” Calapine said.
“Destroy them all?” Nourse asked. “All the Folk?”
“And raise a new crop of dopplegangers,” she said. “Why not?”
“Duplicates don't always come true,” Nourse said.
“Nothing limits us,” Schruille said.
“Our sun isn't infinite,” Nourse said.
“We'll solve that when the need arises,” Calapine said. “What problem can defy us? We're not limited by time.”
“Yet we're sterile,” Nourse said. “Our gametes refuse to unite.”
“And well they do,” Schruille said. “I'd not have it otherwise.”
“All we wish now is a simple vote,” Calapine said. “A simple vote on whether to capture and bring in one tiny band of criminals. Why should that arouse major debate?”
Nourse started to speak, thought better of it. He shook his head, looked from Calapine to Schruille.
“Well?” Schruille asked.
“I think this little band is the real issue,” Nourse said. “One Sterrie surgeon, two Cyborgs and two viables.”
“And Durant was ready to kill the Sterrie,” Schruille said.
“No.” It was Calapine. “He wasn't ready to erase anyone.” She found herself suddenly interested in the train of Nourse's reasoning. It was his logic and reason, after all, which had always attracted her.
Schruille, seeing her waver, said, “Calapine!”
“We all saw Durant's emotions,” Nourse said. He waved at the instrument wall in front of him. “He would've killed no one. He was …
educating
Svengaard, talking to Svengaard with his hands.”
“As they do between themselves, he and his wife,” Calapine said. “Certainly!”
“You say we should raise a new crop of dopplegangers.” Nourse said. “Which seed shall we use? The occupants of Seatac, perhaps?”
“We could take the seed cells first,” Schruille said, and he wondered how he had been put so suddenly on the defensive. “I say let's vote on it. Bring them here for full interrogation or destroy them.”
“No need,” Nourse said. “I've changed my mind. Bring them here … if you can.”
“Then it's settled,” Schruille said. He rapped the signal into his throne arm. “You see, it's really very simple.”
“Indeed?” Nourse said. “Then why do Calapine and I find ourselves suddenly reluctant to use violence? Why do we long for the old ways when Max shielded us from ourselves?”
BOOK: The Eyes of Heisenberg
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