Four Unpublished Novels

by Frank Herbert

  “I had to do it, Quilliam. If it’s any consolation, I’ve a chart on myself here. It’s about the same as yours.”

  “That man is dangerous,” insisted London.

  “He’s dangerous to us if we threaten him,” agreed O’Brien. “Only if we threaten him.”

  “Have you given up then?” London looked down at the little psychologist.

  “Given up? No, I wouldn’t call it that.” O’Brien turned away from the wall. “A psychologist looks for many things in people and events. I missed a point in observing Movius, although he has not missed this point in observing himself. He has said at least once—”

  “Bah!”

  “Don’t interrupt. Movius has his roots deep in the unbeatable wellspring of the collective unconscious, that living juggernaut which actually governs …”

  “Nonsense! That is not logical!” London seemed at the end of his patience.

  “That is exactly correct,” said O’Brien. “Movius is not using logic. He is depending upon instinct. He is in contact with his feelings. There is an ancient colloquialism which precisely fits this situation: Movius is flying by the seat of his pants.”

  “Of all the utter …” London broke off, gritted his teeth. “You’re going to sit by and let him destroy everything we’ve planned.”

  O’Brien shook his head. “I’ve explained the significance of our work to Movius as well as I am able. I’m hoping he will use the knowledge to advantage. That would preserve it.”

  “You’re hoping!” The old man’s tone was taunting. “You’re not planning—you’re hoping!” Suddenly, the old fierceness returned to London. “What about our plans, Nate? I ask you that!”

  O’Brien shrugged. “Sometimes the best laid plans …” He broke off. “Someone has come along who demonstrate without question he has greater planning ability than we have. I consider it wise to turn the planning end over to him.”

  “In the worst crisis time in all history? Movius doesn’t appreciate the first significance of a crisis!” London turned his back on O’Brien. “You’ve lost your spine, Nate. This isn’t like you.”

  A note of pleading came into O’Brien’s voice. “No, Quilliam. I’ve awakened. As I listened to Movius …”

  “Listened to Movius! Great Gallup! For six weeks I ate, slept and drank Movius! He’s nothing but a monumental ego!”

  “We mustn’t interfere with him,” said O’Brien. “I’m convinced of it.”

  “Well, I’m not convinced!” London strode to the table, picked up the wig which disguised his hair, stuffed the cheek-distenders into his mouth. He picked up the infirmary bag, went to the door. “Movius is a positive threat to all of our plans. He is going to be eliminated.”

  “Just a moment.”

  The command stopped London at the door. The old man turned, the disguise making him look youthful in a bizarre way. “Yes?”

  “Who will do the eliminating?”

  London patted the infirmary bag. “I will.” The hunter’s eyes stared back at O’Brien.

  “Why can’t Navvy do it?”

  A vague sag drew at London’s shoulders. “You know Navvy’s gone over to Movius. He hypnotizes people.”

  O’Brien said, “Quilliam, your own children oppose you and agree with me.”

  “It makes no difference,” said London. “I’ve come to my decision. We’re going on without him.” He slammed the door behind him.

  O’Brien sat down at his table, waited almost a minute. With a wary sadness, he picked up his phone. “Security, please. Wilson? This is O’Brien. Quilliam London just left my office about a minute ago. He’s disguised as an infirmary attendant. You’ll know his walk. I want him followed. If he goes anywhere near Movius’ apartment he is to be stopped.” O’Brien hesitated. “Be careful. I believe he has a stutter gun in that infirmary bag.” He listened, spoke again in a lower tone. “Yes … shot if necessary.”

  Chapter Twenty-four

  It was late when Movius entered his apartment building. He saw the woman standing in the elevator. She was turned half away from him, face averted. Something vaguely familiar about her, but he was anxious to get upstairs to Grace. They had a lot of things to do if they were going to get out of the apartment tonight and into the hidden quarters beneath Bu-Psych. He punched for the fiftieth floor, stepped back as the door closed. Then he thought maybe this woman doesn’t want to go that high. He turned to her, started to shape the question. It never got past his lips.

  Cecelia Lang!

  “Hello, Dan.” She smiled, a slow, controlled movement of lips which never reached the eyes.

  That soft, silky voice. It had made him shiver once. Now it filled him with a kind of dread. He found his throat was dry and had to swallow before he could speak. “Hello, Cecie.”

  Just like that—hello and hello. What does she want? As though in answer to his thoughts, Cecelia pushed the red EMERGENCY STOP button, said, “I want to talk to you, Dan.” She moved closer, giving him the benefit of a subtle perfume. “You haven’t been around to see me.”

  No, by Roper! he thought. He took a deep breath. “My wife and I don’t get out much.” He gave the words the extra barb of flatness.

  “Little Grace? She wouldn’t interfere if you really wanted to come see me.” She moved closer, put an arm beneath his. He could see the cold glints in the edges of her eyes.

  Little Grace? he thought. Little Grace! The word implied she knew Grace. But Grace had hinted at something like that. She’d said Bu-Psych had been watching him for a long time. Sure they had. Four years of tantalizing, never-give-in Cecelia Lang. The woman with the warm, soft, promising body and eyes that always said no. He could picture Cecelia running to O’Brien with her reports and recalled the piercing questions she’d sometimes asked. And with this knowledge came another thought: When the time was ripe they had her vamp The Coor so he’d low-opp me!

  The anger became a raging furnace inside him. He fought to keep the damper closed. “What do you want, Cecie?” He forced the words out without any special emphasis, as though it was of no great moment to him whatever she wanted.

  Cecelia slitted her eyes, muscles tensing for the barest fraction of a second. She had sensed a wrong note. “You, silly,” she said. “I want you.”

  Movius pushed her away gently, looked her up and down. “Take off your clothes.”

  “What?” Her surprise was not an act.

  “Take off your clothes,” said Movius in a reasonable tone. “I want to see what I’m being offered.”

  “Dan, please!”

  He mimicked her. “Dan, please!” His hand darted out, grasped the top of her suit, ripped it open.

  “Dan! I’ll scream!” She drew back, clutching the torn place.

  “Go ahead. I doubt anybody would hear you down here in the elevator.”

  She backed farther away, suddenly tried to dart around him toward the controls. He caught her arm, ripped the suit farther open. She fought him, but subsided, breathing hard, when he pinned her arms behind her back. “Dan, I came to you for help. I’m in danger.”

  He ignored her, ripped the suit and underclothing down to her waist as she vainly twisted and writhed.

  “Dan, wait! Later. I have an apartment. We can go there.” She stared up at him with a kind of hungry fascination.

  Movius looked down at her pink skin, remembering all the nights he had stayed awake, wondering what Cecelia’s flesh would feel like. Now let the bitch taste a little of her own medicine. Somehow, it wasn’t the kind of revenge he’d imagined. It was flat, unsatisfying. He picked up the thread of her gasping protests.

  “You’re in danger?”

  “Yes; oh, yes. Terrible danger!”

  How had she ever followed him? he wondered. She was so obvious.

  “Yes. We have so little time.” She glanced down at her exposed skin. “Later, we can …”

  He pushed her away from him, feeling a little sick with himself. “Who’s waiting there with a gun?”


  She started to speak, wet her lips with her tongue. “I don’t …”

  “Don’t give me any more lies!” He shouted it. “You played me like a fish on a hook. Four years you played me for that omnipotent low-opp O’Brien!”

  “Dan, I …” She was crowded back into the corner, arms up covering her breasts.

  “Make him hate everything!” he shouted. “That was the scheme, wasn’t it?” He lowered his voice. “You didn’t realize you could make me hate myself.” The torn coveralls were beginning to slip down over her hips. “Cover yourself.”

  She shook her head. “I didn’t …”

  “I said cover yourself!”

  He turned, punched the button for his floor. Cecelia pulled up the bottoms of her coveralls, tried ineffectually to repair the tops. It was no use; they were too badly ripped. She tied the torn sleeves around her waist. The elevator door snicked open.

  “I’m not going out there like this,” she hissed.

  “Then stay here.” He strode out of the elevator without looking back, stopped at the door of his room, unlocked it. Cecelia slipped past him as he opened the door. He went in, slammed the door.

  Grace stood in the middle of the living room, a hand to her cheek, staring at Cecelia who had stopped a few feet away. Movius walked past them as though it were the most natural thing in the world for him to come home with a woman who was nude from the waist up.

  “She tried to bait me into a trap,” he said. “Now we have to find out who the triggerman is.” He sank into a chair, his back to them.

  “Who?” asked Grace, voice over-controlled.

  There was a long silence punctuated by a sob from Cecelia.

  “You’d better tell us,” insisted Grace.

  “But you don’t understand,” said Cecelia. She sounded as though she were about to break into tears.

  “Tell us, or I think I’ll kill you myself!” said Grace.

  “You’re all crazy,” gasped Cecelia.

  “That does it,” said Movius. “She’s told us who.”

  “It’s Glass,” said Grace. “You’ve gone over to him.”

  Movius came out of his chair and turned in one motion. “No! It’s Quilliam. Has to be.”

  Cecelia was backing toward the door, ignoring her semi-nudity.

  “Get her some clothes,” said Movius. Then to Cecelia, “You’d better tell the whole thing, Cecie.” Somehow, the old familiar name sounded inappropriate for this frightened woman.

  “But I thought …” Cecelia suddenly sat down on the floor, buried her head in her hands, and began to cry.

  Movius turned away, went into the kitchen and took a long time mixing a stiff drink. There was a sour, sick taste in his mouth over what he had done in the elevator. Cecelia had just been taking orders. The person he should’ve knocked around was that self-satisfied O’Brien or Quilliam. He took the drink back into the living room. No sign of the women. They came out of the bedroom in a moment with Cecelia in one of Grace’s suits. He gave Cecelia the drink. She took it without comment, drained it without removing it from her mouth.

  Grace was chewing her lower lip, a sure sign she was shaken. “It was my father.”

  Cecelia put the empty glass on a table. “I didn’t know. He called my private number, said he had an urgent job for me. I was to get you out of your apartment and down to …”

  “Just a minute.” Movius stepped to the phone, called O’Brien. He told the Bu-Psych chief what had happened, waited a long minute before O’Brien sighed, said, “Dan, I was hoping to cover it up without your finding out.”

  “Why?” Movius bit off the word.

  O’Brien’s voice sounded old and tired. “Quilliam had his eyes on the post of Coordinator. It’s—”

  “You mean he’d—”

  “It’s a complicated thing,” said O’Brien. “Briefly, though, it’s like this: he wants the power so he can revenge himself on the ones who killed his wife. Basically, he hates the LPs, blames them for what happened. I think he’s a sick man and dangerous.”

  “A fine time to tell me,” said Movius.

  “I’m sorry,” said O’Brien and sounded it. “I’ve known Quilliam so long and seen him so often, it just never got through to me what was driving him until his own actions made it imperative.”

  “This is awkward,” said Movius.

  “You mean because of Grace?”

  “Of course that’s what I mean!”

  “I’ve put a special guard around your apartment. That’s the best I can do. Get Cecelia out of there some way so she isn’t recognized. We need her right where she is with Glass.”

  “The guard may help,” said Movius. “Gerard’s men are like a sieve. Janus comes and goes through them at will.”

  “My men know how to recognize Quilliam.”

  “Right.” Movius put the phone on its hook, returned to the living room. “Your father is out to kill me.” Grace sat down in a chair, turned her face away. “O’Brien has a guard on the building which may or may not be enough. We’re getting out of here tonight anyway.”

  “If I could just go to him,” murmured Grace. “I’m sure I could explain.” She spoke as though she were talking to herself.

  “O’Brien says he won’t listen to reason.”

  “I didn’t know,” said Cecelia. “I’m kind of out of touch with things where I am. I’ve always taken orders either from Mr. O’Brien or Mr. London. He just called … I didn’t know.”

  “Never mind,” said Movius. “What’s done is done.” He thrust his hands deeply into his pockets, glared at the floor. “Cecie, I apologize. Revenge is no good; it doesn’t matter whose revenge.”

  She gave a shaky laugh, spoke in a voice totally unlike the tones which once had been familiar. “I asked for it. You just surprised me. The Dan Movius I knew wouldn’t have done that.” Her voice gained strength; the silky tones reappeared. “He’d have come groveling after me.” Cecelia turned to Grace, gave a flippant salute. “I think you have yourself a man, honey. Keep him occupied or I may come back on my own time.” She started to leave.

  “Just a minute,” said Movius. “O’Brien wants you out of here without being recognized. I’ll have to lead you through the conduit tunnel.”

  “We’ll both lead you,” said Grace.

  “Never mind, dears,” said Cecelia. “This won’t be the first time I’ve crawled out the back way. I suppose it opens into the boiler room as usual.”

  Movius nodded.

  “Thank Roper for standard construction,” she said and left them, closing the door softly behind her.

  Grace turned toward him. “Well?” An ominous note.

  Movius avoided her eyes, went to a chair by the terrace windows.

  Grace followed him. “I deserve some sort of explanation.”

  “I lost my temper.” His voice was gruff, curt.

  “That’s what she said. What were you going to do, attack her in the elevator?”

  “I said I was sorry. I apologized.”

  Grace sat on the arm of his chair. “When you lived next door to her down the hill, did you …”

  “Good Gallup, no!” In a lower tone: “Why do you think I lost my temper? It was all that stored up frustration.”

  “Oh, so you wanted to!” Petulance ruled her voice. “I suppose you’ve had lots of women.”

  Movius jerked up out of the chair, whirled on her. “I’m twenty-nine-years-old, Grace. I’ve been a damned fool at least once every year of my life. I happen to love you and that’s different. Let’s drop the other thing, shall we? That’s the past.”

  Her expression softened. “I’m just being female. But Cecelia Lang makes me jealous.”

  “Of course she does. I was engaged to her once. You know all about the job she did on me, keeping me in cold storage for O’Brien, making her little reports.”

  Grace came to him, put her arms around his waist, her head against his chest. “I won’t be jealous any …” She broke off, pushed away. “I let th
is petty jealousy push the other thing right out of my mind.”

  “Your father.”

  “He can be terrible when he’s angry.” She put her hand to a cheek. It reminded Movius of someone feeling a bruise. “He’s so cold, like a god sitting in judgment.”

  “Pure intellect,” said Movius. “It loses touch with the world sooner or later.”

  “I’m going to find him. I’ve got to.” She turned away.

  “No, you’re not.” He moved up behind her, took her shoulders.

  “I am. It’s the only way.”

  “Damn it, I won’t let you!”

  “You’re not going to stop me!”

  Movius chuckled; the chuckle became laughter. “We sound like a couple of children, darling.” He turned her around, took her in his arms.

  “It’s just that I’m so afraid for you,” she whispered.

  “I’ll have him picked up tomorrow,” said Movius. “Then you can talk to him.”

  “Who’ll pick him up?”

  “Janus can do it if anyone can.”

  In the end he had to kiss her more than a dozen times before she’d agree to wait.

  Chapter Twenty-five

  It was always dusk in The Coor’s office, a sort of refined gloom. Light was absorbed by the dark paneling, the dark rug, the thick draperies. Now the dusk inside matched that outside.

  “We finally have a line on him,” said Addington. He took off his thick glasses, giving his face the appearance of a slab of red meat with two holes in the top and a wide slit in the bottom. “His wife was seen going into the Bu-Psych Building today.” Addington polished the glasses as he spoke, returned them to his face. Again he was the owl. “She was disguised, but one of our men—Curren—spotted her from seeing her out in the Roper Road Warren the day Movius was low-opped.”

  “The day Movius was what?” asked Glass, staring down from his position leaning back against his desk.

  “Let’s not play games among ourselves,” said Addington. He found a white lozenge in a pocket, popped it into his mouth, squirmed into a more comfortable position on the leather couch.

  Glass pushed himself away from the desk, pointed a finger at Addington. “Nate O’Brien! He’s been talking crisis for years. Do you suppose he could be manufacturing a crisis of his own?”