Like a sleep walker, Orne moved forward, righted the chair beside the bed, sank into it. Extensions of his awakening captured his attention. “The prophet who calls forth the dead,” he said. “He returns the matter of the body to a time when it was alive. That flame you threatened me with. You bring it out of a time when the matter around us was gaseous incandescence. The man from Wessen who walks from planet to planet like you would cross a stream on stepping stones.” Orne held up his hands. “Of course. Without time to stretch across it, there can be no space. To him, time is a specific location!”
“Think of the universe as an expanding balloon,” said the Abbod. “A balloon of weird shape and unexplored convolutions. Suppose you have a transparent grid, three-dimensional. Like graph paper. You look through it at the universe. It is a matrix against which you can plot out the shapes and motions of the universe.”
“Education,” said Orne.
The Abbod spoke like a teacher praising a pupil. “Very good!” He smiled. “This grid, this matrix is trained into human beings. They project it on to the universe. With this matrix they break nature into bits. Usable bits. But, somehow, they too often get the idea that nature … the universe is the bits. The matrix is so very useful, permitting us to communicate our ideas, for example. But it is so near-sighted. It’s like an old man reading script with his nose pressed almost to the page. He sees one thing at a time. But our universe is not one thing at a time. It’s an enormous complex. Still we concentrate on the bits.” He shook his head. “Do you know how we see the bits, Mr. Orne?”
Orne snapped out of a half-reverie in which the Abbod’s words had been like gross areas of understanding that flowed into his awareness. “We see them by contrast. Each bit moves differently, has a different color, or…”
“Very good! We see them by contrast. To see a bit we must see also its background. Bit and background are inseparable. Without one you cannot discern the other. Without evil you cannot determine good. Without war, you cannot determine peace. Without…”
“Wait a minute!” Orne jerked to attention. “Is that why you’re out to ruin the I–A?”
“Mr. Orne, a compulsive peace is not peace. To compel peace, you must use warlike methods. It is nonsense to think that you can get rid of one of a pair and possess only the other. You are doing this by force! You create a vacuum into which chaos will flow.”
Orne shook his head. He felt trapped in a maze, caught by the idea that something had to be wrong with the Abbod’s words.
“It is like a drug habit,” said the Abbod. “If you enforce peace, it will take greater and greater amounts of peace to satisfy you. And you will use more and more violence to obtain it. The cycle will end in cataclysm. Think rather of how light reaches your eyes. When you are reading you do not seek out, striving for the light. In the same way, peace comes to your senses. Pleasure comes to you. Good comes to you. As the light reaches your eyes. These are functions of your nerves. You cannot make an effort with your nerves. You can make an effort with your muscles. That is the way it is with our universe. Our matrix must be a direct function of reality, of actual matter. In this, it is like our nerves. If we distort the matrix, we do not change reality, but only our way of seeing it. If we destroy one half of a pair, the remaining half overwhelms us. Take away the predator, and the creature preyed upon undergoes a population explosion. All of these things fit the basic law.”
“And the I–A has broken that law?”
“It has.” The Abbod frowned. “You see, peace is an internal matter. It’s a self-discipline. It must come from within. If you set up an outside power to enforce peace, that outside power grows stronger and stronger. It must. Inevitably, it degenerates. Comes the cataclysm.”
“You people on Amel look on yourselves as a kind of super I–A, don’t you?”
“In a sense,” the Abbod agreed. “But we want to go to the root. We wish to plant the seed of self-discipline wherever it will take root. And to do this, we prepare certain ground for cultivation.”
“Ground?”
“Worlds. Societies.” The Abbod stared at Orne. “And we desperately need farmers, Mr. Orne.”
“Meaning me?”
“Would you care to enlist?”
Orne cleared his throat, broke his attention away from the Abbod’s intent gaze. He felt that he was being stampeded.
The Abbod’s voice intruded. “This is a chaotic universe, Mr. Orne. Things are changing. Things will change. There is an instinct in human beings that realizes this. Our instinct foments a feeling of insecurity. We seek something unchanging. Beliefs are temporary because the bits we believe about are in motion. They change. And periodically, we go through the cataclysm. We tear down the things that refuse to work. They don’t do what we expect them to do, and we become children, smashing the toys that refuse to obey. In such times, the teachers of self-discipline are much needed.”
“You say we’re approaching some great smashing up, some cataclysm?”
“We are always approaching it. Always ahead of us is the great burning from which the Phoenix arises. Only one thing endures: Faith. The object changes, but faith endures. It’s the absolute we yearn after in a changing universe.”
Orne felt overwhelmed by a sense of outrage. “Faith? That’s nonsense! There’s no logic, no scientific…”
“Trust your senses!” barked the Abbod. “Do not try to distort the matrix to fit what you want to believe! You have experienced another dimension. Many have done this without realizing it. You realize it.”
“But … faith? In what?”
“In our appetite. Faith that we will encompass this other dimension and find there a new area of mystery to beckon our senses. Faith that there is something enduring in all this chaos … and if not, that we can create a thing that will endure. That faith, Mr. Orne.’
Orne lowered his eyes. “I’m sorry. I … didn’t understand.”
The Abbod’s voice lowered almost to a whisper. “Of course you didn’t. You had not heard our simple definition of a religion. A religion is the faith that something will endure beyond the apparent chaos surrounding us. The central concepts are Faith and Endurance.”
Orne turned the thought over in his mind.
“Our faith here is in the linear endurance of humankind,” said the Abbod. “On Amel we call it the Great Continuity. It is our faith that there will always be a descendant of humankind—evolved, changed, unrecognizable to today’s humans, no matter what, but still our descendant.”
Cynicism, his most dependable defence, took over Orne’s thinking. “Very high sounding,” he said. “And if that’s what you’re really doing here, quite attractive. But how can I be certain what you’re doing? You use lots of words. Some even make sense.”
“But all it takes is one weak link, eh?”
Orne shrugged.
“That’s why we seek out only the strong, the prophets,” said the Abbod. “That is why the testing and the education. If we tame the wild religions and harness their energies to our purpose, that makes sense, doesn’t it?”
“Certainly.”
“Then we will give you this, Mr. Orne: You may go anywhere on Amel, ask any questions, look at any records, request any cooperation that does not oppose our purpose. Satisfy yourself. And even then, you do not have to decide to stay with us. You may return to any of the outer worlds, to Marak, to Chargon, wherever you wish to go. We insist only that you subject your talents to our instructions, that you permit us to show you how they may be tamed.”
Orne wet his lips with his tongue. A tentative probe at the Abbod’s emotions revealed candor and faint amusement. The amusement annoyed Orne. He had the feeling that this was an old story to the Abbod, that the reactions of one Lewis Orne could be classified as type such and so. A kind of pique made him say: “Aren’t you afraid I might … well, double-cross you once I was off Amel?”
“We have faith in you, Mr. Orne. Your ordeal has given us grounds for that, at least.”
> Orne chuckled. “The least I can do is return the favor, eh?”
“After you’ve pried and tested us to your satisfaction, yes. You said it yourself, you know: Faith is the uncensored will. Doubt is a censor we’d rather you didn’t have.”
Orne nodded, and a new thought hit him. “Do you have enough faith in me to let me return to Marak and make over the I–A along lines you’d approve?”
The Abbod shook his head. “Faith in you, we have that. But your I–A has gone too far along the road to power. You understand, my son, that a bureau is like an individual. It will fight for survival. It will seek power. Your I–A has a personality made up of all its parts. Some such as yourself we would trust. Others … I’m afraid not. No. Before we permit you to leave here, the I–A will be dead, and other bureaus will be feeding on the remains.”
Orne stared at the ancient face. Presently, he said: “I guess I failed them.”
“Perhaps not. Your original purpose is still intact. Peace as a self-discipline can be more gratifying than any other kind. It grows more slowly, to be sure, but it’s confident growth that counts.”
Orne still tasted a certain bitterness. “You seem pretty confident that I’ll join you.”
“You’ve already passed that decision,” murmured the Abbod. “When you asked to return and make over the I–A.”
This time Orne’s chuckle was aimed at himself. “Know me pretty well, don’t you.”
“We know your purpose, your religion, as it were. You share our faith in humankind. When we learned that, we knew you were already one of us.” The Abbod smiled, and the old face seemed to light up. “There’s much ground to prepare, and we have need of many farmers.”
“Yeah, I’m a hayseed, all right,” said Orne.
“After you have pried into Amel to your heart’s content, come back and talk to me. I know there’s a certain young lady awaiting you on Marak. Perhaps we could discuss your returning to another bureau—Rediscovery and Re-education.”
“R & R! Those bumbleheads! They’re the…”
“You have an interesting conditioned reaction there,” said the Abbod. “For now I will only remind you that any bureau is the sum of its parts.”
* * *
In his office on Marak, Tyler Gemine, director of Rediscovery & Re-education, faced Orne across an immense blackwood desk. Behind Gemine a wide window looked out on the packed office buildings of Marak’s central government quarter. The director was a rounded outline against the window, a fat and genial surface with smiling mouth and hard eyes. Frown wrinkles creased his forehead.
The office fitted Gemine. On the surface it seemed built for comfort: soft chairs, thick carpet, unobtrusive lighting. But three walls held file cases geared to a remote search control at the desk. Six auto-secretaries flanked the desk.
Sitting opposite the director, Orne still wore his aqua toga from Amel. R & R security police had rushed him here from the spaceport, giving him no time to change.
“All of this haste must appear unseemly to you, Mr. Orne,” said Gemine. “Separating you from your fiancée at the spaceport like that. Rude of us.” The hard eyes bored into Orne.
Orne hid his amusement under a mask of concern. “I know you must have good reasons, sir.”
Gemine leaned back. “Indeed we do.” He pulled a stack of papers towards him on the desk, squared them. “Before the I–A took you away from us, Mr. Orne, you were an agent of the R & R.”
“Yes, sir. They drafted me.”
“That unfortunate business on Hamal!”
“There was nothing I could do, sir.”
“No blame attaches to you, Mr. Orne. But you understand that we do have some curiosity about you now that we have superseded the I–A.”
“You want to know where my loyalties are?”
“Precisely.”
“The R & R’s purpose is still my purpose, sir.”
“Good! Good!” Gemine patted the stack of papers in front of him. “Ahhh, this mission to Amel. What about that?”
“Why was I sent?”
Gemine’s stare was cold and measuring. “Yes.”
“It was very simple. The I–A executive staff heard about the move to do away with their department. They had reason to believe the priests were a prime factor in the move. I was sent to Amel to see if they could be circumvented.”
“And you failed.” It was a flat statement.
“Sir, I beg to remind you that I once volunteered for the R & R. I was one of your agents before the I–A took me away from you.” He managed a tight smile. “And it didn’t take a giant brain to realize that you would take over the I–A’s functions once they were out of the way.”
Gemine’s eyes clouded with thought. He cleared his throat. “What about this psi thing? In the final audit of I–A we came across this odd department. Unfortunately…” Gemine studied a paper in front of him. “… the director, one Ag Emolirdo, has disappeared. There were records, though, showing that you were trained by him before your recent … ah, mission.”
So Agony took it on the lam, thought Orne. Gone home to report, no doubt. He said: “It was a questionable field. Oriented along ESP lines.” (And he thought: That’ll fit this little hack’s executive logic!) “They were looking for rules to explain certain non-chance phenomena,” he went on. “Their results were debatable.”
Gemine restacked the papers in front of him. “As I suspected. Well … we can go into it in more detail later. I confess it sounded extremely far-fetched in outline. Typical of I–A wastefulness.” He leaned back, steepled his hands in front of him. “No, Mr. Orne, as you know, we are taking over the key functions of the I–A. But we’re running into stupid resistance. That’s where I’ve hoped you could come in.”
“My record with R & R is clear, sir.”
Gemine swivelled his chair, looked out of the window at Marak’s executive warren. “You know both the R & R and the I–A, Mr. Orne. It’s in my mind to attach you to my office—as a special executive assistant. Your duties would be to facilitate absorption of the I–A.” He turned back to look at Orne. “What would you say to that?”
Orne hesitated just the right length of time. “I’d … I’d consider that an honor, sir.”
“Excellent!” Gemine bent forward. “You’ll want to get situated first, of course.” His manner became more confidential. “You’ll be getting married, I understand. Take what time you need. Say, a month.”
“That’s very kind of you, sir.”
“Not at all. I want you to be happy with us.” He wet his lips with his tongue. “Miss Bullone may not have had the time to tell you … about her father, that is. He is no longer our high commissioner. Lost out in the recent shake-up. A pity after so many years of excellent service.”
“Has he stayed on in the Assembly?”
“Oh, yes. He’s still an important member. Minority leader.” Gemine stared at Orne. “We’d like to have you act—unofficially, you understand—as a sort of liaison with Mr. Bullone.”
“I’m sure something could be worked out, sir.”
Gemine smiled, relaxed. He nodded.
Orne said: “What about my staff, sir?”
“Staff?”
“I’ll need assistants of my own if I’m to do this job correctly.”
Sudden tension filled the room. “Anyone special in mind?”
Gently, thought Orne. This is the delicate part. He said: “All the time I was in the I–A, I was directly under one man. When he said frog, I jumped. Wherever he pointed, that’s where I went.”
“Ahhh … Mr. Umbo Stetson.”
“I see you know him.”
“Know him? He’s a major source of resistance!”
“That’d make it even more pleasant,” said Orne.
Gemine chortled. He radiated gleeful sadism. “Take him! Any authority you need to whip him into line, it’s yours!”
Orne matched Gemine’s smile. “This is going to be even more fun than I thought.”
Gemine arose. “I’ll have an office fitted for you next to mine, Lewis. Want everything cosy and neat.” He nodded. “I think this is going to work out very well. Indeed I do.”
Orne stood up. “I hope I’ll live up to all your expectations, sir.”
“You already are, my boy! You know what’s expected of you, and you know how to deliver.” He gave Orne a knowing smile. “And I won’t soon forget your failure on Amel.” He chortled. “Eh?”
From the secret report: Lewis Orne to the Halmyrach Abbod:
Gemine was every bit as easy as you said he would be. He has already given me Stetson, and through Stetson I’ll bring in the others. This is fallow ground, indeed. Needs the ministrations of a trained farmer.
It was fascinating to talk to Gemine. There was the pattern just as you anticipated it. The weak was absorbing the strong, completely unaware that the strong could eat it up from within. But this time, only a selective seed of the strong.
Stetson raised no objections at all. The idea he found particularly intriguing was this: We must find a way of preventing war without making war impossible. For myself, I find this no paradox. In a universe without limits, life must grow through self-imposed limits. Every teaching turns on its discipline. And what is a discipline but a limit self-imposed for the benefits derived? My new matrix needs no distortion to encompass this concept.
Out of all this, one thought keeps coming back to me. I will mention it this once. It occurs to me that the most effective government is that one where the governed do not know they are being governed, but believe they govern themselves.
Your obed’t farmer,
Lewis Orne.
EGG AND ASHES
For a week now the Siukurnin had hung above the hunters’ camp disguised as a pine cone. One of the ropes holding their tent fly passed within inches of it, and when the cold evening wind blew, as it was doing now, the rope hummed. This created a masking harmonic that had to be filtered out (along with many other “noises”) before the Siukurnin could concentrate on the vibrations coming from the figures around the fire.
The Collected Stories of Frank Herbert Page 35