The Collected Stories of Frank Herbert

by Frank Herbert

  “We are scientists,” said Laoconia. “It’s quite all right. Now, may we bring our cameras and recording equipment?”

  “Bring you much of things?” asked Gafka.

  “We’ll only be taking one large floater to carry our equipment,” said Laoconia. “How long must we be prepared to stay?”

  “One night,” said Gafka. “I bring worker friends to help with floater. Go I now. Soon be dark. Come moonrise I return, take to Big Sing place you.” The trumpet mouth fluted three minor notes of farewell, pulled back to an orange pucker. Gafka turned, glided into the forest. Soon he had vanished among reflections of glasswood boles.

  “A break at last!” barked Laoconia. She strode into the hut, speaking over her shoulder. “Call the ship. Have them monitor our equipment. Tell them to get duplicate recordings. While we’re starting to analyze the sound-sight record down here they can be transmitting a copy to the master computers at Kampichi. We want as many minds on this as possible. We may never get another chance like this one!”

  Marie said: “I don’t—”

  “Snap to it!” barked Laoconia.

  “Shall I talk to Dr. Baxter?” asked Marie.

  “Talk to Helen?” demanded Laoconia. “Why would you want to bother Helen with a routine question like this?”

  “I just want to discuss…”

  “That transceiver is for official use only,” said Laoconia. “Transmit the message as I’ve directed. We’re here to solve the Rukuchp breeding problem, not to chitchat.”

  “I feel suddenly so uneasy,” said Marie. “There’s something about this situation that worries me.”

  “Uneasy?”

  “I think we’ve missed the point of Gafka’s warning.”

  “Stop worrying,” said Laoconia. “The natives won’t give us any trouble. Gafka was looking for a last excuse to keep us from attending their Big Sing. You’ve seen how stupidly shy they are.”

  “But what if—”

  “I’ve had a great deal of experience in handling native peoples,” said Laoconia. “You never have trouble as long as you keep a firm, calm grip on the situation at all times.”

  “Maybe so. But…”

  “Think of it!” said Laoconia. “The first humans ever to attend a Rukuchp Big Sing. Unique! You mustn’t let the magnitude of our achievement dull your mind. Stay cool and detached as I do. Now get that call off to the ship!”

  It was a circular clearing perhaps two kilometers in diameter, dark with moonshadows under the giant glaze trees. High up around the rim of the clearing, moonlight painted prismatic rainbows along every leaf edge. A glint of silver far above the center of the open area betrayed the presence of a tiny remote-control floater carrying night cameras and microphones.

  Except for a space near the forest edge occupied by Laoconia and Marie, the clearing was packed with silent shadowy humps of Rukuchp natives. Vision caps glinted like inverted bowls in the moonlight.

  Seated on a portable chair beside the big pack-floater, Laoconia adjusted the position of the tiny remote unit high above them. In the monitor screen before her she could see what the floater lenses covered—the clearing with its sequin glitter of Rukuchp vision caps and the faintest gleam of red and green instrument lights between herself and Marie seated on the other side of the floater. Marie was monitoring the night lenses that would make the scene appear as bright as day on the recording wire.

  Marie straightened, rubbed the small of her back. “This clearing must be at least two kilometers across,” she whispered, impressed.

  Laoconia adjusted her earphones, tested a relay. Her feet ached. It had been at least a four-hour walk in here to this clearing. She began to feel latent qualms about what might be ahead in the nine hours left of the Rukuchp night. That stupid warning …

  “I said it’s a big clearing,” whispered Marie.

  Laoconia cast an apprehensive glance at the silent Rukuchp figures packed closely around. “I didn’t realize there’d be so many,” she whispered. “It doesn’t look to me as though they’re dying out. What does your monitor screen show?”

  “They fill the clearing,” whispered Marie. “And I think they extend back under the trees. I wish I knew which one was Gafka. I should’ve watched when he left us.”

  “Didn’t he say where he was going?”

  “He just asked if this spot was all right for us and if we were ready to help them.”

  “Well, I’m sure everything’s going to be all right,” said Laoconia. She didn’t sound very convincing, even to herself.

  “Isn’t it time to contact the ship?” asked Marie.

  “They’ll be calling any—” A light flashed red on the panel in front of Laoconia. “Here they are now.”

  She flipped a switch, spoke into her cheek microphone. “Yes?”

  The metallic chattering in Laoconia’s earphones only made Marie feel more lonely. The ship was so far away above them.

  “That’s right,” said Laoconia. “Transmit your record immediately and ask Kampichi to make an independent study. We’ll compare notes later.” Silence while she listened, then: “I’m sure there’s no danger. You can keep an eye on us through the overhead lenses. But there’s never been a report of a Rukuchp native offering violence to anyone … Well, I don’t see what we can do about it now. We’re here and that’s that. I’m signing off now.” She flipped the switch.

  “Was that Dr. Baxter?” asked Marie.

  “Yes. Helen’s monitoring us herself, though I don’t see what she can do. Medical people are very peculiar sometimes. Has the situation changed with the natives?”

  “They haven’t moved that I can see.”

  “Why couldn’t Gafka have given us a preliminary briefing?” asked Laoconia. “I detest this flying blind.”

  “I think it still embarrasses him to talk about breeding,” said Marie.

  “Everything’s too quiet,” hissed Laoconia. “I don’t like it.”

  “They’re sure to do something soon,” whispered Marie.

  As though her words were the signal, an almost inaudible vibration began to throb in the clearing. Glaze leaves started their sympathetic tinkle-chiming. The vibration grew, became an organ rumble with abrupt piping obbligato that danced along its edges. A cello insertion pulled a melody from the sound, swung it over the clearing while the glazeforest chimed louder and louder.

  “How exquisite,” breathed Marie. She forced her attention onto the instruments in front of her. Everything was functioning.

  The melody broke to a single clear high note of harmonic brilliance—a flute sound that shifted to a second phase with expanded orchestration. The music picked up element after element while low-register tympani built a stately rhythm into it, and zither tinkles laid a counterpoint on the rhythm.

  “Pay attention to your instruments,” hissed Laoconia.

  Marie nodded, swallowing. The music was like a song heard before, but never before played with this perfection. She wanted to close her eyes; she wanted to submit entirely to the ecstasy of sound.

  Around them, the Rukuchp natives remained stationary, a rhythmic expansion and contraction of bellows muscles their only movement.

  And the rapture of music intensified.

  Marie moved her head from side to side, mouth open. The sound was an infinity of angel choirs—every sublimity of music ever conceived—now concentrated into one exquisite distillation. She felt that it could not possibly grow more beautiful.

  But it did.

  There came a lifting-expanding-floating … a long gliding suspenseful timelessness.

  Silence.

  Marie felt herself drifting back to awareness, found her hands limply fumbling with dials. Some element of habit assured her that she had carried out her part of the job, but that music … She shivered.

  “They sang for 47 minutes,” hissed Laoconia. She glanced around. “Now what happens?”

  Marie rubbed her throat, forced her attention onto the luminous dials, the floater, the
clearing. A suspicion was forming in the back of her mind.

  “I wish I knew which one of these creatures was Gafka,” whispered Laoconia. “Do we dare arouse one of them, ask after Gafka?”

  “We’d better not,” said Marie.

  “These creatures did nothing but sing,” said Laoconia. “I’m more certain than ever that the music is stimulative and nothing more.”

  “I hope you’re right,” whispered Marie. Her suspicion was taking on more definite shape … music, controlled sound, ecstasy of controlled sound … Thoughts tumbled over each other in her mind.

  Time dragged out in silence.

  “What do you suppose they’re doing?” hissed Laoconia. “They’ve been sitting like this for 25 minutes.”

  Marie glanced around at the ring of Rukuchp natives hemming in the little open space, black mounds topped by dim silver. The stillness was like a charged vacuum.

  More time passed.

  “Forty minutes!” whispered Laoconia. “Do they expect us to sit here all night?”

  Marie chewed her lower lip. Ecstasy of sound, she thought. And she thought of sea urchins and the parthenogenetic rabbits of Calibeau.

  A stirring movement passed through the Rukuchp ranks. Presently, shadowy forms began moving away into the glazeforest’s blackness.

  “Where are they going?” hissed Laoconia. “Do you see Gafka?”

  “No.”

  The transmission-receive light flashed in front of Laoconia. She flipped the switch, pressed an earphone against her head. “They just seem to be leaving,” she whispered into the cheek microphone. “You see the same thing we do. There’s been no movement against us. Let me call you back later. I want to observe this.”

  A Rukuchp figure came up beside Marie.

  “Gafka?” said Marie.

  “Gafka,” intoned the figure. The voice sounded sleepy.

  Laoconia leaned across the instrument-packed floater. “What are they doing now, Gafka?” she demanded.

  “All new song we make from music you give,” said Gafka.

  “Is the sing all ended?” asked Marie.

  “Same,” breathed Gafka.

  “What’s this about a new song?” demanded Laoconia.

  “Not have your kind song before correct,” said Gafka. “In it too much new. Not understand we how song make you. But now you teach, make right you.”

  “What is all this nonsense?” asked Laoconia. “Gafka, where are your people all going?”

  “Going,” sighed Gafka.

  Laoconia looked around her. “But they’re departing singly … or … well, there don’t seem to be any mated pairs. What are they doing?”

  “Go each to wait,” said Gafka.

  And Marie thought of caryocinesis and daughter nuclei.

  “I don’t understand,” complained Laoconia.

  “You teach how new song sing,” sighed Gafka. “New song best all time. We keep this song. Better much than old song. Make better—” the women detected the faint glimmer-haze lidding of Gafka’s vision cap—“make better young. Strong more.”

  “Gafka,” said Marie, “is the song all you do? I mean, there isn’t anything else?”

  “All,” breathed Gafka. “Best song ever.”

  Laoconia said: “I think we’d better follow some of these…”

  “That’s not necessary,” said Marie. “Did you enjoy their music, Dr. Wilkinson?”

  “Well…” There appeared to be embarrassment in the way the older woman turned her head away. “It was very beautiful.”

  “And you enjoyed it?” persisted Marie.

  “I don’t see what…”

  “You’re tone deaf,” said Marie.

  “It’s obviously a stimulant of some sort!” snapped Laoconia. “I don’t understand now why they won’t let us…”

  “They let us,” said Marie.

  Laoconia turned to Gafka. “I must insist, Gafka, that we be permitted to study all phases of your breeding process. Otherwise we can be of no help to you.”

  “You best help ever,” said Gafka. “Birthrate all good now. You teach way out from mixing of music.” A shudder passed upward through Gafka’s bellows muscles.

  “Do you make sense out of this?” demanded Laoconia.

  “I’m afraid I do,” said Marie. “Aren’t you tired, Gafka?”

  “Same,” sighed Gafka.

  “Laoconia, Dr. Wilkinson, we’d better get back to the hut,” said Marie. “We can improvise what we’ll need for the Schafter test.”

  “But the Schafter’s for determining human pregnancy!” protested Laoconia.

  The red light glowed in front of Laoconia. She flipped the switch. “Yes?”

  Scratching sounds from the earphones broke the silence. Marie felt that she did not want to hear the voice from the ship.

  Laoconia said: “Of course I know you’re monitoring the test of … Why should I tell Marie you’ve already given Schafter tests to yourself…” Laoconia’s voice climbed. “WHAT? You can’t be ser … That’s impossible! But, Helen, we … they … you … we … Of course I … Where could we have … Every woman on the ship…”

  There was a long silence while Marie watched Laoconia listening to the earphones, nodding. Presently, Laoconia lifted the earphones off her head and put them down gently. Her voice came out listlessly. “Dr. Bax … Helen suspected that … she administered Schafter tests to herself and some to the others.”

  “She listened to that music?” asked Marie.

  “The whole universe listened to that music,” said Laoconia. “Some smuggler monitored the ship’s official transmission of our recordings. Rebroadcast stations took it. Everyone’s going crazy about our beautiful music.”

  “Oh, no,” breathed Marie.

  Laconia said: “Everyone on the ship listened to our recordings. Helen said she suspected immediately after the broadcast, but she waited the full half hour before giving the Schafter test.” Laoconia glanced at the silent hump of Gafka standing beside Marie. “Every woman on that ship who could become pregnant is pregnant.”

  “It’s obvious, isn’t it?” asked Marie. “Gafka’s people have developed a form of group parthenogenesis. Their Big Sing sets off the blastomeric reactions.”

  “But we’re humans!” protested Laoconia. “How can…”

  “And parts of us are still very primitive,” said Marie. “This shouldn’t surprise us. Sound’s been used before to induce the first mitotic cleavage in an egg. Gafka’s people merely have this as their sole breeding method—with corresponding perfection of technique.”

  Laoconia blinked, said: “I wonder how this ever got started?”

  “And when they first encountered our foreign music,” said Marie, “it confused them, mixed up their musical relationships. They were fascinated by the new musical forms. They experimented for new sensations … and their birthrate fell off. Naturally.”

  “Then you came along,” said Laoconia, “and taught them how to master the new music.”

  “Exactly.”

  “Marie!” hissed Laoconia.

  “Yes?”

  “We were right here during that entire … You don’t suppose that we … that I…”

  “I don’t know about you,” said Marie, “but I’ve never felt more certain of anything in my life.”

  She chewed at her lower lip, fought back tears. “I’m going to have a baby. Female. It’ll have only half the normal number of chromosomes. And it’ll be sterile. And I…”

  “Say I to you,” chanted Gafka. There was an air of sadness in the singsong voice. “Say I to you: all life kinds start egg young same. Not want I to cause troubles. But you say different you.”

  “Parthenogenesis,” said Laoconia with a show of her old energy. “That means, of course, that the human reproductive process need not … that is, uh … we’ll not have to … I mean to say that men won’t be…”

  “The babies will be drones,” said Marie. “You know that. Unfertile drones. This may have its vog
ue, but it surely can’t last.”

  “Perhaps,” said Laoconia. “But I keep thinking of all those rebroadcasts of our recordings. I wonder if these Rukuchp creatures ever had two sexes?” She turned toward Gafka. “Gafka, do you know if…”

  “Sorry cause troubles,” intoned Gafka. The singsong voice sounded weaker. “Must say farewell now. Time for birthing me.”

  “You are going to give birth?” asked Laoconia.

  “Same,” breathed Gafka. “Feel pain on eye-top.” Gafka’s prehensile legs went into a flurry of digging in the ground beside the floater.

  “Well, you were right about one thing, Dr. Wilkinson,” said Marie. “She-he is not a him.”

  Gafka’s legs bent, lowered the ovoid body into the freshly dug concavity in the ground. Immediately, the legs began to shrink back into the body. A crack appeared across the vision cap, struck vertically down through the bellows muscles.

  Presently, there were two Gafkas, each half the size of the original. As the women watched, the two half-sized Gafkas began extruding new legs to regain the normal symmetry.

  “Oh, no,” whispered Marie.

  She had a headache.

  TRY TO REMEMBER

  Every mind on earth capable of understanding the problem was focused on the spaceship with the ultimatum delivered by its occupants. Talk or Die! blared the newspaper headlines.

  The suicide rate was up and still climbing. Religious cults were having a field day. A book by a science fiction author, What the Deadly Inter-Galactic Spaceship Means to You!, had smashed all previous best-seller records. And this had been going on for a frantic seven months.

  The ship had flapped out of a gun-metal sky over Oregon, its shape that of a hideously magnified paramecium with edges that rippled like a mythological flying carpet. Its five green-skinned, froglike occupants had delivered the ultimatum, one copy printed on velvety paper to each major government, each copy couched faultlessly in the appropriate native tongue:

  “You are requested to assemble your most gifted experts in human communication. We are about to submit a problem. We will open five identical rooms of our vessel to you. One of us will be available in each room.

  “Your problem. To communicate with us.

  “If you succeed, your rewards will be great.