The Collected Stories of Frank Herbert

by Frank Herbert

  “Have our egos shared nearness before?” McKie asked. “You appeared to recognize me.”

  “Recognition goes deeper than ego,” Bolin said. “Do you wish to join identities and explore this question?”

  McKie wet his lips with his tongue. This was delicate ground with the Pan-Spechi, whose one ego moved somehow from member to member of the unit group as they traversed their circle of being.

  “I … ah … not at this time,” McKie said.

  “Well spoken,” Bolin said. “Should you ever change your mind, my ego-group would consider it a most signal honor. Yours is a strong identity, one we respect.”

  “I’m … most honored,” McKie said. He rubbed nervously at his jaw, recognizing the dangers in this conversation. Each Pan-Spechi group maintained a supremely jealous attitude of and about its wandering ego. The ego imbued the holder of it with a touchy sense of honor. Inquiries about it could be carried out only through such formula questions as McKie already had asked.

  Still, if this were a member of the pent-archal life circle containing the missing saboteur extraordinary Napoleon Bildoon … if it were, much would be explained.

  “You’re wondering if we really can communicate,” Bolin said. McKie nodded.

  “The concept of humanity,” Bolin said, “—our term for it would translate approximately as comsentiency—has been extended to encompass many differing shapes, life systems and methods of mentation. And yet we have never been sure about this question. It’s one of the major reasons many of us have adopted your life-shape and much of your metabolism. We wished to experience your strengths and your weaknesses. This helps … but is not an absolute solution.”

  “Weaknesses?” McKie asked, suddenly wary.

  “Ahhh-hummm,” Bolin said. “I see. To allay your suspicions I will have translated for you soon one of our major works. Its title would be, approximately, The Developmental Influence of Weaknesses. One of the strongest sympathetic bonds we have with your species, for example, is the fact that we both originated as extremely vulnerable surface-bound creatures, whose most sophisticated defense came to be the social structure.”

  “I’ll be most interested to see the translation,” McKie said.

  “Do you wish more amenities or do you care to state your business now?” Bolin asked.

  “I was … ah … assigned to seek out a missing agent of our Bureau,” McKie said, “to be certain no harm has befallen this … ah … agent.”

  “Your avoidance of gender is most refined,” Bolin said. “I appreciate the delicacy of your position and your good taste. I will say this for now: the Pan-Spechi you seek is not at this time in need of your assistance. Your concern, however, is appreciated. It will be communicated to those upon whom it will have the most influence.”

  “That’s a great relief to me,” McKie said. And he wondered: What did he really mean by that? This thought elicited another, and McKie said: “Whenever I run into this problem of communication between species I’m reminded of an old culture/teaching story.”

  “Oh?” Bolin registered polite curiosity.

  “Two practioners of the art of mental healing, so the story goes, passed each other every morning on their way to their respective offices. They knew each other, but weren’t on intimate terms. One morning as they approached each other, one of them turned to the other and said, ‘Good morning.’ The one greeted failed to respond, but continued toward his office. Presently, though, he stopped, turned and stared at the retreating back of the man who’d spoken, musing to himself: ‘Now what did he really mean by that?’”

  Bolin began to chuckle, then laugh. His laughter grew louder and louder until he was holding his sides.

  It wasn’t that funny, McKie thought.

  Bolin’s laughter subsided. “A very educational story,” he said. “I’m deeply indebted to you. This story shows your awareness of how important it is in communication that we be aware of the other’s identity.”

  Does it? McKie wondered. How’s that?

  And McKie found himself caught up by his knowledge of how the Pan-Spechi could pass a single ego-identity from individual to individual within the life circle group of five distinct protoplasmic units. He wondered how it felt when the ego-holder gave up the identity to become the fifth gender, passing the ego spark to a newly matured unit from the creche. Did the fifth gender willingly become the creche nurse and give itself up as a mysterious identity-food for the three dormants in the creche? he wondered.

  “I heard about what you did to Secretary of Sabotage Clinton Watt,” Bolin said. “The story of your dismissal from the service preceded you here.”

  “Yes,” McKie said. “That’s why I’m here, too.”

  “You’ve penetrated to the fact that our Pan-Spechi community here on Achus is the heart of the Tax Watchers’ organization,” Bolin said. “It was very brave of you to walk right into our hands. I understand how much more courage it takes for your kind to face unit extinction than it does for our kind. Admirable! You are indeed a prize.”

  McKie fought down a sensation of panic, reminding himself that the records he had left in his private locker at Bureau headquarters could be deciphered in time even if he did not return.

  “Yes,” Bolin said, “you wish to satisfy yourself that the ascension of a Pan-Spechi to the head of your Bureau will pose no threat to other human species. This is understandable.”

  McKie shook his head to clear it. “Do you read minds?” he demanded.

  “Telepathy is not one of our accomplishments,” Bolin said, his voice heavy with menace. “I do hope that was a generalized question and in no way directed at the intimacies of my ego-group.”

  “I felt that you were reading my mind,” McKie said, tensing himself for defense.

  “That was how I interpreted the question,” Bolin said. “Forgive my question. I should not have doubted your delicacy or your tact.”

  “You do hope to place a member in the job of Bureau Secretary, though?” McKie said.

  “Remarkable that you should’ve suspected it,” Bolin said. “How can you be sure our intention is not merely to destroy the Bureau?”

  “I’m not,” McKie glanced around the room, regretting that he had been forced to act alone.

  “Where did we give ourselves away?” Bolin mused.

  “Let me remind you,” McKie said, “that I have accepted the hospitality you offered and that I’ve not offended your mores.”

  “Most remarkable,” Bolin said. “In spite of all the temptations I offered, you have not offended our mores. This is true. You are an embarrassment, indeed you are. But perhaps you have a weapon. Yes?”

  McKie lifted a wavering shape from an inner pocket.

  “Ahhh, the Jicuzzi stim,” Bolin said. “Now, let me see, is that a weapon?”

  McKie held the shape on his palm. It appeared flat at first, like a palm-sized sheet of pink paper. Gradually, the flatness grew a superimposed image of a tube laid on its surface, then another image of an S-curved spring that coiled and wound around the tube.

  “Our species can control its shape to some extent,” Bolin said. “There’s some question on whether I can consider this a weapon.”

  McKie curled his fingers around the shape, squeezed. There came a pop, and fumeroles of purple light emerged between his fingers accompanied by an odor of burnt sugar.

  “Exit stim,” McKie said. “Now I’m completely defenseless, entirely dependent upon your hospitality.”

  “Ah, you are a tricky one,” Bolin said. “But have you no regard for Ser Clinton Watt? To him, the change you forced upon him is an affliction. You’ve destroyed the instrument that might have reversed the process.”

  “He can apply to the Jicuzzi,” McKie said, wondering why Bolin should concern himself over Watt.

  “Ah, but they will ask your permission to intervene,” Bolin said. “They are so formal. Drafting their request should take at least three standard years. They will not take the slightest chance of offen
ding you. And you, of course, cannot volunteer your permission without offending them. You know, they may even build a nerve-image of you upon which to test their petition. You are not a callous person, McKie, in spite of your clownish poses. I’d not realized how important this confrontation was to you.”

  “Since I’m completely at your mercy,” McKie said, “would you try to stop me from leaving here?”

  “An interesting question,” Bolin said. “You have information I don’t want revealed at this time. You’re aware of this, naturally?”

  “Naturally.”

  “I find the Constitution a most wonderful document,” Bolin said. “The profound awareness of the individual’s identity and its relationship to society as a whole. Of particular interest is the portion dealing with the Bureau of Sabotage, those amendments recognizing that the Bureau itself might at times need … ah … adjustment.”

  Now what’s he driving at? McKie wondered. And he noted how Bolin squinted his eyes in thought, leaving only a thin line of faceted glitter.

  “I shall speak now as chief officer of the Tax Watchers,” Bolin said, “reminding you that we are legally immune from sabotage.”

  I’ve found out what I wanted to know, McKie thought. Now if I can only get out of here with it!

  “Let us consider the training of saboteurs extraordinary,” Bolin said. “What do the trainees learn about the make-work and featherbedding elements in Bureau activity?”

  He’s not going to trap me in a lie, McKie thought. “We come right out and tell our trainees that one of our chief functions is to create jobs for the politicians to fill,” he said. “The more hands in the pie, the slower the mixing.”

  “You’ve heard that telling a falsehood to your host is a great breach of Pan-Spechi mores, I see,” Bolin said. “You understand, of course, that refusal to answer certain questions is interpreted as a falsehood?”

  “So I’ve been told,” McKie said.

  “Wonderful! And what are your trainees told about the foot dragging and the monkeywrenches you throw into the path of legislation?”

  “I quote from the pertinent training brochure,” McKie said. “‘A major function of the Bureau is to slow passage of legislation.’”

  “Magnificent! And what about the disputes and outright battles Bureau agents have been known to incite?”

  “Strictly routine,” McKie said. “We’re duty bound to encourage the growth of anger in government wherever we can. It exposes the temperamental types, the ones who can’t control themselves, who can’t think on their feet.”

  “Ah,” Bolin said. “How entertaining.”

  “We keep entertainment value in mind,” McKie admitted. “We use drama and flamboyance wherever possible to keep our activities fascinating to the public.”

  “Flamboyant obstructionism,” Bolin mused.

  “Obstruction is a factor in strength,” McKie said. “Only the strongest surmount the obstructions to succeed in government. The strongest … or the most devious, which is more or less the same thing when it comes to government.”

  “How illuminating,” Bolin said. He rubbed the backs of his hands, a Pan-Spechi mannerism denoting satisfaction. “Do you have special instructions regarding political parties?”

  “We stir up dissent between them,” McKie said. “Opposition tends to expose reality, that’s one of our axioms.”

  “Would you characterize Bureau agents as troublemakers?”

  “Of course! My parents were happy as the devil when I showed troublemaking tendencies at an early age. They knew there’d be a lucrative outlet for this when I grew up. They saw to it that I was channeled in the right directions all through school—special classes in Applied Destruction, Advanced Irritation, Anger I and II … only the best teachers.”

  “You’re suggesting the Bureau’s an outlet for society’s regular crop of troublemakers?”

  “Isn’t that obvious? And troublemakers naturally call for the services of troubleshooters. That’s an outlet for do-gooders. You’ve a check and balance system serving society.”

  McKie waited, watching the Pan-Spechi, wondering if his answers had gone far enough.

  “I speak as a Tax Watcher, you understand?” Bolin asked.

  “I understand.”

  “The public pays for this Bureau. In essence, the public is paying people to cause trouble.”

  “Isn’t that what we do when we hire police, tax investigators and the like?” McKie asked.

  A look of gloating satisfaction came over Bolin’s face. “But these agencies operate for the greater good of humanity!” he said.

  “Before he begins training,” McKie said, and his voice took on a solemn, lecturing tone, “the potential saboteur is shown the entire sordid record of history. The do-gooders succeeded once … long ago. They eliminated virtually all red tape from government. This great machine with its power over human lives slipped into high speed. It moved faster and faster.” McKie’s voice grew louder. “Laws were conceived and passed in the same hour! Appropriations came and were gone in a fortnight. New bureaus flashed into existence for the most insubstantial reasons.”

  McKie took a deep breath, realizing he’d put sincere emotional weight behind his words.

  “Fascinating,” Bolin said. “Efficient government, eh?”

  “Efficient?” McKie’s voice was filled with outrage. “It was like a great wheel thrown suddenly out of balance! The whole structure of government was in imminent danger of fragmenting before a handful of people, wise with hindsight, used measures of desperation and started what was called the Sabotage Corps.”

  “Ahhh, yes, I’ve heard about the Corps’ violence.”

  He’s needling me, McKie thought, but found that honest anger helped now. “All right, there was bloodshed and terrible destruction at the beginning,” he said. “But the big wheels were slowed. Government developed a controllable speed.”

  “Sabotage,” Bolin sneered. “In lieu of red tape.”

  I needed that reminder, McKie thought.

  “No task too small for Sabotage, no task too large,” McKie said. “We keep the wheel turning slowly and smoothly. Some anonymous Corpsman put it into words, a long time ago: ‘When in doubt, delay the big ones and speed the little ones.’”

  “Would you say the Tax Watchers were a ‘big one’ or a ‘little one’?” Bolin asked, his voice mild.

  “Big one,” McKie said and waited for Bolin to pounce.

  But the Pan-Spechi appeared amused. “An unhappy answer.”

  “As it says in the Constitution,” McKie said, “‘The pursuit of unhappiness is an inalienable right of all humans.’”

  “Trouble is as trouble does,” Bolin said and clapped his hands.

  Two Pan-Spechi in the uniforms of system police came through the creme de menthe emerald door.

  “You heard?” Bolin asked.

  “We heard,” one of the police said.

  “Was he defending his bureau?” Bolin asked.

  “He was,” the policeman said.

  “You’ve seen the court order,” Bolin said. “It pains me because Ser McKie accepted the hospitality of my house, but he must be held incommunicado until he’s needed in court. He’s to be treated kindly, you understand?”

  Is he really bent on destroying the Bureau? McKie asked himself in sudden consternation. Do I have it figured wrong?

  “You contend my words were sabotage?” McKie asked.

  “Clearly an attempt to sway the chief officer of the Tax Watchers from his avowed duties,” Bolin said. He stood, bowed.

  McKie lifted himself out of the chairdog, assumed an air of confidence he did not feel. He clasped his thick-fingered hands together and bowed low, a grandfather toad rising from the deep to give his benediction. “In the words of the ancient proverb,” he said, “‘The righteous man lives deep within a cavern and the sky appears to him as nothing but a small round hole.’”

  Wrapping himself in dignity, McKie allowed the police to esco
rt him from the room.

  Behind him, Bolin gave voice to puzzlement: “Now, what did he mean by that?”

  * * *

  “Hear ye! Hear ye! System High Court, First Bench, Central Sector, is now in session!”

  The robo-clerk darted back and forth across the cleared lift dais of the courtarena, its metal curves glittering in the morning light that poured down through the domed weather cover. Its voice, designed to fit precisely into the great circular room, penetrated to the farthest walls: “All persons having petitions before this court draw near!”

  The silvery half globe carrying First Magistrate Edwin Dooley glided through an aperture behind the lift dais and was raised to an appropriate height. His white sword of justice lay diagonally across the bench in front of him. Dooley himself sat in dignified silence while the robo-clerk finished its stentorian announcement and rolled to a stop just beyond the lift field.

  Judge Dooley was a tall, black browed man who affected the ancient look with ebon robes over white linen. He was noted for decisions of classic penetration.

  He sat now with his face held in rigid immobility to conceal his anger and disquiet. Why had they put him in this hot spot? Because he’d granted the Tax Watchers’ injunction? No matter how he ruled now, the result likely would be uproar. Even President Hindley was watching this one through one of the hotline projectors.

  The President had called shortly before this session. It had been Phil and Ed all through the conversation, but the intent remained clear. The Administration was concerned about this case. Vital legislation pended; votes were needed. Neither the budget nor the Bureau of Sabotage had entered their conversation, but the President had made his point—don’t compromise the Bureau but save that Tax Watcher support for the Administration!

  “Clerk, the roster,” Judge Dooley said.

  And he thought: They’ll get judgment according to strict interpretation of the law! Let them argue with that!

  The robo-clerk’s reelslate buzzed. Words appeared on the repeater in front of the judge as the clerk’s voice announced: “The People versus Clinton Watt, Jorj X. McKie and the Bureau of Sabotage.”

  Dooley looked down into the courtarena, noting the group seated at the black oblong table in the Defense ring on his left: a sour-faced Watt with his rainbow horror of Medusa head, McKie’s fat features composed in a look of someone trying not to snicker at a sly joke—the two defendants flanking their attorney, Pander Oulson, the Bureau of Sabotage’s chief counsel. Oulson was a great thug of a figure in defense white with glistening eyes under beetle brows and a face fashioned mostly of scars.