The Collected Stories of Frank Herbert

by Frank Herbert

  I will come back, Father, Joao thought. You will be buried among family and friends.

  He locked the controls, twisted in the seat to see what had happened to his captive.

  A gasp escaped Joao’s lips.

  The rear bulkhead crawled with insects clustered around something white and pulsing. The mud-gray shirt and trousers were torn, but insects already were repairing it, spinning out fibers that meshed and sealed on contact. There was a yellow-like extrusion near the pulsing white, and a dark brown skeleton with familiar articulation.

  It looked like a human skeleton—but chitinous.

  Before his eyes, the thing was reassembling itself, the long, furry antennae burrowing into the structure and interlocking.

  The flute-weapon was not visible, and the thing’s leather pouch had been thrown into the rear corner, but its eyes were in place in their brown sockets, staring at him. The mouth was re-forming.

  The yellow sac contracted, and a voice issued from the half-formed mouth.

  “You must listen,” it rasped.

  Joao gulped, whirled back to the controls, unlocked them and sent the cab into a wild, spinning turn.

  A high-pitched rattling buzz sounded behind him. The noise seemed to pick up every bone in his body and shake it. Something crawled on his neck. He slapped at it, felt it squash.

  All Joao could think of was escape. He stared frantically out at the earth beneath, seeing a blotch of white in a savannah off to his right and, in the same instant, recognizing another airtruck banking beside him, the insignia of his own Irmandades band bright on its side.

  The white blotch in the savannah was resolving itself into a cluster of tents with an IEO orange and green banner flying beside them.

  Joao dove for the tents, praying the other airtruck would follow.

  Something stung his cheek. They were in his hair—biting, stinging. He stabbed the braking rockets, aimed for open ground about fifty meters from the tent. Insects were all over the inside of the glass now, blocking his vision. Joao said a silent prayer, hauled back on the control arm, felt the cab mush out, touch ground, skidding and slewing across the savannah. He kicked the canopy release before the cab stopped, broke the seal on his safety harness and launched himself up and out to land sprawling in grass.

  He rolled through the grass, feeling the insect bites like fire over every exposed part of his body. Hands grabbed him and he felt a jelly hood splash across his face to protect it. A voice he recognized as Thome of his own band said: “This way, Johnny! Run!” They ran.

  He heard a spraygun fire: “Whooosh!”

  And again.

  And again.

  Arms fitted him and he felt a leap.

  They landed in a heap and a voice said: “Mother of God! Would you look at that!”

  Joao clawed the jelly hood from his face, sat up to stare across the savannah. The grass seethed and boiled with insects around the uptilted cab and the airtruck that had landed beside it.

  Joao looked around him, counted seven of his Irmaos with Thome, his chief sprayman, in command.

  Beyond them clustered five other people, a red-haired woman slightly in front, half turned to look at the savannah and at him. He recognized the woman immediately: Dr. Rhin Kelly of the IEO. When they had met in the A’ Chigua nightclub in Bahia, she had seemed exotic and desirable to Joao. Now, she wore a field uniform instead of gown and jewels, and her eyes held no invitation at all.

  “I see a certain poetic justice in this … traitors,” she said.

  Joao lifted himself to his feet, took a cloth proffered by one of his men, wiped off the last of the jelly. He felt hands brushing him, clearing dead insects off his coveralls. The pain of his skin was receding under the medicant jelly, and now he found himself dominated by puzzled questioning as he recognized the mood of the IEO personnel.

  They were furious and it was directed at him … and at his fellow Irmandades.

  Joao studied the woman, noting how her green eyes glared at him, the pink flush to her skin.

  “How many of you?” Joao asked.

  “There were fourteen of us,” said the man.

  Joao rubbed the back of his neck where the insect stings were again beginning to burn. He glanced around at his men, assessing their condition and equipment, counted four spray rifles, saw the men carried spare charge cylinders on slings around their necks.

  “The airtruck will take us,” he said. “We had better get out of here.”

  Dr. Kelly looked out to the savannah, said: “I think it has been too late for that since a few seconds after you landed, bandeirante. I think in a day or so there’ll be a few less traitors around. You’re caught in your own trap.”

  Joao whirled to stare at the airtruck, barked: “Tommy! Vince! Get…” He broke off as the airtruck sagged to its left.

  “It’s only fair to warn you,” said Dr. Kelly, “to stay away from the edge of the ditch unless you first spray the opposite side. They can shoot a stream of acid at least fifteen meters … and as you can see…” She nodded toward the airtruck. “… the acid eats metal.”

  “You’re insane,” Joao said. “Why didn’t you warn us immediately?”

  “Warn you?”

  Her blond companion said: “Rhin, perhaps we…”

  “Be quiet, Hogar,” she said, and turned back to Joao. “We lost nine men to your playmates.” She looked at the small band of Irmandades. “Our lives are little enough to pay now for the extinction of eight of you … traitors.”

  “You are insane,” Joao said.

  “Stop playing innocent, bandeirante,” she said. “We have seen your companions out there. We have seen the new playmates you bred … and we understand that you were too greedy; now your game has gotten out of hand.”

  “You’ve not seen my Irmaos doing these things,” Joao said. He looked at Thome. “Tommy, keep an eye on these insane ones.” He lifted the spray rifle from one of his men, took the man’s spare charges, indicated the other three armed men. “You—come with me.”

  “Johnny, what do you do?” Thome asked.

  “Salvage the supplies from the truck,” Joao said. He walked toward the ditch nearest the airtruck, laid down a hard mist of foamal beyond the ditch, beckoned the others to follow and leaped the ditch.

  Little more than an hour later, with all of them acid-burned—two seriously—the Irmandades retreated back across the ditch. They had salvaged less than a fourth of the equipment in the truck, and this did not include a transmitter.

  “It is evident the little devils went first for the communications equipment,” Thome said. “How could they tell?”

  Joao said: “I do not want to guess.” He broke open a first aid box, began treating his men. One had a cheek and shoulder badly splashed with acid. Another was losing flesh off his back.

  Dr. Kelly came up, helped him treat the men, but refused to speak, even to answer the simplest question.

  Finally, Joao touched up a spot on his own arm, neutralizing the acid and covering the burn with flesh-tape. He gritted his teeth against the pain, stared at Rhin Kelly. “Where are these chigua you found?”

  “Go find them yourself!” she snapped.

  “You are a blind, unprincipled megalomaniac,” Joao said, speaking in an even voice. “Do not push me too far.”

  Her face went pale and the green eyes blazed.

  Joao grabbed her arm, hauled her roughly toward the tents. “Show me these chigua!”

  She jerked free of him, threw back her red hair, stared at him defiantly. Joao faced her, looked her up and down with a calculating slowness.

  “Go ahead, do violence to me,” she said, “I’m sure I couldn’t stop you.”

  “You act like a woman who wants … needs violence,” Joao said. “Would you like me to turn you over to my men? They’re a little tired of your raving.”

  Her face flamed. “You would not dare!”

  “Don’t be so melodramatic,” he said, “I wouldn’t give you the pleasure
.”

  “You insolent … you…”

  Joao showed her a wolfish grin, said: “Nothing you say will make me turn you over to my men!”

  “Johnny.”

  It was Thome calling.

  Joao turned, saw Thome talking to the Nordic IEO man who had volunteered information. What had she called him? Hogar.

  Thome beckoned.

  Joao crossed to the pair, bent close as Thome signaled secrecy.

  “The gentleman here says the female doctor was bitten by an insect that got past their barrier’s fumes.”

  “Two weeks ago,” Hogar whispered.

  “She has not been the same since,” Thome said. “We humor her, jefe, no?”

  Joao wet his lips with his tongue. He felt suddenly dizzy and too warm.

  “The insect that bit her was similar to the ones that were on you,” Hogar said, and his voice sounded apologetic.

  They are making fun of me! Joao thought.

  “I give the orders here!” he snapped.

  “Yes, jefe,” Thome said. “But you…”

  “What difference does it make who gives the orders?”

  It was Dr. Kelly close behind him.

  Joao turned, glared at her. How hateful she looked … in spite of her beauty.

  “What’s the difference?” she demanded. “We’ll all be dead in a few days anyway.” She stared out across the savannah. “More of your friends have arrived.”

  Joao looked to the forest shadow, saw more human-like figures arriving. They appeared familiar and he wondered what it was—something at the edge of his mind, but his head hurt. Then he realized they looked like sertao Indians, like the pair who had lured him here. There were at least a hundred of them, apparently identical in every visible respect.

  More were arriving by the second.

  Each of them carried a qena flute.

  There was something about the flutes that Joao felt he should remember.

  Another figure came advancing through the Indians, a thin man in a black suit, his hair shiny silver in the sunlight.

  “Father!” Joao gasped.

  I’m sick, he thought. I must be delirious.

  “That looks like the Prefect,” Thome said. “Is it not so, Ramon?”

  The Irmandade he addressed said: “If it is not the Prefect, it is his twin. Here, Johnny. Look with the glasses.”

  Joao took the glasses, focused on the figure advancing toward them through the grass. The glasses felt so heavy. They trembled in his hands and the figure coming toward them was blurred.

  “I cannot see!” Joao muttered and he almost dropped the glasses.

  A hand steadied him, and he realized he was reeling.

  In an instant of clarity, he saw that the line of Indians had raised their flutes, pointing at the IEO camp. That buzzing-rasping that had shaken his bones in the airtruck cab filled the universe around him. He saw his companions begin to fall.

  In the instant before his world went blank, Joao heard his father’s voice calling strongly: “Joao! Do not resist! Put down your weapons!”

  The trampled grassy earth of the campsite, Joao saw, was coming up to meet his face.

  It cannot be my father, Joao thought. My father is dead and they’ve copied him … mimicry, nothing more.

  Darkness.

  There was a dream of being carried, a dream of tears and shouting, a dream of violent protests and defiance and rejection.

  He awoke to yellow-orange light and the figure who could not be his father bending over him, thrusting a hand out, saying: “Then examine my hand if you don’t believe!”

  But Joao’s attention was on the face behind his father. It was a giant face, baleful in the strange light, its eyes brilliant and glaring with pupils within pupils. The face turned, and Joao saw it was no more than two centimeters thick. Again, it turned, and the eyes focused on Joao’s feet.

  Joao forced himself to look down, began trembling violently as he saw he was half enveloped in a foaming green cocoon, that his skin shared some of the same tone.

  “Examine my hand!” ordered the old-man figure beside him.

  “He has been dreaming.” It was a resonant voice that boomed all around him, seemingly coming from beneath the giant face. “He has been dreaming,” the voice repeated. “He is not quite awake.”

  With an abrupt, violent motion, Joao reached out, clutched the proffered hand.

  It felt warm … human.

  For no reason he could explain, tears came to Joao’s eyes.

  “Am I dreaming?” he whispered. He shook his head to clear away the tears.

  “Joao, my son,” said his father’s voice.

  Joao looked up at the familiar face. It was his father and no mistake. “But … your heart,” Joao said.

  “My pump,” the old man said. “Look.” And he pulled his hand away, turned to display where the back of his black suit had been cut away, its edges held by some gummy substance, and a pulsing surface of oily yellow between those cut edges.

  Joao saw the hair-fine scale lines, the multiple shapes, and he recoiled.

  So it was a copy, another of their tricks.

  The old man turned back to face him. “The old pump failed and they gave me a new one,” he said. “It shares my blood and lives off me and it’ll give me a few more years. What do you think our bright IEO specialists will say about the usefulness of that?”

  “Is it really you?” Joao demanded.

  “All except the pump,” said the old man. “They had to give you and some of the others a whole new blood system because of all the corrosive poison that got into you.”

  Joao lifted his hands, stared at them.

  “They know medical tricks we haven’t even dreamed about,” the old man said. “I haven’t been this excited since I was a boy. I can hardly wait to get back and … Joao! What is it?”

  Joao was thrusting himself up, glaring at the old man. “We’re not human anymore if … We’re not human!”

  “Be still, son!” the old man ordered.

  “If this is true,” Joao protested, “they’re in control.” He nodded toward the giant face behind his father. “They’ll rule us!”

  He sank back, gasping. “We’ll be their slaves.”

  “Foolishness,” rumbled the drum voice.

  Joao looked at the giant face, growing aware of the fluorescent insects above it, seeing that the insects clung to the ceiling of a cave, noting finally a patch of night sky and stars where the fluorescent insects ended.

  “What is a slave?” rumbled the voice.

  Joao looked beneath the face where the voice originated, saw a white mass about four meters across, a pulsing yellow sac protruding from it, insects crawling over it, into fissures along its surface, back to the ground beneath. The face appeared to be held up from that white mass by a dozen of round stalks, their scaled surfaces betraying their nature.

  “Your attention is drawn to our way of answering your threat to us,” rumbled the voice, and Joao saw that the sound issued from the pulsing yellow sac. “This is our brain. It is vulnerable, very vulnerable, weak, yet strong … just as your brain. Now, tell me what is a slave?”

  Joao fought down a shiver of revulsion, said: “I’m a slave now; I’m in bondage to you.”

  “Not true,” rumbled the voice. “A slave is one who must produce wealth for another, and there is only one true wealth in all the universe—living time. Are we slaves because we have given your father more time to live?”

  Joao looked up to the giant, glittering eyes, thought he detected amusement there.

  “The lives of all those with you have been spared or extended as well,” drummed the voice. “That makes us your slaves, does it not?”

  “What do you take in return?”

  “Ah hah!” the voice fairly barked. “Quid pro quo! You are, indeed, our slaves as well. We are tied to each other by a bond of mutual slavery that cannot be broken—never could be.”

  “It is very simple once you und
erstand it,” Joao’s father said.

  “Understand what?”

  “Some of our kind once lived in greenhouses and their cells remembered the experience,” rumbled the voice. “You know about greenhouses, of course?” It turned to look out at the cave mouth where dawn was beginning to touch the world with gray. “That out there, that is a greenhouse, too.” Again, it looked down at Joao, the giant eyes glaring. “To sustain life, a greenhouse must achieve a delicate balance—enough of this chemical, enough of that one, another substance available when needed. What is poison one day can be sweet food the next.”

  “What’s all this to do with slavery?” Joao demanded.

  “Life has developed over millions of years in this greenhouse we call Earth,” the voice rambled. “Sometimes it developed in the poison excrement of other life … and then that poison became necessary to it. Without a substance produced by the wire worm, that savannah grass out there would die … in time. Without substances produced by … insects, your kind of life would die. Sometimes, just a faint trace of the substance is needed, such as the special copper compound produced by the arachnids. Sometimes, the substance must subtly change each time before it can be used by a life-form at the end of the chain. The more different forms of life there are, the more life the greenhouse can support. This is the lesson of the greenhouse. The successful greenhouse must grow many times many forms of life. The more forms of life it has, the healthier it is.”

  “You’re saying we have to stop killing insects,” Joao said. “You’re saying we have to let you take over.”

  “We say you must stop killing yourselves,” rumbled the voice. “Already, the Chinese are … I believe you would call it: reinfesting their land. Perhaps they will be in time, perhaps not. Here, it is not too late. There … they were fast and thorough … and they may need help.”

  “You … give us no proof,” Joao said.

  “There will be time for proof, later,” said the voice. “Now, join your woman friend outside; let the sun work on your skin and the chlorophyll in your blood, and when you come back, tell me if the sun is your slave.”

  COMMITTEE OF THE WHOLE

  I

  With an increasing sense of unease, Alan Wallace studied his client as they neared the public hearing room on the second floor of the Old Senate Office Building. The guy was too relaxed.