Rick was out there listening … waiting.
What would the waiting produce?
An abandoned building up the street caught Smeg’s attention. Somewhere within it a door creaked with a rhythm that matched the breeze stirring the dust in the street. A “SALOON” sign dangled from the building on a broken guy wire. The sign swayed in the wind—now partly obscured by a porch roof, now revealed: “LOON” … “SALOON” … “LOON” … “SALOON” …
The mystery of Wadeville was like that sign, Smeg thought. The mystery moved and changed, now one thing, now another. He wondered how he could hold the mystery still long enough to examine it and understand it.
A distant wailing interrupted his reverie.
It grew louder—a siren.
“Here he come,” Painter said.
Smeg glanced at Painter. The man was standing beside him glaring in the direction of the siren.
“Here he sure do come,” Painter muttered.
Another sound accompanied the siren now—the hungry throbbing of a powerful motor.
Smeg looked toward the sound, saw a dust cloud on the horizon, something vaguely red within it.
“Dad! Dad!” That was Rick on the narrow band.
Before he could send out the questioning thought, Smeg felt it—the growing force of a mindcloud so strong it made him stagger.
Painter caught his arm, steadied him.
“Gets some folks that way the first time,” Painter said.
Smeg composed himself, disengaged his arm, stood trembling. Another Slorin! It had to be another Slorin. But the fool was broadcasting a signal that could bring down chaos on them all. Smeg looked at Painter. The natives had the potential—his own Slorin group had determined this. Were they in luck here? Was the local strain insensitive? But Painter had spoken of it getting some folks the first time. He’d spoken of telepaths.
Something was very wrong in Wadeville … and the mindcloud was enveloping him like a gray fog. Smeg summoned all his mental energy, fought free of the controlling force. He felt himself standing there then like an island of clarity and calm in the midst of that mental hurricane.
There were sharp sounds all around him now—window blinds snapping up, doors slamming. People began to emerge. They lined the street, a dull-eyed look of expectancy about them, an angry wariness. They appeared to be respectable humans all, Smeg thought, but there was a sameness about them he couldn’t quite define. It had something to do with a dowdy, slump-shouldered look.
“You going to see the sheriff,” Painter said. “That’s for sure.”
Smeg faced the oncoming thunder of motor and siren. A long red fire truck with a blonde young woman in green leotards astride its hood emerged from the dust cloud, hurtled down the street toward the narrow passage where Smeg had parked his car.
At the wheel of the truck sat what appeared to be a dark-skinned man in a white suit, dark blue shirt, a white ten-gallon hat. A gold star glittered at his breast. He clutched the steering wheel like a racing driver, head low, eyes forward.
Smeg, free of the mindcloud, saw the driver for what he was—a Slorin, still in polymorph, his shape approximating the human … but not well enough … not well enough at all.
Clustered around the driver, on the truck’s seat, clinging to the sides and the ladders on top, were some thirty children. As they entered the village, they began yelling and laughing, screaming greetings.
“There’s the sheriff,” Painter said. “That unusual enough fer you?”
The truck swerved to avoid Smeg’s car, skidded to a stop opposite the lane where he stood with Painter. The sheriff stood up, looked back toward the parked car, shouted: “Who parked that automobile there? You see how I had to swing way out to git past it? Somebody tear down my ‘No Parking’ sign again? Look out if you did! You know I’ll find out who you are! Who did that?”
While the sheriff was shouting, the children were tumbling off the truck in a cacophony of greetings—“Hi, Mama!” “Daddy, you see me?” “We been all the way to Commanche Lake swimming.” “You see the way we come, Pa?” “You make a pie for me, Mama? Sheriff says I kin have a pie.”
Smeg shook his head at the confusion. All were off the truck now except the sheriff and the blonde on the hood. The mindcloud pervaded the mental atmosphere like a strong odor, but it stopped none of the outcry.
Abruptly, there came the loud, spitting crack of a rifle shot. A plume of dust burst from the sheriff’s white suit just below the golden star.
Silence settled over the street.
Slowly, the sheriff turned, the only moving figure in the frozen tableaux. He looked straight up the street toward an open window in the second story of a house beyond the abandoned service station. His hand came up; a finger extruded. He shook his finger, a man admonishing a naughty child.
“I warned you,” he said.
Smeg uttered a Slorin curse under his breath. The fool! No wonder he was staying in polymorph and relying on the mindcloud—the whole village was in arms against him. Smeg searched through his accumulated Slorin experience for a clue on how to resolve this situation. A whole village aware of Slorin powers! Oh, that sinful fool!
The sheriff looked down at the crowd of silent children, staring first at one and then another. Presently, he pointed to a barefoot girl of about eleven, her yellow hair tied in pigtails, a soiled blue and white dress on her gangling frame.
“You there, Molly Mae,” the sheriff said. “You see what your daddy done?”
The girl lowered her head and began to cry.
The blonde on the truck’s hood leaped down with a lithe grace, tugged at the sheriffs sleeve.
“Don’t interrupt the law in the carrying out of its duties,” the sheriff said.
The blonde put her hands on her hips, stamped a foot. “Tad, you hurt that child and I won’t never speak to you, never again,” she said.
Painter began muttering half under his breath: “No … no … no … no—”
“Hurt Molly Mae?” the sheriff asked. “Now, you know I won’t hurt her. But she’s got to go away, never see her kin again as long as she lives. You know that.”
“But Molly Mae didn’t do you no hurt,” the young woman said. “It were her daddy. Why can’t you send him away?”
“There’s some things you just can’t understand,” the sheriff said. “Grown up adult can only be taken from sinful, criminal ways a slow bit at a time ’less’n you make a little child of him. Now, I’d be doing the crime if I made a little child out of a grown-up adult. Little girl like Molly Mae, she’s a child right now. Don’t make much difference.”
So that was it, Smeg thought. That was the sheriff’s real hold on this community. Smeg suddenly felt that a barton had to mean—a hostage.
“It’s cruel,” the blonde young woman said.
“Law’s got to be cruel sometimes,” the sheriff said. “Law got to eliminate crime. Almost got it done. Only crimes we had hereabouts for months are crimes ’gainst me. Now, you all know you can’t get away with crimes like that. But when you show that disregard for the majesty of the law, you got to be punished. You got to remember, all of you, that every part of a family is ree-sponsible for the whole entire family.”
Pure Slorin thinking, Smeg thought. He wondered if he could make his move without exposing his own alien origins. Something had to be done here and soon. Did he dare venture a probe of greeting into the fool’s mind? No. The sheriff probably wouldn’t even receive the greeting through that mindcloud noise.
“Maybe you’re doing something wrong then,” the young woman said. “Seems awful funny to me when the only crimes are put right on the law itself.”
A very pertinent observation, Smeg thought.
Abruptly, Painter heaved himself into motion, lurched through the crowd of children toward the sheriff.
The blonde young woman turned, said: “Daddy! You stay out’n this.”
“You be still now, you hear, Barton Marie?” Painter growled.
“You know you can’t do anything,” she wailed. “He’ll only send me away.”
“Good! I say good!” Painter barked. He pushed in front of the young woman, stood glaring up at the sheriff.
“Now, Josh,” the sheriff said, his voice mild.
They fell silent, measuring each other.
In this moment, Smeg’s attention was caught by a figure walking toward them on the road into the village. The figure emerged from the dust—a young man carrying a large black case.
Rick!
Smeg stared at his offspring. The young man walked like a puppet, loose at the knees. His eyes stared ahead with a blank seeking.
The mindcloud, Smeg thought. Rick was young, weak. He’d been calling out, wide open when the mindcloud struck. The force that had staggered a secondary ancestor had stunned the young Slorin. He was coming now blindly toward the irritation source.
“Who that coming there?” the sheriff called. “That the one parked this car illegal?”
“Rick!” Smeg shouted.
Rick stopped.
“Stay where you are!” Smeg called. This time, he sent an awakening probe into the youth.
Rick stared around him, awareness creeping into his eyes. He focused on Smeg, mouth falling open.
“Dad!”
“Who’re you?” the sheriff demanded, staring at Smeg. A jolt from the mindcloud jarred Smeg.
There was only one way to do this, Smeg realized. Fight fire with fire. The natives already had felt the mindcloud.
Smeg began opening the enclosing mental shields, dropped them abruptly and lashed out at the sheriff. The Slorin polymorph staggered back, slumped onto the truck seat. His human shape twisted, writhed.
“Who’re you?” the sheriff gasped.
Shifting to the Slorin gutturals, Smeg said: “I will ask the questions here. Identify yourself.”
Smeg moved forward, a path through the children opening for him. Gently, he moved Painter and the young woman aside.
“Do you understand me?” Smeg demanded.
“I … understand you.” The Slorin gutturals were rough and halting, but recognizable.
In a softer tone, Smeg said: “The universe has many crossroads where friends can meet. Identify yourself.”
“Min … I think. Pzilimin.” The sheriff straightened himself on the seat, restored some of his human shape to its previous form. “Who are you?”
“I am Sumctroxelunsmeg, secondary ancestor.”
“What’s a secondary ancestor?”
Smeg sighed. It was pretty much as he had feared. The name, Pzilimin, that was the primary clue—a tertiary ancestor from the Scattership. But this poor Slorin had been damaged, somehow, lost part of his detail memory. In the process, he had created a situation here that might be impossible to rectify. The extent of the local mess had to be examined now, though.
“I will answer your questions later,” Smeg said. “Meanwhile—”
“You know this critter?” Painter asked. “You part of the conspiracy?”
Shifting to English, Smeg said: “Mr. Painter, let the government handle its own problems. This man is one of our problems.”
“Well, he sure is a problem and that’s the truth.”
“Will you let me handle him?”
“You sure you can do it?”
“I … think so.”
“I sure hope so.”
Smeg nodded, turned back to the sheriff. “Have you any idea what you’ve done here?” he asked in basic Slorin.
“I … found myself a suitable official position and filled it to the best of my ability. Never betray your niche. I remember that. Never betray your niche.”
“Do you know what you are?”
“I’m … a Slorin?”
“Correct. A Slorin tertiary ancestor. Have you any idea how you were injured?”
“I … no. Injured?” He looked around at the people drawing closer, all staring curiously. “I … woke up out there in the … field. Couldn’t … remember—”
“Very well, we’ll—”
“I remembered one thing! We were supposed to lower the crime rate, prepare a suitable society in which … in which … I … don’t know.”
Smeg stared across the children’s heads at Rick who had come to a stop behind the truck, returned his attention to Pzilimin.
“I have the crime rate here almost down to an irreducible minimum,” the Slorin sheriff said.
Smeg passed a hand across his eyes. Irreducible minimum! He dropped his hand, glared up at the poor fool. “You have made these people aware of Slorin,” he accused. “You’ve made them aware of themselves, which is worse. You’ve started them thinking about what’s behind the law. Something every native law enforcement offical on this planet knows by instinct, and you, a Slorin—injured or not—couldn’t see it.”
“See what?” Pzilimin asked.
“Without crime there’s no need for law enforcement officers! We are here to prepare niches in which Slorin can thrive. And you begin by doing yourself out of a job! The first rule in any position is to maintain enough of the required activity for that job to insure your continued employment. Not only that, you must increase your scope, open more such positions. This is what is meant by not betraying your niche.”
“But … we’re supposed to create a society in which … in which—”
“You were supposed to reduce the incident of violence, you fool! You must channel the crime into more easily manageable patterns. You left them violence! One of them shot at you.”
“Oh … they’ve tried worse than that.”
Smeg looked to his right, met Painter’s questioning gaze.
“He another Hungarian?” Painter asked.
“Ah-h-h, yes!” Smeg said, leaping at this opportunity.
“Thought so, you two talking that foreign language there.” Painter glared up at Pzilimin. “He oughta be dee-ported.”
“That’s the very thing,” Smeg agreed. “That’s why I’m here.”
“Well, by gollies!” Painter said. He sobered. “I better warn you, though. Sheriff, he got some kind of machine sort of that scrambles your mind. Can’t hardly think when he turns it on. Carries it in his pocket, I suspect.”
“We know all about that,” Smeg said. “I have a machine of the same kind myself. It’s a defense secret and he had no right to use it.”
“I’ll bet you ain’t Department of Agriculture at all,” Painter said. “I bet you’re with the CIA.”
“We won’t talk about that,” Smeg said. “I trust, however, that you and your friends won’t mention what has happened here.”
“We’re true blue Americans, all of us, Mr. Smeg. You don’t have to worry about us.”
“Excellent,” Smeg said. And he thought: How convenient. Do they think me an utter fool? Smoothly he turned back to Pzilimin, asked: “Did you follow all that?”
“They think you’re a secret agent.”
“So it seems. Our task of extracting you from this situation has been facilitated. Now tell me, what have done about their children?”
“Their children?”
“You heard me.”
“Well … I just erased all those little tracks in their little minds and put ’em on a train headed north, the ones I sent away to punish their folks. These creatures have a very strong protective instinct toward the young. Don’t have to worry about their—”
“I know about their instincts, Pzilimin. We’ll have to find those children, restore them and return them.”
“How’ll we find them?”
“Very simple. We’ll travel back and forth across this continent, listening on the narrow band. We will listen for you, Pzilimin. You cannot erase a mind without putting your own patterns in it.”
“Is that what happened when I tried to change the adult?”
Smeg goggled at him, senses reeling. Pzilmin couldn’t have done that, Smeg told himself. He couldn’t have converted a native into a Slorin-patterned, full-powe
r broadcast unit and turned it loose on this planet. No Slorin could be that stupid! “Who?” he managed.
“Mr. McNabry.”
McNabry? McNabry? Smeg knew he’d heard the name somewhere. McNabry? Widow McNabry!
“Sheriff, he say something about Widow McNabry?” Painter asked. “I thought I heard him—”
“What happened to the late Mr. McNabry?” Smeg demanded, whirling on Painter.
“Oh, he drowned down south of here. In the river. Never did find his body.”
Smeg rounded on Pzilimin. “Did you—”
“Oh, no! He just ran off. We had this report he drowned and I just—”
“In effect, you killed a native.”
“I didn’t do it on purpose.”
“Pzilimin, get down off that vehicle and into the rear seat of my machine over here. We will forget that I’m illegally parked, shall we?”
“What’re you going to do?”
“I’m going to take you away from here. Now, get down off of there!”
“Yes, sir.” Pzilimin moved to obey. There was a suggestion of rubbery, nonhuman action to his knees that made Smeg shudder.
“Rick,” Smeg called. “You will drive.”
“Yes, Dad.”
Smeg turned to Painter. “I hope you all realize the serious consequences to yourselves if any of this should get out?”
“We sure do, Mr. Smeg. Depend on it.”
“I am depending on it,” Smeg said. And he thought: Let them analyze that little statement … after we’re gone. More and more he was thanking the Slorin god who’d prompted him to change places with Rick. One wrong move and this could’ve been a disaster. With a curt nod to Painter, he strode to his car, climbed into the rear beside Pzilimin. “Let’s go, Rick.”
Presently, they were turned around, headed back toward the state capital. Rick instinctively was pressing the Plymouth to the limit of its speed on this dirt road. Without turning, he spoke over his shoulder to Smeg:
The Collected Stories of Frank Herbert Page 73