The Collected Stories of Frank Herbert Page 6

  “Perhaps too much power—” He recalled that his heavy duty rheostat was at a shop being repaired, considered bringing out the auxiliary generator he had used on one experiment. The generator was beneath a pile of boxes in a corner. He put the idea temporarily aside, turned back to the teleprobe.

  “If I could just get a look at that musikron.”

  He stared at the machine. “A resonance circuit—What else?” He tried to imagine the interrelationship of the components, fitting himself into the machine.

  “I’m missing it some place! There’s some other thing and I have the feeling I already know it, that I’ve heard it. I’ve got to see the diagrams on that musikron.”

  He turned away, went out of the lab and climbed the stairs to his kitchen. He took a coffee capsule from a package in the cupboard, put it beside the sink. The vidiphone chimed. It was the clerk from the travel bureau. Eric took down her report, thanked her, broke the connection. He did a series of subtractions.

  “Twenty-eight hour time lag,” he thought. “Every one of them. That’s too much of a coincidence.”

  He experienced a moment of vertigo, followed by weariness. “I’d better get some rest. I’ll come back to this thing when I’m more alert.”

  He padded into the bedroom, sat down on the bed, kicked off his sandals and lay back, too tired to undress. Sleep eluded him. He opened his eyes, looked at the clock: 7:00 A.M. He sighed, closed his eyes, sank into a somnolent state. A niggling worry gnawed at his consciousness. Again he opened his eyes, looked at the clock: 9:50 A.M. But I didn’t feel the time pass, he thought. I must have slept. He closed his eyes. His senses drifted into dizziness, the current in a stream, a ship on the current, wandering, hunting, whirling.

  He thought, I hope he didn’t see me leave.

  His eyelids snapped open and, for a moment, he saw a unitube entrance on the ceiling above his head. He shook his head.

  “That was a crazy thought. Where’d that come from?” he asked himself. “I’ve been working too hard.”

  He turned on his side, returned to the somnolent state, his eyes drooping closed. Instantly, he had the sensation of being in a maze of wires; an emotion of hate surged over him so strongly it brought panic because he couldn’t explain it or direct it at anything. He gritted his teeth, shook his head, opened his eyes. The emotion disappeared, leaving him weak. He closed his eyes. Into his senses crept an almost overpowering aroma of gardenias, a vision of dawnlight through a shuttered window. His eyelids snapped open; he sat up in the bed, put his head in his hands.

  Rhinencephalic stimulation, he thought. Visual stimulation … auditory stimulation … nearly total sensorium response. It means something. But what does it mean? He shook his head, looked at the clock: 10:10 A.M.

  Outside Karachi, Pakistan, a Hindu holy man squatted in the dust beside an ancient road. Past him paraded a caravan of International Red Cross trucks, moving selected cases of Syndrome madness to the skytrain field on the Indus delta. Tomorrow the sick would be studied at a new clinic in Vienna. The truck motors whined and roared; the ground trembled. The holy man drew an ancient symbol with a finger in the dust. The wind of a passing truck stirred the pattern of Brahmaputra, twisting it. The holy man shook his head sadly.

  * * *

  Eric’s front door announcer chimed as someone stepped onto the entrance mat. He clicked the scanner switch at his bedside, looked to the bedroom master screen; Colleen’s face appeared on the screen. He punched for the door release, missed, punched again, caught it. He ran his hands through his hair, snapped the top clip of his coveralls, went to the entrance hall.

  Colleen appeared tiny and hesitant standing in the hall. As he saw her, something weblike, decisive, meshed inside him—a completeness.

  He thought, Boy, in just one day you are completely on the hook.

  “Eric,” she said.

  Her body’s warm softness clung to him. Fragrance wafted from her hair.

  “I missed you,” he said.

  She pulled away, looked up. “Did you dream about me?”

  He kissed her. “Just a normal dream.”

  “Doctor!”

  A smile took the sting out of the exclamation. She pulled away, slipped off her fur-lined cape. From an inner pocket of the cape she extracted a flat blue booklet. “Here’s the diagram. Pete didn’t suspect a thing.”

  Abruptly, she reeled toward him, clutched at his arm, gasping.

  He steadied her, frightened. “What’s the matter, darling?”

  She shook her head, drawing deep, shuddering breaths.

  “It’s nothing; just a … little headache.”

  “Little headache nothing.” He put the back of his wrist against her forehead. The skin held a feverish warmth. “Do you feel ill?”

  She shook her head. “No. It’s going away.”

  “I don’t like this as a symptom. Have you eaten?”

  She looked up, calmer. “No, but I seldom eat breakfast … the waistline.”

  “Nonsense! You come in here and eat some fruit.”

  She smiled at him. “Yes, doctor … darling.”

  * * *

  The reflection on the musikron’s inner control surfaces gave an underlighted, demoniacal cast to Pete’s face. His hand rested on a relay switch. Hesitant thought: Colleen, I wish I could control your thoughts. I wish I could tell you what to do. Each time I try, you get a headache. I wish I knew how this machine really works.

  * * *

  Eric’s lab still bore the cluttered look of his night’s activities. He helped Colleen up to a seat on the edge of the bench, opened the musikron booklet beside her. She looked down at the open pages.

  “What are all those funny looking squiggles?”

  He smiled. “Circuit diagram.” He took a test clip and, glancing at the diagram, began pulling leads from the resonance circuit. He stopped, a puzzled frown drawing down his features. He stared at the diagram. “That can’t be right.” He found a scratch pad, stylus, began checking the booklet.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “This doesn’t make sense.”

  “How do you mean?”

  “It isn’t designed for what it’s supposed to do.”

  “Are you certain?”

  “I know Dr. Amanti’s work. This isn’t the way he works.” He began leafing through the booklet. A page flopped loose. He examined the binding. The booklet’s pages had been razored out and new pages substituted. It was a good job. If the page hadn’t fallen out, he might not have noticed. “You said it was easy to get this. Where was it?”

  “Right out on top of the musikron.”

  He stared at her speculatively.

  “What’s wrong?” Her eyes held open candor.

  “I wish I knew.” He pointed to the booklet. “That thing’s as phony as a Martian canal.”

  “How do you know?”

  “If I put it together that way”—a gesture at the booklet—“it’d go up in smoke the instant power hit it. There’s only one explanation: Pete’s on to us.”

  “But how?”

  “That’s what I’d like to know … how he anticipated you’d try to get the diagram for me. Maybe that busboy—”

  “Tommy? But he’s such a nice young fellow.”

  “Yeah. He’d sell his mother if the price was right. He could have eavesdropped last night.”

  “I can’t believe it.” She shook her head.

  * * *

  In the webwork of the musikron, Pete gritted his teeth. Hate him! Hate him! He pressed the thought at her, saw it fail. With a violent motion, he jerked the metal hemisphere off his head, stumbled out of the musikron. You’re not going to have her! If it’s a dirty fight you want, I’ll really show you a dirty fight!

  * * *

  Colleen asked, “Isn’t there some other explanation?”

  “Can you think of one?”

  She started to slide down from the bench, hesitated, lurched against him, pressing her head against his chest. “My head
… my head—” She went limp in his arms, shuddered, recovered slowly, drew gasping breaths. She stood up. “Thank you.”

  In a corner of the lab was a canvas deck chair. He led her over to it, eased her down. “You’re going to a hospital right now for a complete check-up—tracers, the works. I don’t like this.”

  “It’s just a headache.”

  “Peculiar kind of a headache.”

  “I’m not going to a hospital.”

  “Don’t argue. I’m calling for reservations as soon as I can get over to the phone.”

  “Eric, I won’t do it!” She pushed herself upright in the chair. “I’ve seen all the doctors I want to see.” She hesitated, looked up at him. “Except you. I’ve had all those tests. There’s nothing wrong with me … except something in my head.” She smiled: “I guess I’m talking to the right kind of a doctor for that.”

  She lay back, resting, closed her eyes. Eric pulled up a stool, sat down beside her, holding her hand. Colleen appeared to sink into a light sleep, breathing evenly. Minutes passed.

  If the teleprobe wasn’t practically dismantled, I could test her, he thought.

  She stirred, opened her eyes.

  “It’s that musikron,” he said. He took her arm. “Did you ever have headaches like this before you began working with that thing?”

  “I had headaches, but … well, they weren’t this bad.” She shuddered. “I kept having horrible dreams last night about all those poor people going insane. I kept waking up. I wanted to go in and have it out with Pete.” She put her hands over her face. “How can you be certain it’s the musikron. You can’t be sure. I won’t believe it! I can’t.”

  Eric stood up, went to the bench and rummaged under loose parts for a notebook. He returned, tossed the book into her lap. “There’s your proof.”

  She looked at the book without opening it. “What is this?”

  “It’s some figures on your itinerary. I had a travel bureau check your departure times. From the time Pete would have been shutting down the musikron to the moment all hell broke loose there’s an even twenty-eight-hour time lapse. That same time lag is present in each case.”

  She pushed the notebook from her lap. “I don’t believe it. You’re making this up.”

  He shook his head. “Colleen, what does it mean to you that you have been each place where the Syndrome hit … that there was a twenty-eight-hour time lapse in each case. Isn’t that stretching coincidence too far?”

  “I know it’s not true.” Her lips thinned. “I don’t know what I’ve been thinking of to even consider you were right.” She looked up, eyes withdrawn. “It can’t be true. If it was, it would mean Pete planned the whole thing. He’s just not that kind of a guy. He’s nice, thoughtful.”

  He started to put his hand on her arm. “But, Colleen, I thought—”

  “Don’t touch me. I don’t care what you thought, or what I thought. I think you’ve been using your psychological ability to try to turn me away from Pete.”

  He shook his head, again tried to take her arm.

  She pulled away. “No! I want to think and I can’t think when … when you touch me.” She stared at him. “I believe you’re just jealous of Pete.”

  “That’s not—”

  A motion at the lab door caught his eye, stopped him. Pete stood there, leaning on his cane.

  Eric thought, How did he get there? I didn’t hear a thing. How long has he been there? He stood up.

  Pete stepped forward. “You forgot to latch your door, doctor.” He looked at Colleen. “Common enough thing. I did, too.” He limped into the room, cane tapping methodically. “You were saying something about jealousy.” A pause. “I understand about jealousy.”

  “Pete!” Colleen stared at him, turned back to Eric. “Eric, I—” She began, and then shrugged.

  Pete rested both hands on his cane, looked up at Eric. “You weren’t going to leave me anything, were you, doctor—the woman I love, the musikron. You were even going to hang me for this Syndrome thing.”

  Eric stopped, retrieved his notebook from the floor. He handed it to Pete, who turned it over, looked at the back.

  “The proof’s in there. There’s a twenty-eight-hour time lag between the moment you leave a community and the moment madness breaks out. You already know it’s followed you around the world. There’s no deviation. I’ve checked it out.”

  Pete’s face paled. “Coincidence. Figures can lie; I’m no monster.”

  Colleen turned toward Eric, back to Pete. “That’s what I told him, Pete.”

  “Nobody’s accusing you of being a monster, Pete … yet,” Eric said. “You could be a savior. The knowledge that’s locked up in that musikron could practically wipe out insanity. It’s a positive link with the unconscious … can be tapped any time. Why, properly shielded—”

  “Nuts! You’re trying to get the musikron so you can throw your weight around.” He looked at Colleen. “And you sugar-talked her into helping you.” He sneered. “It’s not the first time I’ve been double-crossed by a woman; I guess I should’ve been a psychiatrist.”

  Colleen shook her head. “Pete, don’t talk that way.”

  “Yeah … How else do you expect me to talk? You were a nobody; a canary in the hula chorus and I picked you up and set you down right on the top. So what do you do—” He turned away, leaning heavily on the cane. “You can have her, Doc; she’s just your type!”

  Eric put out a hand, withdrew it. “Pete! Stop allowing your deformity to deform your reason! It doesn’t matter how we feel about Colleen. We’ve got to think about what the musikron is doing to people! Think of all the unhappiness this is causing people … the death … the pain—”

  “People!” Pete spat out the word.

  Eric took a step closer to him. “Stop that! You know I’m right. You can have full credit for anything that is developed. You can have full control of it. You can—”

  “Don’t try to kid me, Doc. It’s been tried by experts. You and your big words! You’re just trying to make a big impression on baby here. I already told you you can have her. I don’t want her.”

  “Pete! You—”

  “Look out, Doc; you’re losing your temper!”

  “Who wouldn’t in the face of your pig-headedness?”

  “So it’s pig-headed to fight a thief, eh, Doc?” Pete spat on the floor, turned toward the door, tripped on his cane and fell.

  Colleen was at his side. “Pete, are you hurt?”

  He pushed her away. “I can take care of myself!” He struggled to his feet, pulling himself up on the cane.

  “Pete, please—”

  Eric saw moisture in Pete’s eyes. “Pete, let’s solve this thing.”

  “It’s already solved, Doc.” He limped through the doorway.

  Colleen hesitated. “I have to go with him. I can’t let him go away like this. There’s no telling what he’ll do.”

  “But don’t you see what he’s doing?”

  Anger flamed in her eyes; she stared at Eric. “I saw what you did and it was as cruel a thing as I’ve ever seen.” She turned and ran after Pete.

  Her footsteps drummed up the stairs; the outer door slammed.

  An empty fibreboard box lay on the floor beside the teleprobe. Eric kicked it across the lab.

  “Unreasonable … neurotic … flighty … irresponsible—”

  He stopped; emptiness grew in his chest. He looked at the teleprobe. “Sometimes, there’s no predicting about women.” He went to the bench, picked up a transistor, put it down, pushed a tumble of resistors to the back of the bench. “Should’ve know better.”

  He turned, started toward the door, froze with a thought which forced out all other awareness:

  What if they leave Seattle?

  He ran up the stairs three at a time, out the door, stared up and down the street. A jet car sped past with a single occupant. A woman and two children approached from his left. Otherwise, the street was empty. The unitube entrance, less than
half a block away, disgorged three teen-age girls. He started toward them, thought better of it. With the tubes running fifteen seconds apart, his chance to catch them had been lost while he’d nursed his hurt.

  He re-entered the apartment.

  I have to do something, he thought. If they leave, Seattle will go the way of all the others. He sat down by the vidiphone, put his finger in the dial, withdrew it.

  If I call the police, they’ll want proof. What can I show them besides some time-tables? He looked out the window at his left. The musikron! They’ll see—Again he reached for the dial, again withdrew. What would they see? Pete would just claim I was trying to steal it.

  He stood up, paced to the window, stared out at the lake.

  I could call the society, he thought.

  He ticked off in his mind the current top officers of the Kind County Society of Psychiatric Consultants. All of them considered Dr. Eric Ladde a little too successful for one so young; and besides there was the matter of his research on the teleprobe; mostly a laughable matter.

  But I have to do something … the Syndrome—He shook his head. I’ll have to do it alone, whatever I do. He slipped into a black cape, went outside and headed for the Gweduc Room.

  A cold wind kicked up whitecaps in the bay, plumed spray onto the waterfront sidewalk. Eric ducked into the elevator, emerged into a lunchroom atmosphere. The girl at the checktable looked up.

  “Are you alone, doctor?”

  “I’m looking for Miss Lanai.”

  “I’m sorry. You must have passed them outside. She and Mr. Serantis just left.”

  “Do you know where they were going?”

  “I’m sorry; perhaps if you come back this evening—”

  Eric returned to the elevator, rode up to the street vaguely disquieted. As he emerged from the elevator dome, he saw a van pull away from the service dome. Eric played a hunch, ran toward the service elevator which already was whirring down.

  “Hey!”

  The whirring stopped, resumed; the elevator returned to the street level, in it Tommy, the busboy.

  “Better luck next time, Doc.”

  “Where are they?”

  “Well—”