The Collected Stories of Frank Herbert (39 page)

Orne's shoulders drooped. He turned away, stumbled, and abruptly collapsed full length on the thick carpets. There was a collective gasp behind him.

Stetson barked: “Call a doctor! They warned me at the hospital he was still hanging on a thin thread!” There was the sound of Polly's heavy footsteps running toward the hall.

“Lew!” It was Diana's voice. She dropped to her knees beside him, soft hands fumbling at his neck, his head.

“Turn him over and loosen his collar!” snapped Spencer. “Give him air!”

Gently, they turned Orne onto his back. He looked pale, Diana loosed his collar, buried her face against his neck. “Oh, Lew, I'm sorry,” she sobbed. “I didn't mean it! Please, Lew … please don't die! Please!”

Orne opened his eyes, looked up at Spencer and Stetson. There was the sound of Polly's voice talking rapidly on the phone in the hall. He could feel Diana's cheek warm against his neck, the dampness of her tears. Slowly, deliberately, Orne winked at the two men.

 

THE PRIESTS OF PSI

The instant he stepped out of the transport's shields into Amel's sunlight warmth on the exit ramp Orne felt the surge of psi power around him. It was like being caught in a strange magnetic field. He caught the hand rail in sudden dizziness, stared down some two hundred metres at the glassy tricrete of the space port. Heatwaves shimmered off the glistening surface, baking the air even up to this height. There was no wind except inside him where the hidden gusts of the psi fields howled against his recently awakened senses.

The techs who had trained Orne in the use of the flesh-buried psi detection instruments had given him a small foretaste of this sensation back in the laboratory on Marak. It had been far short of this reality. The first sharp signal of the primary detector concealed in his neck had been replaced by the full spectrum of psi awareness.

Orne shuddered. Amel crawled with skin-creeping sensations. Weird urges flickered through his mind like flashes of heat lightning. He wanted to grunt like a wallowing
kiriffa,
and in the next instant felt laughter welling in him while a sob tore at his throat.

I knew it was going to be bad,
he thought.
They warned me.

The counter-conditioning only made this moment worse because now he was
aware.
Without the psi training, he knew that his mind would have confused the discrete sensations into a combined awe-fear—perfectly logical emotions for him to feel when debarking on the priest planet.

This was holy ground: sanctuary of all the religions in the known universe (and, some said, of all the religions in the
un
known universe).

Orne forced his attention on to the inner focus as the techs had taught him. Slowly, psi awareness dimmed to background annoyance. He drew in a deep breath of the hot, dry air. It was vaguely unsatisfying as though lacking some essential element to which his lungs were accustomed.

Still holding the rail, he waited to make certain he had subdued the ghost urges within him. Across the ramp, the glistening inner surface of the opened port reflected his image, distorting it slightly in a way that accented his differences from the lean, striding norm. He looked like a demigod reincarnated out of this world's ancient past: square and solid with the corded neck muscles of a heavy-grav native. A faint scar demarked the brow line of his close-cropped red hair. Other fine scars on his bulldog face were visible because he knew where to look, and his memory told of more scars on his heavy body. There was a half-humorous saying in Investigation & Adjustment that senior field agents could be detected by the number of scars and medical patches they carried.

Orne tugged at the black belt on his aqua toga, feeling uncomfortable in this garment that all “students” on Amel had to wear.

The yellow sun, Dubhe, hung at the meridian in a cloudless blue sky. It hammered through the toga with oppressive warmth. Orne felt the perspiration slick on his body. One step away the escalfield hummed softly, ready to drop him into the bustle visible at the foot of the transport. Priests and passengers were engaged in some kind of ceremony down there—initiation of the new students. Faintly to his ears came a throbbing drum-chant and a sing-song keening almost hidden beneath the port's machinery clatter.

Orne studied the scene around him, still waiting to make sure he would not betray his awareness. The transport's ramp commanded a sweeping view: a fantastic scratchwork of towers, belfries, steeples, monoliths, domes, ziggurats, pagodas, stupas, minarets, dagobas. They cluttered a flat plain that stretched to a horizon dancing in the heatwaves. Golden sunlight danced off bright primary colors and weathered pastels—buildings in tile and stone, tricrete and plasteel, and the synthetics of a thousand thousand civilizations.

Staring out at the religious warren, Orne experienced an abrupt feeling of dread at the unknown things that could be waiting in those narrow, twisted streets and jumbled buildings. The stories that leaked out of Amel always carried a hint of forbidden mystery, and Orne knew his emotions were bound to be tainted by some of that mystery. But his sudden dread shifted subtly to a special kind of fear.

This
peculiar
fear, coming out of his new awareness, had begun back on Marak.

Orne had been seated at the desk in his bachelor officer quarters, staring out at the park-like landscape of the I–A university grounds. Marak's green sun, low in the afternoon quadrant, had seemed distant and cold. Orne had been filling in as a lecturer on “Exotic Clues to War Tendencies” while waiting for his wedding to Diana Bullone. He was scheduled to marry the High Commissioner's daughter in only three weeks, and after a honeymoon on Kirachin he was expecting permanent assignment to the anti-war college. He could look forward to a life of training new I–A agents in the arts of seeking out and destroying the seeds that could grow into another Rim War.

That had been his concept of the future that afternoon on Marak. But suddenly he had turned away from his desk to frown at the stiffly regulation room. Something was awry. He studied the grey walls, the sharp angles of the bunk, the white bedcover with its blue I-A monogram: the crossed sword and stylus. The room's other chair stood backed against the foot of the bunk, leaving a three-centimetre clearance for the grey flatness of the closet door.

Something he could not define was making him restless—call it premonition.

Abruptly, the hall door banged open. Umbo Stetson, Orne's superior officer, strode into the room. The section chief wore his characteristic patched blue fatigues. His only badge of rank, golden I–A emblems on his collar and uniform cap, looked faintly corroded. Orne wondered when they had last been polished, then pushed the thought aside. Stetson reserved all of his polish for his mind.

Behind the I–A officer rolled a mechanocart piled with cramtapes, microfilms and even some old-style books. It trundled itself into the room, its wheels rumbling as it cleared the doorsill. The door closed itself.

Good Lord!
thought Orne.
Not an assignment! Not now.
He got to his feet, looked first at the cart, then at Stetson. There was an edge of uneasiness in Orne's voice as he asked: “What's this, Stet?”

Stetson pulled out the chair from the foot of the bunk, straddled it, sailed his cap on to the blanket. His dark hair straggled in an uncombed muss. His eyelids drooped, accenting his usual look of haughty superciliousness.

“You've had enough assignments to know what this is,” he growled. A wry smile touched his lips. “Got a little job for you.”

“Don't I have any say in this any more?” asked Orne.

“Well now, things may've changed a bit, and then again maybe they haven't,” said Stetson.

“I'm getting married in three weeks,” said Orne. “To the daughter of the High Commissioner.”

“Your wedding is being postponed,” said Stetson. He held up a hand as Orne's face darkened. “Wait a bit. Just postponed. Emergency. The High Commissioner sent his charming daughter off today on a job we just trumped up for the purpose.”

Orne's voice was dangerously low: “What purpose?”

“The purpose of getting her out of your hair. You're leaving for Amel in six days and there's lots to be done before you're ready to go.”

Orne drummed his fingers on the desk. “Just like that. Wedding's off. I'm assigned to a … Amel?”

“Yes.”

“What is this, Stet? Amel's a picnic ground.”

“Well…” Stetson shook his head. “Maybe not.”

A sudden fear struck Orne. “Whose job was trumped up?” he demanded. “Has Diana…”

“She's off to Franchi Primus to help design a new uniform for the I–A women,” said Stetson. “That safe enough for you?”

“But why so sudden?”

“We have to get you ready for Amel. Miss Bullone would have wasted time, diverted your attention. She knows something's up, but she takes orders just like the rest of us in the I–A. Have I made myself clear?”

“No notice. No nothing. Oh, this I–A is real fun! I must recommend it every time I find a young fellow looking for a job!”

“Mrs Bullone will bring a note from Diana tonight,” said Stetson. “She's perfectly safe. You can get married when this is over.”

“Provided the I–A doesn't dream up some new emergency for me!” barked Orne.

“You're the ones who took the I–A oath,” said Stetson. “You knew when you took it that this sort of thing could happen.”

“I'm going to rewrite the oath,” said Orne. “To the words:
‘I pledge my life and my sacred honour to seek out and destroy the seeds of war wherever they may be found'
let us add:
‘and I will sacrifice anything and anybody in the process.
”

“Not a bad addition,” said Stetson. “Why don't you recommend it when you get back?”

“
If
I get back! What's the emergency this time?”

“This emergency came hunting for you specifically,” said Stetson.

“How thoughtful of it.”

“Your name's on the list for the latest
summoning
to Amel.”

“A religious student? But I've never applied for…”

“But your name's on the list. Nice great big letters. List signed by the Halmyrach Abbod himself.”

“There has to be a mistake. It's obviously a confusion of names with…”

“You've been specifically identified by family and current abode. No mistake.”

Orne pushed himself away from the desk. “But there
has
to be! I tell you I've never applied for…” He broke off. “Anyway, what's the difference? The I–A couldn't be interested in Amel. Never been a war anywhere near the place. The big shots were always afraid of offending their gods.”

Stetson pointed to the mechanocart. “I don't have much time for this briefing, so stop interrupting. You're going to need everything on this cart and more. You're going to the medics this evening for a quick-heal operation. Some very hush-hush…” He frowned, repeated himself: “…
very
hush-hush equipment's going to be hidden under your skin. Do you know anything about psi powers?”

The change of pace caused Orne to blink. He wet his lips with his tongue. “You mean like that fellow on Wessen who was supposed to be able to jump to any planet in the universe without a ship?”

“Something like that.”

“Say, whatever happened to him? All the stories, then…”

“Maybe it was a fake,” said Stetson. “Maybe it wasn't. We hope you can find out. Our techs will be showing you some psi equipment later. An amplifier…”

“But how does this connect with Amel?”

“You're going to tell us … we hope. You see, Lew, we just had the confirmation early this morning. At the next session of the Assembly there's going to be a motion to do away with the I–A, turn all of our functions over to Rediscovery & Re-education.”

“Put us under Tyler Gemine? That political hack! Half our problems come from Rah & Rah stupidities! They've damn' near bumbled us into another Rim War a dozen times!”

“Mmmmm, hmmmmm,” said Stetson. “And the next session of the Assembly is just over the horizon—five months.”

“But … but a motion like that wouldn't stand a chance! It's asinine! I mean, look at the…”

“You'll be interested to know, Lew, that the pressure for this change comes from the priests of Amel. There does not seem to be any doubt that religious heat can put it over.”

“Which sect of the priests?”

“All of them.”

Orne shook his head. “But there are thousands of sects on Amel … millions, maybe. Under the Ecumenical Truce they…”

“All of them,” repeated Stetson.

Orne frowned. “None of this fits. If the priests are gunning for us, why would they invite an I–A field agent on to their planet at the same time? That doesn't…”

“Exactly,” said Stetson. “I'm sure you'll jump with joy when you learn that nobody—repeat: nobody!—has ever before been able to put an agent into Amel. Not the I–A. Not the old Marakian Secret Service. Not even the Nathians. All attempts have been met with polite ejection. No agent's ever gone farther than their landing field.” Stetson got to his feet, glared down at Orne. “You'd better get started on this background material I brought. Your first session with the techs is tonight after the medics get through with you.”

“What provision will there be for getting me off if Amel goes sour?” asked Orne.

“None.”

Orne bounced to his feet. “None?”

“Our best information indicates that your training—they call it ‘The Ordeal'—takes about six months. If there's no report from you within that limit, we'll make inquiries.”