The Collected Stories of Frank Herbert (71 page)

“
Acting
Secretary?” the judge asked.

“So it must be presumed,” McKie said. “Under the Bureau's Code, once the Secretary is sabotaged he…”

“Your Honor!” Oulson shouted. “We are in danger of breach of security here! I understand these proceedings are being broadcast!”

“As Director-in-Limbo of the Bureau of Sabotage, I will decide what is a breach of security and what isn't!” McKie snapped.

Watt returned his head to his arms, groaned.

Oulson sputtered.

Dooley stared at McKie in shock.

Vohnbrook broke the spell. The prosecutor said: “Your Honor, this man has not been sworn to sincerity. I suggest we excuse Ser Bolin for the time being and have Ser McKie continue his
explanation
under oath.”

Dooley took a deep breath, said: “Does defense have any questions of Ser Bolin at this time?”

“Not at this time,” Oulson muttered. “I presume he's subject to recall?”

“He is,” Dooley said, turning to McKie. “Take the witness ring, Ser McKie.”

Bolin, moving like a sleepwalker, stepped out of the ring, returned to the prosecution table. The Pan-Spechi's multi-faceted eyes reflected an odd glitter, moving with a trapped sense of evasiveness.

McKie entered the ring, took the oath and faced Vohnbrook, composing his features in a look of purposeful decisiveness that he knew his actions must reflect.

“You called yourself Director-in-Limbo of the Bureau of Sabotage,” Vohnbrook said. “Would you explain that, please?”

Before McKie could answer, Watt lifted his head from his arms, growled: “You traitor, McKie!”

Dooley grabbed the pommel of his sword of justice to indicate an absolute position and barked: “I will tolerate no outbursts in my court!”

Oulson put a hand on Watt's shoulder. Both of them glared at McKie. The Medusa tendrils of Watt's head writhed as they ranged through the rainbow spectrum.

“I caution the witness,” Dooley said, “that his remarks would appear to admit a conspiracy. Anything he says now may be used against him.”

“No conspiracy, Your Honor,” McKie said. He faced Vohnbrook, but appeared to be addressing Watt. “Over the centuries, the function of Sabotage in the government has grown more and more open, but certain aspects of changing the guard, so to speak, have been held as a highly placed secret. The rule is that if a man can protect himself from sabotage he's fit to boss Sabotage. Once sabotaged, however, the Bureau's Secretary must resign and submit his position to the President and the full Cabinet.”

“He's out?” Dooley asked.

“Not necessarily,” McKie said. “If the act of sabotage against the Secretary is profound enough, subtle enough, carries enough far reaching effects, the Secretary is replaced by the successful saboteur. He is, indeed, out.”

“Then it's now up to the President and the Cabinet to decide between Ser Watt and yourself, is that what you're saying?” Dooley asked.

“Me?” McKie asked. “No, I'm Director-in-Limbo because I accomplished a successful
act
of sabotage against Ser Watt and because I happen to be senior saboteur extraordinary on duty.”

“But it's alleged that you were fired,” Vohnbrook objected.

“A formality,” McKie said. “It's customary to fire the saboteur who's successful in such an effort. This makes him eligible for appointment as Secretary if he so aspires. However, I have no such ambition at this time.”

Watt jerked upright, staring at McKie.

McKie ran a finger around his collar, realizing the physical peril he was about to face. A glance at the Pan-Spechi confirmed the feeling. Panthor Bolin was holding himself in check by a visible effort.

“This is all very interesting,” Vohnbrook sneered, “but how can it possibly have any bearing on the present action? The charge here is outlaw sabotage against the Tax Watchers represented by the person of Ser Panthor Bolin. If Ser McKie…”

“If the distinguished prosecutor will permit me,” McKie said, “I believe I can set his fears at rest. It should be obvious to—”

“There's conspiracy here!” Vohnbrook shouted. “What about the…”

A loud pounding interrupted him as Judge Dooley lifted his sword, its theremin effect filling the room. When silence had been restored, the judge lowered his sword, replaced it firmly on the ledge in front of him.

Dooley took a moment to calm himself. He sensed now the delicate political edge he walked and thanked his stars that he had left the door open to rule that the present session was a hearing.

“We will now proceed in an orderly fashion,” Dooley said. “That's one of the things courts are for, you know.” He took a deep breath. “Now, there are several people present whose dedication to the maintenance of law and order should be beyond question. I'd think that among those we should number Ser Prosecutor Vohnbrook; the distinguished defense counsel, Ser Oulson; Ser Bolin, whose race is noted for its reasonableness and humanity; and the distinguished representatives of the Bureau of Sabotage, whose actions may at times annoy and anger us, but who are, we know, consecrated to the principle of strengthening us and exposing our inner resources.”

This judge missed his calling,
McKie thought.
With speeches like that, he could get into the Legislative branch.

Abashed, Vohnbrook sank back into his chair.

“Now,” the judge said, “unless I'm mistaken, Ser McKie has referred to two acts of sabotage.” Dooley glanced down at McKie. “Ser McKie?”

“So it would appear, Your Honor,” McKie said, hoping he read the judge's present attitude correctly. “However, this court may be in a unique position to rule on that very question. You see, Your Honor, the alleged act of sabotage to which I refer was initiated by a Pan-Spechi agent of the Bureau. Now, though, the secondary benefits of that action appear to be sought after by a creche mate of that agent, whose…”

“You dare suggest that I'm not the holder of my cell's ego?” Bolin demanded.

Without knowing quite where it was or what it was, McKie was aware that a weapon had been trained on him by the Pan-Spechi. References in their culture to the weapon for defense of the ego were clear enough.

“I make no such suggestion,” McKie said, speaking hastily and with as much sincerity as he could put into his voice. “But surely you cannot have misinterpreted the terranic-human culture so much that you do not know what will happen now.”

Warned by some instinct, the judge and other spectators to this interchange remained silent.

Bolin appeared to be trembling in every cell of his body. “I am distressed,” he muttered.

“If there were a way to achieve the necessary rapport and avoid that distress I would have taken it,” McKie said. “Can you see another way?”

Still trembling, Bolin said: “I must do what I must do.”

In a low voice, Dooley said: “Ser McKie, just what is going on here?”

“Two cultures are, at last, attempting to understand each other,” McKie said. “We've lived together in apparent understanding for centuries, but appearances can be deceptive.”

Oulson started to rise, was pulled back by Watt.

And McKie noted that his former Bureau chief had assessed the peril here. It was a point in Watt's favor.

“You understand, Ser Bolin,” McKie said, watching the Pan-Spechi carefully, “that these things must be brought into the open and discussed carefully before a decision can be reached in this court. It's a rule of law to which you've submitted. I'm inclined to favor your bid for the Secretariat, but my own decision awaits the outcome of this hearing.”

“What things must be discussed?” Dooley demanded. “And what gives you the right, Ser McKie, to call this a hearing?”

“A figure of speech,” McKie said, but he kept his attention on the Pan-Spechi, wondering what the terrible weapon was that the race used in defense of its egos, “What do you say, Ser Bolin?”

“You protect the sanctity of your home life,” Bolin said. “Do you deny me the same right?”

“Sanctity, not secrecy,” McKie said.

Dooley looked from McKie to Bolin, noted the compressed-spring look of the Pan-Spechi, the way he kept a hand hidden in a jacket pocket. It occurred to the judge then that the Pan-Spechi might have a weapon ready to use against others in this court. Bolin had that look about him. Dooley hesitated on the point of calling guards, reviewed what he knew of the Pan-Spechi. He decided not to cause a crisis. The Pan-Spechi were admitted to the concourse of humanity, good friends but terrible enemies, and there were always those allusions to their hidden powers, to their ego jealousies, to the fierceness with which they defended the secrecy of their creches.

Slowly, Bolin overcame the trembling. “Say what you feel you must,” he growled.

McKie said a silent prayer of hope that the Pan-Spechi could control his reflexes, addressed himself to the nexus of pickups on the far wall that was recording this courtarena scene for broadcast to the entire universe.

“A Pan-Spechi who took the name of Napoleon Bildoon was one of the leading agents in the Bureau of Sabotage,” McKie said. “Agent Bildoon dropped from sight at the time Panthor Bolin took over as chief of the Tax Watchers. It's highly probable that the Tax Watcher organization is an elaborate and subtle sabotage of the Bureau of Sabotage itself, a move originated by Bildoon.”

“There is no such person as Bildoon!” Bolin cried.

“Ser McKie,” Judge Dooley said, “would you care to continue this interchange in the privacy of my chambers?” The judge stared down at the saboteur, trying to appear kindly but firm.

“Your Honor,” McKie said, “may we, out of respect for a fellow human, leave that decision to Ser Bolin?”

Bolin turned his multi-faceted eyes toward the bench, spoke in a low voice: “If the court please, it were best this were done openly.” He jerked his hand from his pocket. It came out empty. He leaned across the table, gripped the far edge. “Continue, if you please, Ser.”

McKie swallowed, momentarily overcome with admiration for the Pan-Spechi. “It will be a distinct pleasure to serve under you, Ser Bolin,” McKie said.

“Do what you must!” Bolin rasped.

McKie looked from the wonderment in the faces of Watt and the attorneys up to the questioning eyes of Judge Dooley. “In Pan-Spechi parlance, there is no person called Bildoon. But there was such a person, a group mate of Ser Bolin. I hope you notice the similarity in the names they chose for themselves?”

“Ah … yes,” Dooley said.

“I'm afraid I've been somewhat of a nosy Parker, a peeping Tom and several other categories of snoop where the Pan-Spechi are concerned,” McKie said. “But it was because I suspected the act of sabotage to which I've referred here. The Tax Watchers revealed too much inside knowledge of the Bureau of Sabotage.”

“I … ah … am not quite sure I understand you,” Dooley said.

“The best kept secret in the universe, the Pan-Spechi cyclic change of gender and identity, is no longer a secret where I'm concerned,” McKie said. He swallowed as he saw Bolin's fingers go white where they tightly gripped the prosecution table.

“It relates to the issue at hand?” Dooley asked.

“Most definitely, Your Honor,” McKie said. “You see, the Pan-Spechi have a unique gland that controls mentation, dominance, the relationship between reason and instinct. The five group mates are, in reality, one person. I wish to make that clear for reasons of legal necessity.”

“Legal necessity?” Dooley asked. He glanced down at the obviously distressed Bolin, back to McKie.

“The gland, when it's functioning, confers ego dominance on the Pan-Spechi in whom it functions. But it functions for a time that's definitely limited—twenty-five to thirty years.” McKie looked at Bolin. Again, the Pan-Spechi was trembling. “Please understand, Ser Bolin,” he said, “that I do this out of necessity and that this is not an act of sabotage.”

Bolin lifted his face toward McKie. The Pan-Spechi's features appeared contorted in grief. “Get it over with, man!” he rasped.

“Yes,” McKie said, turning back to the judge's puzzled face. “Ego transfer in the Pan-Spechi, Your Honor, involves a transfer of what may be termed basic-experience-learning. It's accomplished through physical contact or when the ego holder dies, no matter how far he may be separated from the creche, this seems to fire up the eldest of the creche triplets. The ego-single also bequeaths a verbal legacy to his mate whenever possible—and that's most of the time. Specifically, it's this time.”

Dooley leaned back. He was beginning to see the legal question McKie's account had posed.

“The act of sabotage which might make a Pan-Spechi eligible for appointment as Secretary of the Bureau of Sabotage was initiated by a … ah … cell mate of the Ser Bolin in court today, is that it?” Dooley asked.

McKie wiped his brow “Correct, Your Honor.”

“But that cell mate is no longer the ego dominant, eh?”

“Quite right, Your Honor.”

“The … ah … former ego holder, this … ah … Bildoon, is no longer eligible?”

“Bildoon, or what was once Bildoon, is a creature operating solely on instinct now, Your Honor,” McKie said. “Capable of acting as creche nurse for a time and, eventually, fulfilling another destiny I'd rather not explain.”

“I see.” Dooley looked at the weather cover of the courtarena. He was beginning to see what McKie had risked here. “And you favor this, ah, Ser Bolin's bid for the Secretariat?” Dooley asked.

“If President Hindley and the Cabinet follow the recommendation of the Bureau's senior agents, the procedure always followed in the past, Ser Bolin will be the new Secretary,” McKie said. “I favor this.”

“Why?” Dooley asked.