The Collected Stories of Frank Herbert (85 page)

“I believe this must be some sort of religious prelude to the actual work,” the Professor said.

Swimmer looked at him, glanced at Jepson, then moved up behind Ob. He bent, peered up at the stone in her hands, seeing the coruscating light and the patterns revealed by the ash coating.

Ob turned, seeing him close there. She ventured a shy smile which was quickly erased as she darted glances at Jepson and the Professor.

Swimmer straightened, grinned.

Again, he was rewarded by that shy smile. It gave a momentary lightness to her heavy features.

“Strange,” the Professor said. “Sun worship, very likely. I must delve into her religious beliefs more…”

“When's she gonna cut out this crap and get to cutting?” Jepson demanded.

“Ob. Work,” she said.

She turned, led the way back into the workroom, returned the stone to its square of velvet.

Swimmer started to move up close, was stopped by a hand gripping his shoulder. He turned, looked up at Jepson.

“I want you should stay back outa the way, boy,” Jepson said.

Swimmer shivered. He had sensed ultimate rejection in the man's voice.

A bird chose this moment to sing outside the room's south window: “Willow, will-will, willow.”

Ob looked to the window, smiled. The birdsong was familiar, a voice she understood. He was saying: “This is my ground, my bush.” She turned, met Jepson's harsh stare.

“Cut that damn rock!” Jepson said.

She cringed. There was death in that voice. She had heard it distinctly.

The Professor adjusted the spotlight above the bench, touched Ob's arm.

She looked up, surprised to find fear in his eyes, too.
Gruaaack afraid?
All was not as it appeared with the devil-gods! Her mind churning, she bent to the stone, rested it in the vicestand, turned it—gently, precisely—locked it in place.
Such wonderful tools they had, these devil-gods.

Jepson moved around beside the bench where he could command a clear view of her work. He wiped his hands against his sides to remove the perspiration. He had watched cutters at their work before. Time always seemed to stretch out during that first cut—dragging, dragging—while tensions mounted and the cutter drew on the nervous energy to make the single tap … just right.

Expecting this, Jepson found Ob's actions stupefying.

IV

She searched a moment among the wedges racked on the bench, selected one and rested it on the diamond. She lifted the mallet in her other hand.

Jepson waited for the long drawn-out positioning and shifting of the wedge. He jumped as she brought the mallet down without changing that first, apparently casual placement.

Crack!

A long narrow piece of the Mars diamond fell to the bench.

Crack!

Another, slightly smaller this time.

Crack!

Jepson came out of his shock as a third chip clattered to the bench. “Wait!” he shrieked.

Crack!

Ob eased the vice, turned the diamond slightly.

Crack!

“Tell her to wait!” Jepson bleated.

Crack!

The Professor found his voice. “Ob!”

She turned still holding mallet and wedge firmly, waited for Gruaaack's command.

“Stop work,” the Professor said.

Dutifully she lowered her hands.

Jepson pursed his lips, made a low sound: “Whooooeeee.” He picked up the largest chip, turned it in the light. “The rock that couldn't be cut, eh? Whooooeeee.” He dropped the chip to the bench, drew a dart pistol from a shoulder holster, pointed it at Swimmer.

“No hard feelings, Swimmer,” he said. “But you are excess baggage. And Uncle Professor needs a lesson that he should do like he's told.”

“You wouldn't!” the Professor whispered.

Jepson darted a glance at the Professor.

*   *   *

In this instant, Swimmer acted from desperation, leaping sideways and kicking at the gun hand. Muscles hardened from years of swimming slammed the toe of his shoe into Jepson's hand. The gun went
pffwt!
as it left the hand. A dart buried itself in the ceiling. The gun clattered across the room.

Ob stood for a frozen second, horrified by Swimmer's action against the devil-god. But she had heard the death in the devil-god's voice and she knew that even the
will-will willow
bird would attack a human if given enough reason. Why then couldn't a human attack a devil-god?

As Jepson opened his mouth to call his boys, Ob brought a fist crashing down onto his head. There was a sound like the dropping of a ripe melon and a sharp snap as Jepson's neck broke. He collapsed with a soft thud.

Swimmer dove for the fallen dart pistol, scooped it up, crouched facing the door to the living room, listening with every sense for a sign that the disturbance had been heard.

“My word!” the Professor said.

Only the ordinary sounds of the house penetrated the room—footsteps from one of the bedrooms overhead, the creak of bedsprings, a faucet being turned on, somebody whistling.

Swimmer turned.

Ob stood staring down at Jepson. A look of dawning wonder covered her face.

Swimmer crossed to Jepson, bent, examined him.

“Dead,” he said. He straightened, smiled reassuringly at Ob. It was a reassurance he did not feel, however. “We're in the soup, Uncle,” he said. “If any of the boys come in…”

The Professor fought down a shudder. “What shall we do?”

“We have one chance,” Swimmer said. “Ob, help me get this carcass behind your bench.” He bent, started to drag Jepson's body.

Gently, Ob brushed him aside, lifted Jepson's body with one hand through the belt. The dead man's head lolled; his arms dragged on the floor.

Swimmer swallowed, indicated where he wanted the body deposited. They propped Jepson in a corner, moved the bench to conceal him.

“My word,” the Professor whispered. “She's strong as an ox!”

“Now listen carefully,” Swimmer said. “Ob must go right on working as though nothing had happened. I'll try to get into the lake. If I can, once under water, I can get away and bring help.” He passed Jepson's dart pistol to the Professor. “Keep this in your pocket. Don't use it unless you have to.”

“This is dreadful,” the Professor said.

“It'll be more dreadful if you don't do this just the way I say,” Swimmer rasped. “Now, put that gun in your pocket.”

The Professor gulped, obeyed.

“Now get her back to work,” Swimmer said.

The Professor nodded, faced Ob. “You … work … stone,” he said.

She remained motionless, studying him, wondering at the tone of command the human had used against this devil-god. Could a human command devil-gods?

“Please, Ob,” Swimmer said. “Work the stone.”

*   *   *

Something near worship was in her eyes as she looked at Swimmer. “You. Want. Ob. Work?” she asked.

“You work,” Swimmer said. He patted her arm.

Again that shy smile touched her mouth. She turned back to the bench and the diamond. “Ob. Work?” she asked.

Swimmer looked at his uncle. The man's eyes appeared glazed with shock.

“Uncle?” Swimmer said.

The Professor shook his head, met Swimmer's eyes with something like attention.

“If anyone asks for Jep,” Swimmer said, “he went for a walk and left you to supervise Ob cutting the rock. Got that?”

The professor gulped. “I quite understand, Conrad. I must dissemble, tell falsehoods. But do hurry. This is most distasteful.”

Crack!

Ob chipped another piece from the diamond.

Crack!

Swimmer permitted himself a deep breath. He had no time to be afraid or remember that he was a physical coward. The lives of his uncle and this strangely attractive primitive woman depended on him. He composed his features, slipped out of the room and down the side passage to the kitchen. It was empty, but someone had left a pot of water boiling. A spicy steam odor followed him across the room as he let himself out the back door.

A soft breeze rustled the pines overhead. He looked up, checked the position of the sun—still forenoon. There was motion along the shore to his right and left—two guards.

Swimmer forced himself to a casual, strolling pace toward the lake, aiming for a point midway between the guards. A fallen tree reached across the sand into the water there, its dead limbs sprayed out into air and water. He sat down on the sand beside the tree and within inches of the water, tossed a cone into the lake as though in idle play.

The guards ignored him after one searching glance.

Swimmer waited, wondering why he found Ob so attractive. He decided at last that she was the only woman who'd ever really looked at him without some degree of revulsion.

The guards strolled toward him, turned and patrolled away. Both had their backs to him now. Swimmer whipped out his gill mask, brought it down over his head, slipped into the water among the tree's branches, submerged. Years of practice made the action almost noiseless.

Slowly, he worked himself out into the lake, staying close to the bottom. His permadry suit billowed around him, and he pulled the hidden cords to tighten it.

Presently he was in deep water. He twisted his shoe heels. Flippers emerged from the toes. With a strong, steady stroke, he struck out for the opposite shore, guiding himself by the compass on the back of his wristwatch.

Strange emotions churned in him, not the least being a sense of cleansing at the realization that he was cutting himself off from his criminal past. The code was explicit: you did not inform on your fellows—no matter the provocation.

But he had to inform. Otherwise a woman who was suddenly very important to him might die.

V

When Swimmer looked back on it, that afternoon which the authorities referred to as “the day we broke up the Jepson Gang” contained shadows of dreamlike unreality criss-crossed with currents of profound immediacy.

There was the comparative quiet of the lake crossing under water. That was routine and hardly counted. He emerged around a point hidden from the island and there was a brief dog-trot through trees and buckbrush to a dirt track, its sides piled high with duff blown there by skimmer fans. The track led to a rural road where he was picked up by a farm truck with outsize aprons and a hover-blast like a hurricane.

The face of the farmer failed to register—but his voice, a whining twang, lingered for years, and there was a dark brown mole over the second knuckle of his right hand. It seemed important to Swimmer, reflecting upon it later, that the farmer was hauling a load of cabbage which smelled of fresh dirt.

Worry over Ob kept Swimmer jittery and on the edge of the truck's seat. The farmer called him “neighbor” and complained about the price of fertilizer. The man asked Swimmer only one question: “Where y' going, neighbor?”

“To town.”

Town, according to a sign at its edge, was Ackerville, population 12,908. The farmer dropped Swimmer across the street from a tall building which obviously dated from before the turn of the century: it presented a monotonous face of glass and aluminum. A plaque over the entrance revealed that it was the administrative center for Crane County.

A whistle hooted for noon as Swimmer entered the building and followed arrow signs to the Sheriff's Office. He was to remember the place afterward chiefly for the smell of its halls (pine disinfectant) and the tall, skinny sheriff in a conservative business suit and western hat, who said as Swimmer entered the office:

“You'd be Conrad Rumel. Ralph Abernathy just called from his truck and said he brought you into town.”

The fact that a farmer in Northern Minnesota could identify him that easily helped Swimmer to understand the terrifying efficiency in which he was abruptly immersed. Armed deputies appeared in the door behind him. They appeared surprised that he carried no weapons. He was hustled into a maple-paneled office that looked out through a wall of windows onto the street corner where the farmer had dropped him.

Ralph Abernathy.
There was no face in his memory to go with the name. Swimmer wondered how he could've ridden in the truck with the farmer and not remember the face.

Ob! The danger!

*   *   *

The Sheriff wanted to know about the Mars diamond.

Swimmer had to repeat his story three times for the Sheriff and deputies, another time for a bald, white-bearded fat man identified as the County Prosecutor. They seemed unconcerned about the urgency, kept dragging out new questions.

Abruptly, there were many more men in the room. Sheriff and County Prosecutor faded into the background.

The newcomers deferred to a Wallace MacPreston, a thin little man not over five feet two inches tall, iron gray hair and a wide mouth set in a perpetual half-smile that never reached his large blue eyes.

“I am a special assistant to the President,” MacPreston said.

Swimmer didn't have to ask
President of what?

MacPreston then launched into his own line of questioning. Some were the same questions the Sheriff and deputies had asked, but MacPreston was also concerned about
how
Swimmer had sunk the Soviet propaganda ship. Was Swimmer aware he'd cracked the ship in half? Had that been his intention? What had guided him in placement of the explosive charges? How large was each charge? Why? What type of detonator? How far had he retreated to avoid the compression shock? What clues in the ship's design had betrayed its weak points? What particular burner had he chosen to cut open the diamond box? Why had he selected that particular time for the operation?

Gradually, Swimmer grew aware of faces in the crowd around MacPreston. One particularly caught his attention: a square-faced hulk of a man at MacPreston's left—eyes like brown caverns above a hooked nose, dark straw hair wisping away to twin bald spots at the temples. This man betrayed an obvious interest in the details of how Swimmer had sunk the ship.