The Eyes of Heisenberg (14 page)

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Authors: Frank Herbert

BOOK: The Eyes of Heisenberg
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“S
he's sick, I tell you!”
Harvey bent over Igan shaking him out of sleep. They were in a narrow earth-walled room, ceiling of plasmeld beams, a dim yellow glowglobe in one corner. Sleeping pads were spread against the walls, Boumour and Igan on two of them foot to foot, the bound form of Svengaard on another, two of the pads empty.
“Come quickly!” Harvey pleaded. “She's sick.”
Igan groaned, sat up. He glanced at his watch—almost sunset on the surface. They'd crawled in here just before daylight and after a night of laboring on foot up seemingly endless woods trails behind a Forest Patrol guide. Igan still ached from the unaccustomed exercise.
Lizbeth sick?
She'd had three days since the embryo had been placed within her. The others had healed this rapidly, but they hadn't been subject to a night of stumbling along rough forest trails.
“Please hurry,” Harvey pleaded.
“I'm coming,” Igan said. And he thought,
Listen to his tone change now that he needs me.
Boumour sat up opposite him, asked, “Shall I join you?”
“Wait here for Glisson,” Igan said.
“Did Glisson say where he was going?”
“To arrange for another guide. It'll be dark soon.”
“Doesn't he ever sleep?” Boumour asked.
“Please!” Harvey begged.
“Yes!” Igan snapped. “What're her symptoms?”
“Vomiting … incoherent.”
“Let me get my bag.” Igan retrieved a thick black case from the floor near his head, glanced across at Svengaard. The man's breathing still showed the even rhythm of the narcotic they'd administered before collapsing into sleep themselves. Something had to be done about Svengaard. He slowed them down.
Harvey pulled at Igan's sleeve.
“I'm coming! I'm coming!” Igan said. He freed his arm, followed Harvey through a low hole at the end of the room and into a room similar to the one they'd just vacated. Lizbeth lay on a pad beneath a single glowglobe across from them. She groaned.
Harvey knelt beside her. “I'm right here.”
“Harvey,” she whispered. “Oh, Harvey.”
Igan joined them, lifted a pulmonometer-sphagnomometer from his bag. He pressed it against her neck, read the dial. “Where do you hurt?” he asked.
“Ohhhh,” she moaned.
“Please,” Harvey said, looking at Igan. “Please do something.”
“Stand out of the way,” Igan said.
Harvey stood up, backed off two steps. “What is it?” he whispered.
Igan ignored him, taped an enzymic vampire gauge to Lizbeth's left wrist, read the dials.
“What's wrong with her?” Harvey demanded.
Igan unclipped his instruments, restored them to his bag. “Nothing's wrong with her.”
“But she's—”
“She's perfectly normal. Most of the others reacted the same way. It's realignment of her enzymic demand system.”
“Isn't there some—”
“Calm down!” Igan stood up, faced Harvey. “She barely needs any prescription material. Pretty soon, she can do without altogether. She's in better health than you are. And she could walk into a pharmacy right now. The prescription flag wouldn't even identify her.”
“Then why's she … ?
“It's the embryo. It compensates for her needs to protect itself. Does it automatically.”
“But she's sick!”
“A bit of glandular maladjustment, nothing else.” Igan picked up his bag. “It's all part of the ancient process. The embryo says produce this, produce that. She produces. Puts a certain strain on her system.”
“Can't you do anything for her?”
“Of course I can. She'll be extremely hungry in a little while. We'll give her something to settle her stomach and then feed her. Provided they can produce some food in this hole.”
Lizbeth groaned, “Harvey?”
He knelt beside her, clasped her hands. “Yes, dear?”
“I feel terrible.”
“They'll give you something in a few minutes.”
“Ohhhhh.”
Harvey turned a fierce scowl up at Igan.
“As soon as we can,” Igan said. “Don't worry. This is normal.” He turned, ducked out into the other room.
“What's wrong?” Lizbeth whispered.
“It's the embryo,” Harvey said. “Didn't you hear?”
“Yes. My head aches.”
Igan returned with a capsule and a cup of water, bent over Lizbeth. “Take this. It'll settle your stomach.”
Harvey helped her sit up, held her while she swallowed the capsule.
She took a quavering breath, returned the cup. “I'm sorry to be such a—”
“Quite all right,” Igan said. He looked at Harvey. “Best bring her in the other room. Glisson will return in a few minutes. He should have food and a guide.”
Harvey helped his wife to her feet, supported her as they
followed Igan into the other room. They found Svengaard sitting up staring at his bound hands.
“Have you been listening?” Igan asked.
Svengaard looked at Lizbeth. “Yes.”
“Have you thought about Seatac?”
“I've thought.”
“You're not thinking of releasing him,” Harvey said.
“He slows us too much,” Igan said. “And we
cannot
release him.”
“Then perhaps I should do something about him,” Harvey said.
“What do you suggest, Durant?” Boumour asked.
“He's a danger to us,” Harvey said.
“Ahh,” Boumour said. “Then we leave him to you.”
“Harvey!” Lizbeth said. She wondered if he'd suddenly gone mad. Was this his reaction to her request that they seek Svengaard as her doctor?
But Harvey was remembering Lizbeth's moans. “If it's him or my son,” he said, “the choice is easy.”
Lizbeth took his hand, signaled,
“What're you doing? You can't mean this!”
“What is he, anyway?” Harvey asked, staring at Igan. And he signaled Lizbeth,
“Wait. Watch.
”
She read her husband then, pulled away.
“He's a gene surgeon,” Harvey said. His voice dripped scorn. “He's existed for
them.
Can he justify his existence? He's a nonviable, nonliving nonentity. He has no future.”
“Is that your choice?” Boumour asked.
Svengaard looked up at Harvey. “Do you talk of murdering me?” he asked. The lack of emotion in his voice surprised Harvey.
“You don't protest?” he asked.
Svengaard tried to swallow. His throat felt full of dry cotton. He looked at Harvey, measuring the bulk of the man, the corded muscles. He remembered the excessive male protectiveness in Harvey's nature, the gene-error that made him a slave to Lizbeth's slightest need.
“Why should I argue,” Svengaard asked, “when much of
what he says is true and when he's already made up his mind?”
“How will you do it, Durant?” Boumour asked.
“How would you like me to do it?” Harvey asked.
“Strangulation might be interesting,” Boumour said, and Harvey wondered if Svengaard, too, could hear the Cyborg clinical detachment in the man's voice.
“A simple snap of the neck is quicker,” Igan said. “Or an injection. I could supply several from my kit.”
Harvey felt Lizbeth trembling against him. He patted her arm, disengaged himself.
“Harvey!” she said.
He shook his head, advanced on Svengaard.
Igan retreated to Boumour's side, stood watching.
Harvey knelt behind Svengaard, closed his fingers around the surgeon's throat, bent close to the ear opposite his audience. In a whisper audible only to Svengaard, Harvey said, “They would as soon see you dead. They don't care one way or another. How do you feel about it?”
Svengaard felt the hands on his throat. He knew he could reach up with his bound hands and try to remove those clutching fingers, but he knew he'd fail. There was no doubting Harvey's strength.
“Your own choice?” Harvey whispered.
“Do it, man!” Boumour called.
Only seconds ago, Svengaard realized, he'd been resigned to death, wanted death. Suddenly, that wish was the farthest thing from his desires.
“I want to live,” he husked.
“Is that your choice?” Harvey whispered.
“Yes!”
“Are you talking to him?” Boumour asked.
“Why do you want to live?” Harvey asked in a normal voice. He relaxed his fingers lightly, a subtle communication to Svengaard. Even an untrained person could
read
this.
“Because I've never
been
alive,” Svengaard said. “I want to try it.”
“But how can you justify your existence?” Harvey asked,
and he allowed his fingers to tighten ever so slightly.
Svengaard looked at Lizbeth, sensing at last the direction of Harvey's thoughts. He glanced at Boumour and Igan.
“You haven't answered my question,” Boumour said. “What are you discussing with our prisoner?”
“Are they both Cyborgs?” Svengaard asked.
“Irretrievably,” Harvey said. “Without human feelings—or near enough to it that it makes no difference.”
“Then how can you trust them with you wife's care?” Harvey's fingers relaxed.
“That is a way I could justify my existence,” Svengaard said.
Harvey removed his hands from Svengaard's throat, squeezed the man's shoulders. It was instant communication, more than words, something that went from flesh to flesh. Svengaard knew he had an ally.
Boumour crossed to stand over them, demanded, “Are you going to kill him or aren't you?”
“No one here's going to kill him,” Harvey said.
“Then what've you been doing?”
“Solving a problem,” Harvey said. He kept a hand on Svengaard's arm. Svengaard found he could understand Harvey's intent just by the pressure of that hand. It said,
“Wait. Be still. Let me handle this.
”
“And what is your intention now toward our prisoner?” Boumour demanded.
“I intend to free him and put my wife in his care,” Harvey said.
Boumour glared at him. “And if that incurs our displeasure?”
“What idiocy!” Igan blared. “How can you trust
him
when we're available?”
“This is a fellow human,” Harvey said. “What he does for my wife will be out of humanity and not like a mechanic treating her as a machine for transporting an embryo.”
“This is nonsense!” Igan snapped. But he realized then that Harvey had recognized their Cyborg nature.
Boumour raised a hand to silence him as Igan started to
continue talking. “You have not indicated how you will do this if we oppose it,” he said.
“You're not full Cyborgs,” Harvey said. “I see in you fears and uncertainties. It's new to you and you're changing. I suspect you're very vulnerable yet.”
Boumour backed off three steps, his eyes measuring Harvey. “And Glisson?” Boumour asked.
“Glisson wants only trustworthy allies,” Harvey said. “I'm giving him a trustworthy ally.”
“How do you know you can trust Svengaard?” Igan demanded.
“Because you have to ask, you betray your ineffectiveness,” Harvey said. He turned, began unfastening Svengaard's fetters.
“It's on your head,” Boumour said.
Harvey freed Svengaard's hands, knelt and removed the bindings from his feet.
“I'm going for Glisson,” Igan said. He left the room.
Harvey stood up, faced Svengaard. “Do you know about my wife's condition?” he asked.
“I heard Igan,” Svengaard said. “Every surgeon studies history and genetic origins. I have an academic knowledge of her condition.”
Boumour sniffed.
“There's Igan's medical kit,” Harvey said, pointing to the black case on the floor. “Tell me why my wife was sick.”

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