The Collected Stories of Frank Herbert (10 page)

Baldy made the first break in the puzzle.

“Doc, are these things supposed to make a noise?”

Eric looked at the diagram. “What?” His eyes widened. “Of course they're supposed to make a noise.”

Baldy wet his lips with his tongue. “There's a special sonar crystal set for depth sounding in submarine detection. This looks faintly like the circuit, but there are some weird changes.”

Eric tugged at his lip; his eyes glistened. “That's it! That's why there's no control circuit! That's why it looks as though these things would hunt all over the place! The operator is the control—his mind keeps it in balance!”

“How's that?”

Eric ignored the question. “But this means we have the wrong kind of crystals. We've misread the parts list.” Frustration sagged his shoulders. “And we're not even halfway finished.”

Baldy tapped the diagram with a finger. “Doc, I've got some old surplus sonar equipment at home. I'll call my wife and have her bring it over. I think there are six or seven sonopulsators—they just might work.”

Eric looked at the wall clock: 8:28
A.M.
Seven and a half hours to go. “Tell her to hurry.”

*   *   *

Mrs. “Baldy” was a female version of her husband. She carried a heavy wooden box down the steps, balancing it with an easy nonchalance.

“Hi, Hon. Where'll I put this stuff?”

“On the floor … anywhere. Doc, this is Betty.”

“How do you do.”

“Hiya, Doc. There's some more stuff in the car. I'll get it.”

Baldy took her arm. “You better let me do it. You shouldn't be carrying heavy loads, especially down stairs.”

She pulled away. “Go on. Get back to your work. This is good for me—I need the exercise.”

“But—”

“But me no buts.” She pushed him.

He returned to the bench reluctantly, looking back at his wife. She turned at the doorway and looked at Baldy. “You look pretty good for being up all night, Hon. What's all the rush?”

“I'll explain later. You better get that stuff.”

Baldy turned to the box she had brought, began sorting through it. “Here they are.” He lifted out two small plastic cases, handed them to Eric, pulled out another, another. There were eight of them. They lined the cases up on the bench. Baldy snapped open the cover of the first one.

“They're mostly printed circuits, crystal diode transistors and a few tubes. Wonderful engineering. Don't know what the dickens I ever planned to do with them. Couldn't resist the bargain. They were two bucks apiece.” He folded back the side plate. “Here's the crys—Doc!”

Eric bent over the case.

Baldy reached into the case. “What were those tubes you wanted?”

Eric grabbed the circuit diagram, ran his finger down the parts list. “C6 midget variable, C7, C8 dual 4ufd.”

Baldy pulled out a tube. “There's your C6.” He pulled out another. “There's your C8.” Another. “Your C7.” He peered into the works. “There's a third stage in here I don't think'll do us any good. We can rig a substitute for the 4ufd component.”

Baldy whistled tonelessly through his teeth. “No wonder that diagram looked familiar. It was based on this wartime circuit.”

Eric felt a moment of exultation, sobered when he looked at the wall clock: 9:04
A.M.

He thought, “We have to work faster or we'll never make it in time. Less than seven hours to go.”

He said, “Let's get busy. We haven't much time.”

Betty came down the stairs with another box. “You guys eaten.”

Baldy didn't look up from dismantling the second plastic box. “Yeah, but you might make us some sandwiches for later.”

Eric looked up from another of the plastic boxes. “Cupboard upstairs is full of food.”

Betty turned, clattered up the stairs.

Baldy glanced at Eric out of the corners of his eyes. “Doc, don't say anything to Betty about the reason for all this.” He turned his attention back to the box, working methodically. “We're expecting our first son in about five months.” He took a deep breath. “You've got me convinced.” A drop of perspiration ran down his nose, fell onto his hand. He wiped his hand on his shirt. “This has gotta work.”

Betty's voice echoed down the stairs: “Hey, Doc, where's your can opener?”

Eric had his head and shoulders inside the teleprobe. He pulled back, shouted, “Motor-punch to the left of the sink.”

Muttering, grumbling, clinking noises echoed down from the kitchen. Presently, Betty appeared with a plate of sandwiches, a red-tinted bandage on her left thumb. “Broke your paring knife,” she said. “Those mechanical gadgets scare me.” She looked fondly at her husband's back. “He's just as gadget happy as you are, Doc. If I didn't watch him like a spy-beam my nice old kitchen would be an electronic nightmare.” She upended an empty box, put the plate of sandwiches on it. “Eat when you get hungry. Anything I can do?”

Baldy stepped back from the bench, turned. “Why don't you go over to Mom's for the day?”

“The whole day?”

Baldy glanced at Eric, back at his wife. “The Doc's paying me fourteen hundred bucks for the day's work. That's our baby money; now run along.”

She made as though to speak, closed her mouth, walked over to her husband, kissed his cheek. “Okay, Hon. Bye.” She left.

Eric and Baldy went on with their work, the pressure mounting with each clock tick. They plodded ahead, methodically checking each step.

At 3:20
P.M.
, Baldy released test clips from half of the new resonance circuit, glanced at the wall clock. He stopped, looked back at the teleprobe, weighing the work yet to be done. Eric lay on his back under the machine, soldering a string of new connections.

“Doc, we aren't going to make it.” He put the test meter on the bench, leaned against the bench. “There just isn't enough time.”

An electronic soldering iron skidded out from under the teleprobe. Eric squirmed out behind it, looked up at the clock, back at the unconnected wires of the crystal circuits. He stood up, fished a credit book from his pocket, wrote out a fourteen hundred buck credit check to Baldwin Platte. He tore out the check, handed it to Baldy.

“You've earned every cent of this, Baldy. Now beat it; go join your wife.”

“But—”

“We haven't time to argue. Lock the door after you so you can't get back in if—”

Baldy raised his right hand, dropped it. “Doc, I can't—”

“It's all right, Baldy.” Eric took a deep breath. “I kind of know how I'll go if I'm too late.” He stared at Baldy. “I don't know about you. You might, well—” He shrugged.

Baldy nodded, swallowed. “I guess you're right, Doc.” His lips worked. Abruptly, he turned, ran up the stairs. The outside door slammed.

Eric turned back to the teleprobe, picked up an open lead to the crystal circuits, matched it to its receptor, ran a drop of solder across the connection. He moved to the next crystal unit, the next—

At one minute to four he looked at the clock. More than an hour's work remained on the teleprobe and then—He didn't know. He leaned back against the bench, eyes filmed by fatigue. He pulled a cigarette from his pocket, pressed the igniter, took a deep drag. He remembered Colleen's question: “What's it like to be insane?” He stared at the ember on his cigarette.

Will I tear the teleprobe apart? Will I take a gun, go hunting for Colleen and Pete? Will I run out?
—The clock behind him clicked. He tensed.
What will it be like?
He felt dizzy, nauseated. A wave of melancholia smothered his emotions. Tears of self-pity started in his eyes. He gritted his teeth.
I'm not insane … I'm not insane
—He dug his fingernails into his palms, drew in deep, shuddering breaths. Uncertain thoughts wandered through his mind.

I shall faint … the incoherence of morosis … demoniacal possession … dithyrambic dizziness … an anima figure concretionized out of the libido … corybantic calenture … mad as a March hare
—

His head sagged forward.

… Non compos mentis … aliéné … avoir le diable au corps—What has happened to Seattle? What has happened to Seattle? What has
—His breathing steadied; he blinked his eyes. Everything appeared unchanged … unchanged … unchanged—
I'm wandering. I must get hold of myself!

The fingers of his right hand burned. He shook away the short ember of his cigarette.

Was I wrong? What's happening outside?
He started for the stairs, made it halfway to the door when the lights went out. A tight band ringed his chest. Eric felt his way to the door, grasped the stair rail, climbed up to the dim, filtered light of the hall. He stared at the stained glass bricks beside the door, tensed at a burst of gunshots from outside. He sleepwalked to the kitchen, raised on tiptoes to look through the ventilator window over the sink.

People! The street swarmed with people—some running, some walking purposefully, some wandering without aim, some clothed, some partly clothed, some nude. The bodies of a man and child sprawled in blood at the opposite curbing.

He shook his head, turned, went into the living room. The lights suddenly flashed on, off, on, stayed. He punched video for a news program, got only wavy lines. He put the set on manual, dialed a Tacoma station. Again wavy lines.

Olympia was on the air, a newcaster reading a weather report: “Partly cloudy with showers by tomorrow afternoon. Temperatures—”

A hand carrying a sheet of paper reached into the speaker's field of vision. The newsman stopped, scanned the paper. His hand shook. “Attention! Our mobile unit at the Clyde Field jet races reports that the Scramble Syndrome has struck the twin cities of Seattle-Tacoma. More than three million people are reported infected. Emergency measures already are being taken. Road blocks are being set up. There are known to have been fatalities, but—”

A new sheet of paper was handed to the announcer. His jaw muscles twitched as he read. “A jet racer has crashed into the crowd at Clyde Field. The death toll is estimated at three hundred. There are no available medical facilities. All doctors listening to this broadcast—all doctors—report at once to State disaster headquarters. Emergency medical—” The lights again blinked out, the screen faded.

Eric hesitated.
I'm a doctor. Shall I go outside and do what I can, medically, or shall I go down and finish the teleprobe—now that I've been proved right? Would it do any good if I did get it working?
He found himself breathing in a deep rhythm.
Or am I crazed like all the others? Am I really doing what I think I'm doing? Am I mad and dreaming a reality?
He thought of pinching himself, knew that would be no proof.
I have to go ahead as though I'm sane. Anything else
really
is madness.

He chose the teleprobe, located a handlight in his bedroom, returned to the basement lab. He found the long unused emergency generator under the crates in the corner. He wheeled it to the center of the lab, examined it. The powerful alcohol turbine appeared in working order. The pressure cap on the fuel reservoir popped as he released it. The reservoir was more than half full. He found two carboys of alcohol fuel in the corner where the generator had been stored. He filled the fuel tank, replaced the cap, pumped pressure into the tank.

The generator's power lead he plugged into the lab fuse box. The hand igniter caught on the first spin. The turbine whirred to life, keened up through the sonic range. Lab lights sprang to life, dimmed, steadied as the relays adjusted.

It was 7:22
P.M.
by the wall clock when he soldered the final connection. Eric estimated a half hour delay before the little generator had taken over, put the time actually at near eight o'clock. He found himself hesitant, strangely unwilling to test the completed machine. His one-time encephalorecorder was a weird maze of crossed wiring, emergency shielding, crowded tubes, crystals. The only familiar thing remaining in the tubular framework was the half-dome of the head-contact hanging above the test chair.

Eric plugged in a power line, linked it to a portable switchbox which he placed in the machine beside the chair. He eased aside a sheaf of wires, wormed his way through, sat down in the chair. He hesitated, hand on the switch.

Am I really sitting here?
he wondered.
Or is this some trick of the unconscious mind? Perhaps I'm in a corner somewhere with a thumb in my mouth. Maybe I've torn the teleprobe apart. Maybe I've put the teleprobe together so it will kill me the instant I close the switch.

He looked down at the switch, withdrew his hand. He thought,
I can't just sit here; that's madness, too
.

He reached up to the helmetlike dome, brought it down over his head. He felt the pinpricks of the contacts as they probed through his hair to his scalp. The narco-needles took hold, deadening skin sensation.

This feels like reality,
he thought.
But maybe I'm building this out of memory. It's hardly likely I'm the only sane person in the city.
He lowered his hand to the switch.
But I have to act as though I am.

Almost of its own volition, his thumb moved, depressed the switch. Instantly, a soft ululation hung in the laboratory air. It shifted to dissonance, to harmony, wailing, half-forgotten music, wavered up the scale, down the scale.

In Eric's mind, mottled pictures of insanity threatened to overwhelm his consciousness. He sank into a maelstrom. A brilliant spectograph coruscated before his eyes. In a tiny corner of his awareness, a discrete pattern of sensation remained, a reality to hold onto, to save him—the feeling of the teleprobe's chair beneath him and against his back.