The Collected Stories of Frank Herbert (50 page)

Rebellion!

Gwen turned her attention on Owling. “Would you be kind enough to end this stalling around and get the meeting under way?”

“Stall…” Owling broke it off. The intelligence report had said Gwen Everest was fond of shock tactics. He gave her a curt nod, passed the nod to Finnister.

The female general addressed Battlemont. “Your agency, as we explained to you earlier, has been chosen for a vital task, Mr. Battlefield.”

“Battlemont,” said Gwen.

Finnister stopped short. “What?”

“His name is Battle
mont
, not Battle
field
,” said Gwen.

“What of it?”

“Names are important,” said Gwen. “I'm sure you appreciate this.”

The Finnister cheeks flushed. “Quite!”

Owling stepped into the breach. “We are authorized to pay this agency double the usual fee for performance,” he said. “However, if you fail us we'll draft every male employee here into the Space Service!”

“What an asinine idea!” said Gwen. “Our people would destroy the Space Service. From within.” Again she smiled at Battlemont. “André here could do it all by himself. Couldn't you, ducky?” She patted Battlemont's cheek.

Battlemont tried to crouch farther down into the chair. He avoided the eyes of the space brass, said: “Gwen … please…”

“What do you mean, destroy the Space Service?” demanded Finnister.

Gwen ignored her, addressed Owling. “This is another one of the Psych Branch's brainstorms,” she said. “I can smell the stench of 'em in every word.”

Owling frowned. As a matter of fact, he had the practical builder's suspicion of everything subjective. This Everest woman made a good point there. But the military had to stand shoulder to shoulder against outsiders. He said: “I don't believe you are properly equipped to fathom military tactics. Let's get on to the problem we…”

“Military tactics yet!” Gwen rapped the table. “Destroy your forces, men. This is it! Synchronize your watches. Over the top!”

“Gwen!” said Battlemont.

“Of course,” said Gwen. She faced Finnister. “Would you mind awfully outlining your problem in simple terms that our unmilitarized minds could understand?”

A pause, a glare. Finnister spewed her words through stiff lips. “Enlistments in the WOMS have fallen to an alarming degree.
You
are going to correct this.”

Behind Gwen, Battlemont nodded vigorously.

“Women can release men for the more strenuous tasks,” said Owling.

“And there are many things women can do that men cannot do,” said Finnister.

“Absolutely essential,” said Owling.

“Absolutely,” agreed Finnister.

“Can't draft women, I suppose,” said Gwen.

“Tried to get a bill through,” said Owling. “Damned committee's headed by an anti-military woman.”

“Good for her,” said Gwen.

“You do
not
sound like the person for this job,” said Owling. “Perhaps…”

“Oh, simmer down,” said Gwen.

“Miss Everest is the best in the business,” said Battlemont.

Gwen said: “Why are enlistments down? You've run the usual surveys, I suppose.”

“It's the space armor,” said Finnister. “Women don't like it.”

“Too mechanical,” said Owling. “Too practical.”

“We need … ah … glamour,” said Finnister. She adjusted the brim of her cap.

Gwen frowned at the cap, cast a glance up and down the Finnister uniform. “I've seen the usual news pictures of the armor,” she said. “What do they wear underneath it? Something like your uniform?”

Finnister suppressed a surge of anger. “No. They wear special fatigues.”

“The armor cannot be removed while they are in space,” said Owling.

“Oh?” said Gwen. “What about physical functions, that sort of thing?”

“Armor takes care of everything,” said Owling.

“Apparently not
quite
everything,” murmured Gwen. She nodded to herself, mulling tactics.

Battlemont straightened, sniffed the atmosphere of the conference room. Staff all alert, quiet, attentive. Mood had lightened somewhat. Gwen appeared to be taking over. Good old Gwen. Wonderful Gwen. No telling what she was up to. As usual. She'd solve this thing, though. Always did. Unless …

He blinked. Could she be toying with them? He tried to imagine Gwen's thought patterns. Impossible. IBMausoleum couldn't even do it. Unpredictable. All Battlemont could be certain of was that Gwen would get a gigantic belly laugh from the picture of the agency's male staff members drafted, slaving away on space freighters.

Battlemont trembled.

General Finnister was saying: “The problem is not one of getting women to enlist for Earth-based service. We need them in the ships, the asteroid stations, the…”

“Let's get this straight,” said Gwen. “My great-great-grandmother was in some kind of armed service. I read her diary once. She called it the ‘whackies' or something like that.”

“WACS,” said Finnister.

“Yes,” said Gwen. “It was during the war with Spain.”

“Japan,” said Owling.

“What I'm driving at is, why all the sudden interest in women? My great-great-grandmother had one merry old time running away from some colonel who wanted … Well, you know. Is this some kind of a dodge to provide women for your space colonels?”

Finnister scowled her blackest.

Quickly suppressed chuckles sounded around the table.

Owling decided to try a new tack. “My dear lady, our motives are of the highest. We need the abilities of women so that mankind can march side by side to the stars.”

Gwen stared at him in open admiration. “Go-wan!” she said.

“I mean it,” said Owling.

“You're a poet!” said Gwen. “Oh … and I've wronged you. Here I was—dirty-minded me—thinking you wanted women for base purposes. And all the time you wanted
companions.
Someone to share this glorious new adventure.”

Again, Battlemont recognized the danger signals. He tried to squeeze himself into as small a target as possible. Most of the staff around the table saw the same signals, but they were intent, fascinated.

“Exactly!” boomed Finnister.

Gwen's voice erupted in an angry snarl: “And we name all the little bastards after the stars in Virgo, ehhh?”

It took a long moment for Finnister and Owling to see that they had been gulled. Finnister started to rise.

“Siddown!” barked Gwen. She grinned. She was having a magnificent time. Rebellion carried a sense of euphoria.

Owling opened his mouth, closed it without a howl.

Finnister sank back into her chair.

“Shall we get down to business?” snapped Gwen. “Let's look at this glorified hunk of tin you want us to glamorize.”

Finnister found something she could focus her shocked attention on. “Space armor is mostly plastic, not tin.”

“Plastic-schmastic,” said Gwen. “I want to see your Iron Gertie.”

General Owling took two deep breaths to calm his nerves, snapped open the briefcase, extracted a folder of design sketches. He pushed them toward Gwen—a hesitant motion as though he feared she might take his hand with them. He now recognized that the incredible intelligence report was correct: this astonishing female was the actual head of the agency.

“Here's—Iron Gertie,” he said, and forced a chuckle.

Gwen leafed through the folder while the others watched.

Battlemont stared at her. He realized something the rest of the staff did not: Gwen Everest was not being the usual Gwen Everest. There was a subtle difference. An abandon. Something was
very
wrong!

Without looking up from the drawings, Gwen addressed herself to Finnister. “That uniform you're wearing, General Finnister. You design that yourself?”

“What? Oh, yes. I did.”

Battlemont trembled.

Gwen reached out, rapped one of Finnister's hips. “Bony,” she said. She turned a page in the folder, shook her head.

“Well!” exploded Finnister.

Still without looking up, Gwen said: “Simmer down. How about the hat? You design that, too?”

“Yesss!” It was a sibilant explosion.

Gwen lifted her attention to the hat, spoke in a reasonable tone: “Possibly the most hideous thing I've ever seen.”

“Well of all the—”

“Are you a fashion designer?” asked Gwen politely.

Finnister shook her head as though to clear it of cobwebs.

“You are
not
a fashion designer?” pressed Gwen.

Finnister bit the words off. “I have had
some
experience in choosing—”

“The answer is no, then,” said Gwen. “Thought so.” She brought her attention back to the folder, turned a page.

Finnister glared at her in open-mouthed rage.

Gwen glanced up at Owling. “Why'd you put the finger on this agency?”

Owling appeared to have trouble focusing his attention on Gwen's question. Presently, he said: “You were … it was pointed out that this agency was one of the most successful in … if not the most successful…”

“We were classified as experts, eh?”

“Yes. If you want to put it that way.”

“I want to put it that way.” She glanced at Finnister. “So we let the experts do the designing, is that clear? You people keep your greasy fingers off. Understood?” She shot a hard stare at Owling, back to Finnister.

“I don't know about you!” Finnister snapped at Owling, “but I've had all—”

“If you value your military career you'll just sit down and listen,” said Gwen. Again, she glared at Owling. “Do you understand?”

Owling shook his head from side to side. Amazement dominated him. Abruptly, he realized that his head shaking could be interpreted as negative. He bobbed his head up and down, decided in mid-motion that this was undignified. He stopped, cleared his throat.

What an astonishing female!
he thought.

Gwen pushed the folder of design sketches uptable to Leo Prim, the art director. “Tell me, General Owling,” she said, “why is the armor so bulky?”

Leo Prim, who had opened the folder, began to chuckle.

“Marvelous, isn't it?” said Gwen.

Someone farther uptable asked: “What is?”

Gwen kept her attention on Owling. “Some jassack engineer in the Space Service designed a test model suit of armor like a gigantic woman—breasts and all.” She glanced at Finnister. “You ran a survey on the stupid thing, of course?”

Finnister nodded. She was shocked speechless.

“I could've saved you the trouble,” said Gwen. “One of the reasons you'd better listen carefully to what
expert me
has to say. No woman in her right mind would get into that thing. She'd feel big—and she'd feel naked.” Gwen shook her head. “Freud! What a combination!”

Owling wet his lips with his tongue. “Ah, the armor has to provide sufficient shielding against radiation, and it must remain articulate under extremes of pressure and temperature,” he said. “It can't be made any smaller and still permit a human being to fit into it.”

“Okay,” said Gwen. “I have the beginnings of an idea.”

She closed her eyes, thought:
These military jerks are a couple of sitting ducks. Almost a shame to pot them.
She opened her eyes, glanced at Battlemont. His eyes were closed. He appeared to be praying.
Could be the ruination of poor André and his lovely people, too,
she thought.
What a marvelous collection of professional stranglers! Well, can't be helped. When Gwen Everest goes out, she goes out in a blaze of glory! All flags flying! Full speed ahead! Damn the torpedoes!

“Well?” said Owling.

Fire one!
thought Gwen. She said: “Presumably, you have specialists, experts who can advise us on technical details.”

“At your beck and call whenever you say the word,” said Owling.

Battlemont opened his eyes, stared at the back of Gwen's neck. A ray of hope stabbed through his panic. Was it possible that Gwen was really taking over?

“I'll also want all the dope on which psychological types make the best WOMS,” said Gwen. “If there is such a thing as a best WOM.”

Battlemont closed his eyes, shuddered.

“I don't believe I've ever been treated this highhandedly in my entire career!” blurted Finnister. “I'm not entirely sure that—”

“Just a moment, please,” said Owling. He studied Gwen, who was smiling at him. The intelligence report said this woman was “probable genius” and should be handled delicately.

“I'm only sorry the law doesn't give us the right to draft women, too!” barked Finnister.

“Then you wouldn't really have this problem, would you?” asked Gwen. She turned her smile on Finnister. It was full of beatitudes.

Owling said: “I know we have full authority to handle this at our own discretion, General Finnister, and I agree that we've been subjected to some abuse but…”

“Abuse!” Finnister said.

“And high time, too,” said Gwen.

A violent shudder passed through Battlemont. He thought:
We are doomed!

“However,” said Owling, “we mustn't let our personal feelings cloud a decision for the good of the service.”

“I hear the bugles blowing,” murmured Gwen.

“This agency
was
chosen as the one most likely to solve the problem,” said Owling.

“There
could
have been a mistake!” said Finnister.

“Not likely.”

“You are determined to turn this thing over to … to…” Finnister broke off, tapped her palms on the tabletop.

“It's advisable,” said Owling. He thought:
This Gwen Everest will solve our problem. No problem could resist her. No problem would dare!