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Authors: Frank Herbert

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BOOK: The Green Brain
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“He was headed for the river. Think he was going to jump in?”
“Who knows? But I think me for sure he was sick.”
“Here! Down this way; somebody's been down this way.”
The voices grew indistinct, blended with the bubbling sound of water.
The men were going on down the path. They had missed his hiding place. But why had they pursued? He hadn't seriously injured that man. Surely they didn't suspect.
But speculation had to wait.
Slowly, he steeled himself for what had to be done, brought his specialized parts into play and began burrowing into the earth of the cave. Deeper and deeper he burrowed, thrusting the excess dirt behind and out to make it appear the cave had collapsed.
Ten meters in he went before stopping. His store of energy contained just enough reserve for the next stage. He turned onto his back, scattering the dead parts of legs and back, exposing the queen and her guard cluster to the dirt beneath his chitinous spine. Orifices opened at his thigh, exuded the cocoon foam, the soothing green cover that would harden into a protective shell.
This was victory; the essential parts had survived.
Time was the thing now—some twenty days to gather new energy, go through the metamorphosis and disperse. Soon there'd be thousands of him—each with its carefully mimicked clothing and identification papers, each with this appearance of humanity.
Identical—each of them.
There'd be other checkpoints, but not as severe; other barriers—lesser ones.
This human copy had proved to be a good one. The supreme integration of his kind had chosen well. They'd learned much from study of scattered captives in the
sertao
. But it was so difficult to understand the human creature. Even when they were permitted a limited freedom, it was almost impossible to reason with them. Their supreme integration eluded all attempts at contact.
And always the primary question remained: How could any supreme integration permit the disaster that was overtaking this entire planet?
Difficult humans—their slavery to the planet would have to be proved to them … dramatically, perhaps.
The queen stirred near the cool dirt, prodded into action by her guards. Unifying communication went out to all the body parts, seeking the survivors, assessing strengths. They'd learned new things this time about escaping notice from humans. All the subsequent colony
clusters would share that knowledge. One of them at least would get through to the city by the Amazon “River Sea” where the death-for-all appeared to originate.
One of them had to get through.
P
astel smokes drifted on the cabaret's air. Each smoke, the signature of a table, wafted upward from a table's central vent—here a pale mauve, across the way a pink as delicate as baby skin, there a green that brought to mind Indian gauze woven of pampas grass. It had just turned 9:00 P.M. and the
Cabaret
A'Chigua,
Bahia's finest, had begun its nightly entertainment. Tinkling bell music set a sensuous rhythm for a troupe of dancers posturing in stylized ant costumes. Their fake antennae and mandibles waved through the smokes.
A'Chigua's
patrons occupied low divans. The women were a sprinkling of tropical color as rich as jungle flowers arranged against men in white linen and, here and there like punctuation marks, the glistening white smocks of bandeirantes. This was the Green area, where bandeirantes could relax and play after duty in the Red jungle or at the barriers.
Shoptalk and smalltalk in a dozen languages flowed through the room—
“Tonight I take a pink table for luck. It is the color of a woman's breast, no?” “So I laid down a blanket of foamal and we went in and cleaned out the whole nest—mutated ants like they had in the Piratininga. Must've been ten, twenty billion of them right there.”
Dr. Rhin Kelly had listened to the room for twenty minutes, her attention drawn more and more to the tension undercurrents here.
“The new poisons work—yes.” That was a bandeirante at the table behind her answering the problem of survivors—resistant strains. The mop-up is going to be brutal handwork, just like China. They had to get down there and kill the last bugs by hand.”
Rhin sensed her companion stirring, and thought:
He heard.
She glanced up from their table's amber smoke, met her escort's almond eyes. He smiled and she thought as she had many times before what a distinguished
personage
was this Dr. Travis Huntington Chen-Lhu. He was tall with the deep, square face of North China topped by close-cropped hair that was still jet black at sixty. He leaned toward her and whispered, “Nowhere do we escape rumors, eh?”
She shook her head, wondering for perhaps the tenth time why the distinguished Dr. Chen-Lhu, district director for the International Ecological Organization, had insisted she come here tonight, her first night in Bahia. She had no illusions at all about why he'd ordered her to come down from Dublin: he obviously had a problem which required action by the IEO's espionage arm. As usual, the problem would turn out to involve a man who must be manipulated. Chen-Lhu had hinted as much during the day's “general briefing.” But he had yet to name the man upon whom she must ply her wiles.
“They say certain plants are dying out from lack of pollenization.” That was a woman at the table behind
her, and Rhin stiffened. Dangerous conversation, that.
But the bandeirante directly behind her said, “Back off, doll. You sound like that dame they picked up in Itabuna.”
“What
dame
?”
“She was distributing Carsonite literature right there in the village behind the barrier. Police grabbed her before she'd gotten rid of twenty pieces. They got most of it back, but you know how that stuff is, especially up there near the Red.”
A disturbance erupted at
A'Chigua's
entrance, cries of “Johnny! You, Johnny! You lucky dog, Joao!”
Rhin joined the rest of
A'Chigua's
patrons in turning to stare toward the sound, noting that Chen-Lhu pretended indifference. She saw that seven bandeirantes had stopped just inside the room as though blocked by the barrage of words.
At their head stood a bandeirante with a group leader's golden butterfly insignia at his lapel. Rhin studied him with sudden suspicion, seeing a man of medium height, swarthy skin, wavy black hair; stocky, but when he moved there was grace. His body radiated strength. The face was a contrast, narrow and patrician, dominated by a slim nose with pronounced hook. There were
senhores
de
engenho
in his ancestry—obviously.
Rhin described him to herself as “brutally handsome.” Again, she noted Chen-Lhu's pose of disinterest, and thought:
So this is why we're here.
The thought made her oddly aware of her own body. She underwent a momentary revulsion at her role, thinking:
I've done many things and sold many bits of myself to be here in this moment. And what is there left for myself?
No one wanted the services of Dr. Rhin Kelly, entomologist. But Rhin Kelly, Irish beauty, a woman
who took pleasure in her other duties—this Rhin Kelly was much in demand.
If
I
didn't enjoy the work, perhaps then I wouldn't hate it,
she thought.
She knew how she must appear in this room of lush, dark-skinned women. She was red-haired, green-eyed, delicate complexion—freckles at shoulders, forehead and bridge of nose. In this room—wearing a low gown to match her eyes, a small golden IEO badge at her breast—in this room, she was the exotic one.
“Who is that man at the door?” she asked.
A smile like the ripple from a faint breeze washed over Chen-Lhu's chisled features. He glanced toward the entrance.
“Which man, my dear? There appear to be … seven there.”
“Drop the pose, Travis.”
Almond eyes probed at her, swung back to the group at the entrance. “That is Joao Martinho,
jefe
of the Irmandades and son of Gabriel Martinho.”
“Joao Martinho,” she said. “He's the one you said should've had full credit for clearing the Piratininga.”
“He got the cash, my dear. For Johnny Martinho, that's quite enough.”
“How much?”
“Ah, the practical woman,” he said. “They shared five hundred thousand cruzados.” Chen-Lhu settled back on the divan, sniffed the pungent incense arising with the smoke from their table's vent. And he thought:
Five hundred thousand! That'll be enough to destroy Johnny Martinho—if I can make my case against him. And with Rhin, how can I fail? This branco de Bahia will be only too happy to accept a woman as fair as Rhin. Yes. We'll have our scapegoat soon: Johnny Martinho,
the capitalisto, the gran senhor who was trained by the Yankees.
“The grapevine in Dublin mentions Joao Martinho,” Rhin said.
“Ahh, the grapevine,” he said. “What has it said?”
“The trouble in the Piratininga—his name and that of his father are mentioned.”
“Ahhh, I see.”
“There are strange rumors,” she said.
“And you find them sinister.”
“No—just odd.”
Odd,
he thought. The word struck him with a momentary sinking sensation because it echoed the courier message from his homeland that had moved him to send for Rhin. “
Your odd slowness in solving our problem is causing very disturbing questions to be raised.
” The sentence and the word had leaped out of the message. Chen-Lhu understood the impatience that framed those words: discovery of the looming catastrophe in China could come at any moment. And he knew there were those who didn't trust him because of the cursed white men in his ancestry.
He lowered his voice, said, “Odd is not quite the word to describe bandeirantes reinfesting the Green areas.”
“I heard some rather wild stories,” she murmured. “Secret bandeirante laboratories—illegal mutation experiments …”
“You'll note, Rhin, that most reports of strange, giant insects come from bandeirantes. There's your only oddity.”
“Logical,” she said. “Bandeirantes're out in the front line where such things might occur.”
“Surely you, an entomologist, don't believe such wild stories,” he said.
She shrugged, feeling oddly perverse. He was right, of course; had to be.
“Logic,” Chen-Lhu said. “The use of wild rumors to foment superstitious fear among the yokel
tabareus,
this is the only logic I see.”
“So you wish me to work on this bandeirante chief,” she said. “What am I supposed to find?”
You're supposed to find what I
tell you to find,
Chen-Lhu thought. But he said, “Why're you so certain this Martinho is your target? Is that what the grapevine said?”
“Ohhh,” she said, wondering at the anger that lurked within her. “You had no special purpose in sending for me. My own charming self was reason enough!”
“I couldn't have said it better,” he said. He turned, beckoned a waiter who approached, bent to listen. Presently, the waiter wove a path to the group at the entrance, spoke to Joao Martinho.
The bandeirante studied Rhin with a brief flicker, shifted to meet Chen-Lhu's eyes. Chen-Lhu nodded.
Several women like gauze butterflies had joined Martinho's group. Eye makeup made them appear to be staring from faceted pits. Martinho disengaged himself, headed for the table of amber smoke. He stopped across from Rhin, bowed to Chen-Lhu. “Dr. Chen-Lhu, I presume,” he said. “What a delight. How can the IEO spare its district director for such dalliance?” The wave of an arm encompassed
A'Chigua's
frenetic tensions.
And Martinho thought:
There
—
I've
spoken my
thoughts in a way this devious man will understand.
“I indulge myself,” Chen-Lhu said. “A small bit of relaxation to welcome a newcomer to our staff.” He arose from the divan, looked down at Rhin. “Rhin, I'd like you to meet Senhor Joao Martinho. Johnny, this is
Dr. Rhin Kelly, late of Dublin, a new entomologist in our office.”
And Chen-Lhu thought:
This is the enemy. Make no mistake. This is the enemy. This is the enemy. This is the enemy.
Martinho bowed from the hips. “Charmed.”
“It's an honor to meet you, Senhor Martinho,” she said. “I've heard of your exploits … even in Dublin.”
“Even in Dublin,” he murmured. “I was favored, but never so much favored as in this instant.” He stared at her with disconcerting intensity, wondering what special duties this woman might have. Was she Chen-Lhu's mistress?
Into the sudden silence came the voice of a woman at the table behind Rhin: “Snakes and rodents
are
increasing their pressures on civilization. It says so in the …”
Someone shushed her.
Martinho said, “Travis, I do not understand it. How can one call such a beautiful woman Doctor?”
Chen-Lhu forced a chuckle. “Careful, Johnny. Dr. Kelly is my new field director.”
“A roving director, I hope,” Martinho said.
Rhin stared at him coolly, but it was an assumed coolness. She found his directness exciting and frightening. “I've been warned about Latin blandishments,” she said. “You've all hidden a piece of the blarney stone in your family trees, so I've been told.”
Her voice had taken on a rich throatiness which made Chen-Lhu smile to himself.
Remember
—
this
is
the enemy,
he thought. “Will you join us, Johnny?” he asked.
“You save me from forcing myself upon you,” Martinho said. “But you know I've some of my Irmandades with me?”
“They appear to be occupied,” Chen-Lhu said. He nodded toward the entrance, where a cluster of the gauzy women had enfolded all but one of Martinho's companions. Women and bandeirantes were finding seats at a large blue-vent table in a corner.
The lone holdout shifted his attention from Martinho to his companions at the table, back to Martinho.
Rhin studied the man: ash-gray hair, a long young-old face marred by an acid scar on the left cheek. He reminded her of the sexton in her Wexford church..
“Ah, that is Vierho,” Martinho said. “We call him the Padre. At the moment, he is undecided who to protect—our brothers of the Irmandades over there or myself. Me, I think I need him most.” He beckoned to Vierho, turned, sat down beside Rhin.
A waiter appeared, slipped a translucent bulb containing a golden drink onto the table in front of him. A glass tube protruded from the bulb. He ignored it, stared at Rhin.
“Are the Irish ready to join us?” he asked.
“Join you?”
“In realignment of the world's insects.”
She glanced at Chen-Lhu, whose face betrayed no reaction to the question, returned her attention to Martinho. “The Irish share the reluctance of the Canadians and the North Americans of the United States. The Irish will wait a bit yet.”
The answer appeared to annoy him. “But … I mean Ireland surely understands the advantages,” he said. “You've no snakes. That must …”
BOOK: The Green Brain
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