High-Opp - By Frank Herbert Page 0,1

THE CAR—a primary token of authority. Sunlight shimmered on the flat antenna which spanned the curving roof. Movius looked up to the left where the scintillant red relay ship hovered above the spire of the prime generator, sending out its invisible flagellae of communication and energy beams from which the city sucked its power.

He wished for the strength to hurl all of his pent-up curses at this symbol of authority. Instead, he lowered his eyes, again sought out the car, that tiny extension of the relay ship. Navvy leaned against the grill in his characteristic slouch, reading a book—one of those inevitably deep things he always carried. The driver pulled at his lower lip with thumb and forefinger, turned a page. Movius suspected that some of Navvy’s books were on the contraband lists, but the man was the kind to carry it off. A look of youthful innocence in his brown eyes, a wisp of black hair down across his forehead to heighten the effect. “A contraband book, sir? Great Gallup! I didn’t think there were any more of those things drifting about. Thought the government had burned them all. Fellow handed it to me on the street the other day when I asked what he was reading.”

Seeing Navvy brought back a disquieting thought: How had Navvy known about the low-opp? How did a Labor Pool driver get official information before it became official?

Movius slipped between the First Rank cars, the Second Rank cars, slowed his pace as he approached the relaxed figure of the driver.

Navvy sensed Movius’ presence, looked up, pushed himself away from the car. His young-old face became contemplative. “Now do you believe me, sir?”

Movius drew a deep breath. “How did you know?”

The contemplative look was replaced by casualness. “It came over the LP grapevine.”

“That’s what you said before. I want to know how.”

“Maybe you’ll find out now that you’re an LP,” said Navvy. He turned toward the car. “Anyplace I can take you? They haven’t assigned me yet. They’re still upstairs wrangling over who’ll get my carcass.”

“I’m no longer privileged, Navvy. It’s forbidden.”

“So it’s forbidden.” He opened the rear door of the car. “They know where they can put their forbiddens. One last ride for old time’s sake.”

Why not? thought Movius. He shrugged, slipped into the car, felt the solid assurance of the slamming door. Navvy took his place in front.

“Where to, sir?”

“The apartment, I guess.”

Navvy flicked the power-receiver switch, turned to back the car from its slot. Movius watched the concentration on the man’s face. That was one of Navvy’s secrets, a power of concentration, of storing up. But what about the other secret?

“Why won’t you tell me how you came by the information?”

“You’d only accuse me of being a separatist again.”

Movius felt a humorless smile twitch at his lips, remembering their conversation that morning on the way from the apartment. Navvy had said, “Sir, probably I shouldn’t be talking, but I’ve word they’re going to low-opp you today.”

It had been an ice-water statement, doubly confusing because it came from his driver, someone like an extension of the car.

“Nonsense! Silly scuttlebutt!”

“No, sir. It’s over the grapevine. The question was put on the eight o’clock.”

Movius glanced at his watch. Ten minutes to nine. They almost always were passing the Bu-Psych Building about this time. He turned. There was the grey stone pile, early workers streaming up the steps.

A question on the eight o’clock? Movius could picture the returns ticking into the computers—Shanghai, Rangoon, Paris, New York, Moscow . . . The Comp Section, working at top speed, could have results in two hours. It was impossible that anyone could know the results of an eight o’clock before ten. He explained this fact to Navvy.

“You’ll see,” said Navvy. “Those autocratic High-Opps have you picked for the long slide down.”

And Movius remembered he had chuckled. “The government doesn’t function that way, Navvy. Majority opinion rules.”

What a trite set of mouthing’s those were when he thought back on them. Right out of the approved history books. Right out of the Bureau of Information blathering. But these thoughts brought a sense of uneasiness. He twisted his lapel, looked down at the pale mauve and white of his coveralls, code colors for Tertiary Bureau heads. All of his clothes would have to be dyed. He fingered his identification number on the lapel, the red T stitched above the number. That would be ripped off, LP replacing it.

Labor Pool! Damn them!

Penalty service could scarcely be worse.

The car was climbing through the privileged