The Collected Stories of Frank Herbert (52 page)

“Sounds sensible,” said Owling.

Finnister nodded, her dislike of Gwen submerged in attention to the words.

“They want several things,” said Gwen. “They want travel … adventure … the knight errant sort of thing. Tally-ho!”

Battlemont, Finnister and Owling snapped to shocked attention.

“Gives you pause when you think about it,” murmured Gwen. “All those women looking for something. Looking for the free ride. The brass ring. The pot at the end of the rainbow.”

She had them nodding again, Gwen noted. She raised her voice: “The old carrousel! The jingle-dingle joy journey!”

Battlemont looked at her sadly.
Mad. Ohhh, my poor, poor Gwenny.

Owling said: “I … uh…”

“But they all want one commodity!” snapped Gwen. “And what's that? Romance! That's what's that. And in the unconscious mind what's that romance? That romance is sex!”

“I believe I've heard enough,” said Finnister.

“No,” said Owling. “Let's … uh … this is all, I'm sure, preliminary. I want to know where … after all, the model … models they've developed…”

“What's with sex when you get all the folderol off it?” demanded Gwen. “The psychological roots. What's down there?”

Owling scratched his throat, stared at her. He had a basic distrust of subjective ideas, but he always came smack up against the fear that maybe (just maybe now) they were correct. Some of them appeared (and it could be appearance
only
) to work.

“I'll tell you what's down there,” muttered Gwen.

“That's right!” said Gwen. “They can't
really
get out. So we give them the
symbol
of getting out. For exchanging.”

“Exchanging?” asked Finnister.

“Certainly. A male astronaut sees a girl astronaut he likes. He asks her to trade keys. Very romantic. Symbolic of things that
may
happen when they return to Earth or get to a base where they can get out of the suits.”

“Miss Everest,” said Finnister, “as you so aptly pointed out earlier, no astronaut can see one of our women in this armor. And even if he could, I don't believe that I'd…”

She froze, staring, shocked speechless.

Gwen had pushed a stud on the solido projector's remote control. A suit of space armor appeared to be hanging in the center of the room. In the suit, wearing a form-fitting jacket, stood the agency's busty receptionist. The suit of armor around her was transparent from the waist up.

“The bottom half remains opaque at all times,” said Gwen. “For reasons of modesty … the connections. However, the top half…”

Gwen pushed another stud. The transparent upper half faded through gray to black until it concealed the model.

“For privacy when desired,” said Gwen. “That's how we've used the new mutable plastic. Gives the girl some control over her environment.”

Again, Gwen pushed the first stud. The upper half of the model reappeared.

Finnister gaped at the form-fitting uniform.

Gwen stood up, took a pointer, gestured in through the projection. “This uniform was designed by a leading couturier. It is made to reveal while concealing. A woman with only a fair figure will appear to good advantage in it. A woman with an excellent figure appears stunning, as you can see. Poor figures—” Gwen shrugged—“there
are
exercises for developing them. Or so I am told.”

Finnister interrupted in a cold voice. “And what do you propose to do with that … that uni … clothing?”

“This will be the regulation uniform for the WOMS,” said Gwen. “There's a cute little hat goes with it. Very sexy.”

Battlemont said: “Perhaps the changeover could be made slowly so as to…”

“What changeover?” demanded Finnister. She leaped to her feet. “General Owling?”

Owling tore his attention from the model. “Yes?”

“Completely impractical! I will put up with no more!” barked Finnister.

Battlemont thought:
I knew it. Oh, my poor Gwenny! They will destroy her, too. I knew it.

“We can't waste any more time with this agency,” said Finnister. “Come, General.”

“Wait!” yelped Battlemont. He leaped to his feet. “Gwen, I told you…”

Finnister said: “It's regrettable, but…”

“Perhaps we're being a little hasty,” said Owling. “There may be something to salvage from this…”

“Yes!” said Battlemont. “Just a little more time is all we need to get a fresh…”

“I think not,” said Finnister.

Gwen smiled from one to the other, thought:
What a prize lot of gooney birds!
She felt a little drunk, as euphoric as if she had just come from a mood bar.
Rebellion, it's wonderful! Up the Irish! Or something.

Owling shrugged, thought:
We have to stand together against civilians. General Finnister is right. Too bad, though.
He got to his feet.

“Just a little more time,” pleaded Battlemont.

Too bad about André,
thought Gwen. She had an inspiration, said: “One moment, please.”

Three pairs of eyes focused on her.

Finnister said: “If you think you can stop me from going through with our threat, dissuade yourself. I'm perfectly aware that you had that uni … that
clothing
designed to make
me
look hideous!”

“Why not?” asked Gwen. “I was only doing to you what you did to virtually every other woman in the WOMS.”

“Gwen!” pleaded Battlemont in horror.

“Be still, André,” said Gwen. “It's just a matter of timing, anyway. Today. Tomorrow. Next week. Not really important.”

“Oh, my poor Gwenny,” sobbed Battlemont.

“I was going to wait,” said Gwen. “Possibly a week. At least until I'd turned in my resignation.”

“What're you talking about?” asked Owling.

“Resignation!” gasped Battlemont.

“I just can't toss poor André here to the wolves,” said Gwen. “The rest of our men, yes. Once they get inside they'll chew your guts out, anyway.”

“What
are
you talking about?” asked Finnister.

“The rest of the men in this agency can take care of themselves … and you, too,” said Gwen. “Wolves among wolves. But André here is helpless. All he has is his position … money. He's an accident. Put him someplace where money and position are less important, it'll kill him.”

“Regrettable,” said Finnister. “Shall we be going, General Owling?”

“I was going to ruin both of you,” said Gwen. “But I'll tell you what. You leave André alone and I'll just give
one
of you the business.”

“Gwen, what are you saying?” whispered Battlemont.

“Yesss!” hissed Finnister. “Explain yourself!”

“I just want to know the pecking order here,” said Gwen. “Which one of you ranks the other?”

“What does that have to do with it?” asked Finnister.

“Just a minute,” said Owling. “That intelligence report.” He glared at Gwen. “I'm told you've prepared an adecal on the test model we made before coming to you.”

“Big Bertha,” said Gwen. “And it's not just an adecal. I have everything needed for a full national campaign. Look!”

A solido of the breast-baring test model replaced the transparent suit hanging in the center of the room.

“The idea for Big Bertha here originated with General Owling,” said Gwen. “My campaign establishes that fact, then goes on to feature an animated model of Big Bertha. She is a living panic. Funniest thing you ever saw. General Owling, you will be the laughingstock of the nation by nightfall of the day I start this campaign.”

Owling took a step forward.

Battlemont said: “Gwen! They will destroy you!”

Owling pointed at the projection. “You … you wouldn't!”

“But I would,” said Gwen. She smiled at him.

Battlemont tugged at Gwen's arm. She shook him off.

“It would ruin me,” whispered Owling.

“Presumably, you are capable of going through with this threat,” said Finnister. “Regrettable.”

Owling whirled on Finnister. “We must stand together!” he said desperately.

“You bet,” said Gwen. She pushed another stud on the remote control.

A projection of General Finnister in her famous uniform replaced Big Bertha.

“You may as well know the whole story,” said Gwen. “I'm all set with another campaign on the designing of this uniform, right from the Sonnet Bonnet on down through the Sinister Finnister cape and those sneaky walking shoes. I start with a dummy model of the general clad in basic foundation garments. Then I go on to show how each element of the present WOMS uniform was designed for the … ah … Finnister.… ah … figure.”

“I'll sue!” barked Finnister.

“Go ahead. Go ahead.” Gwen waved a sinuous arm.

She acts drunk!
thought Battlemont.
But she never drinks.

“I'm all set to go black market with these campaigns,” said Gwen. “You can't stop me. I'll prove every contention I make about that uniform. I'll expose you. I'll show why your enlistment drives flopped.”

Red suffused the Finnister face. “All right!” she snapped. “If you're going to ruin us, I guess there's nothing we can do about it. But mark this, Miss Everest. We'll have the men of this agency in the service. You'll have that on your conscience! And the men we draft will serve under friends of ours. I hope you know what that means!”

“You don't have any friends,” said Gwen, but her voice lacked conviction.
It's backfiring,
she thought.
Oh, hell. I didn't think they'd defy me.

“There may even be something we can do about you!” said Finnister. “A presidential order putting you in the service for reasons of national emergency. Or an emergency clause on some bill. And when we get our hands on you, Miss Everest…”

“André!” wailed Gwen. It was all getting out of hand.
I didn't want to hurt anybody,
she thought.
I just
 … She realized that she didn't know what she
had
wanted.

Battlemont was electrified. In 22 years, Gwen Everest had never appealed to anyone for help. And now, for the first time, her appeal was to him! He stepped between Gwen and Finnister. “André is right here,” he said. He felt inspired. His Gwen had appealed to him! “You assassin!” he said, shaking a finger under the Finnister nose.

“Now, see here!” snapped Owling. “I won't stand for any more of—”

“And you!” barked Battlemont, whirling. “We have recordings of every conference here, from the first, and including this one! They show what happened! Don't you know what is wrong with this poor girl? You! You've driven her out of her mind!”

Gwen joined in the chorus: “What?”

“Be still, Gwen,” said Battlemont. “I will handle this.”

Gwen couldn't take her attention off him. Battlemont was magnificent. “Yes, André.”

“I will prove it,” said Battlemont. “With Interdorma psychiatrists. With all the experts money can buy. You think you have seen something in those campaigns our Gwen set up? Hah! I will show you something.” He stabbed a finger at Owling. “Can the military drive you insane?”

“Oh, now see here,” said Owling. “This has gone—”

“Yes! It
can
drive you insane!” said Battlemont. “And we will show, step by step, how you drove our poor Gwen out of her mind with fear for her friends. Fear for me!” He slapped himself on the chest, glared at Finnister. “And you know what we will do next? We will say to the public: This could happen to you! Who is next? You? Or you? Or you? Then what happens to your money from Congress? What happens to your enlistment quotas?”

“Now see here,” said Owling. “We didn't…”

“Didn't you?” snarled Battlemont. “You think this poor girl is in her right mind?”

“Well, but we didn't…”

“Wait until you see our campaign,” said Battlemont. He took Gwen's hand, patted it. “There, there, Gwenny. André will fix.”

“Yes, André,” she said. They were the only words she could find. She felt stupefied.
He's in love with me,
she thought. Never before had she known anyone to be in love with her. Not even her parents, who had always been repelled by the intellect they had spawned. Gwen felt warmth seeping through her. A cog slipped into motion in her mind. It creaked somewhat from long idleness. She thought:
He's in love with me!
She wanted to hug him.

“We seem to be at a stalemate,” muttered Owling.

Finnister said: “But we can't just—”

“Shut up!” ordered Owling. “He'll do it! Can't you see that?”

“But if we draft—”

“He'll do it for sure, then! Buy some other agency to run the campaign.”

“But we could turn around and draft—”

“You can't draft everybody who disagrees with you, woman! Not in this country! You'd start a revolution!”

“I…” Finnister said helplessly.

“And it's not just us he'd ruin,” said Owling. “The whole service. He'd strike right at the money. I know his type. He wasn't bluffing. It'd be catastrophic!”

Owling shook his head, seeing a parade of crumbling military projects pass before his mind's eye, all falling into an abyss labeled “NSF.”

“You are an intelligent man, General Owling,” said Battlemont.

“That Psych Branch!” snarled Owling. “Them and their bright ideas!”

“I told you they were fuzzyheads,” said Gwen.

“You be still, Gwen,” said Battlemont.

“Yes, André.”