Frank Herbert - Operation Syndrome

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Operation Syndrome
Frank Herbert, 1954
Scanned by Anaerobic
Honolulu is quiet, the dead buried, the rubble of buildings cleaned away. A salvage barge
rocks in the Pacific swell off Diamond Head. Divers follow a bubble trail down into the green
water to the wreck of the Stateside skytrain. The Scramble Syndrome did this. Ashore, in
converted barracks, psychologists work fruitlessly in the aftermath of insanity. This is where
the Scramble Syndrome started: one minute the city was peaceful; a clock tick later the city
was mad.
In forty days -- nine cities infected.
The twentieth century's Black Plague.
SEATTLE
First a ringing in the ears, fluting up to a whistle. The whistle became the warning blast of
a nightmare train roaring clackety-clack, clackety-clack across his dream.
A psychoanalyst might have enjoyed the dream as a clinical study. This psychoanalyst was
not studying the dream; he was having it. He clutched the sheet around his neck, twisted
silently on the bed, drawing his knees under his chin.
The train whistle modulated into the contralto of an expensive chanteuse singing "Insane
Crazy Blues." The dream carried vibrations of fear and wildness.
"A million dollars don't mean a thing -- "
Hoarse voice riding over clarion brass, bumping of drums, clarinet squealing like an angry
horse.
A dark-skinned singer with electric blue eyes and dressed in black stepped away from a red
backdrop. She opened her arms to an unseen audience. The singer, the backdrop lurched into
motion, revolving faster and faster and faster until it merged into a pinpoint of red light. The
red light dilated to the bell mouth of a trumpet sustaining a minor note.
The music shrilled; it was a knife cutting his brain.
Dr. Eric Ladde awoke. He breathed rapidly; he oozed perspiration. Still he heard the singer,
the music.
I'm dreaming that I'm awake, he thought.
He peeled off the top sheet, slipped his feet out, put them on the warm floor. Presently, he
stood up, walked to the window, looked down on the moontrail shimmering across Lake
Washington. He touched the sound switch beside the window and now he could hear the night
-- crickets, spring peepers at the lakeshore, the far hum of a skytrain.
The singing remained.
He swayed, gripped at the windowsill.
Scramble Syndrome --
He turned, examined the bedside newstape: no mention of Seattle. Perhaps he was safe --
illness. But the music inside his head was no illness.
He made a desperate clutch for self-control, shook his, head, banged his ear with the palm
of his hand. The singing persisted. He looked to the bedside clock -- 1:05 A.M., Friday, May
14, 1999.
Inside his head the music stopped. But now -- Applause! A roar of clapping, cries, stamping
of feet. Eric rubbed his head.
I'm not insane ... I'm not insane --
He slipped into his dressing gown, went into the kitchen cubicle of his bachelor residence.
He drank water, yawned, held his breath -- anything to drive away the noise, now a
chicken-haggle of talking, clinking, slithering of feet.
He made himself a highball, splashed the drink at the back of his throat. The sounds inside
his head turned off. Eric looked at the empty glass in his hand, shook his head.
A new specific for insanity -- alcohol! He smiled wryly. And every day I tell my patients
that drinking is no solution. He tasted a bitter thought: Maybe I should have joined that
therapy team, not stayed here trying to create a machine to cure the insane. If only they
hadn't laughed at me --
He moved a fibreboard box to make room beside the sink, put down his glass. A notebook
protruded from the box, sitting atop a mound of electronic parts. He picked up the notebook,
stared at his own familiar block printing on the cover: Amanti Teleprobe -- Test Book IX.
They laughed at the old doctor, too, he thought. Laughed him right into an asylum. Maybe
that's where I'm headed -- along with everyone else in the world.
He opened the notebook, traced his finger along the diagram of his latest experimental
circuit. The teleprobe in his basement laboratory still carried the wiring, partially dismantled.
What was wrong with it?
He closed the notebook, tossed it back into the box. His thoughts hunted through the
theories stored in his mind, the knowledge saved from a thousand failures. Fatigue and
despondency pulled at him. Yet, he knew that the things Freud, Jung, Adler and all the others
had sought in dreams and mannerisms hovered just beyond his awareness in an electronic
tracer circuit.
He wandered back into his study-bedroom, crawled into the bed. He practiced yoga
breathing until sleep washed over him. The singer, the train, the whistle did not return.
Morning lighted the bedroom. He awoke, trailing fragments of his nightmare into
consciousness, aware that his appointment book was blank until ten o'clock. The bedside
newstape offered a long selection of stories, most headed "Scramble Syndrome." He punched
code letters for eight items, flipped the machine to audio and listened to the news while
dressing.
Memory of his nightmare nagged at him. He wondered, "How many people awake in the
night, asking themselves, 'Is it my turn now?' "
He selected a mauve cape, drew it over his white coveralls. Retrieving the notebook from
the box in the kitchen, he stepped out into the chill spring morning. He turned up the
temperature adjustment of his coveralls. The unitube whisked him to the Elliott Bay
waterfront. He ate at a seafood restaurant, the teleprobe notebook open beside his plate.
After breakfast, he found an empty bench outside facing the bay, sat down, opened the
notebook. He found himself reluctant to study the diagrams, stared out at the bay.
Mists curled from the gray water, obscuring the opposite shore. Somewhere in the drift a
purse seiner sounded its hooter. Echoes bounced off the buildings behind him. Early workers
hurried past, voices stilled: thin look of faces, hunted glances -- the uniform of fear. Coldness
from the bench seeped through his clothing. He shivered, drew a deep breath of the salt air.
The breeze off the bay carried essence of seaweed, harmonic on the dominant bitter musk of
a city's effluvia. Seagulls haggled over a morsel in the tide rip. The papers on his lap fluttered.
He held them down with one hand, watching the people.
I'm procrastinating, he thought. It's a luxury my profession can ill afford nowadays.
A woman in a red fur cape approached, her sandals tapping a swift rhythm on the
concrete. Her cape billowed behind in a puff of breeze.
He looked up to her face framed in dark hair. Every muscle in his body locked. She was the
woman of his nightmare down to the minutest detail! His eyes followed her. She saw him
staring, looked away, walked past.
Eric fumbled his papers together, closed the notebook and ran after her. He caught up,
matched his steps to hers, still staring, unthinking. She looked at him, flushed, looked away.
"Go away or I'll call a cop!"
"Please, I have to talk to you."
"I said go away." She increased her pace; he matched it.
"Please forgive me, but I dreamed about you last night. You see -- "
She stared straight ahead.
"I've been told that one before! Go away!"
"But you don't understand."
She stopped, turned and faced him, shaking with anger. "But I do understand! You saw my
show last night! You've dreamed about me!" She wagged her head. "Miss Lanai, I must get to
know you!"
Eric shook his head. "But I've never even heard of you or seen you before."
"Well! I'm not accustomed to being insulted either!" She whirled, walked away briskly, the
red cape flowing out behind her. Again he caught up with her.
"Please -- "
"I'll scream!"
"I'm a psychoanalyst."
She hesitated, slowed, stopped. A puzzled expression flowed over her face. "Well, that's a
new approach."
He took advantage of her interest. "I really did dream about you. It was most disturbing. I
couldn't shut it off."
Something in his voice, his manner -- She laughed, "A real dream was bound to show up
some day."
"I'm Dr. Eric Ladde."
She glanced at the caduceus over his breast pocket. "I'm Colleen Lanai; I sing."
He winced. "I know."
"I thought you'd never heard of me."
"You sang in my dream."
"Oh." A pause. "Are you really a psychoanalyst?"
He slipped a card from his breast pocket; handed it to her. She looked at it.
"What does 'Teleprobe Diagnosis' mean?"
"That's an instrument I use."
She returned the card, linked an arm through his, set an easy, strolling pace. "All right,
doctor. You tell me about your dream and I'll tell you about my headaches. Fair exchange?"
She peered up at him from under thick eyelashes.
"Do you have headaches?"
"Terrible headaches." She shook her head.
Eric looked down at her. Some of the nightmare unreality returned. He thought, "What am I
doing here? One doesn't dream about a strange face and then meet her in the flesh the next
day. The next thing I know the whole world of my unconscious will come alive."
"Could it be this Syndrome thing?" she asked. "Ever since we were in Los Angeles I've -- "
She chewed at her lip.
He stared at her. "You were in Los Angeles?"
"We got out just a few hours before that ... before -- " She shuddered. "Doctor, what's it
like to be crazy?"
He hesitated. "It's no different from being sane -- for the person involved." He looked out
at the mist lifting from the bay. "The Syndrome appears similar to other forms of insanity. It's
as though something pushed people over their lunacy thresholds. It's strange; there's a rather
well denned radius of about sixty miles which it saturated. Atlanta and Los Angeles, for
instance, and Lawton, had quite sharp lines of demarcation: people on one side of a street
got it; people on the other side didn't. We suspect there's a contamination period during
which -- " He paused, looked down at her, smiled. "And all you asked was a simple question.
This is my lecture personality. I wouldn't worry too much about those headaches; probably
diet, change of climate, maybe your eyes. Why don't you get a complete physical?"
She shook her head. "I've had six physicals since we left Karachi: same thing -- four new
diets." She shrugged. "Still I have headaches."
Eric jerked to a stop, exhaled slowly. "You were in Karachi, too?"
"Why, yes; that was the third place we hit after Honolulu."
He leaned toward her. "And Honolulu?"
She-frowned. "What is this, a cross-examination?" She waited. "Well -- "
He swallowed, thought, How can one person have been in these cities the Syndrome hit
and be so casual about it?
She tapped a foot. "Cat got your tongue?"
He thought, She's so flippant about it.
He ticked off the towns on his fingers. "You were in Los Angeles, Honolulu, Karachi; you've
hit the high spots of Syndrome contamination and -- "
An animal cry, sharp, exclamatory, burst from her. "It got all of those places?"
He thought, How could anyone be alive and not know exactly where the Syndrome has
been?
He asked, "Didn't you know?"
She shook her head, a numb motion, eyes wide, staring. "But Pete said -- " She stopped.
"I've been so busy learning new numbers. We're reviving the old time hot jazz."
"How could you miss it? TV is full of it, the newstapes, the transgraphs."
She shrugged. "I've just been so busy. And I don't like to think about such things. Pete said
-- " She shook her head. "You know, this is the first time I've been out alone for a walk in
over a month. Pete was asleep and -- " Her expression softened. "That Pete; he must not
have wanted me to worry."
"If you say so, but -- " He stopped. "Who's Pete?"
"Haven't you heard of Pete Serantis and the musikron?"
"What's a musikron?"
She shook back a curl of dark hair. "Have your little joke, doctor."
"No, seriously. What's a musikron?"
She frowned. "You really don't know what the musikron is?"
He shook his head.
She chuckled, a throaty sound, controlled. "Doctor, you talk about my not knowing about
Karachi and Honolulu. Where have you been hiding your head? Variety has us at the top of the
heap."
He thought, "She's serious!"
A little stiffly, he said, "Well, I've been quite busy with a research problem of my own. It
deals with the Syndrome."
"Oh." She turned, looked at the gray waters of the bay, turned back. She twisted her
hands together. "Are you sure about Honolulu?"
"Is your family there?"
She shook her head. "I have no family. Just friends."
She looked up at him, eyes shining. "Did it get ... everybody?"
He nodded, thought: She needs something to distract her attention.
He said, "Miss Lanai, could I ask a favor?" He plunged ahead, not waiting for an answer.
"You've been three places where the Syndrome hit. Maybe there's a clue in your patterns.
Would you consent to undergoing a series of tests at my lab? They wouldn't take long."
"I couldn't possibly; I have a show to do tonight. I just sneaked out for a few minutes by
myself. I'm at the Gweduc Room. Pete may wake up and -- " She focused on his pleading
expression. "I'm sorry, doctor. Maybe some other time. You wouldn't find anything important
from me anyway."
He shrugged, hesitated. "But I haven't told you about my dream."
"You tempt me, doctor. I've heard a lot of phony dream reports. I'd appreciate the McCoy
for just once. Why don't you walk me back to the Gweduc Room? It's only a couple of blocks."
"Okay."
She took his arm.
"Half a loaf -- "
He was a thin man with a twisted leg, a pinched, hating face. A cane rested against his
knee. Around him wove a spiderweb maze of wires -- musikron. On his head, a dome-shaped
hood. A spy, unsuspected, he looked out through a woman's eyes at a man who had identified
himself as Dr. Eric Ladde. The thin man sneered, heard through the woman's ears: "Half a loaf
-- "
On the bayside walk, Eric and Colleen matched steps.
"You never did tell me what a musikron is."
Her laughter caused a passing couple to turn and stare. "O.K. But I still don't understand.
We've been on TV for a month."
He thought, She thinks I'm a fuddy; probably am!
He said, "I don't subscribe to the entertainment circuits. I'm just on the science and news
networks."
She shrugged. "Well, the musikron is something like a recording and playback machine; only
the operator mixes in any new sounds he wants. He wears a little metal bowl on his head and
just thinks about the sounds -- the musikron plays them." She stole a quick glance at him,
looked ahead. "Everyone says it's a fake; it really isn't."
Eric stopped, pulled her to a halt. "That's fantastic. Why -- " He paused, chuckled. "You
know, you happen to be talking to one of the few experts in the world on this sort of thing. I
have an encephalo-recorder in my basement lab that's the last word in teleprobes ... that's
what you're trying to describe." He smiled. "The psychiatrists of this town may think I'm a
young upstart, but they send me their tough diagnostic cases." He looked down at her. "So
let's just admit your Pete's machine is artistic showmanship, shall we?"
"But it isn't just showmanship. I've heard the records before they go into the machine and
when they come out of it."
Eric chuckled.
She frowned. "Oh, you're so supercilious."
Eric put a hand on her arm. "Please don't be angry. It's just that I know this field. You don't
want to admit that Pete has fooled you along with all the others."
She spoke in a slow, controlled cadence: "Look ... doctor ... Pete ... was ... one ... of ...
the ... inventors ... of ... the ... musikron ... Pete ... and ... old ... Dr ... Amanti." She
squinted her eyes, looking up at him. "You may be a big wheel in this business, but I know
what I've heard."
"You said Pete worked on this musikron with a doctor. What did you say that doctor's name
was?"
"Oh, Dr. Carlos Amanti. His name's on a little plate inside the musikron."
Eric shook his head. "Impossible. Dr. Carlos Amanti is in an asylum."
She nodded. "That's right; Wailiku Hospital for the Insane. That's where they worked on it."
Eric's expression was cautious, hesitant. "And you say when Pete thinks about the sounds,
the machine produces them?"
"Certainly."
"Strange I'd never heard about this musikron before."
"Doctor, there are a lot of things you've never heard about."
He wet his lips with his tongue. "Maybe you're right." He took her arm, set a rapid pace
down the walkway. "I want to see this musikron."
In Lawton, Oklahoma, long rows of prefabricated barracks swelter on a sunbaked flat. In
each barracks building, little cubicles; in each cubicle, a hospital bed; on each hospital bed, a
human being. Barracks XRO-29: a psychiatrist walks down the hall, behind him an orderly
pushing a cart. On the cart, hypodermic needles, syringes, antiseptics, sedatives, test tubes.
The psychiatrist shakes his head.
"Bafly, they certainly nailed this thing when they called it the Scramble Syndrome. Stick an
egg-beater into every psychosis a person could have, mix 'em up, turn 'em all on."
The orderly grunts, stares at the psychiatrist.
The psychiatrist looks back. "And we're not making any progress on this thing. It's like
bailing out the ocean with a sieve."
Down the hallway a man screams. Their footsteps quicken.
The Gweduc Room's elevator dome arose ahead of Eric and Colleen, a half-melon inverted
on the walkway. At the top of the dome a blue and red script-ring circled slowly, spelling out,
"Colleen Lanai with Pete Serantis and the Musikron."
On the walkway before the dome a thin man, using a cane to compensate for a limp, paced
back and forth. He looked up as Eric and Colleen approached.
"Pete," she said.
摘要：

OperationSyndromeFrankHerbert,1954ScannedbyAnaerobicHonoluluisquiet,thedeadburied,therubbleofbuildingscleanedaway.AsalvagebargerocksinthePacificswelloffDiamondHead.DiversfollowabubbletraildownintothegreenwatertothewreckoftheStatesideskytrain.TheScrambleSyndromedidthis.Ashore,inconvertedbarracks,psyc...

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