Herbert, Frank - Hellstrom's Hive

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Hellstrom's Hive
Frank Herbert
This work was originally published under the title PROJECT 40 in Galaxy Magazine.
Words of the brood mother, Trova Hellstrom. I welcome the day when I will go into the vats and
become one with all of our people.
(Dated October 26, 1896.)
THE MAN with the binoculars squirmed forward on his stomach through the sun-warmed brown
grass. There were insects in the grass and he did not like insects, but he ignored them and
concentrated on reaching the oak shadows at the hillcrest with minimum disturbance of the growth
that concealed him even while it dropped stickers and crawling things on his exposed skin.
His narrow face, swarthy and deeply seamed, betrayed his age -- fifty-one years -- but the hair,
black and oily, that poked from beneath his khaki sun hat belied these years. So did his
movements, quick and confident.
At the hillcrest, he drew several deep breaths while dusting the binocular lenses with a clean linen
handkerchief. He parted the dry grass then, focused the binoculars, and stared through them at the
farm that filled the valley below the hill. The haze of the hot autumn afternoon complicated his
examination as did the binoculars, a pair of ten-sixties of special manufacture. He had trained
himself to use them the way he fired a rifle: hold breath, concentrate on rapid scanning with only
eye movements, keeping immobile the expensive instrument of glass and metal that brought
distances into such immediate detail.
It was an oddly isolated farm that met his amplified gaze. The valley was about half a mile long,
perhaps five hundred yards wide for most of its length, narrowing at the upper end where a thin
trickle of water spilled down a black rock face. The farm buildings occupied cleared ground on the
far side of a narrow stream whose meandering, willow-bordered bed was only a thin reminder of its
spring affluence. Patches of wavering green moss marked the stream's rocks, and there were a few
shallow pools where water appeared not to flow at all.
The buildings sat back from the stream -- a cluster of weathered boards and blind glass at rustic
variance with the neatness of harvested plantings that ran in parallel rows within cleanly squared
fencelines over the rest of the valley. There was the house, its basic unit in the old saltbox pattern,
but with two added wings and a bay window on the wing that pointed toward the creek. To the
right of the house there was a large barn with big doors on the second level and an upjutting cupola
arrangement along its ridgeline: no windows there, but louvered ventilators were spaced along its
entire length and at the visible end. Up on the hill behind the barn there stretched a decaying feed
shed; a smaller building on this end that could be an old outhouse; another small wooden structure
higher on the hill behind the farmhouse, possibly an old pumphouse; and, down by the higher main
fence at the valley's northern end, a squat concrete block about twenty feet on a side and with flat
roof: new pumphouse was the guess, but it looked like a defensive blockhouse.
The watcher, whose name was Carlos Depeaux, made a mental note that the valley fitted the
descriptions. It was full of default messages: no people stirring about on the land (although a
distinctly audible and irritating machinery hum issued from the barn), no road coming up from the
north gate to the farm buildings (the nearest road, a one-way track, came up to the valley from the
north but ended at the gate beyond the blockhouse). A footpath with narrow indentations
apparently from a wheelbarrow stretched from the gate to the farmhouse and barn.
The valley's sides were steep farther up and in places almost craggy with brown rock outcroppings
at the top on the far side. There was a similar rocky upthrust about a hundred feet to Depeaux's
right. A few animal tracks wound their dusty ribbons through oak and madrona along the valley
sides. The black rock of the tiny waterfall closed off the southern end where a thin cinnamon
tracery of water spilled into the stream. To the north, the land undulated away out of the valley,
widening into pasture meadows and occasional clumps of pine intermingled with oak and madrona.
Cattle grazed in the far distance to the north and, although there were no fences immediately
outside the farm's barrier, tall grass revealed that the cattle did not venture too near this valley.
That, too, accorded with the reports.
Having satisfied himself that the valley still matched its descriptions, Depeaux wriggled backward
behind the crest, found a shaded patch beneath an oak. There, he turned onto his back and brought
his small knapsack into a position where he could explore its interior. He knew his clothing would
blend well with the grass, but he still hesitated to sit up, preferring to wait and listen. The sack
contained his binocular case, a well-thumbed copy of Naming the Birds at a Glance, a good thirty-
five-millimeter camera with a long lens, two thin beef sandwiches wrapped in plastic, an orange,
and a plastic bottle of warm water.
He brought out a sandwich, lay for a moment staring up through the oak's branches, his pale gray
eyes not really focused on anything in particular. Once, he pulled at the black hairs protruding
from his nostrils. This was an extremely odd situation. Here it was mid-October and the Agency
still had not been able to observe the farmers in that valley through an entire harvest. The crops
had been harvested, however. That was obvious at a glance. Depeaux was not a farmer, but he
thought he recognized the stubby remains of corn plantings, although the stalks had been removed.
He wondered why they had cleared away the stalks. Other farms he had seen in the long drive to
this valley were still littered with harvest remains. He wasn't sure, but he thought this was another
default message in the valley that interested his Agency so much. The uncertainty, the gap in his
knowledge, bothered him, however, and he made a note to check on this. Did they burn the stalks?
Presently, sensing no watchers around him, Depeaux sat up with his back against the oak's bole, ate
the sandwich, and drank some of the warm water. It was the first food he had allowed himself
since before daylight. He decided to save the orange and other sandwich for later. It had been a
long, slow approach to this vantage point from the place far back in the pines where he had
concealed his bicycle. The van and the stake-out where he had left Tymiena were another half
hour's bicycle ride beyond that. He had decided not to venture back before nightfall and knew he
was going to be very hungry before he got back to the van. Not the first time on such a job. The
peculiar nature of this case had become increasingly obvious the nearer he came to the farm. Well
-- he'd been warned about that. Stubborn persistence had kept him pressing forward past the
imaginary hunger line he knew he'd have to pass on the return. The countryside was much more
open and empty of concealment than he'd expected from the aerial photos, although Porter's reports
had made specific mention of this. Depeaux had expected to approach from a different direction,
however, and find his own cover. But there had been, finally, only the tall brown grass to conceal
his stalking climb across a wide pastureland and up to the hill.
The sandwich finished and half his water gone, Depeaux sealed the bottle, restored it and the rest of
the food to his pack. For a moment, he peered along his back trail to see if anyone had followed.
There was no sign, but he couldn't put down an uneasy feeling that he was watched. The lowering
sun was picking up his trail with a shadow line, too. No helping that; the crushed grass represented
a track, and it could be traced.
He had driven through the town of Fosterville at 3:00 A.M., curious about the sleeping community
where, so he was told, they generally refused to answer questions about the farm. There had been a
new motel on the outskirts and Tymiena had suggested they spend a night there before
reconnoitering the farm, but Depeaux was playing a hunch on this case. What if there were
watchers in the town to report strangers to the farm?
The Farm.
It had been capitalized in all of the Agency's reports for some time, from quite a while before Porter
had turned up missing. Depeaux had driven on to a turnoff several miles below the valley and had
left Tymiena there shortly before dawn. Now, he was a bird watcher, but there were no birds
visible.
Depeaux returned to the gap in the grass and had another look into the valley. There had been a
massacre of Indians here in the late 1860's -- farmers killing off the remnants of a "wild" tribe to
remove a threat to grazing stock. As a marker of that all but forgotten day, the valley had been
named "Guarded." According to a historical footnote Depeaux had located, the original name of
the valley was Running Water, after the Indian name. Generations of white farming, however, had
depleted the water table and now the water did not run year round.
As he studied the valley, Depeaux thought about the record of human nature carried in such names.
A casual observer passing this way without doing his homework might think the valley had
achieved its name because of its setting. Guarded Valley was a closed-in place with apparently
only one real avenue of easy access. The hillsides were steep, a cliff marked the upper end, and
only to the north did the valley open out. Appearances could be deceptive, though, Depeaux
reminded himself. He had reached his vantage point successfully; his binoculars might just as well
be a violent weapon. In a sense, they were: a subtle weapon aimed at the destruction of Guarded
Valley.
For Depeaux, that pattern of destruction had begun when Joseph Merrivale, the Agency's
operations director, had called him in for an assignment conference. Merrivale, a native of Chicago
who affected a heavy English accent, had begun by grinning at Carlos and saying, "You may have
to waste a few of your fellow humans on this one."
They all knew, of course, how much Depeaux hated personal violence.
From Hellstrom's Hive Manual. The significant evolutionary achievement of the insects, more than
a hundred million years ago, was the reproductive neuter. This fixed the colony as the unit of
natural selection and removed all previous limits on the amount of specialization (expressed as
caste differences) that a colony could tolerate. It is clear that if we vertebrates can take the same
route, our individual members with their vastly larger brains will become incomparably superior
specialists. No other species will be able to stand against us, ever -- not even the old human species
from which we will evolve our new humans.
The short man with the deceptively youthful face listened attentively as Merrivale briefed Depeaux.
It was early on a Monday morning, not yet nine o'clock, and the short man, Edward Janvert, had
been surprised that an assignment conference could be called that early on such brief notice. There
was trouble somewhere in the Agency, he suspected.
Janvert, who was called Shorty by most of his associates and who managed to conceal his hatred of
the name, was only four feet nine inches tall and had passed as a teen-ager on more than one
Agency assignment. The furniture in Merrivale's office was never small enough for him, however,
and he was squirming on a big leather chair within a half hour.
It was a subtle case, Janvert observed presently, the type he had learned to distrust. Their target
was an entomologist, a Dr. Nils Hellstrom, and it was clear from Merrivale's careful choice of
words that Hellstrom had friends in high places. There were always so many toes around to be
avoided in this business. You couldn't separate politics from the Agency's version of a traditional
security investigation, and these investigations inevitably took on economic overtones.
When he'd called Janvert, Merrivale had said only that it was necessary to keep a second team in
reserve for possible assistance in this case. Someone had to be ready to step in on a moment's
notice.
They expect casualties, Janvert told himself.
He glanced covertly at Clovis Carr, whose almost boyish figure was dwarfed in another of
Merrivale's big wing chairs. Janvert suspected Merrivale had decorated the office to give it the air
of an expensive British club, something to go with his bogus accent.
Do they know about Clovis and me? Janvert wondered, his attention wandering under the onslaught
of Merrivale's rambling style. To the Agency, love was a weapon to be used whenever it was
needed. Janvert tried to keep his gaze away from Clovis, but he kept glancing back at her in spite
of himself. She was short, only half an inch taller than himself, a wiry brunette with a pert oval
face and a pale northern complexion that turned to burn at the drop of a sunbeam. There were
times when Janvert felt his love for her as an actual physical pain.
Merrivale was describing what he called "Hellstrom's cover," which turned out to be the making of
documentary films about insects.
"Deucedly curious, don't you think?" Merrivale asked.
For not the first time during his four years in the Agency Janvert wished he were out of it. He had
come while a third-year law student working the summer as a clerk in the Justice Department. In
that capacity, he had found a file folder accidentally left on a table of his division's law library.
Curious, he had glanced into the file and found a highly touchy report on a translator in a foreign
embassy.
His first reaction to the file's contents had been a kind of sorrowful outrage that governments still
resorted to such forms of espionage. Something about the file told him it represented an intricately
complex operation of his own government.
Janvert had come up through the "campus unrest" period into the study of law. He had seen the law
at first as a possible way out of the world's many dilemmas, but that had proved a will-o'-the-wisp.
The law had led him only into that library with its damnable misplaced file folder. One thing had
led inevitably to another, just as it always did, without a completely defined cause-and-effect
relationship. The immediate thing, however, was that he had been caught reading the file by its
owner.
What followed was curiously low key. There had been a period of pressures, some subtle and some
not quite subtle, designed to recruit him into the Agency that had produced the file. Janvert came
from a good family, they explained. His father was an important businessman (owner-operator of a
small-town hardware store). At first, it had been vaguely amusing.
Then the pay offers (plus expenses) had climbed embarrassingly high and he had begun to wonder.
There had been startling praise for his abilities and aptitudes, which Janvert had suspected the
Agency invented on the spur of the moment because he'd had difficulty seeing himself in their
descriptions.
Finally, the gloves had come off. He'd been told pointedly that he might find other government
employment difficult to obtain. This had almost put his back up, because it was common
knowledge that he'd set his sights on the Justice Department. In the end, he'd said he would try it
for a few years if he could continue his law education. By that time, he'd been dealing with the
Chief's right-hand man, Dzule Peruge, and Peruge had evinced profound delight at this prospect.
"The Agency needs men with legal training," Peruge said. "We need them desperately at times."
Peruge's next words had startled Janvert.
"Has anyone ever told you that you could pass for a teen-ager? That could be very useful,
especially in someone with legal training." This last had come out with all the overtones of an
afterthought.
The facts were that Janvert had always been kept too busy to complete his valuable legal training.
"Maybe next year, Shorty. You can see for yourself how crucial your present case is. Now, I want
you and Clovis --"
That had been how he'd first met Clovis, who also had that useful appearance of youth. Sometimes,
she'd been his sister; other times they'd been runaway lovers whose parents "didn't understand."
The realization had come rather slowly to Janvert that the file he had found and read was more
sensitive than he had imagined and that a probable alternative to his joining the Agency had been a
markerless grave in some southern swamp. He had never participated in a "swamping," as Agency
old-timers put it, but he knew for a fact that they occurred.
That's how it was in the Agency, he learned.
The Agency.
No one ever called it anything else. The Agency's economic operations, the spying and other forms
of espionage only confirmed Janvert's early cynicism. He saw the world without masks, telling
himself that the great mass of his fellows had no realization whatsoever that they already lived in
what was, for all intents and purposes, a police state. This had been inevitable from the formation
of the first police state that achieved any degree of world power. The only apparent way to oppose
a police state was by forming another police state. It was a condition that fostered its mimic forces
on all sides (so Clovis Carr and Edward Janvert agreed). Everything they saw in the society took
on police-state character. Janvert said it. "This is the time of the police states."
They made this a tenet of their pact to leave the Agency together at the first opportunity. That their
feelings for each other and the pact thus engendered were dangerous, they had no doubts. To leave
the Agency would require new identities and a subsequent life of obscurity whose nature they
understood all too well. Agents left the service through death in action or a carefully guarded
retirement -- or they sometimes just disappeared and, somehow, all of their fellows got the message
not to ask questions. The most persistent retirement rumor in the Agency mentioned the farm;
decidedly not Hellstrom's farm. It was, instead, a carefully supervised rest home that none located
with precise geography. Some said northern Minnesota. The story described high fences, guards,
dogs, golf, tennis, swimming, splendid fishing on an enclosed lake, posh private cabins for
"guests," even quarters for married couples, but no children. Having children in this business was
considered equal to a death sentence.
Both Carr and Janvert agreed they wanted children. Escape would have to occur while they were
overseas together, they decided. Forged papers, new faces, money, the requisite language facility --
all of the physical necessities were within reach except one: the opportunity. And never once did
they suspect adolescent fantasy in such dreams -- nor in the work that occupied their lives. They
would escape -- someday.
Depeaux was objecting to something in Merrivale's briefing now. Janvert tried to pick up the
thread: something about a young woman trying to escape from Hellstrom's farm.
"Porter's reasonably certain they didn't kill her," Merrivale said. "They just took her back inside
that barn that we are told is the main studio for Hellstrom's movie operation."
From the Agency report on Project 40. The papers were dropped from a folder by a man identified
as a Hellstrom aide. The incident occurred in the MIT main library early last March as explained in
the covering notes. The label "Project 40" was scribbled at the top of each page. From an
examination of the notes and diagrams (see enclosure A), our experts postulate developmental
plans for what they describe as "a toroidal field disrupter." This is explained as an electron (or
particle) pump capable of influencing physical matter at a distance. The papers are, unfortunately,
incomplete. No definite line of development can be determined from them, although our own
laboratories are exploring the provocative implications. It seems obvious, however, that someone
in the Hellstrom organization is at work on an operational prototype. We cannot be certain (1)
whether it will work or (2) if it works, to what use it will be put. However, in view of Dr.
Zinstrom's report (see enclosure G) we must assume the worst. Zinstrom assures us privately that
the theory behind such a development is sound and that a toroidal field disrupter large enough,
amplified enough, and set to the correct resonance could shatter the earth's crust with disastrous
consequences for all life on our planet.
"This is really a plum of a case we're handing to Carlos," Merrivale said. He touched his upper lip,
brushing an imaginary mustache.
Carr, who was seated slightly behind Depeaux and facing Merrivale, noted the flush of sudden red
at Depeaux's neck. He didn't like that obvious, pandering statement. The morning sun was shining
in the window to Merrivale's right, reflecting off the desk with a yellow brown underlight which
imparted a saturnine cast to the operations director's face.
"That movie-company front has got Peruge's wind up, I must say," Merrivale said. (Depeaux
actually shuddered.)
Carr coughed to conceal a sudden hysterical desire to laugh aloud.
"Under the circumstances, we don't dare go in and root them out, as I'm sure you can understand,"
Merrivale said. "Not enough evidence in our kip. Your job, that. This movie front does offer one
of our most promising points of entry, however."
"What's the subject matter of this film?" Janvert asked.
They all turned to look at him and Carr wondered why Eddie had interrupted. He seldom did that
sort of thing casually. Was he fishing for some of the information behind Merrivale's briefing?
"I thought I said," Merrivale said. "Insects! They're making a film about bloody insects. A bit of a
surprise, that, when Peruge first mentioned it. I confess my own first guess was that they were
making unsavory sex films and -- ahhh, blackmailing someone in a sensitive position."
Depeaux, sweating under a profound aversion to Merrivale's bogus accent and manner, squirmed in
his chair, resenting the interruption. Get on with it! he thought.
"I'm not sure I understand the sensitive conditions around Hellstrom's operation," Janvert said. "I'd
thought the film would supply a clue."
Merrivale sighed. Bloody nitpicker! He said, "Hellstrom is something of a madman on the subject
of ecology. I'm sure you know how politically sensitive that subject is. There's also the fact that he
is employed as a consultant by several, I repeat, several persons of extremely powerful influence. I
could name one senator and at least three congressmen. If we were to move frontally against
Hellstrom, I'm sure the repercussions would be severe."
"Ecology, eh," Depeaux said, trying to get Merrivale back on track.
"Yes, ecology!" Merrivale made the word sound as though he wanted it to rhyme with sodomy.
"The man has access to considerable sums of money, too, and we'd like to know about that."
Depeaux nodded, said, "Let's get back to that valley."
"Yes, yes indeed," Merrivale agreed. "You've all seen the map. This little valley's been in
Hellstrom's family since his grandmother's day. Trova Hellstrom, pioneer, widow, that sort of
thing."
Janvert rubbed a hand across his eyes. He was sure from Merrivale's description of Trova
Hellstrom that the intended picture was of a tiny "widow woman" fighting off attacking redskins
from a blazing log cabin, her brats passing a bucket brigade behind her. The man was
unbelievable.
"Here's the map," Merrivale said, extracting it from the papers on his desk. "Southeastern Oregon,
right here." He touched the map with a finger. "Guarded Valley. The closest civilization is this
town here with the unlikely appellation of Fosterville."
Carr wondered: Why an unlikely name? She glanced covertly at Janvert, but he was examining the
palm of his right hand as though he had just found something fascinating in it.
"And they do all of their filming in this valley?" Depeaux asked.
"Oh, no!" Merrivale protested. "My God, Carlos. Didn't you read enclosures R through W?"
"There were no such enclosures in my file," Depeaux said.
"Bloody hell!" Merrivale said. "Sometimes, I wonder how we ever get anything done correctly in
this establishment. Very well. I'll give you mine. Briefly, Hellstrom and his camera crews and
whatnot have been all over the bloody world: Kenya, Brazil, Southeast Asia, India -- it's all in
here." He tapped the papers on his desk. "You can see for yourself later."
"And this Project 40?" Depeaux asked.
"That's what attracted our attention," Merrivale explained. "The pertinent papers were copied and
the originals returned to where they were found. The Hellstrom aide subsequently returned for his
papers, found them where he expected, took them, and departed. Their significance was not
understood at the time. Purely routine. Our man on the library staff was curious, no more, but the
curiosity became increasingly intense as the papers were bounced upstairs. Unfortunately, we've
not had the opportunity to observe this particular Hellstrom aide since that moment. He apparently
is keeping to the farm. It is our belief, however, that Hellstrom is unaware that we know about his
little project."
"The speculation seems a little like science fiction, more than a little fantastic," Depeaux said.
Janvert nodded his agreement. Were those explicit suspicions the real reason the Agency was
prying into Hellstrom's affairs? Or was it possible that Hellstrom was merely developing a product
that threatened one of the groups that actually paid most of the Agency's expenses? You never
knew in this business.
"Haven't I heard of this Hellstrom before?" Carr asked. "Isn't he the entomologist who came out
against DDT when --"
"That's the chap!" Merrivale said. "Pure fanatic. Now, here's the farmstead plan, Carlos."
So much for my question, Carr thought. She curled her legs under her in the wing chair, glanced
openly at Janvert, who returned her stare with a grin. He's just been playing with Merrivale, she
realized, and he thinks I'm in the game.
Merrivale had a blueprint map on his desk now, unfolding it, indicating features on it with his long,
sensitive fingers. "Barn here - outbuildings -- main house. We have every reason to believe, as
those reports indicate, that the barn is Hellstrom's studio. Curious concrete structure here near the
entrance gate. Can't say what purpose it serves. Your job to find out."
"And you don't want us to go right in, nose around," Depeaux said. He frowned at the blueprint
map. This decision puzzled him. "The young woman who tried to get away --"
"Yes, that was March 20 last," Merrivale said. "Porter saw her run from the barn. She got as far as
the north gate here when she was apprehended by two men who came upon her from beyond the
fence. Their point of origin was not determined. They did, however, return her to the barn-studio."
"Porter's account says these people weren't wearing any clothes," Depeaux said. "It seems to me
that a report to the authorities giving a description of --"
"And we'd have had to explain why we were there, send our one man up against numerous
Hellstrom accomplices, all of this in the presence of the new morality that permeates this society."
You damned hypocrite! Carr thought. You know how the Agency uses sex for its own purposes.
Janvert leaned forward in his chair and said, "Merrivale, you're holding something back in this
case. I want to know what it is. We have Porter's report, but he's not here to amplify it. Is Porter
available?" He sat back. "A simple yes or no will suffice."
That's a dangerous tack to take, Eddie, Carr thought. She watched Merrivale intently to measure
his response.
"I can't say I care for your tone, Shorty," Merrivale said.
Depeaux leaned back, put a hand over his eyes.
"And I can't say I care for your secrecy," Janvert said. "We would like to know the things that are
not in these reports."
Depeaux dropped his hand, nodded. Yes, there were some things about this case . . .
"Impatience is not seemly in good agents," Merrivale said. "However, I can understand your
curiosity, and the need-to-know rule has not been applied in this case. Peruge was specific on that.
What has our wind up, as it were, is not just this Project 40 thing, but the accumulation of items, the
indications that Hellstrom's film activities are actually (he pronounced it exshooly, and once more
for emphasis) -- actually a cover for serious and highly subversive political activities."
Bullshit! Janvert thought.
"How serious?" Carr asked.
"Well -- Hellstrom has been nosing around the Nevada atomic-testing area. He conducts
entomological researches, as well, you see. His films are offered under the guise of documentary
productions. He has had atomic materials for his so-called researches and --"
"Why so-called?" Janvert asked. "Isn't it possible he's just what he --"
"Impossible!" Merrivale snorted. "Look, it's really all in the reports here. Observe especially the
indications that Hellstrom and his people may be interested in forming some sort of new communal
society. It's quite provocative. He and his film crew live that sort of life wherever they go -- off to
themselves, clubby -- and their preoccupation with the emerging African nations, the numerous
visits to the Nevada testing area, the ecology thing with its highly inflammatory nature, the --"
"Communist?" Carr interrupted.
"It's -- ahhh -- possible."
Janvert said, "Where's Porter?"
"That - ahh --" Merrivale pulled at his chin. "That's a bit sticky. I'm sure you understand the
delicacy of our position in all of --"
"I don't understand it," Janvert said. "What's happened to Porter?"
"That's one of the things we hope Carlos can ascertain," Merrivale said.
Depeaux turned a speculative look on Janvert, returned his attention to Merrivale, who had sunk
back into apparent concentration on the blueprint map.
"Porter's missing?" Depeaux asked.
"Somewhere around this farm," Merrivale said. He looked up as though just noticing Depeaux.
"Presumably."
摘要：

Hellstrom'sHiveFrankHerbertThisworkwasoriginallypublishedunderthetitlePROJECT40inGalaxyMagazine.Wordsofthebroodmother,TrovaHellstrom.IwelcomethedaywhenIwillgointothevatsandbecomeonewithallofourpeople.(DatedOctober26,1896.)THEMANwiththebinocularssquirmedforwardonhisstomachthroughthesun-warmedbrowngra...

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