Frank Herbert - The Eyes of Heisenberg

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Frank Herbert

THE EYES OF HEISENBERG (1966)

One

THEY would schedule a rain for this morning, Dr Thei Svengaard thought. Rain always

makes the parents uneasy... not to mention what it does to the doctors.

A gust of winter wetness rattled against the window behind his desk. He stood, thought of

muting the windows, but the Durants - this morning's parents - might be even more

alarmed by the unnatural silence on such a day.

Dr Svengaard stepped to the window, looked down at the thronging foot traffic - day

shifts going to their jobs in the megalopolis, night shifts headed towards their tumbled rest.

There was a sense of power and movement in the comings and goings of the people in spite

of their troglodyte existence. Most of them, he knew, were childless Sterries... sterile,

sterile. They came and they went, numbered, but numberless.

He had left the intercom open to his reception room and he could hear his nurse, Mrs.

Washington, distracting the Durants with questions and forms.

Routine.

That was the watchword. This must all appear normal, casual routine. The Durants and all

the others fortunate enough to be chosen and to become parents must never suspect the

truth.

Dr Svengaard steered his mind away from such thoughts, reminding himself that guilt

was not a permissible emotion for a member of the medical profession. Guilt led inevitably

to betrayal... and betrayal brought messy consequences. The Optimen were exceedingly

touchy where the breeding program was concerned.

Such a thought with its hint of criticism filled Svengaard with a momentary disquiet. He

swallowed, allowed his mind to dwell on the Folk response to the Optimen, They are the

power that loves us and cares for us.

With a sigh, he turned away from the window, skirted the desk and went through the

door that led via the ready room to the lab. In the ready room, he paused to check his

appearance in the mirror: gray hair, dark brown eyes, strong chin, high forehead and rather

grim lips beneath an aquiline nose. He'd always been rather proud of the remote dignity of

his appearance-cut and had come to terms with the need of adjusting the remoteness. Now,

he softened the set of his mouth, practiced a look of compassionate interest.

Yes, that would do for the Durants - granting the accuracy of their emotional profiles.

Nurse Washington was just ushering the Durants into the lab as Dr Svengaard entered

through his private door. The skylights above them drummed and hissed with the rain. Such

weather suddenly seemed to fit the room's mood: washed glass, steel, plasmeld and tile...

all impersonal. It rained on everyone... and all humans had to pass through a room such as

this... even the Optimen.

Dr Svengaard took an instant dislike to the parents. Harvey Durant was a lithe six-footer

with curly blond hair, light blue eyes. The face was wide with an apparent innocence and

youth. Lizbeth, his wife, stood almost the same height, equally blonde, equally blue-eyed

and young. Her figure suggested Valkyrie robustness. On a silver cord around her neck she

wore one of the omnipresent Folk talismans, a brass figure of the female Optiman, Calapine.

The breeder cult nonsense and religious overtones of the figure did not escape Dr

Svengaard. He suppressed a sneer.

The Durants were parents, however, and robust - living testimony to the skill of the

surgeon who had cut them. Dr Svengaard allowed himself a moment of pride in his

profession. Not many people could enter the tight little group of sub-cellular engineers who

kept human variety within bounds.

Nurse Washington paused in the door behind the Durants, said, 'Dr Svengaard, Harvey

and Lizbeth Durant.' She left without waiting for acknowledgments. Nurse Washington's

timing and discretion always were exquisitely correct.

The Durants, how nice,' Dr Svengaard said. 'I hope my nurse didn't bore you with all

those forms and questions. But I guess you knew you were letting yourselves in for all that

routine when you asked to watch.'

'We understand,' Harvey Durant said. And he thought, Asked to watch, indeed! Does this

old fake think he can pull his little tricks on us?

Dr Svengaard noted the rich, compelling baritone of the man's voice. It bothered him,

added to his dislike.

'We don't want to take any more of your time than absolutely necessary,' Lizbeth Durant

said. She clasped her husband's hand and through their secret code of finger pressures said:

'Do you read him? He doesn't like us.'

Harvey's fingers responded, 'He's a Sterne prig, so full of pride in his position that he's

half blind.'

The woman's no-nonsense tone annoyed Dr Svengaard. She already was staring around

the lab, quick, searching looks.I must keep control here, he thought. He crossed to them,

shook hands. Their palms were sweaty.

Nervous. Good, Dr Svengaard thought.

The sound of a viapump at his left seemed reassuringly loud to him then. You could count

on the pump to make parents nervous. That was why the pumps were loud. Dr Svengaard

turned toward the sound, indicated a sealed crystal vat on a force-field stand near the lab's

center. The pump sound came from the vat.

'Here we are,' Dr Svengaard said.

Lizbeth stared at the vat's milky translucent surface. She wet her lips with her tongue. 'In

there?'

'And as safe as can be,' Dr Svengaard said.

He cherished the small hope then that the Durants might yet leave, go home and await

the outcome.

Harvey took his wife's hand, patted it. He, too, stared at the vat. 'We understand you've

called in this specialist,' he said.

'Dr Potter,' Svengaard said. 'From Central.' He glanced at the nervous movements of the

Durants' hands, noting the omnipresent tattooed index fingers - gene type and station. They

could add the coveted 'V for viable now, he thought, and he suppressed a momentary

jealousy.

'Dr Potter, yes,' Harvey said. Through their hands, he signaled Lizbeth, 'Notice how he

scud Central?'

'How could I miss it?' she responded.

Central, he thought. The place conjured pictures of the lordly Optimen, but this made her

think of the Cyborgs who secretly opposed the Optimen, and the whole thing filled her with

profound disquiet. She could afford to think of nothing but her son now.

'We know Potter's the best there is,' she said, 'and we don't want you to think we're just

being emotional and fearful...'

'... but we're going to watch,' Harvey said. And he thought, This stiff-necked surgeon had

better realize we know our legal rights.

'I see,' Dr Svengaard said. Damn these fools! he thought. But he held his voice to a

soothing monotone and said, 'Your concern is a matter of record. I admire it. However, the

consequences...'

He left the words hanging there, reminding them that he had legal rights, too, could

make the cut with or without their permission, and couldn't be held responsible for any

upset to the parents. Public Law 10927 was clear and direct. Parents might invoke it for the

right to watch, but the cut would be made at the surgeon's discretion. The human race had

a planned future which excluded genetic monsters and wild deviants.

Harvey nodded, a quick and emphatic motion. He gripped his wife's hand tightly. Bits of

Folk horror stories and official myths trickled through his mind. He saw Svengaard partly

through this confusion of stories and partly through the clandestine forbidden literature

grudgingly provided by the Cyborgs to the Parents Underground - through Stedman and

Merck, through Shakespeare and Huxley. His youth had fed on such a limited part that he

knew superstition could not help but remain.

Lizbeth's nod came slower. She knew what their chief concern here had to be, but that

was still her son in the vat.

'Are you sure,' she asked, deliberately baiting Svengaard, 'that there's no pain?'

The extent of the Folk nonsense which bred in the necessary atmosphere of popular

ignorance filled Dr Svengaard with resentment. He knew he'd have to end this interview

quickly. The things he might be saying to these people kept intruding on his awareness,

interfering with what he had to say.

'That fertilized ovum has no nerve trains,' he said. 'It's physically less than three hours

old, its growth retarded by controlled nitrate respiration. Pain? The concept doesn't apply.'

The technical terms would have little meaning to them, Dr Svengaard knew, other than to

emphasize the distance between mere parents and a submolecular engineer.

'I guess that was rather foolish of me,' Lizbeth said. The... it's so simple, not really like a

human yet.' And she signaled to Harvey through their hands, 'What a simpleton he is! As

easy to read as a child.'

Rain beat a tarantella against the skylight. Dr Svengaard waited it out, then: 'Ah, now, let

us make no mistakes.' And he thought what an excellent moment it was to give these fools

a catechism refresher. 'Your embryo may be less than three hours old, but it already

contains every basic enzyme it'll need when fully developed. An enormously complicated

organism.'

Harvey stared at him in assumed awe at the greatness which could understand such

mysteries as the shaping and moulding of life.

Lizbeth glanced at the vat.

Two days ago, selected gametes from Harvey and herself had been united there, gripped

in stasis, allowed to go through limited mitosis. The process had produced a viable embryo -

not too common a thing in their world where only a select few were freed of the

contraceptive gas and allowed to breed, and only a rare number of those produced viables.

She wasn't supposed to understand the intricacies of the process, and the fact that she did

understand had to be hidden at all times. They - the genetic Optimen of Central - stamped

savagely on the slightest threat to their supremacy. And they considered knowledge in the

wrong hands to be the most terrible threat.

'How... big is... he now?' she asked.

'Diameter less than a tenth of a millimeter,' Dr Svengaard said. He relaxed his face into a

smile. 'It's a morula and back in the primitive days it wouldn't yet have completed its

journey to the uterus. This is the stage when it's most susceptible to us. We must do our

work now before the formation of the trophoblast.'

The Durants nodded in awe.

Dr Svengaard basked in their respect. He sensed their minds fumbling over poorly

remembered definitions from the limited schooling they'd been permitted. Their records said

she was a creche librarian and he an instructor of the young - not much education required

for either.

Harvey touched the vat, jerked his hand away. The crystal surface felt warm, filled with

subtle vibrations. And there was that constant thrap-thrap-thrap of the pump. He sensed the

deliberateness of that annoying sound, reading the way he'd been trained in the

Underground the subtle betrayals in Svengaard's manner. He glanced around the laboratory

- glass pipes, square gray cabinets, shiny angles and curves of plasmeld, omnipresent

gauges like staring eyes. The place smelled of disinfectants and exotic chemicals. Everything

about the lab carried that calculated double purpose - functional yet designed to awe the

uninitiated.

Lizbeth focused on the one mundane feature of the place she could really recognize for

certain - a tile sink with gleaming faucets. The sink sat squeezed between two mysterious

constructions of convoluted glass and dull gray plasmeld.

The sink bothered Lizbeth. It represented a place of disposal. You flushed garbage into a

sink for grinding before it was washed into the sewage reclamation system. Anything small

could be dumped into a sink and lost.

Forever.

Anything.

'I'm not going to be talked out of watching,' she said.

Damn! Dr Svengaard thought. There was a catch in her voice. That little catch, that

hesitation was betrayal. It didn't fit with her bold appearance. Overemphasis on maternal

drive in her cutting... no matter how successful the surgeon had been with the rest of her.

'Our concern is for you as much as for your child,' Dr Svengaard said. The trauma...'

'The law gives us the right,' Harvey said. 'And he signaled to Lizbeth, 'The whole pattern's

more or less what we anticipated.'

Trust this clod to know the law, Dr Svengaard thought. He sighed. Statistical prediction

said one in one hundred thousand parents would insist, despite all the subtle and not so

subtle pressures against it. Statistics and visible fact, however, were two distinct matters.

Svengaard had noted how Harvey glared at him. The man's cutting had been strong on male

protective-ness - too strong, obviously. He couldn't stand to see his mate thwarted.

Doubtless he was an excellent provider, model husband, never participated in Sterrie orgies

- a leader.

A clod.

The law,' Dr Svengaard said, and his voice dripped rebuke, 'also requires that I point out

the dangers of psychological trauma to the parents. I was not suggesting I'd try to prevent

you from watching.'

'We're going to watch,' Lizbeth said.

Harvey felt a surge of admiration for her then. She played her role so beautifully, even to

that catch in her voice.

'I couldn't stand the waiting otherwise,' Lizbeth said. 'Not knowing...'

Dr Svengaard wondered if he dared press the matter -perhaps an appeal to their obvious

awe, a show of Authority. One look at Harvey's squared shoulders and Lizbeth's pleading

eyes dissuaded him. They were going to watch.

'Very well,' Dr Svengaard sighed.

'Will we watch from here?' Harvey asked.

Dr Svengaard was shocked. 'Of course not!' What primitives, these clods. But he

tempered the thought with realization that such ignorance resulted from the carefully

fostered mystery that surrounded gene shaping. In a calmer tone, he said. 'You'll have a

private room with a closed-circuit connection to this lab. My nurse will escort you.'

Nurse Washington proved her competence then by appearing in the doorway. She'd been

listening, of course. A good nurse never left such matters to chance. 'Is this all we get to see

here?' Lizbeth asked. Dr Svengaard heard the pleading tone, noted the way she avoided

looking directly at the vat. All his pent-up scorn came out in his voice as she said, 'What else

is there to see, Mrs. Durant? Surely you didn't expect to see the morula.' Harvey tugged at

his wife's arm, said, 'Thank you. Doctor.' Once more, Lizbeth's eyes scanned the room,

avoiding the vat. 'Yes, thank you for showing us... this room. It helps to see how... prepared

you are for... every emergency.' He eyes focused on the sink.

'You're quite welcome, I'm sure,' Dr Svengaard said. 'Nurse Washington will provide you

with the list of permissible names. You might occupy part of your time choosing a name for

your son if you've not already done so.' He nodded to the nurse. 'See the Durants to Lounge

Five, please.'

Nurse Washington said, 'If you'll follow me, please?' She turned with that air of

overworked impatience which Svengaard suspected all nurses acquired with their diplomas.

The Durants were sucked up in her wake.

Svengaard turned back to the vat.

So much to do - Potter, the specialist from Central, due within the hour... and he wouldn't

be happy about the Durants. People had so little understanding of what the medical

profession endured. The psychological preparation of parents subtracted from time better

devoted to more important matters... and it certainly complicated the security problem.

Svengaard thought of the five 'Destroy After Reading' directives he'd received from Max

Allgood, Central's boss of T-Security during the past month. It was disturbing, as though

some new danger had set Security scurrying.

But Central insisted on the socializing with parents. The Optimen must have good reason,

Svengaard felt. Most things they did made wonderful sense. Sometimes, Svengaard knew,

he fell into a feeling of orphanage, a creature without past. All it took to shake him from the

emotional morass, though, was a moment's contemplation: 'They are the power that loves

us and cares for us.' They had the world firmly in their grip, the future planned - a place for

every man and every man in his place. Some of the old dreams - space travel, the questing

philosophies, farming of the seas - had been shelved temporarily, put aside for more

important things. The day would come, though, once they solved the unknowns behind sub-

molecular engineering.

Meanwhile, there was work for the willing - maintaining the population of workers,

suppressing deviants, husbanding the genetic pool from which even the Optimen sprang.

Svengaard swung the meson microscope over the Durant vat, adjusted for low

amplification to minimize Heisenberg interference. One more look wouldn't hurt, just on the

chance he might locate the pilot-cell and reduce Potter's problem. Even as he bent to the

scope, Svengaard knew he was rationalizing. He couldn't resist another search into this

morula which had the potential, might be shaped into an Optimum. The wondrous things

were so rare. He nicked the switch, focused.

A sigh escaped him, 'Ahhhh...'

So passive the morula at low amplification; no pulsing as it lay within the stasis - yet so

beautiful in its semi-dormancy... so little to hint that it was the arena of ancient battles.

Svengaard put a hand to the amplification controls, hesitated. High amplification posed its

dangers, but Potter could readjust minor marks of meson interference. And the big look was

very tempting.

He doubled amplification.

Again.

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FrankHerbertTHEEYESOFHEISENBERG(1966)OneTHEYwouldschedulearainforthismorning,DrTheiSvengaardthought.Rainalwaysmakestheparentsuneasy...nottomentionwhatitdoestothedoctors.Agustofwinterwetnessrattledagainstthewindowbehindhisdesk.Hestood,thoughtofmutingthewindows,buttheDurants-thismorning'sparents-might...

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Frank Herbert - The Eyes of Heisenberg

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