The Collected Stories of Frank Herbert by Frank Herbert Read Free Book Online

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.
    â€œYou never did tell me what a musikron is.”
    Her laughter caused a passing couple to turn and stare. “Okay. 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 encephalorecorder 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?”
    â€œBut 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.”
    â€œYou said Pete worked on this musikron with a doctor. What did you say that doctor’s name was?”
    â€œOh, 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?”
    â€œCertainly.”
    â€œStrange I’d never heard about this musikron before.”
    â€œDoctor, 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.
    â€œBaily, 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