Destination: Void: Prequel to the Pandora Sequence by Frank Herbert Page B
Authors: Frank Herbert
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against … what? God?”
Consciousness, the gift of the serpent, Flattery thought. He wet his lips with his tongue. “So?”
“So this ship has an ultimate fail-safe device to protect Earth and the rest of humanity,” Bickel said. “The only sure one I can think of, given all the variables, is a human being—one of us.” He looked at each of them. “One of us set to pull the pin and blow us all to hell if we go sour.”
“Oh, come now!” Flattery said.
“It could be you,” Bickel said. “Probably is … but maybe you’re too obvious.”
Prudence put a hand to her breast, thought: Holy Jesus! I never once considered that. But Bickel’s right … and it’s Raj, of course. He’s the only one that fits. What do I do now?
Timberlake stirred out of a deep silence. He had heard the argument and the only thing that surprised him was how easy it was to accept Bickel’s summation. Why was Bickel right? He was right, of course. But why did they accept it when the thing really wasn’t that obvious? Was it awe of Bickel—clearly the strongest mind among them? Or was it that they already knew the facts—unconsciously?
“I tell you something,” Timberlake said. “Bickel’s right and we know it. So one of us is set to pull the pin. I don’t want to know who.”
“No argument,” Bickel said. “Whoever it is … if this thing goes sour, I’d be the last person in the … Tin Egg to stop him.”
Chapter 14
The Zen master tells us that an omnipresent idea can be hidden by its own omnipresence—the forest lost among the trees. In our normal daily behavior we are most estranged, most in the grip of an illusory idea of the self. Every enchanting inclination of pride and its ego, of convention and its master—social training—conspires to maintain the illusion. The semanticist calls it the inertia of old premises. And this is what holds our analyses of consciousness within fixed limits.
She wrote “Prudence Lon Weygand” at the foot of the log tape, started it rolling through the autorecorder, made the synchronous shift to Flattery’s tape as he took over the board. The counter said it was her thirty-fifth change of shift.
Flattery squirmed in his couch, settling himself for the four-hour watch. Reflections on the dial faces were hypnotic. He shook his head to bring himself to full alertness, heard the hiss of fabric as Prudence got out of her couch. She stood there a moment stretching, did a dozen deep-knee bends.
How easily they accept the possibility that I’m the executioner , Flattery thought. He noted how wide awake and alert Prudence appeared. This four-hours-on, four-hours-off routine could be endured as long as no serious problems arose, but it played hob with the metabolic cycle. Prudence should be headed for food and rest, but she obviously was wide awake.
She glanced at Flattery, saw he was settled in for the watch, checked the repair log. Nothing was flagged urgent. That made it a bit more than twenty-five hours with nothing more than minor adjustments on the big board. Smooth. Too smooth.
Danger keeps you honed to a fine edge, she thought. Extended peace makes you dull.
But she wondered if Project had anticipated the special danger she had found for herself, and she thought: Am I the stick to beat not only the others, but myself?
The line of her own research seemed so obvious, though: define the chemical sea in which consciousness swam. The ultimate clue lay, she thought, in the serotonin adrenalin fractions. The thing she sought was an active principle, something between synhexyl and noradrenalin, a flash producer of neurohormones. The end product would be the root-stimulator of human consciousness. Find that chemical analogue and she could give fine detail to the workings of consciousness; provide a point-to-point sequencing which they could follow with machine simulation.
On the course she had chosen, the dangers to her person were enormous. She had no other guinea pig upon whom
Consciousness, the gift of the serpent, Flattery thought. He wet his lips with his tongue. “So?”
“So this ship has an ultimate fail-safe device to protect Earth and the rest of humanity,” Bickel said. “The only sure one I can think of, given all the variables, is a human being—one of us.” He looked at each of them. “One of us set to pull the pin and blow us all to hell if we go sour.”
“Oh, come now!” Flattery said.
“It could be you,” Bickel said. “Probably is … but maybe you’re too obvious.”
Prudence put a hand to her breast, thought: Holy Jesus! I never once considered that. But Bickel’s right … and it’s Raj, of course. He’s the only one that fits. What do I do now?
Timberlake stirred out of a deep silence. He had heard the argument and the only thing that surprised him was how easy it was to accept Bickel’s summation. Why was Bickel right? He was right, of course. But why did they accept it when the thing really wasn’t that obvious? Was it awe of Bickel—clearly the strongest mind among them? Or was it that they already knew the facts—unconsciously?
“I tell you something,” Timberlake said. “Bickel’s right and we know it. So one of us is set to pull the pin. I don’t want to know who.”
“No argument,” Bickel said. “Whoever it is … if this thing goes sour, I’d be the last person in the … Tin Egg to stop him.”
Chapter 14
The Zen master tells us that an omnipresent idea can be hidden by its own omnipresence—the forest lost among the trees. In our normal daily behavior we are most estranged, most in the grip of an illusory idea of the self. Every enchanting inclination of pride and its ego, of convention and its master—social training—conspires to maintain the illusion. The semanticist calls it the inertia of old premises. And this is what holds our analyses of consciousness within fixed limits.
She wrote “Prudence Lon Weygand” at the foot of the log tape, started it rolling through the autorecorder, made the synchronous shift to Flattery’s tape as he took over the board. The counter said it was her thirty-fifth change of shift.
Flattery squirmed in his couch, settling himself for the four-hour watch. Reflections on the dial faces were hypnotic. He shook his head to bring himself to full alertness, heard the hiss of fabric as Prudence got out of her couch. She stood there a moment stretching, did a dozen deep-knee bends.
How easily they accept the possibility that I’m the executioner , Flattery thought. He noted how wide awake and alert Prudence appeared. This four-hours-on, four-hours-off routine could be endured as long as no serious problems arose, but it played hob with the metabolic cycle. Prudence should be headed for food and rest, but she obviously was wide awake.
She glanced at Flattery, saw he was settled in for the watch, checked the repair log. Nothing was flagged urgent. That made it a bit more than twenty-five hours with nothing more than minor adjustments on the big board. Smooth. Too smooth.
Danger keeps you honed to a fine edge, she thought. Extended peace makes you dull.
But she wondered if Project had anticipated the special danger she had found for herself, and she thought: Am I the stick to beat not only the others, but myself?
The line of her own research seemed so obvious, though: define the chemical sea in which consciousness swam. The ultimate clue lay, she thought, in the serotonin adrenalin fractions. The thing she sought was an active principle, something between synhexyl and noradrenalin, a flash producer of neurohormones. The end product would be the root-stimulator of human consciousness. Find that chemical analogue and she could give fine detail to the workings of consciousness; provide a point-to-point sequencing which they could follow with machine simulation.
On the course she had chosen, the dangers to her person were enormous. She had no other guinea pig upon whom
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