Free The Collected Stories of Frank Herbert by Frank Herbert

at the open pages.
    â€œWhat are all those funny looking squiggles?”
    He smiled. “Circuit diagram.” He took a test clip and, glancing at the diagram, began pulling leads from the resonance circuit. He stopped, a puzzled frown drawing down his features. He stared at the diagram. “That can’t be right.” He found a scratch pad, stylus, began checking the booklet.
    â€œWhat’s wrong?”
    â€œThis doesn’t make sense.”
    â€œHow do you mean?”
    â€œIt isn’t designed for what it’s supposed to do.”
    â€œAre you certain?”
    â€œI know Dr. Amanti’s work. This isn’t the way he works.” He began leafing through the booklet. A page flopped loose. He examined the binding. The booklet’s pages had been razored out and new pages substituted. It was a good job. If the page hadn’t fallen out, he might not have noticed. “You said it was easy to get this. Where was it?”
    â€œRight out on top of the musikron.”
    He stared at her speculatively.
    â€œWhat’s wrong?” Her eyes held open candor.
    â€œI wish I knew.” He pointed to the booklet. “That thing’s as phony as a Martian canal.”
    â€œHow do you know?”
    â€œIf I put it together that way”—a gesture at the booklet—“it’d go up in smoke the instant power hit it. There’s only one explanation: Pete’s on to us.”
    â€œBut how?”
    â€œThat’s what I’d like to know … how he anticipated you’d try to get the diagram for me. Maybe that busboy—”
    â€œTommy? But he’s such a nice young fellow.”
    â€œYeah. He’d sell his mother if the price was right. He could have eavesdropped last night.”
    â€œI can’t believe it.” She shook her head.
    *   *   *
    In the webwork of the musikron, Pete gritted his teeth. Hate him! Hate him! He pressed the thought at her, saw it fail. With a violent motion, he jerked the metal hemisphere off his head, stumbled out of the musikron. You’re not going to have her! If it’s a dirty fight you want, I’ll really show you a dirty fight!
    *   *   *
    Colleen asked, “Isn’t there some other explanation?”
    â€œCan you think of one?”
    She started to slide down from the bench, hesitated, lurched against him, pressing her head against his chest. “My head … my head—” She went limp in his arms, shuddered, recovered slowly, drew gasping breaths. She stood up. “Thank you.”
    In a corner of the lab was a canvas deck chair. He led her over to it, eased her down. “You’re going to a hospital right now for a complete check-up—tracers, the works. I don’t like this.”
    â€œIt’s just a headache.”
    â€œPeculiar kind of a headache.”
    â€œI’m not going to a hospital.”
    â€œDon’t argue. I’m calling for reservations as soon as I can get over to the phone.”
    â€œEric, I won’t do it!” She pushed herself upright in the chair. “I’ve seen all the doctors I want to see.” She hesitated, looked up at him. “Except you. I’ve had all those tests. There’s nothing wrong with me … except something in my head.” She smiled: “I guess I’m talking to the right kind of a doctor for that.”
    She lay back, resting, closed her eyes. Eric pulled up a stool, sat down beside her, holding her hand. Colleen appeared to sink into a light sleep, breathing evenly. Minutes passed.
    If the teleprobe wasn’t practically dismantled, I could test her, he thought.
    She stirred, opened her eyes.
    â€œIt’s that musikron,” he said. He took her arm. “Did you ever have headaches like this before you began working with that thing?”
    â€œI had headaches, but … well, they weren’t this bad.” She