The Eyes of Heisenberg by Frank Herbert

expect—perhaps that the great globe would roll over, crush him, reduce his body to scattered atoms. But no, the Optimen couldn’t do that. He studied the three faces as they became clear through the power
curtains, seeking a sign. Clean, sterile faces. He could see the genetic markers in their features—they might be any Sterries of the Folk except for the Optiman aura of mystery. Folk rumor said they were sterile by choice, that they saw breeding as the beginning of death, but the genetic clues of their features spoke otherwise to Svengaard.
    â€œWhy did you call Potter on this particular problem?” Nourse asked.
    Svengaard took a tight, quavering breath, said, “He … the embryo’s genetic configuration … near-Opt. Potter is familiar with our hospital. He … I have confidence in him; brilliant sur—genetic engineer.”
    â€œSay now if you are friendly with any other of our pharmacists,” Calapine said.
    â€œThey … I work with them when they come to our facility,” Svengaard said.
    â€œCalapine,” Nourse supplied.
    A trill of laughter shook her.
    A dark flush spread up from Svengaard’s collar. He began to feel angry. What kind of test was this? Couldn’t they do anything but sit there, mocking, questioning?
    Anger gave Svengaard command of his voice and he said, “I’m only head of genetic engineering at one facility, Nourse—a lowly district engineer. I handle routine cuttings. When something requires a specialist, I follow orders, call a specialist. Potter was the indicated specialist for this case.”
    â€œ One of the specialists,” Nourse said.
    â€œOne I know and respect,” Svengaard said. He didn’t bother adding the Optiman’s name.
    â€œSay now if you are angry,” Calapine ordered, and there was that musical quality in her voice.
    â€œI’m angry.”
    â€œSay why.”
    â€œWhy am I here?” Svengaard asked. “What kind of interrogation is this? Have I done something wrong? Am I to be censured?”
    Nourse bent forward, hands on knees. “You dare question us?”

    Svengaard stared at the Optiman. In spite of the tone of the question, the square, heavy-boned face appeared reassuring, calming. “I’ll do anything I can to help you,” Svengaard said. “Anything. But how can I help or answer you when I don’t know what you want?”
    Calapine started to speak, but stopped as Nourse raised a hand.
    â€œOur most profound wish is that we could tell you,” Nourse said. “But surely you know we can have no true discourse. How could you understand what we understand? Can a wooden bowl contain sulphuric acid? Trust us. We seek what is best for you.”
    A sense of warmth and gratitude permeated Svengaard. Of course he trusted them. They were the genetic apex of humankind. And he reminded himself: “ They are the power that loves us and cares for us. ”
    Svengaard sighed. “What do you wish of me?”
    â€œYou have answered all our questions,” Nourse said. “Even our non-questions are answered.”
    â€œNow, you will forget everything that has happened here between us,” Calapine said. “You will repeat our conversation to no person.”
    Svengaard cleared his throat. “To no one … Calapine?”
    â€œNo one.”
    â€œMax Allgood has asked that I report to him on—”
    â€œMax must be denied,” she said. “Fear not, Thei Svengaard. We will protect you.”
    â€œAs you command,” Svengaard said. “Calapine.”
    â€œIt is not our wish that you think us ungrateful of your loyalty and services,” Nourse said. “We are mindful of your good opinion and would not appear cold nor callous in your eyes. Know that our concern is for the larger good of humankind.”
    â€œYes, Nourse,” Svengaard said.
    It was a gratuitous speech, its tone disturbing to