Dune World
(1964)*
Frank Herbert

Chapter One

A beginning is the time for taking the most delicate care that the balances are correct. This, every sister of the Bene Gesserit knows. To begin your study of the life of Muad'Dib, then, take care that you first place him in his time: born in the fifty-seventh year of the Padishah Emperor, Shaddam IV. And take the most special care that you locate Muad'Dib in his place: the planet Arrakis. Do not be deceived by the fact that he was born on Caladan and lived his first fifteen years there. Arrakis, the planet known as Dune, is forever his place.
"Manual of Muad'Dib" 
by The Princess Irulan

	In the week before their departure to Arrakis, when all the final scurrying about had reached a near unbearable frenzy, an old crone of a woman came to visit the mother of the boy, Paul.

	It was a warm night at Castle Caladan, and the ancient pile of stone that had served the Atreides family as home for twenty-six generations bore that cooled-sweat feeling it acquired before a change in the weather.

	The old woman was let in by the side door down the vaulted passage next to Paul's room, and she was allowed a moment to peer in at him where he lay in his bed.

	By the half-light of a suspensor lamp, dimmed and hanging near the floor, the awakened boy could see a bulky female shape at his door, standing one step ahead of his mother. The old woman was a witch shadow-hair like matted spiderwebs, hooded 'round darkness of features, eyes like glittering jewels.

	"It he not small for his age, Jessica?" the old woman asked. Her voice wheezed like an untuned baliset.

	Paul's mother answered in her soft contralto: "The Atreides are known to start late getting their growth, Your Reverence."

	"So I've heard ... so I've heard," wheezed the old woman. "Yet he's already fifteen." "Yes, Your Reverence."

	"He's awake and listening to us," said the old woman. "Sly little rascal you've born here, Jessica." She chuckled. "But royalty has need of slyness. And if he's really the Kwisatz Haderach ... well, slyness will be most valuable."

	Within the shadows of his bed, Paul held his eyes opened to mere slits. Two bird-bright ovals—the eyes of the old woman—seemed to expand and glow as they stared into his.

	"Sleep well, you sly little rascal," said the old woman. "Tomorrow you'll need all your faculties to meet my gom jabbar."

	And she was gone, pushing his mother out, closing the door with a solid thump.

	Paul lay awake, wondering at such strangeness. What's a gom jabbar? he wondered.

	In all the upset during this time of change, the old woman was the strangest thing he had seen.

	Your Reverence.

	And the way she called his mother Jessica like a common serving wench instead of what she was—a Bene Gesserit Lady, a duke's concubine and mother of the ducal heir.

	Is a gom jabbar something of Arrakis I should know before we go there? he wondered.

	He mouthed her strange words: Gom jabbar ... Kwisatz Haderach.

	There had been so many things to learn. Arrakis would be a place so different from Caladan that Paul's mind whirled with the differences. Arrakis—Dune— Desert Planet. It was the sole source in the universe for the geriatric spice, melange. But their move to Arrakis was linked somehow to the long feud between the Houses of Atreides and Harkonnen.

	Thufir Hawat, his father's Master of Assassins, had explained it: Harkonnens had been on Arrakis eighty years, holding the planet in quasi-fief under a CHOAM Company contract to mine the spice. Now, the Harkonnens were leaving to be replaced by the House of Atreides in fief-complete—an apparent victory for the Duke Leto. Yet, Hawat said this appearance contained the deadliest peril, for the Duke Leto was popular among the Great Houses of the Landsraad.

	"A popular man arouses the jealousy of the powerful," Hawat said.

	Arrakis—Dune—Desert Planet.

	Paul fell asleep to dream of an Arrakeen cavern, silent people all around him moving in the dim light of glow-tubes. It was solemn there and like a cathedral as he listened to a faint sound—the drip-drip-drip of water. Even while he remained in the dream Paul knew he would remember it upon awakening. He always remembered the important dreams.

	The dream faded. Paul half awoke to feel himself in the warmth of his bed ... thinking ... thinking. This world of Castle Caladan—without play or companions his own age—perhaps it did not deserve sadness in farewell. Dr. Yueh, his teacher, had hinted at exciting things on Arrakis—even the faufreluches, the system of class distinction, was not as rigidly guarded there. Arrakis sheltered people who lived at the desert edge without caid or bashar to command them: will-o-the-sand people called Fremen, marked down on no census of the Imperial Regate.

	Arrakis—Dune—Desert Planet.

	Paul sensed his own tensions, knew he'd not sleep more this night. He decided to practice one of the Bene Gesserit mind/body lessons his mother had taught him. Three quick breaths triggered the necessary responses. He fell into the floating awareness ... focusing the consciousness ... aortal dilation ... avoiding the unfocused mechanism of consciousness ... to be conscious by choice ... blood enriched and swift-flooding the overload regions ... one does not obtain food, safety or freedom by instinct ... animal consciousness does not extend beyond the given moment nor into the idea that its victims may become extinct ... the animal destroys and does not produce ... animal pleasures remain close to sensation levels and avoid the perceptual ... true-human requires a background grid through which to see his universe ... focused consciousness-by-choice forms that grid ... bodily integrity comes through nerve/blood flow according to deep awareness of cell needs ... all things/cells/beings are impermanent ... strive for the flow-permanence within ...

	Over and over within Paul's floating awareness the lesson rolled, and at its hub lay the single conceptualization:

	The human can assess his circumstances and judge his limitations of the moment by a process of mental programming, never risking flesh until the optimum course is computed. The human does this within a compression of real time so short that it may be called instantaneous.

	In time, dawn touched Paul's windowsill with yellow light. He sensed it through closed eyelids, opened them, hearing then the renewed bustle and hurry in the castle, seeing the familiar patterned beams of his bedroom ceiling.

	The hall door opened and his mother peered in, her bronze shade of hair held with black ribbon at the crown, the oval face emotionless and green eyes staring solemnly.

	"You're awake," she said. "Did you sleep well?"

	"Yes."

	He studied the tallness of her as she entered, saw the hint of tension in her shoulders as she chose clothing for him from the closet racks. Another might have missed the tension, but she had trained him in the Bene Gesserit Way—in the minutae of observation. She turned, holding a semiformal jacket for him to wear. It carried the red Atreides hawk crest above the breast pocket.

	"Hurry and get dressed," she said. "The Reverend Mother is waiting."

	The Reverend Mother Gaius Helen Mohiam sat in a tapestried chair watching mother and son approach. On each side of her, windows overlooked the curving southern bend of the river and the green farmlands of the Atreides Family Holding, but the Reverend Mother ignored the view. She was feeling her age this morning, more than a little petulant. She blamed it on space travel and association with that abominable Spacing Guild and its secretive ways. But here was a mission that required personal attention from a Bene-Gesserit-With-The-Sight. Even the Padishah Emperor's Truthsayer couldn't evade that responsibility when the Duty call came.

	That Jessica! the Reverend Mother thought. If only she'd born us a girl as she was ordered to do!

	Jessica stopped three paces from the chair, dropped a small curtsy with a gentle flick of left hand along the line of her skirt. Paul gave the short bow his dancing master had taught—the one used "when in doubt of another's station."

	The nuances of Paul's greeting were not lost on the Reverend Mother. She said: "He's a cautious one, Jessica."

	Jessica's hand went to Paul's shoulder, tightened there. For a heartbeat, fear pulsed through her palm. Then she had herself under control. "Thus he has been taught, Your Reverence."

	And again, Paul wondered: What does she fear?

	The old woman studied Paul in one gestalten flicker: face oval like Jessica's, but strong bones ... hair—the Duke's black-black, and that thin, disdainful nose; shape of directly staring green eyes ... like the Old Duke, the grandfather who is dead.

	Now, there was a man who appreciated the power of bravura—even in death, the Reverend Mother thought.

	"Teaching is one thing," she said, "the basic ingredient is another. We shall see." The old eyes darted a hard glance at Jessica. "Leave us. I enjoin you to practice the Meditation of Peace."

	Jessica took her hand from Paul's shoulder. "Your Reverence I ..."

	"You know it must be done, Jessica."

	Paul looked up at his mother, puzzled by this solemnity.

	Jessica straightened. "Yes, of course."

	Paul looked back at the Reverend Mother. Politeness and his mother's obvious awe of this old woman argued caution. Yet, he didn't care for the fear he felt radiating from his mother.

	"Paul ..." Jessica took a quieting breathing. "Paul, this ... test you're about to get ... it's important to me."

	"Test?" He looked up at her.

	"Remember that you're a Duke's son," Jessica said. She whirled and strode from the room in a dry swishing of skirt. The door closed solidly behind her.

	Paul faced the old woman, holding his anger in check. "Does one dismiss the Lady Jessica as though she were a serving wench?"

	A smile flickered at the corners of the wrinkled old mouth. "The Lady Jessica was my serving wench, lad, for fourteen years at school." She nodded. "And a good one, too. Now, you come here!"

	The command whipped out at him, and Paul found himself obeying before he could think about it. Using the Voice on me, he thought. I should've expected it.

	At a gesture, he stopped beside the old woman's knees.

	"See this?" she asked. From the folds of her gown, she lifted a green metal cube about fifteen centimeters on a side. She turned it and Paul saw that one side of the cube was open—black and oddly frightening. No light penetrated that open end.

	"Put your right hand in the box," the old woman said. She moved the box.

	Fear shot through Paul. He started to back away, but the old woman said: "Is this how you obey your mother?"

	He looked up into bird-bright eyes.

	"She told you it was important," the Reverend Mother said.

	Slowly, feeling the compulsions and unable to inhibit them, Paul put his hand in the box. He felt first a sense of cold as the blackness closed around his hand, then slick metal against his fingers and a prickling as though his hand were asleep.

	A predatory look filled the old woman's features. She lifted her right hand away from the box and poised the hand close to the side of Paul's neck. He saw a glint of metal there and started to turn toward it.

	"Stop!" she snapped.

	Using the Voice again! He swung his attention back to her face.

	"I hold at your neck the gom jabbar," said the old woman." "The gom jabbar, the high-handed enemy. It is a needle with a drop of poison on its tip. Ah-ah! Don't pull away or you'll feel the poison!"

	Paul tried to swallow in a dry throat. He could not take his attention from that seamed old face, the glistening eyes, the pale gums around silvery metal teeth that flashed as she spoke.

	"A Duke's son must know about poisons," she said. "It's the way of our times, eh? Musky, to be poisoned in your drink. Aumas, to be poisoned in your food. The quick ones and the slow ones and the ones in between. Well, lad, here's a new one: the gom jabbar. It kills only animals."

	Pride overcame Paul's fear and he said: "You dare suggest a Duke's son is an animal?"

	"Let us say I suggest you may be human," she said. "Steady! I warn you not to try jerking away. I may be old, but my hand can drive this needle into your neck before you escape me."

	"Who are you?" he whispered. "How did you trick my mother into leaving me alone with you? Are you from the Harkonnens?"

	"The Harkonnens? Bless us, no! Not the Harkonnens. Now, be silent." A dry finger touched his neck and he stilled the involuntary urge to leap back.

	"Good lad," she said. "You pass the first test. Now, here's the way of the rest of it: If you withdraw your hand from the box, you die. That's the only rule of the test. Keep your hand in the box and you'll live. Withdraw it and die."

	Paul took a deep breath to still his trembling. "If I call out, there'll be servants on you within seconds and you'll die."

	"The servants will not pass your mother who stands guard at that door. Depend on it. Your mother survived this test. Now, it's your turn. Be honored; we seldom administer it to men-children."

	Curiosity brought Paul's fear and anger into manageable limits. If his mother really stood guard out there ... He heard truth in the old woman's voice. And if this were a test ... whatever it was, he knew he was caught in it, trapped by that hand at his neck: gom jabbar. He recalled the response from the Litany of Fear as his mother had taught it to him out of the Bene Gesserit rite:

	"I must not fear. Fear is the mind-killer. Fear is the little-death that brings total obliteration. I will face my fear. I will permit it to pass over me and through me. And when it has gone past I will turn the inner eye to see its path. Where the fear has gone there will be nothing. Only I will remain."

	He felt calmness flow over him, said: "Get on with your test, old woman."

	"Old woman, yet!" she snapped. "You've courage, and that can't be denied. Well! We shall see, sirra. Now ..." She bent close to him, lowered her voice almost to a whisper. "You will feel pain in this hand within the box. Pain. But! If you withdraw the hand, I'll touch your neck with my gom jabbar—the death so swift it'll be like the fall of the headsman's axe. Withdraw your hand from the box and the gom jabbar takes you. Do you under-stand?"

	"What's in the box?"

	"Pain."

	He felt the tingling in his hand increase, and he pressed his lips tightly together. How could this be a test? he wondered. The tingling became an itch.

	The old woman said: "You've heard of animals chewing off a leg to escape a trap? That's an animal kind of trick. A human would remain in the trap, enduring the pain, feigning death that he might kill the trapper and remove a threat to his kind."

	The itch in his hand became the faintest burning. "Why are you doing this?" he demanded.

	"To determine if you're human. Be silent."

	Paul clenched his left hand into a fist as the burning sensation increased in the other hand. It mounted slowly ... heat ... upon heat ... upon heat. He felt the fingernails of his free hand biting the palm and tried to flex the burning hand, but couldn't move the fingers.

	"It burns," he whispered.

	"Silence!"

	Pain messages throbbed up his arm. Sweat stood out on his forehead. Every fiber cried out to withdraw the hand from that burning pit ... but ... the gom jabbar. Without turning his head, he tried to move his eyes to see that terrible needle poised beside his neck. He sensed that he was breathing in gasps, tried to slow his breaths and couldn't.

	Pain!

	The world emptied of everything except the hand immersed in agony, and the ancient face inches away staring at him.

	His lips were so dry he had difficulty separating them. The burning! The burning! The burning! He thought he could feel skin curling black on that agonizing hand, the flesh crisping and dropping away until only charred bones remained.

	It stopped!

	As though a switch had been turned off, the pain stopped.

	Paul felt his arm trembling, felt sweat bathing his body.

	"Enough!" the old woman muttered. "Kull wahad!" She shook her head. "I must've wanted you to fail. No womanchild ever withstood that much." She leaned back, withdrawing her hand and its needle from the side of his neck. "Take your hand from the box, young human, and look at it."

	He fought down an aching shiver, stared at the light-less void where his hand seemed to remain of its own volition. Memory of pain inhibited every movement. Reason told him he would withdraw a blackened stump from that box.

	"Do it!" she snapped.

	He jerked his hand from the box, stared at it astonished. Not a mark. Not a sign of pain upon that flesh. He held the hand up in front of his eyes, turned it, flexed the fingers. Unmarked.

	"Simple nerve induction did it," the old woman said. "Can't go around maiming potential humans. There're those who'd give a pretty for the secret of this box, though." She slipped it back into the folds of her gown.

	"But the pain ..." he said.

	"Pain," she sniffed. "A human can override any nerve in the body."

	Paul felt his left hand aching, felt it still clenched into a fist. He uncurled the fingers, looked at four bloody marks in his palm where fingernails had bitten flesh. He dropped the hand to his side, looked at the old woman. "You did that to my mother once?"

	"Did you ever sift sand through a screen?" she asked.

	The tangential slash of her question shocked his mind into higher awareness. "Sift ... I've seen the workmen do it at our ocean beach, but ..."

	"We sift people. Everything in Bene Gesserit is to sift people, finding the humans among us."

	He lifted his right hand, willing the memory of the pain into his consciousness. "Pain ... that's all there is to it?"

	"I observed you in pain, lad. Pain's merely the axis, the point upon which the test turns. Your mother's told you about our ways of observing. I see the signs of her teaching in you. This test is crisis and observation."

	He heard truth in her voice, said: "It's truth."

	The Reverend Mother stared at him. He senses truth! Could he be the one? Could he truly be the one? She extinguished the excitement, reminding herself: "Hope clouds observation."

	"You know when people believe what they say," she said. "You know truth."

	"Yes."

	The harmonics of belief confirmed by repeated test were in his voice. She heard them, said: "Perhaps you are the Kwisatz Haderach. Sit down, little brother, here at my feet."

	"I prefer to stand."

	"Your mother sat at my feet; why shouldn't you?" "I'm not my mother."

	"You hate us a little, eh?" She looked toward the door, called out: "Jessica!"

	The door flew open and Jessica stood there, staring hard-eyed into the room. The hardness melted from her as she saw Paul. She managed a faint smile.

	"Jessica, have you ever stopped hating me?" the old woman asked.

	"I both hate and love you," Jessica said. "The hate— that's from pains I must never forget. The love— that's ..."

	"Just the basic fact," the old woman said, but her voice was gentle. "You may come in now, but remain silent. Close the door and mind it that no one interrupts."

	Jessica stepped into the room, closed the door and stood with her back to it. My son lives, she thought. My son lives and is human. I knew he was ... but ... he lives. Now. I can go on living. The door felt hard and real against her back. Everything in the room was immediate and pressing against her senses.

	My son lives.

	Paul looked at his mother, saw her press her head against the door. She told the truth. He wanted to get away alone and think about this situation, but knew he could not leave until dismissed. The old woman had gained a power over him. They spoke truth. His mother had undergone this test. There must be terrible purpose in it ... the pain and fear had been terrible. Terrible purposes he understood. They drove against all odds. They were their own necessity. Paul felt that he had been infected with Terrible Purpose. He did not knew yet what the Terrible Purpose was.

	"Some day, lad," the old woman said, "you, too, may have to wait outside a door like that one. It takes a measure of doing."

	Paul looked down at the hand that had known pain, then up to the Reverend Mother. The sound of her voice just then had contained a difference from any other voice in his experience. The words were outlined in brilliance. There was an edge to them. He felt that any question he might ask her would bring an answer that could lift him out of his flesh-world into something greater.

	"So I'm human," he said. "Why do you test for this?"

	"Long ago," the old woman said, "long before the shield belt even, men turned their minds over to machines in the hope this would set them free. But that only permitted other men with machines to enslave them. What do you say to this?"

	"Thou shalt not make a machine in the likeness of a man's mind," Paul quoted.

	"Right out of the Orange Catholic Bible," she said. "What the OC Bible should've said, though, is this: 'Thou shalt not make a machine to counterfeit a human mind.' You have a Mentat in your service. Have you studied him?"

	"Thufir Hawat, my father's Master of Assassins. I've studied with him."

	"A human is still the finest computer," she said, "the smallest for its variability, portable and self-propelled, self-programming, capable of performing more tasks simultaneously, cheapest to maintain because it maintains itself ... I could go on at much greater length. Have you studied also about the Butlerian Jihad, the Great Revolt?"

	"I know why we destroyed the machines that think," he said. He could not keep the sullen tone out of his voice, wondering: Why these juvenile questions?

	The Reverend Mother ignored his tone, said: "The Great Revolt took away a crutch, forced human minds to develop. Almost immediately afterward, schools were started to train these human talents."

	"Bene Gesserit schools?"

	She nodded. "The two chief survivors of those ancient schools are the Bene Gesserit and the Spacing Guild. The Guild emphasizes almost pure mathematics, so we believe. Bene Gesserit performs another function."

	Paul realized that she was forcing him to answer his own question about Bene Gesserit, that he was supposed to answer now, that this was still part of the test. She wanted him to summate her clues and name the function of Bene Gesserit's seeking after humans.

	"Politics," he said.

	"Kull wahad!" the old woman breathed. She sent a hard glance at Jessica.

	"I've not told him, Your Reverence," Jessica said.

	The Reverend Mother nodded, returned her attention to Paul. "You did that on very few clues," she said. "Yes, politics. The original Bene Gesserit school was directed by a human who saw the need for a thread of continuity in human affairs. She saw there could be no such continuity without separating human stock from animal stock ... for breeding purposes."

	The old woman's words had abruptly lost their special sharpness for Paul. He felt an offense against what his mother called his instinct for rightness. It wasn't that the Reverend Mother lied to him ... she obviously believed what she said. It was something deeper.

	"So you concentrated on women," Paul said. "But my mother tells me many Bene Gesserits of the Schools don't know their mothers."

	"But your mother's genetic line is in our records," the old woman said. "She knows that either her mother was Bene Gesserit or her stock was acceptable in itself."

	"Why couldn't she know her parentage then?"

	"Many reasons. We might, for example, have wanted to breed her to a close relative to set up a dominant in some genetic trait. We have many reasons."

	Again, Paul felt that offense against rightness. "It sounds as though you take responsibility for many lives," he said.

	The Reverend Mother looker at him sharply. Did I hear criticism in his voice? "We carry a heavy burden," she said.

	Paul leveled a measuring stare at her, said: "You say maybe I'm the ... Kwisatz Haderach. What's that, a human, gom jabbar?"

	"I'd prefer a different tone from you, young human," she said. "But I understand your resentment."

	"Paul ..." Jessica said.

	"I'll handle this, Jessica," the old woman said. "Now, Paul, do you know of the Truthsayer drug?" "My mother's told me."

	"So. When I am gifted by the drug I can look down many avenues of my past ... but only the feminine avenues. There's a place where no Truthsayer can see. We are repelled and terrorized by it." Her voice took on a tone of sadness. "We are women and we cannot see. Yet, it is said a man will come some day and find in the gift of the drug an inward eye to scan all of his past—both feminine and masculine. This is the Kwisatz Haderach, the one who can be many places at once. Many men have tried ... so many, but none has succeeded.

	"They tried and failed, all of them?"

	"Oh, no." She shook her head. "They tried and died."

Chapter Two

To attempt an understanding of Muad'Dib without understanding his mortal enemies, the Harkonnens, is to attempt seeing Truth without knowing Falsehood. It is the attempt to see the Light without knowing Darkness. It cannot be.
	"Manual of Muad'Dib" 
by The Princess Irulan

	It was a relief globe of a world, partly in shadows, spinning under the impetus of a fat hand that glittered with rings. The globe sat on a freedom stand at one wall of a windowless room whose other walls were filled with scrolls, books, tapes and film reels. Light glowed from golden balls hanging in mobile suspensor fields. An ellipsoid desk with top of jade pink petrified elacca wood stood at the center of the room. Veriform suspensor chairs were distributed casually around the desk. Two of the chairs were occupied—in one a dark haired youth of about sixteen years, round of face and with sullen eyes; in the other a slender, short man with effeminate face.

	The round-faced youth wore a plain black leotard of velvet. His lips, full and pouting, were a Harkonnen genetic marker.

	It was always the eyes of the effeminate-faced man that non-Arrakeen people noticed first. The eyes were shaded slits of blue within blue—no white in them at all.

	Both youth and blue-eyed man stared across the room at the globe and the man in the shadows spinning it.

	A chuckle sounded beside the globe, and a basso voice rumbled out of the chuckle: "There it is, Piter—the biggest mantrap in all history. And the Duke's already headed into its jaws. Is it not a magnificent thing the Baron Vladimir Harkonnen does?"

	"Assuredly, Baron," said the effeminate-faced man. His voice came out tenor with a sweet, musical quality.

	The fat hand came down onto the globe, stopping the spin. Now the eyes in the room could focus on that motionless surface and see that it was the kind of globe made for wealthy collectors or planetary governors of the Empire. Latitude and longitude lines were laid in with hair-fine silver wire. Its polar caps were insets of milk diamonds.

	Again, the fat hand moved, tracing details on the globe's surface. As the hand moved, the basso voice rumbled: "I invite you to observe, Piter, and you, too, Feyd-Rautha, my darling. From sixty degrees north to about seventy degrees south — these exquisite ripples. Their coloring. Does it not remind you of sweet caramels? And observe—nowhere do you see the blue of lakes, rivers or seas. And these polar caps—so small. Could anyone mistake this place? Arrakis is unique. Truly unique. What a superb setting for a unique victory!"

	A smile touched Piter's effeminate face. "And to think, Baron: the Padishah Emperor believes he's given the Duke your spice planet. How poignant."

	"The Padishah Emperor knows what he's about," the Baron growled. "He thinks of the CHOAM Company."

	The sullen-faced youth stirred in his chair, straightened a wrinkle in his leotards. "But you're in the CHOAM Company, uncle."

	"Feyd! I told you to listen and learn when I invited you in here," the Baron said. "But I'll tell you that CHOAM Company profits bother me when they involve the spice. All the profits from melange should go into the Harkonnen coffers. We're the ones broke that planet to harness."

	And the Baron fell silent, thinking: Indeed, yes; we tamed Arrakis. Except for the few mongrels Fremen hiding in the skirts of the desert ... and some tame smugglers bound to the planet almost as tightly as the native labor pool. What could smugglers do except trade a trickle of spice to an occasional Spacing Guild freighter, or carry a few spies and assassins on and off the planet?

	A discreet tapping sounded at the door in the far wall. Piter unfolded from his chair, crossed the room, cracked the door and accepted a message cylinder. He closed the door, unrolled the cylinder and scanned its surface. Piter chuckled, turned to the Baron still standing in shadows beside the globe.

	"The fool answered us, Baron. The fool answered!"

	"When ever did an Atreides refuse the opportunity for a gesture?" the Baron asked. "Well, what does he say?"

	"Baron, he's most uncouth. He addresses you as 'Harkonnen'—no 'Sire et Cher Cousin', no title, no nothing."

	"It's a good name," the Baron growled, and his voice betrayed his impatience. "What does dear Leto say?"

	"He says: 'Your offer of a meeting is refused. I have oft times met your treachery and this all men know.'"

	"How complimentary!" the Baron said. "Do go on."

	"He says: 'The art of Kenly still has admirers in the Empire.' And he signs it: 'Duke Leto of Arrakis.' " Piter began to laugh loudly. "Of Arrakis! Oh, my! This is almost too rich!"

	"Be quiet, Piter," the Baron said, and the laughter stopped as though shut off with a switch. "Kenly, is it?" the Baron said. "Vendetta, heh? And he uses the nice old word so rich in tradition to be sure I know he means it."

	"But, Baron," Piter said, "his message is in our hands. You have but to show this before the Landsraad, and it justifies anything. Simply anything. You made the peace gesture and were refused."

	"For a Mentat, you talk too much, Piter," the Baron said. And he thought: I must do away with that one soon. He has almost outlived his usefulness. The Baron stared across the room at Piter's blue eyes—the dark pits without whites. And those eyes! There's no guessing what such a one thinks.

	A grin flashed across Piter's face, and it was like a mask grimace beneath those eyes-like-holes. "But, Baron, never has revenge been more beautiful. It is to see a plan of the most exquisite treachery; to make Leto exchange Caladan for Dune—and without alternative because it's the Padishah Emperor's command. How waggish of you!"

	In a cold voice, the Baron said: "You have a flux of the mouth, Piter."

	"But I am happy. Whereas you are touched by jealousy."

	"Piter!"

	"Ah, ah, Baron! Is it not regrettable that you were unable to devise this wonderful scheme by yourself?"

	"Someday I will have you strangled, Piter."

	"Of a certainty, Baron. Enfin! But a kind act is never lost, true?"

	"Have you been chewing verite or semuta, Piter?"

	"Truth without fear surprises the Baron?" Piter's face became a caricature of a frowning mask. "Ah, hah! But you see. Baron, I know as a Mentat when you will send the executioner. You will refrain just so long as I am useful. To move sooner would be a horrible waste and I am yet of much use to you. I know what it is you learned from that lovely little Dune planet—waste not. True, Baron?"

	The Baron continued to stare at Piter thoughtfully.

	Feyd-Rautha squirmed in his chair. These wrangling fools! he thought. My uncle cannot talk to a man without, arguing. I wish they'd hurry and get through whatever it is they're up to. Do they think I've nothing to do except listen to arguments?

	"Sometimes I wonder about you, Piter," the Baron said. "I cause pain out of necessity, but you ... I swear you take a positive pleasure in it. For myself, I can feel pity toward the poor Duke Leto. Dr. Yueh will move against him soon, and it'll all be over for the Duke. But, surely, he'll know whose hand directed the pliant doctor ... and that knowing will be a terrible thing, Piter."

	"Then why haven't you directed the doctor to slip a knife into him quietly and efficiently?" Piter demanded. "You talk of pity... you—"

	"It must be done this way," the Baron said. "The Duke must know when I encompass his doom ... and the other Great Houses must learn the extent of my revenge. It'll give them pause. It'll give me a bit more room in which to maneuver. The necessity is obvious, but I don't have to like it."

	"Room to maneuver," Piter sneered. "Already you have the Padishah Emperor's eyes on you, Baron. You move too boldly. One of these days the Padishah Emperor will send a legion or two of his Sardaukar down here onto Giedi Prime and that'll be an end to the Baron Vladimir Harkonnen."

	"You'd like to see that, wouldn't you, Piter?" the Baron asked. "You'd enjoy seeing the Corps of Sardaukar pillage through my cities the way they do, and sack this castle? You'd truly enjoy that."

	"Does the Baron need to ask?" Piter whispered.

	"You should've been a Beshar of the Corps," the Baron said, "the way you enjoy blood. Your interest is the blood and the pain. Yes." The Baron nodded. "What is it I promised you of Arrakis?"

	Piter's dark eyes narrowed to slits. "Do you toy with Piter, Baron?"

	"Was it the Lady Jessica to do with as you wished?" the Baron asked.

	Piter took five curiously mincing steps into the room stopped directly behind Feyd-Rautha. There was a tight air of tension in the room, and the youth in the chair looked up at Piter with a worried frown.

	"Do not toy with Piter, Baron," Piter said. "You know you promised her to me."

	"For what, Piter?" the Baron asked. "For pain?"

	Piter stared at him, dragging out the silence.

	Feyd-Rautha moved his suspensor chair to one side, said: "Uncle, why'm I here? You said you'd something important to—"

	"My darling Feyd-Rautha grows impatient," the Baron said. The Baron moved within the shadows besides the globe. "I caution you to patience, Feyd." And he turned his attention back to Piter. "What of the Dukeling the child called Paul, my dear Piter?"

	"Our plan will bring him to you, Baron," Piter muttered, "and the loss will go unnoticed in the shadow of the father's falling."

	"From his pictures I know that lad to have a sweet young body," the Baron murmured. "I'm sure of it. And I would say he's potentially more dangerous than the father ... with that mother to train him. Accursed woman!" He stared hard at Piter. "You'll recall, Piter, that you predicted the woman would bear a daughter to the Duke. You were wrong, eh, Mentat?"

	"I'm not often wrong, Baron," Piter said, and for the first time there was an edge of fear in his voice. "Give me that: I'm not often wrong. And you know yourself these Bene Gesserits bear mostly daughters. Even the Padishah Emperor's consort has produced only females."

	"Uncle," said Feyd-Rautha, "what's the important thing you said I must learn here? You said I—"

	"Listen to my nephew," the Baron said. "He aspires to rule my Barony someday, yet he cannot rule himself." The Baron stirred beside the globe, a shadow among shadows. "Well, then, young Feyd-Rautha Harkonnen, I summoned you here hoping to teach you wisdom. Have you observed Piter? You should've learned something from him."

	"But—"

	"A most efficient Mentat, Piter, wouldn't you say so, Feyd?"

	"Yes, but—"

	"Ah! Indeed but! But he consumes too much spice, eating it like candy. Look at his eyes! He might've come directly from the Arrakeen labor pool. Efficient, Piter, but he's still emotional and prone to passionate outbursts. Efficient, Piter, but he still can err."

	Piter spoke in a low, sullen tone: "Did you call me in here to impair my efficiency with criticism, Baron?"

	"Impair?" the Baron asked. "You know me better, Piter. I wish only for my nephew to understand the limitations of a Mentat."

	"Are you already training my replacement?" Piter demanded.

	"Replace you?" the Baron asked. "Why, Piter, where would I find another Mentat with the cunning and venom to meet my needs?"

	"The same place you found me," Piter said.

	"Perhaps I should at that," the Baron mused. "You do seem a bit unstable lately. And the spice you eat!"

	"You object to my pleasures. Baron?"

	"Object? My dear Piter, they are what tie you to me! How could I object to them? I merely wish my nephew to observe this about you."

	"Then I'm here on display," Piter said. "Shall I dance? Shall I perform my various functions for the eminent Feyd-Rautha? Shall I—"

	"You are on display!" the Baron said. "Precisely. Now, be silent." He glanced at Feyd-Rautha, who was staring at Piter with an amused expression. "This is a Mentat, Feyd. It has been trained to perform certain duties. The fact that it's encased in a human body, however, is not to be overlooked. I sometimes think the ancients with their machines had the right idea."

	"They were toys compared to me," Piter said. "You yourself, Baron, could outperform them."

	"Perhaps," the Baron said. "Ah, well." He took a deep breath, belched. "Now, then Piter—I wish you to outline for my nephew the salient features of our campaign against the House of Atreides. Function as a Mentat for us, would you please?"

	"Can we trust one so young to be discreet with this information?" Piter asked. "My own observation of —"

	"I'll be the judge of this," the Baron said. "I'm giving you an order, Mentat. Perform one of your various functions."

	"As you wish, then," Piter said. He straightened, assuming an odd attitude of dignity—as though it were another mask, but this time clothing his entire body. "In a few days, Standard, the entire Household of the Duke Leto will embark on a Spacing Guild liner for Arrakis. The Guild will deposit them on Arrakis within a Standard Month. The Duke's Mentat, the redoubtable Thufir Hawat, having penetrated part of our campaign, will move the central party and the main fighting force to the City of Arrakeen, instead of to our city of Carthag."

	"Listen carefully, Feyd," the Baron said. "Observe the plans within plans within plans."

	Feyd-Rautha nodded, thinking: This is more like it. The old monster is letting me in on secret things at last. He must really mean for me to be his heir.

	"Now, there are several possibilities," Piter said. "I've indicated that they will indeed go to Arrakis. We must not, however, overlook the possibility that the Duke has contracted with the Guild to remove him to a place of safety outside the System. Others have become Renegade Houses in like circumstances, taking their Family atomics and shields and fleeing beyond the Imperium."

	"The Duke's too proud a man for that," the Baron said.

	"It is, however, a possibility," Piter said. "Should he do this, though, the ultimate effect for us would be the same."

	"It would not!" the Baron snapped. "I must have him dead and his line ended!"

	"That's the high probability," Piter said. "There are certain preparations that indicate when a House is going renegade. The Duke is doing none of these things."

	"So," the Baron sighed. "Get on with it, Piter."

	"At Arrakeen," Piter said, "the Duke's family will occupy the old Residency, lately the home of Count and Lady Fenring."

	"The Ambassador to the Smugglers," the Baron chuckled.

	"What?" Feyd-Rautha asked. "Ambassador to what?"

	"Your uncle makes a joke," Piter said. "He calls the Count Fenring Ambassador to the Smugglers, indicating that the Padishah Emperor has a vested interest in the Arrakeen smuggling operation ... which he does."

	Feyd-Rautha looked at his uncle, puzzled. "But how—"

	"Don't be dense, Feyd," the Baron snapped. "As long as the Spacing Guild remains effectively outside the Imperial control how could conditions be otherwise? How else could spies and assassins move about?"

	Feyd-Rautha's mouth made a soundless "Ohhh."

	"At the Residency, we've arranged some diversions," Piter said. "There will be an attempt on the life of the son, Paul— an attempt which could succeed."

	"Piter," the Baron rumbled. "You indicated—"

	"I indicated that accidents can happen," Piter said. "And the attempt must appear valid."

	"So," the Baron said.

	"Hawat will have divined that we have an agent planted on him," Piter said. "The obvious suspect is Dr. Yueh, who is indeed our agent. But Hawat will have investigated Yueh and found that the doctor is a Suk School product with Imperial Conditioning—supposedly safe enough to administer even to the Padishah Emperor. A great store is set by Imperial Conditioning. It is assumed that this is a sort of ultimate inhibition which cannot be removed without killing the subject. However, it was said once that, given the right lever, you could move a planet. We found a lever that moved the doctor."

	"How?" Feyd-Rautha asked. He found this a subject of fascination. Everyone knew you couldn't subvert Imperial Conditioning.

	"Another time," the Baron said abruptly. "Get on with it, Piter."

	"Instead of Yueh," Piter said, "we will drag across Hawat's path a most interesting suspect. The very audacity of this suspect will recommend her to Hawat's attention."

	"Her?" Feyd-Rautha asked.

	"The Lady Jessica herself," Piter said. "Is it not sublime? Hawat's mind will be filled with this prospect, impairing his function as a Mentat. He may even try to kill her." Piter broke off, then: "But I don't think he'll succeed."

	"You don't want him to succeed, eh?" the Baron asked.

	"Don't distract me," Piter said. "While Hawat is occupied with the Lady Jessica, we will divert him further with uprisings in a few garrison towns and such. The Duke must believe he's gaining a measure of success. Then, when the moment is ripe, we'll signal Yueh and move in with our major force ... strengthened by two Legions of Sardaukar disguised in the Harkonnen livery."

	"Sardaukar!" breathed Feyd-Rautha. And his mind focused on the dread Imperial troops, the killers without mercy, the soldier fanatics of the Padishah Emperor.

	"You see how I trust you, Feyd?" the Baron asked. "No hint of this must ever reach another Great House, else the Landsraad might unite against the Imperial House and there'd be chaos."

	"The main point," Piter said, "is this: since the House of Harkonnen is being used to do the Imperial dirty work, you have gained a real advantage. It's a dangerous advantage, to be sure, but used cautiously, the Harkonnen wealth should rival that of any House in the Imperium."

	"You have no idea how much wealth is involved, Feyd," the Baron said. "Your wildest imagining would fall short of it. The beginning will be an irrevocable directorship in the CHOAM Company."

	"The Duke Leto," Piter said, "may attempt to flee to the few Fremen scum along the desert's edge. Or he may try to send his family into such imagined security. That path is blocked however, by one of His Majesty's agents— the planetary ecologist. You may remember him: Kynes?"

	"Feyd-Rautha remembers him," the Baron said. "Get on with it."

	"You do not drool very prettily, Baron," Piter said.

	"Get on with it, I command you!" the Baron roared.

	"If matters go as planned," Piter said, "the House of Harkonnen will have a sub-fief on Arrakis within a Standard Year. Note this: your uncle will have the dispensation of that fief. His own personal agent will go there."

	"More profits," Feyd-Rautha said.

	"Indeed," Piter said. "And the Great Houses will know that the Baron had a hand in destroying the Duke. They will know."

	"They will know," breathed the Baron.

	"Loveliest of all," said Piter, "is that the Duke knows, too. He can feel the trap."

	"It's true that the Duke knows," the Baron said. "He could not help but know, more's the pity."

	The Baron moved suddenly out and away from the globe of Arrakis. As he emerged from the shadows, his figure took on dimensions—grossly, immensely fat. And with subtle bulges beneath folds of his dark gown to reveal that all this fat was partly sustained by portable suspensors. He might weigh two hundred Standard Kilos in actuality, but his feet would carry no more than fifty of them.

	"I am hungry," the Baron rumbled, and he rubbed his protruding lips with a be-ringed hand, stared down at Feyd-Rautha with fat-enfolded eyes. "Send for food, my darling. We will eat."

Chapter Three

Thus spoke St. Alia-of-the-Knife: "The Reverend Mother must combine the seductive wiles of a courtesan with the untouchable majesty of a virgin goddess, holding these attributes in tension so long as the powers of her youth endure. For when youth and beauty have gone, she will find that the place-between, once occupied by tension, has become a wellspring of cunning and resourcefulness."
"Muad'Dib, Family Commentaries" 
by The Princess Irulan

	"Well, Jessica, what have you to say for yourself?" asked the Reverend Mother.

	It was near sunset at Castle Caladan. The two women were alone in Jessica's morning room while Paul waited in the adjoining soundproofed meditation chamber.

	Jessica stood facing the south windows. She saw and yet did not see the evening's banked colors across meadows and river. She heard and yet did not hear the Reverend Mother's question.

	There had been another ordeal once—many years ago. A skinny girl with hair the color of bronze, her body tortured by the winds of puberty, had entered the study of the Reverend Mother Gaius Helen Mohiam, Proctor Superior of the Bene Gesserit School on Wallach IX. Jessica looked down at her right hand, flexed the fingers, remembering the pain in detail, the terror, the anger. "Poor Paul," she whispered.

	"I asked you a question, Jessica!" The old woman's voice was snappish, demanding.

	"What? Oh—" Jessica tore her attention away from the past, faced the Reverend Mother who sat with back to the stone wall between the two west windows. "What do you want me to say?"

	"What do I want you to say? What do I want you to say?" The old voice carried a tone of cruel mimicry.

	"So I had a son!" Jessica flared. And she knew she was being goaded into this anger deliberately.

	"You were told to bear only daughters to the Atreides."

	"It meant so much to him," Jessica pleaded.

	"And you in your pride thought you could produce the Kwisatz Haderach!"

	Jessica lifted her chin. "I sensed the possibility."

	"You thought only of your Duke's desires for a son," the old woman snapped. "And his desires don't figure in this. An Atreides daughter could've been wed to a Harkonnen heir and sealed the breach. You've hopelessly complicated things. We may lose both bloodlines now."

	"You're not infallible," Jessica said. She braved the steady stare from the old eyes.

	Presently, the old woman muttered: "What's done is done."

	"I vowed never to regret my decision," Jessica said.

	"How noble," the Reverend Mother said. "No regrets. We shall see when you're a fugitive with a price on your head and every man's hand turned against you to seek your life and the life of your son."

	Jessica paled as the Reverend Mother spoke. "Is there no alternative?"

	"Alternative? A Bene Gesserit should ask that?"

	"I ask only what you see in the future with your superior abilities."

	"I see in the future what I have seen in the past. You well know the pattern of our affairs, Jessica. The race knows its own mortality and fears stagnation of its heredity. It's in the bloodstream—an urge to mingle genetic strains. The Imperium, the CHOAM Company ... all the Great Houses, they are but bits of flotsam in the path of this flood."

	"Would you have me return to basic history for understanding of my present problems?" Jessica asked.

	"Don't be facetious, girl! You know as well as I do what forces surround us. We have a three-point civilization: the Imperial Household balanced against the Federated Great Houses, and between them the Guild with its monopoly on interstellar transport. In politics, the tripod is the most unstable of all structures. It'd be bad enough without the framework being complicated by our feudal trade culture which turns its back on science."

	Jessica spoke bitterly: "And this chip floating here, this is the Duke Leto, and this is his son, and this—"

	"You entered this with full knowledge of what a delicate edge we walk," the Reverend Mother said. "Our rulers fear strength. They know the dangers of too much science. If the tripod falls the wrong way, it could scatter the human stock beyond any regathering ... yet the Bene Gesserit plan must have that critical mass of fertile humans. If they scatter beyond our reach ... centuries of work wasted. Wasted! Yet, if we show our hand, reveal our strength and purpose, we invite destruction."

	"I am Bene Gesserit; I exist only to serve," Jessica muttered.

	"Truth," the old woman said. "All we can hope to do is to prevent this from erupting into general conflagration, salvage what we can of the key bloodlines."

	The old woman's voice softened. "Jessica, girl, I wish I could stand in your place and take your sufferings. But each of us must make her own mistakes."

	"I know."

	"You're as dear to me as any of my own daughters, but I cannot let that interfere with duty."

	"I understand ... the necessity."

	"What you did, Jessica, and why you did it—we both know. But kindness forces me to tell you there's so little chance that your lad will be the Bene Gesserit Totality. You must not let yourself hope too much."

	Jessica shook tears from the corners of her eyes. It was Jessica closed her eyes, feeling tears press out beneath the lids. She fought down the inner trembling, the outer trembling, the uneven breathing, the ragged pulse, the sweating of the palms. Presently, she said: "I'll pay for my own mistake."

	"And your son will pay, too."

	"I'll shield him as well as I'm able."

	"Shield!" the old woman snapped. "You well know the weakness there! Shield your son too much, Jessica, and he'll not grow strong enough to fulfill any destiny."

	Jessica turned away, looked out the window. "Is it really that terrible, this planet of Arrakis?"

	"Bad enough, but not all bad. The Missionaria Protectiva has been in there and softened it up somewhat." The Reverend Mother heaved herself to her feet, straightened a fold in her gown. "Summon the boy. I must be leaving soon."

	"Must you?" an angry gesture. "You make me feel like a little girl again —reciting my first lesson." She forced the words out: 'Humans must never submit to animals' " A dry sob shook her. In a low voice, she said: "I've been so lonely."

	"It should be one of our tests," the old woman said. "Humans are almost always lonely. Now summon the boy. He's had a long and frightening day. But I have a few more questions about these dreams of his."

	"Do these dreams not suggest the thing we seek?" Jessica asked.

	"Do not hope too much, girl."

	Jessica nodded, went to the door of the Meditation Room, opened it. "Paul, come in now, please."

	Paul entered the Morning Room with a stubborn slowness. He stared at his mother as though she were a stranger. Wariness veiled his eyes when he glanced at the Reverend Mother, but this time he nodded to her, the nod one gives an equal. He heard his mother close the door behind him.

	"Young man," said the old woman, "let's go through that dream business again."

	"What do you want?" he asked. "I've told you how I remember all my dreams." "All of them?"

	"If I need to remember them." "Do you dream every night?"

	"Not dreams worth remembering. I can remember every dream, but some are worth remembering and some aren't."

	"Ohhh." The old woman glanced at Jessica, back to Paul. "What dream did you dream last night?"

	Paul closed his eyes. "About a cavern ... and water ... and a girl there—very skinny with big eyes. Her eyes are all blue. They don't have any whites in them. I talk to her and I tell her about you, about seeing the Reverend Mother on Caladan." Paul opened his eyes.

	"And the thing you told this strange girl about seeing me, did it happen today the way you told it?"

	Paul thought about this, then: "Yes. I told the girl you came and put a stamp of strangeness on me."

	"Stamp of strangeness," the old woman breathed, and again she shot a glance at Jessica, returned her attention to Paul. "Tell me truly now, Paul, do you often dream a thing and have the dream happen exactly as you dreamed it?"

	"I told you I did. Yes. Many times."

	"Tell me of another time."

	"I've dreamed about the strange girl before."

	"Oh? Do you know her?"

	"No. But I will know her."

	"Tell me another dream about her."

	Again, Paul closed his eyes. "We're in a little place in some rocks where it's sheltered. It's almost night, but it's hot and I can see patches of sand out an opening in the rocks. We're waiting for something ... for me to go meet some people who're waiting for me. And she's frightened but trying to hide it from me, and I'm excited. And she says: 'Tell me about the waters of your homeworld, Usul, my Muad'Dib.'" Paul opened his eyes. "Isn't that strange? My homeworld's Caladan. I've never even heard of a planet called Usul."

	"Is there more to this dream?" Jessica prompted.

	"Yes. Maybe she was calling me Usul," Paul said. "I just thought of that." Again, he closed his eyes. "She asked me to tell her about the waters. And I take her hand. She has nice hands. And I say I'll tell her a poem. And I tell her the poem, but I have to explain some of the words —like beach and surf and seaweed and seagulls."

	"What poem?" the old woman asked.

	Paul opened his eyes. "It's just one of Gurney's tone poems for sad times."

	Behind Paul, Jessica began to recite:

"I remember salt smoke from a beach fire
"And shadows under the pines—
"Solid, clean, fixed—
"Seagulls perched at the tip of land,
"While upon green ...
"And a wind came through the pines
"To sway the shadows.
"The seagulls spread their wings,
"Lifted
"And filled the sky with screeches. 
"And I heard the wind 
"Blowing across the beach,
"And the surf, 
"And I saw that our fire 
"Had scorched the seaweed."

	"That's the one," Paul said.

	The old woman stared at Paul, then: "Young man as a Proctor of the Bene Gesserit, I seek continually for the Kwisatz Haderach, the male who can truly become one of us. Your mother sees this possibility in you, but she sees with the eyes of a mother. Possibility, this I see, too. But I cannot label it more."

	She fell silent, and Paul saw that she wanted him to speak. He waited her out.

	Presently, she said: "As you will, then. You've depths in you; I'll grant that."

	"May I go now?" he asked.

	"You don't want to hear what I can tell you about the Kwisatz Haderach?"

	"You said those who tried for it died."

	"But I can help you with a hint at the reason for their failure."

	"Hint then."

	She smiled wryly. "Very well: That which submits rules."

	"That's a hint?" She nodded.

	"Ruling and submitting are opposites," he said.

	"Is the place between them empty?" Jessica asked.

	"Ohhh." He kept his attention on the old woman. "You mean what my mother calls the tension-within-meaning." He pursed his lips. "That which submits rules."

	"We're not here just to bandy words or quibble over interpretations." the old woman said. "The willow submits to the wind and prospers until one day it is many willows—a wall against the wind. Animal-humans and the animal nature in true humans blunders along like the wild wind. You must bend to this, but keep your roots firmly planted. You must learn to use the wind, to gain strength from it, use it for your own purposes."

	Paul stared at her. She spoke of purposes, and again he felt himself infected by Terrible Purpose.

	"Do you understand what she's saying?" Jessica asked.

	"I'm trying to understand it."

	"It'll come to you without trying," Jessica said.

	"You think I could be this ... Kwisatz Haderach ... and you want me to rule ... the way you say ... but I—"

	"We merely want you to work at becoming a Bene Gesserit!" the old woman snapped. "You may never have a chance to rule."

	"I've been taught to guard against Harkonnens," he said.

	"Well taught, too, I have no doubt," she said. "But you're the end viant of the Atreides central line, the main bloodline."

	"You must guard yourself for your father's sake," Jessica said. "For the sake of all the other Atreides who've come to this ... to you."

	"You haven't told me what we can do about my father," Paul said. "You talk as though—"

	"Nothing!" the old woman barked. "If there were a thing to be done, we'd have done it. We may be able to salvage you. Doubtful, but possible. When you've learned to accept this as fact, you've learned a real Bene Gesserit lesson."

	Paul chewed at his lower lip. How could they say such a thing about his father? His mind seethed with resentment. What made them so sure?

	The Reverend Mother looked at Jessica. "I've seen the signs of it—I know you've been training him in the Way. I'd have done the same in your shoes and devil take the Rules."

	Jessica nodded.

	"Now," said the old woman, "I caution you to ignore the regular order of training. His own safety requires the Voice. He already has a start in it, but we both know how much more he needs ... and desperately." She stepped up to Paul, stood looking down at him. "Good-by, young human. I hope you make it. But if you don't ... all will not be lost. We will yet succeed—sometime."

	Once more, she looked at Jessica. A flicker-sign of understanding passed between them. Then, the old woman swept from the room, her robes hissing, and not another backward glance. The room and its occupants already were shut from her thoughts.

	But Jessica had caught one glimpse of the Reverend Mother's face as she turned away. There had been tears on the seamed cheeks. The tears were more unnerving than any of the words or signs that had passed between them.

Chapter Four

You have read that Muad'Dib had no playmates his own age on Caladan. The dangers of a false friend were too great. His family was relatively poor; their enemy rich. But Muad'Dib did have wonderful companion-teachers. There was Gurney Halleck, the troubadour warrior. You will sing some of Gurney's songs as you read along in this book. There was Thufir Hawat, the old Mentat Master of Assassins, who struck fear even into the heart of the Padishah Emperor. And there were Duncan Idaho, the Sword Master of the Ginaz; Dr. Wellington Yueh, a name black in treachery but bright in knowledge; the Lady Jessica, who guided her son in the Bene Gesserit Way, and, of course, the Duke, whose great qualities as a father have long been overlooked.
"A Child's History of Muad'Dib" 
by The Princess Irulan

	Thufir Hawat slipped into the training room of Castle Caladan, closed the door softly. He stood there a moment feeling tired, feeling as old and storm-leathered as he knew he looked. His left leg ached where it has been slashed once in the service of the Old Duke.

	Three generations of them now, he thought.

	He stared across the noon-lighted open room at the boy seated with back to the door, intent on papers and maps spread across an ell table.

	How many times must I tell that lad never to settle himself with his back to a door? Hawat cleared his throat.

	Paul remained bent over his studies.

	Again, Hawat cleared his throat.

	Paul straightened, spoke without turning: "I know. I'm sitting with my back to the door."

	Hawat suppressed a smile, strode across the room.

	Paul turned, looked up at the grizzled man who stopped at the corner of the table. Hawat's eyes were two pools of alertness in a dark and deeply seamed face.

	"I heard you coming down the hall," Paul said. "And I heard you open the door."

	"The sounds I make could be imitated," Hawat said.

	"I'd know the difference."

	He might at that, Hawat thought. That witch-mother of his is giving him the deepest training, certainly.

	Hawat pulled up a chair across the ell table from Paul, sat down facing the door. He did it pointedly, and leaned back, studying the room. It struck him as an odd place suddenly, most of its hardware already bound for Arrakis. There remained only the fencing mirror with its crystal prisms quiescent, the target dummy beside the mirror-patched and padded, looking like an ancient footsoldier maimed and battered in the wars.

	There stand I, Hawat thought.

	"What're you thinking, Thufir?" Paul asked.

	Hawat looked at the boy. "I was thinking we'll all be out of here in a few days and likely never see the place again."

	"Does that make you sad, too?"

	"Sad? Nonsense! Parting with friends is a sadness. A place is only a place." He glanced at the papers and maps on the table. "And Arrakis is another place."

	"Thufir, did my father send you up to test me?"

	Hawat scowled, then nodded. "You've observing ways about you. And I know you're thinking it'd have been nicer if he'd come up himself. But he'll be along later. You must know how busy he is."

	"Yes."

	"What've you learned from these charts of Arrakis?"

	Paul glanced down to the table at a conical projection chart of the northern Arrakeen latitudes, said: "This is the habitable area. The desert belt and south polar regions are marked uninhabitable." He looked up. "Is that really true?"

	"Oh, any place can be made habitable, I guess," Hawat said. "But you always have to figure the cost. The mountains, the ones there along the northern edge of the desert that they call 'The Shield Wall,' they're a natural barrier. They keep out the main force of the desert storms and reduce the cost of living, so to speak."

	"There're no mountains in the south?"

	"Clean flat."

	"I guess the storms are pretty bad."

	"That's too cautious a word: bad. Those storms can build up across six or seven thousand kilometers of flat-lands. They feed on each other and gain power as they join. Coriolis force pushes them, and gravity from the moons and the sun and anything else that has an ounce of energy in it. They build up to more'n five hundred kilometers an hour, loaded with sand and dust and everything loose that's got in their way"—he took a deep breath— "and they slam into anything that gets in their path. They eat flesh off bones and etch the bones to slivers."

	Paul continued to stare at Hawat, thinking about such a storm. Presently, he said: "It seems to me weather-control satellites would pay for themselves."

	"It's a thing to be considered," Hawat said. "But Arrakis has special weather problems. The cost would be dreadful even if the Spacing Guild could be talked into it ... and there'd be the maintenance costs and the like. Your father's House isn't one of the great rich ones, lad. You know that."

	"We might be able to do something on the surface, though. Perhaps we could control the sandworms."

	"Did Yueh give you any idea of the size of those worms?"

	"He showed me a filmbook." Paul closed his eyes and called up the book's commentary, reciting it: "This is a small specimen, only one hundred and ten meters long and twenty-two meters diameter. Worms of more than four hundred meters' length and corresponding diameter have been recorded by reliable witnesses, and there's reason to believe even larger ones roam the deep equatorial regions." Paul opened his eyes. "The man was describing a dead worm. He said the Fremen produced it for him as a specimen. Have you ever seen the Fremen?"

	"Like as not I have. There's little difference in appearance between them and the townfolk. They all wear these great flowing robes. And they stink to heaven in any closed space. It's from these suits they wear beneath their robes—call them 'still-suits'—that're supposed to reclaim the body's own water."

	Paul swallowed, suddenly aware of the moisture in his mouth. The idea that people could want so for water that they had to recycle their body moisture struck him with a feeling of desolation. "Is water that precious?" he asked.

	Hawat nodded, and he thought: Perhaps I'm doing it. Perhaps I'm getting across to him at last—the importance of the planet as an enemy.

	"Water?" Paul looked up at the skylight above them, aware that it had begun to rain several minutes before. He saw the spreading wetness on the gray meta-glass. "Water?"

	"You'll learn a great concern for water on Arrakis," Hawat said. "As the Duke's son you'll never want for it, but you'll see the pressures of thirst all around."

	Paul thought back to his day with the Reverend Mother, the test of the gom jabbar. She'd said something about water starvation, too, but his mind had been too full then with the memory of pain and the fearful prophecy she had cast upon him.

	"You'll learn about the funeral plains," she'd said, "about the wilderness that is empty, the wasteland where nothing lives or grows except the spice and the sand-worms. You'll learn to stain your eyepits to reduce the sun's glare. Shelter will come to mean a hollow out of the wind and hidden from view. You'll learn to ride upon your own two feet without aircraft, groundcar or mount."

	And Paul had been caught more by the tone of her voice—singsong and wavering—then by her words.

	"When you live upon Arrakis," she had said, "khala, the land that is empty, the moons will be your friends and the sun your enemy."

	Paul had felt his mother come up beside him, away from her post guarding the door. She had looked at the Reverend Mother and asked: "Do you see no hope, Your Reverence?"

	"For your son, yes, but not for the father." And the old woman had waved Jessica to silence, looked down at Paul. "I enjoin you to grave this into your memory: A world is supported by four things"—She held up four big-knuckled fingers—"the learning of the wise, the justice of the great, the prayers of the righteous and the valor of the brave. But all of these are as nothing"—she closed her fingers into a fist—"without a ruler who knows the art of ruling. Make that the science of your tradition!"

	Now, sitting with Thufir Hawat in the training room, Paul looked across at the Mentat's puzzled frown. A week had passed since that terrible day with the Reverend Mother. Her words were only now beginning to come to full register.

	"Where were you woolgathering that time?" Hawat asked.

	"Did you meet the Reverend Mother when she came to visit?" Paul asked.

	"That Truthsayer witch from the Imperium?" Hawat's eyes quickened with interest. "I met her, but I've not fathomed the purpose of her visit or why she was so crony-crony with you and your mother."

	"She—" Paul hesitated, found that he could not tell Hawat about the test. The inhibition went deep.

	"Yes? What did she?"

	Paul took two deep breaths. "She said a thing to me." He closed his eyes, calling up the words, and when he spoke, his voice unconsciously took on some of the old woman's tone: " 'You, Paul Atreides, descendant of kings, son of a Duke, you must learn to rule. It's something none of your ancestors have learned.' " Paul opened his eyes, said: "That made me angry, and I said to her that my father rules an entire planet. And she said: 'But he's losing it.' And I said that my father was getting a richer planet. And she said: 'He'll lose that, too.' And I wanted to run and warn my father, but she said he'd already been warned ... by you, by my mother, by many people."

	"That's true enough," Hawat muttered.

	"Then why are we going?" Paul demanded.

	"Because the Padishah Emperor orders it," Hawat said. "And because there's hope in spite of what that witch-spy said. What all did she tell you?"

	"She told me a world's the sum of many things."

	"She what?"

	"I mean—like the people, the dirt, the growing things, the moons, the tides, the sun. Like that. She said this was the unknown sum we call nature. But she said it's vague, without a now, that when you try to break it down for analysis, it has already moved on."

	"Did you make any sense out of that, lad?" Hawat asked, and he frowned, thinking: She was just paraphrasing the First Law of Mentat for him.

	"I ... think so," Paul said.

	Why would she take time for that when she knows this lad must he far beyond such kindergarten stuff?

	"It's just the First Law of Mentat," Paul said, and he quoted: "A process cannot be understood by stopping it. Understanding must move with the flow of the process, must join it and flow with it."

	"I'd have been surprised if you hadn't seen it," Hawat said. "What else spouted from this ancient fountain of wisdom?"

	Paul looked down at his right hand clenched into a fist beneath the table, and slowly willed the muscles to relax. She put some kind of hold on me, he thought. What was it?

	"She asked me to tell her my understanding of what it is to rule," Paul said. "And I said that one commands. And she said I had some unlearning to do."

	She hit a mark there, right enough, Hawat thought. He nodded for Paul to continue.

	"Then she said a ruler must learn to persuade and not to compel. She said he must lay the best coffee hearth to attract the finest men."

	"How'd she figure your father attracted men like Duncan Idaho and Gurney Halleck?" Hawat asked.

	Paul shrugged. "Then she said a funny thing: she said a good ruler has to learn his world's language, that it's different for every world. And I thought she meant they didn't speak Galach on Arrakis, but she said that wasn't it at all. She said she meant the language of the rocks and growing things, the language you don't hear just with your ears. And I said that's what Dr. Yueh calls the Mystery of Life."

	Hawat chuckled. "How'd that sit with her?"

	"She seemed to get mad. She said the mystery of life isn't a problem to be solved, it's a reality to be experienced. She said I'd have to ... woo my world ... seduce it and not fight it."

	"Not fight it?" Hawat's face betrayed outrage.

	"I'm just telling you what she said."

	Mish-mash, Hawat thought. Was it a deliberate attempt to confuse the boy and frighten him?

	"Thufir," Paul said, "is Arrakis going to be as bad for my father as she said?"

	"Nowhere near it," Hawat said.

	"You know something," Paul said. "Please tell me."

	I can tell you a little, perhaps," Hawat said. "It's to do with the Fremen, the renegade people of the desert. I've a first-approximation-analysis on them: there're many, more of them than the Imperium knows about... and"— Hawat put a sinewy finger beside his eye—"they hate the Harkonnens bitterly, all of them. I tell you this, lad, as your father's helper. You must not breathe a word of it to anyone."

	"I won't. Do you think they'll help us?"

	"It's a possibility. That's all I can say." Hawat stood up. "I leave today for Arrakis. Now, you take care of yourself for an old man who's fond of you, heh? Come around here like a good lad and sit facing the door. It's not that I think there's any danger here. It's just a habit I want you to form."

	Paul got to his feet and moved around the table. "You're going to Arrakis ... today?"

	"Today it is," Hawat said, "and you follow tomorrow. Next time we meet it'll be on the soil of your new world." He gripped Paul's right arm. "Keep your knife arm free, heh? And your shield at full charge." He patted Paul's shoulder, whirled and strode quickly to the door.

	"Thufir!" Paul called.

	Hawat turned, standing in the open door.

	"Don't sit with your back to any doors," Paul said.

	A grin spread across the seamed old face. "That I won't, lad. Depend on it." And he was gone out the door, shutting it softly behind him.

	Paul sat down where Hawat had been, straightened the papers. Maybe I helped by telling Thufir those things, he thought. But I didn't tell him everything. I couldn't.

	The door across the room banged open. Gurney Halleck entered, carrying the weapons under his arm—the rapiers, the bodkins, the kindjals, the slow-pellet stunners, the shield belts. He saw Paul seated across from him at the ell table, noted that Hawat's men already had been over the area checking it, making it safe for a Duke's heir. Subtle code signs were all around—the target dummy positioned just so, the chalked symbol-of-the-day on ceiling beams and skylights.

	Paul watched the rolling, ugly lump of a man veer toward the training table, saw the nine-string baliset slung over Gurney's shoulder on its cord, the multipick woven through the strings near the head of the fingerboard.

	The inkvine scar along the man's jawline writhed as he cast a smile across the room and called: "A good morning, you young imp! What barb did you sink into old Hawat? He passed me like a man running to his enemy's funeral."

Paul grinned. Of all his father's men, he liked Gurney Halleck best. He knew the man's moods and deviltry, the humor of him, and thought of him more as a friend than as a hired sword.

	Gurney dropped the weapons onto the exercise table, swung the baliset off his shoulder, began checking its tune.

	"Well, Gurney Halleck," Paul said, and he stood and advanced across the room. "Do we come prepared for music when it's fighting time?"

	Gurney tried a chord on the instrument. "So it's sass for our elders today," he said.

	"Where's Duncan Idaho?" Paul asked. "Isn't he supposed to be teaching me weaponry?"

	"Duncan's gone to lead the second wave onto Arrakis," Gurney said. "As you well know. All you have left is poor Gurney who's fresh out of fight and spoiling for music." He struck another chord, listened to it, nodded. "And it was decided in council that you being such a poor fighter we best teach you the music trade so's you won't waste your life." He swung into "Galacian Girls," his multipick a blur over the strings as he sang:

"Oh, the Galacian girls
"Will do it for pearls,
"And the Arrakeen for water!
"But if you desire dames
"Like consuming flames,
"Try a Caladanin daughter!" 

	"Not bad for such a poor hand with the pick." Paul said "but if my mother heard you singing a bawdy like that in the castle, she'd have your ears on the outer wall for decoration."

	Gurney pulled at his left ear. "Poor decoration, too, they having been bruised so much listening at keyholes while a young lad I know practiced some strange ditties in his baliset."

	"So you've forgotten what it's like to find sand in your bed," Paul said. He pulled a shield belt from the table, buckled it fast around his waist. "Then, let's fight!"

	Gurney's eyes widened in mock surprise. "So! So it was your wicked hand did that deed! Guard yourself today, young master ... guard yourself." He grabbed up a rapier, laced the air with it. "I'm a hellfiend out for revenge!"

	Paul lifted the companion rapier from the table, bent it in his two hands, stood in the aguile, one foot forward. He let his manner go solemn in a comic imitation of Dr. Yueh.

	"What a dolt my father sends me for a weapons teacher," Paul intoned. "This doltish Gurney Halleck has forgotten the first lesson for a fighting man armed and shielded." Paul snapped the force button at his waist, felt the crinkled-skin tingling of it around his forehead, heard all external sounds take on shield-filtered flatness. "In shield-fighting, one must move fast on defense, slow on attack. The attack has the sole purpose of tricking an opponent into a misstep, setting him up for the attack sinister. One must always remember that the shield turns the fast blow and admits the slow kindjal!" Paul snapped up the rapier, feinted fast and whipped it back in a slow thrust timed precisely to enter a shield's mindless defense.

	Gurney watched the action critically, turned at the last minute to let the blunted blade pass his chest. "Speed, excellent," he said. "But you were wide open for an underhanded counter with a poison needle or slip-tip."

	Paul stepped back, chagrined.

	"To paraphrase an expert I heard recently on this subject," Gurney said, "it's not the blow you aim that's important, it's the one you hold in reserve. The feint goes thusly, you see." And Gurney demonstrated, thrusting high with an apparently foolish speed as Paul fell back. "And thus! It lets your opponent move in a way ... that sets him up for ... the sinister hand."

	And Paul found himself turned backward over the exercise table, exposed to a blunted kindjal on his left and inside the shield's aura.

	"I should whap your backsides for letting me get that close to you," Gurney said. He pulled back and straightened, slipped the guard off the kindjal and held up the naked blade. "This in the hand of an enemy can let out your life's blood! What is it with you today, lad? In all truth, I've never had a more apt pupil, yet you permit me into your guard with death in my hand."

	"I guess I'm not in the mood for it today," Paul said.

	"Mood?" Gurney's voice betrayed outrage, even through the shield. "What has mood to do with it? You fight when the necessity arises—no matter your mood! Mood's a thing for cattle or for making love or playing the baliset. It's not for fighting. You haven't let me that close to you in over a year!" He flicked the blunting sheath to the floor, activated his shield, crouched with blade outthrust in his left hand, the rapier poised high in his right. "Now, I say guard yourself for true!" He leaped to one side, then forward, pressing a furious attack.

	Paul fell back, parrying the rapier. He felt the shield edges touch and repel, sensed the electric tingling of the contact. "What's gotten into Gurney?" He asked himself. "He's not faking." Paul moved his left hand, dropped his bodkin into his palm from its wrist sheath.

	"You see the need for an extra blade, eh?" Gurney grunted.

	Around the room they fought—thrust and parry. The air within their shield bubbles grew stale from the demands on it and the slow interchange along the barrier edge. There was a taint of ozone in it from shield contacts.

	Paul continued to back, but now he directed his retreat toward the exercise table. If I can turn him beside the table, I'll show him a trick, Paul thought, just one more step.

	Gurney took the step. Paul directed his next parry down, turned, saw Gurney's rapier catch against the table edge. Paul flung himself aside, thrust high with the rapier and came in across Gurney's neckline with the bodkin. He stopped the blade an inch from the jugular.

	"Look down, lad," Gurney panted.

	Paul obeyed, saw Gurney's kindjal thrust under the table edge, the tip almost touching Paul's groin.

	"We'd have joined each other in death that time," Gurney said. "But I'll admit you fought some better when pressed to it. You seemed to get the mood of the fight." And he grinned wolfishly, the inkvine scar rippling along his jaw.

	"The way you came at me," Paul said. "Would you really have drawn my blood?"

	"If you'd fought beneath your abilities one little bit," Gurney said, "I'd have scratched you a good one, a scratch to leave a scar you'd remember. I'll not have a pupil of mine fall to the first Harkonnen tramp who happens along." He withdrew the kindjal, straightened.

	Paul leaned on the table, taking a moment to catch his breath. "I deserved that, Gurney. I know it, but it would've angered my father if you'd hurt me. I'll not have you punished for my failing."

	"Well, now, lad," Gurney said, "as to that: it was my failing, too. And you needn't worry about a training scar or two. You're lucky you have so few. As to your father, the Duke, he'd punish me only if I failed to make you a first-class fighting man. And I'd have been failing that, too, if I hadn't pointed out the fallacy in this mood thing."

	Paul slipped his bodkin back into its wrist sheath, turned off his shield belt. Gurney nodded, sheathed the kindjal and deactivated his own belt.

	"It's not exactly play we do here," Gurney said, and his voice had regained its fullness in the absence of the shields.

	Paul nodded. There was an uncharacteristic seriousness in Gurney's manner, an intensity that sobered the boy. Paul looked at the beet-colored scar of the inkvine whip on the man's jaw, really seeing it and remembering the story about how it had been put there by Beast Rabban in a Harkonnen slave pit on Giedi Prime. And for the first time, it occurred to Paul that the making of that scar had been accompanied by pain ... a pain as intense, perhaps, as that inflicted by the Reverend Mother on his hand. Paul thrust the thought aside. It chilled their world.

	"I guess I did come in here hoping for some play," Paul said. "But things are so serious around here lately."

	Gurney turned quickly to hide his emotion. Something burned in his eyes. There was pain in him—like a blister-all that was left of some lost yesterday that time had pruned off him.

	How soon this child must assume his manhood, Gurney thought. How soon to find that form in the mind, that contract of caution, and to see that you must enter the necessary things on the necessary line: 'Please list your next of kin.'

	Gurney spoke without turning: "I sensed the play in you, lad, and I'd like nothing better than to join in it. But this cannot be play any longer. This is real. The planet we go to, this Arrakis, is real. The Harkonnens are real."

	"Some day, I'll kill that Rabban for you," Paul said.

	"If the chance ever comes to that, I'll do the deed myself," Gurney said. "But it's his uncle the Baron we want. He's the one taught Rabban all he knows. If you'd destroy an evil growth, cut out the root."

	Paul touched his forehead with his rapier blade held vertical.

	Gurney acknowledged the salute with a nod, gestured to the practice dummy. "Now, shall we work on something that can be accomplished in the immediate future? Let me see you catch that thing sinister. I'll control it from over here where I'll have a full view of the action. And I warn you I'll be trying some new counters. That's a warning you'd not get from a real enemy."

	Paul stretched up on his toes to relieve his muscles. He felt solemn with the knowledge that his life was changing so rapidly. First, the old woman—the Reverend Mother; and now, this sober and intense Gurney Halleck. Paul turned, crossed to the dummy. He slapped the switch on its chest with his rapier tip, felt the field there forcing out his blade.

	"En garde!" Gurney called, and the dummy pressed the attack.

	Paul parried and countered.

	Gurney watched as he manipulated the controls. His mind seemed to be in two parts: one alert to the needs of the fight, and the other wandering through what he called fly-buzz.

	I'm like a well-trained fruit tree, he thought. Full of well-trained feelings and all of them grafted onto me ... all bearing fruits for someone else to pick—not that I truly resent this ...

	And for some reason, he suddenly recalled his younger sister, her elfin face so clear in his mind. But she was dead now ... in a pleasure house for Harkonnen troops. She had loved pansies. Or was it daisies? He couldn't remember. And it bothered him that he couldn't remember.

	Paul countered a slow swing of the dummy, brought up his left hand entretisser.

	That clever little devil, Halleck thought, intent now on Paul's interweaving hand motion. He's been practicing and studying on his own. That's not Duncan's style, and it's certainly not something I've taught him.

	But this thought only added to Gurney's sadness. He began to wonder about Paul, if the boy ever listened fearfully to his pillow throbbing at night.

	"... If wishes were fishes we'd all cast nets," Halleck murmured. It was his mother's expression and he always used it when he felt the blackness of tomorrow on him. Then he thought what an odd expression that was to be taking to a planet which had never known seas or fishes.

Chapter Five

YUEH (yu'a), Wellington (wel'ing-tun), Stdrd 10,082-10,191; medical doctor of the Suk School (grd Stdrd 10,112); md: Wanna Marcus, BG (Stdrd 10,092-10,186?); chiefly noted as betrayer of Duke Leto Atreides. (cf: bibliography, appendix VII [Imperial Conditioning] and Betrayal, The.)
"Dictionary of Muad'Dib" 
by The Princess Irulan

	Although he heard Dr. Yueh enter the training room, noting the stiff deliberation of the man's walk, Paul remained stretched out face down on the exercise table where the masseuse had left him. He felt deliciously relaxed after the workout with Gurney.

	"You do look comfortable," Dr. Yueh said in his calm, high-pitched voice.

	Paul raised his head, saw Yueh's stick figure standing several paces away, took in at a glance the wrinkled clothing, the square block of a head with its purple lips and drooping mustache, the diamond tattoo of Imperial Conditioning on his forehead, the long black hair caught in the Suk School's silver ring at his left shoulder.

	Paul rested his chin on his crossed hands. "Do we have to dig into the books today?"

	Behavior is that over which we have control, Dr. Yueh reminded himself. He said: "I should imagine that's been the complaint of students since the dawn of history. You'll be happy to hear that we do not have time for a regular lesson."

	Paul sat up.

	"However, I've arranged for you to have a filmbook viewer with several lessons during the crossing to Arrakis."

	"Oh."

	"Hurry and get dressed, young master Paul," Yueh said.

	Paul began pulling on his clothes.

	Yueh crossed to the ell table, thinking: How the boy has filled out these past few months. Such a waste! Oh, such a sad waste! And he reminded himself: What I do is done to be certain my Wanna can no longer be hurt by the Harkonnen beasts.

	Paul joined him at the table. "What'll I study on the way across?"

	"Ahh, the terranic life forms of Arrakis. It is strange, but the planet seems to have opened its arms to certain terranic forms. It's not at all clear how. I must seek out the planetary ecologist when we arrive—a Dr. Kynes— and offer my services in the investigation."

	And Yueh thought: What am I saying? I play the hypocrite even with myself.

	"Could you give me something about the Fremen?" Paul asked.

	"The Fremen." Yueh drummed his fingers on the table, caught Paul staring at the nervous motion, withdrew his hand.

	"Maybe you have something on the whole Arrakeen population," Paul said.

	"Yes," Yueh said. "There are two general separations of people there—Fremen and Pan or Graben. There's some intermarriage between them. The women of the pan and sink villages prefer Fremen husbands; their men prefer Fremen wives. They have a saying: 'Polish comes from the cities; Wisdom from the desert.' "

	"Where are they from?" Paul asked.

	Yueh eased himself stiffly onto the edge of the table, dangled one leg. "It is said they're descended from the Eight and Fifty—the ones who migrated to Richessa."

	"I read a fiction about them once," Paul said. "The Sardaukar subjugated them and relocated them on an uninhabited planet."

	"That was not entirely fiction," Yueh said.

	"There were eight men and fifty women," Paul said.

	"Yes, the Eight and Fifty, the Lost People."

	"Do you have pictures of them?" Paul asked.

	"I'll see what I can get you. You'll find their garb interesting—such utilitarian simplicity: the jubba cloak for protection against sun, wind and sand ... and beneath it the stillsuit which recycles their body moisture. The most interesting thing about them, though, is their eyes: totally blue—no whites in them at all." "Why? Is it a mutation?"

	"My own theory is that it's linked to a blood saturation with melange, the spice. I've seen a decided blue cast in the eyes of some who use melange to excess. And I know of one person who virtually lives on it; his eyes are blue like that."

	"He must be rich."

	"He has a rich patron."

	And Yueh thought: Do I hope this story will get back to Hawat, who'll suspect it's Piter? Perhaps I do. Certain it is that I don't want to do what I must.

	"The Fremen must be brave to live at the edge of that desert," Paul said.

	"By all accounts. They compose poems to their knives. Their women are as fierce as the men. Even little children are violent and dangerous."

	Paul stared at Yueh, finding in even these few glimpses of the Fremen a power of words that caught his entire attention. What a people to win for allies!

	"They have a common saying," Yueh said. "They say: 'He died Fremen' or 'He died in the desert.' It means they don't know exactly how the person met death."

	Paul nodded. "Hawat says of some people: 'They died of... man.'"

	"That sounds like Hawat," Yueh said. He smoothed his drooping mustache. "I must leave in a few minutes. Your father will be along soon. Before I go, however, I've a gift for you, something I came across in packing." He put an object on the table between them—black, oblong, no larger than the end of Paul's thumb.

	Paul looked at it and Yueh noted that the boy did not reach for it. How cautious he is, Yueh thought.

	"It's very old and rare," Yueh said. "An Orange Catholic Bible made for space travelers. Not a filmbook. but actually printed on filament paper. It has its own magnifier and electrostatic charge adjustment." He picked it up, demonstrated. "The entire book is held closed by the charge forcing against springlocked covers. You press the edge ... thus, and the pages you have selected repel each other and the book opens."

	"It's so small," Paul said.

	"Yet it has eighteen hundred pages," Yueh said. "When you press the edge ... thus, the charge moves ahead one page at a time as you read. You must never touch the actual pages with your fingers. The filament tissue is too delicate." He closed the book, pressed it into Paul's hand. "Here. You try it."

	Yueh watched as Paul worked the adjustment to turn the pages. I salve my own conscience, he thought. I give him the surcease of religion before betraying him. Thus may I say to myself that he has gone to a place where 1 may never go.

	"Let it be our secret, eh?" Yueh asked. "Your parents might think it too valuable for a child to have."

	And Yueh thought: His mother would surely wonder at my motives.

	"Well ..." Paul closed the book, held it in his hand. "If it's so valuable ..."

	"Indulge an old man's whim," Yueh said. And he thought: I must catch his mind as well as his cupidity. "Open it to four-sixty-seven Kalima. Where it says: 'From water does all life begin.' There's a little fingernail notch on the edge of the cover to mark the place."

	Paul felt the cover, and his sensitive finger detected two notches, one very shallow. He pressed the shallow one. The book spread open on his palm and its magnifier slid into place.

	"Read it aloud," Yueh said.

	Paul wet his lips with his tongue, read: " 'Think you of the fact that a deaf person cannot hear. Then, what deafness may we not all possess? What senses do we lack that we cannot see and cannot hear another world all around us? What is there around us that we cannot ..."

	"'Stop it!" Yueh barked. He closed his eyes, fought to regain his composure. What perversity caused the book to open at my Wanna's favorite passage? He opened his eyes, saw Paul staring at him. "I'm sorry," Yueh said. "That was my ... dead wife's favorite passage. It's not what I intended you to read me."

	"There are two notches," Paul said.

	Of course, Yueh thought. His fingers are more sensitive than mine. It was an accident, that's all.

	"You will find the book interesting," Yueh said. "Any questions you have, bring them to me."

	Paul looked down at the book on his palm—such a tiny thing. Yet something had happened while he read from it; something touched the Terrible Purpose within him.

	"Your father will be here soon," Yueh said. "Put the book away and read it at your leisure."

	Paul touched the edge as Yueh had shown him. The book sealed itself. He slipped it into his tunic pocket. For a moment there when Yueh had barked at him, Paul had feared the man would demand the return of the book. Paul spoke formally: "I thank you for the gift, Dr. Yueh. It will be our secret. If there is gift or favor you wish from me, please do not hesitate to ask."

	"I want nothing," Yueh said.

	And he thought: Why do I stand here torturing myself? And torturing this poor lad, too ... though he does not yet know it. Oeyh! Those Harkonnen beasts! Why did they choose me for this abomination?

Chapter Six

How do we approach the study of Muad'Dib's father? A man of surprising warmth and equally surprising coldness was the Duke Leto Atreides. Many things open the Way to this Duke: his abiding love for his Bene Gesserit Lady; the dreams he held for his son; the devotion with which men served him. You see him there: a man snared by Destiny, a lonely figure with his light dimmed behind the glory of his son. Yet, you might ask: What is a son but an extension of the father?
"Muad'Dib, Family Commentaries" 
by The Princess Irulan

	Paul watched his father come into the training room, saw the guards taking up station outside before the door was closed. As always, Paul experienced a sense of presence in his father, someone totally here. The Duke was tall, olive-skinned. His thin face had harsh angles warmed only by deep gray eyes. He wore a black working uniform with red armorial hawk crest at the breast. A silver shield-belt with the patina of much use was fitted tightly around his narrow waist.

	The Duke said: "Hard at work, son?" He crossed to the ell table, glanced at the papers on it, swept his gaze around the room and back to Paul. He felt tired, filled with the ache of not showing his fatigue. I must use every opportunity to rest during the crossing, he thought. There'll be no rest on Arrakis.

	"Not working very hard," Paul said. "Everything's so ..." He shrugged.

	"Yes. Well, tomorrow we leave. It'll be good to get settled in our new home, put all this upset behind us."

	Paul nodded, suddenly overcome by memory of the old woman's words: "... For the father, nothing."

	"Father," Paul said, "will it be as dangerous as everyone says?"

	The Duke forced himself to the casual gesture, sat down on a corner of the ell table, smiled. A whole pattern of conversation welled up in his mind—the kind of thing he would use to dispel the vapors in his men before a battle. And the pattern froze before it could be vocalized, confronted by the single thought: This is my son.

	"It will be dangerous," he admitted.

	"Hawat says we have a plan for the Fremen," Paul said. And he wondered: Why don't I tell him what the old woman said? How did she seal my tongue?

	The Duke noted the evidence of his son's distress, said: "As always, Hawat focuses on the main chance. But there is more, much more. Me, I see the Combine Honnete Ober Advancer Mercantiles—the CHOAM Company. By giving us Arrakis, His Majesty gives us a CHOAM directorship. This is a thing that could not be denied us or faked ... a subtle gain."

	"The spice is a CHOAM thing," Paul said. "I know that, but why do ..."

	"Our new avenue into the Company already has enabled us to make sure that the spice has not been artificially produced somewhere, that the price structure will not be destroyed."

	"Yueh says the chemistry of the spice defies analysis, that it does not ... behave ... that ... Did the Reverend Mother warn you?" Paul clenched his fists, feeling his palms slippery with perspiration The effort it had taken just to ask that question!

	"Hawat spoke to me before leaving, Paul. He told me she frightened you with warnings about Arrakis. Don't let a woman's fears cloud your mind. No woman wants her loved ones to go into danger. The hand behind these warnings was that of your mother. Take this as a sign of her love for us."

	"Haven't you told mother about the Fremen?"

	"Yes, but your mother knows the other facts, too."

	"What other facts?"

	And the Duke thought: The truth may be even worse than he imagined. But even dangerous facts can bring confidence if you've been trained to deal with them. And there's one place where nothing's been spared for my son —dealing with dangerous facts.

	"No product really escapes the CHOAM touch," the Duke said. "Logs, donkeys, horses, cows, lumber, dung, sharks whale fur, the art forms of Ecaz the machines of Tupile and Ix and Richessa ... even our poor pundi rice from Caladan. Anything the Guild has agreed to transport. All these fade, though, before melange which is a truly unique substance with real geriatric qualities. Now, consider all the Houses which depend upon CHOAM profits. The list reads like a Landsraad roster. Then consider the enormous proportion of those profits dependent upon a single product—the spice. Now, imagine if you will what could happen if something should reduce spice production.

	"Profits would be determined along new lines," Paul said. "Whoever had stockpiles of melange could make a killing. Others would be out in the cold."

	The Duke looked at his son, thinking how penetrating, how truly educated that observation was. He nodded. "Precisely. And we now know that the Harkonnens have been secretly stockpiling spice for some twenty years."

	"They mean the spice production to fail while you get the blame and they get the profit," Paul said.

	"For blame let us substitute the word unpopular," the Duke said. "They intend the Atreides name to become unpopular. That list of the Landsraad Houses, Paul, which presently looks to me for a certain amount of leadership. Think how they'll react if I'm responsible for a reduction in their income. After all, one's own profits come first. The Great Convention be damned! You can't let someone pauperize you!" The Duke smiled grimly. "They'd look the other way no matter what was done to me."

	"You mean they'll use atomics?"

	"Nothing that flagrant," the Duke said. "No open defiance of the Great Convention, but ..."

	"We shouldn't go," Paul said. "We should find ..."

	"Paul!" The Duke frowned at his son. "Knowing where the trap is—that's the first step in evading it. This is like single combat, son, just on a larger scale: a feint within a feint within a feint ... seemingly without end. The task-is to unravel it. Knowing that the Harkonnens stockpile melange, we immediately ask another question: Who else is stockpiling the spice? You see? When we answer that, we have a list of our enemies."

	"Who?"

	"Certain Houses that I had thought friendly to me. We need not consider them for the moment. They pale in the light of one other person—our beloved Padishah Emperor."

	Paul tried to swallow in a throat suddenly dry. "Father, couldn't you convene the Landsraad, expose them?"

	"Make our enemy aware that we know which hand holds the knife? Paul ... we see the knife now. Who knows where it might be shifted next? All we'd do if we put this before the Landsraad is create a great cloud of confusion. The Emperor would deny it with perfect safety. All we'd gain is a little time. And we couldn't be sure of the source of attack."

	"All the Houses would start stockpiling spice," Paul said.

	"No help there," the Duke said. "Our enemies have a head start ... too much of a lead to overcome."

	"The Emperor," Paul said. "Not atomics, you say. That leaves only one thing."

	"The Sardaukar," the Duke said. "They'll be disguised in Harkonnen livery, but they'll be Sardaukar."

	"How can the Fremen help us against Sardaukar?"

	"Let us consider Salusa Secundus," the Duke said.

	Paul blinked. "The Imperial prison planet? But ..."

	"What if it were more than a prison planet? You know, Paul, there's one question you never hear asked about the Imperial Corps of Sardaukar. Everyone seems to take it for granted they're just the Emperor's levies, trained young to be soldier-fanatics. We all know that the Legions of Sardaukar are the real reason a Shaddam bar Corino is Padishah Emperor, and you hear an occasional muttering about the quality of the Emperor's training cadres, but this one question remains."

	"We'll be providing our own levies for the Emperor now that you've received royal favor," Paul said. "Perhaps they can study the training and report ..."

	"The question remains," the Duke said. "Where do the Sardaukar come from?"

	"But you said yourself the levies of ..."

	"The balance of our civilization, Paul, is not Landsraad versus Imperium. It's the military forces of the Landsraad Great Houses versus the Sardaukar and their supporting levies. And their supporting levies, Paul. The Sardaukar remain the Sardaukar."

	"What's the prison planet have to do with it?"

	"These superb fighting men must come from somewhere," the Duke said. "What planet, what system, produces fighters, any one of whom is a match for ten Landsraad conscripts?"

	"Salusa Secundus?"

	"We think so."

	"But the reports on SS ... it's a hell world!"

	"Undoubtedly. But if you were going to raise tough, strong, ferocious men, what environmental conditions would you impose upon them?"

	Paul nodded. "Yes, but how could you get such men to be loyal to you?"

	"There are proven ways," the Duke said. "The certain knowledge of your own superiority, the mystique of a secret covenant, these are only a beginning in such loyalty, but they are facts which we can apply to the Sardaukar. Now, Paul, mark this and never breathe a word of it to anyone. Not to anyone!"

	Paul nodded, holding his attention on his father's face.

	"Arrakis, when you get outside the towns and the garrison villages, is a place every bit as terrible as Salusa Secundus."

	Paul's eyes went wide. "The Fremen!"

	"It may be that we'll have a corps as strong and as deadly as the Sardaukar. But it'll require patience to exploit them secretly, and wealth to equip them properly. The Fremen are there ... the spice is there. You see now why we walk into Arrakis, knowing it is a trap?"

	"Don't the Harkonnens know about the Fremen?"

	"The Harkonnens sneered at the Fremen, never bothered even to try counting them. The Harkonnen policy with planetary populations is to spend as little as possible maintaining them."

	Paul looked at the hawk symbol over his father's breast. The metallic threads glistened as the Duke shifted his position. "And we have a mission negotiating with the Fremen now," Paul said.

	"I sent Duncan Idaho," the Duke said. "A proud and ruthless man, but fond of the truth. I think the Fremen will admire him. If we're lucky, they may judge us by him: Duncan, the moral."

	"Duncan, the moral," Paul said, "and Gurney the valorous."

	"You call them well," the Duke said.

	And Paul thought: Gurney's one of those the old woman meant—"... The valor of the brave." Gurney's a supporter of worlds.

	"Gurney tells me you did well in weapons today," the Duke said.

	"That isn't what he told me."

	The Duke threw his head back, laughed aloud. "I figured Gurney to be sparse with his praise. He says you have a nice awareness of the difference between a blade's edge and tip."

	"Gurney says there's no artistry in killing a man with the tip, that it should be done with the edge."

	"Gurney's a romantic," the Duke said. The talk of killing disturbed him coming from his son.

	"But you can slash with the tip or stab with the edge," Paul said. "The thrust is ..."

	"I'd sooner you never had to kill," the Duke growled, "but if the need arises, you do it however you can—tip or edge." He looked up at the skylight drumming with rain. "Effective decisions are rarely difficult if you have all the facts and recognize your own necessities."

	Seeing the direction of his father's stare, Paul thought of the wet skies out there, something never to be seen on Arrakis, and this took his thoughts into space. "Are the Guild ships really big?" he asked.

	The Duke looked at him. "This will be your first time off planet," the Duke said. "Yes, their ships are big. We'll be riding a Guild Heighliner because Arrakis is almost directly across the galaxy from Caladan. A Heighliner's hold will swallow our frigates and transports and tuck them into a little corner. And if it's loaded, well, you'll see a wonderful collection of cargo: there'll be other frigates and transports, cargo lighters, pickup satellites, jumpdump boxes, yachts, freight gliders. Movement of Atreides freight will be only a small part of the ship's manifest."

	"But we won't be able to leave our frigates?"

	"No, but that's just part of the price we pay for Guild security. There could be Harkonnen ships right alongside us, and we'd have nothing to fear from them. The Harkonnens know better than to endanger their shipping privileges."

	"I'm going to watch the screens carefully and try to see a Guildsman."

	"You won't. Not even their agents ever see a Guilds-man. Don't endanger our shipping privileges, Paul. The Guild's as jealous of its privacy as it is of its monopoly."

	"Do you think it's because they've mutated and don't look ... human any more?"

	"Who knows?" The Duke shrugged. "What does Hawat say?"

	"All he'll give is a second-order approximation. He's just not sure. It's possible, he says, because the Guild dates from times when radiation shielding was pretty poor. All he said he was sure of is that they're not using mechanical brains as some say they are. He said any Mentat knows the Guild's history—they were leaders in the Jihad—and besides no machine has ever approached the human brain's abilities."

	"Instantaneous computation," the Duke mused. "The human mind can operate outside of Time." He put a hand on his son's shoulder. "Well, it's a great mystery but not one we're likely to solve. We've more immediate problems, among them: you."

	"Me?"

	"It's the real reason I came up here today, son. Your mother wanted me to be the one to tell you. You see, you may have Mentat capabilities, son."

	Paul stared at his father, unable to speak for a moment, then: "Me? But I ..."

	"Hawat agrees," the Duke said.

	"But I thought Mentat training had to start during infancy, and the subject couldn't be told because it might inhibit the early ..." He broke off.

	"And then this day comes," the Duke said, "when the potential Mentat must be informed of what's being done. The Mentat has to share in the choice of whether to continue the training or abandon it. Some can continue the training to its full flowering; some are incapable of this. Only the potential Mentat can tell this for sure about himself."

	Paul blinked. All the special training from Hawat and his mother—the mnemonics, the focusing of awareness, the muscle control and sharpening of sensitivities, the study of languages and nuances of voices—all of it clicked into a new kind of understanding in his mind.

	"You'll be the Duke some day, son," the Duke said. "A Mentat Duke would be formidable indeed. Can you decide now, or do you wish more time?"

	There was no hesitation in his answer. "I'll continue the training."

	"Formidable indeed," the Duke murmured, and Paul saw the proud smile on his father's face. The smile shocked Paul. It had a skull look to it. He closed his eyes, feeling an awakening of the Terrible Purpose within himself. Perhaps being a Mentat is Terrible Purpose, he thought.

	But even as he had this thought, his new awareness denied it.

Chapter Seven

With the Lady Jessica and Arrakis, the Bene Gesserit system of broadcasting implanted legends through the Missionaria Protectiva came to its full fruition. The wisdom of seeding the universe with patterned prophecy for protection of BG personnel has long been recognized, but never have we seen a condition ut extremis with more ideal mating of person and preparation. The prophetic legends had taken on Arrakis even to the extent of adopted labels—including Reverend Mother, canto and respondu, and most of the shari's panoplia propheticus. And it is generally accepted now that the Lady Jessica's latent abilities were grossly underestimated.
"Analysis: The Arrakeen Crisis" 
by The Princess Irulan 
(private circulation: BG file
 number AR-81088587)

	All around the Lady Jessica—piled in corners of the Arrakeen great hall, mounded in the open spaces—stood the packaged freight of their lives: boxes, trunks, cartons, cases—some partly unpacked. She could hear the cargo handlers from the shuttle depositing another load in the entry.

	Jessica stood in the center of the hall. She moved in a slow turn, looking up and around at shadowed carvings, crannies and deeply recessed windows. This giant anachronism of a room reminded her in a way of the Sisters' Hall at her Bene Gesserit school. But at the school the effect had been of warmth. Here, all was bleak stone coldness.

	Some architect had reached far back into history for these buttressed walls and dark hangings, she thought. The arched ceiling stood two stories above her with great cross beams that she felt sure must have been shipped here to Arrakis across space and at monstrous cost. No planet of this system grew trees to make such beams ... unless the beams were imitation.

	She thought not.

	This had been the Arrakis Government mansion in the days of the Old Empire. Costs had been of lesser importance then. It had been before the coming of the Harkonnens and their new city of Carthag, a cheap and brassy place some two hundred kilometers northeast across the Broken Land. Leto had been wise to choose this place for his seat of government. The name, Arrakeen, had a good sound, filled with tradition. And this smaller city would be easier to sterilize and defend.

	Again, there came the clatter of boxes being unloaded in the entry. Jessica sighed.

	Against the wall to her right stood the painting of the Duke's father. Wrapping twine hung from it like a frayed decoration. A piece of the twine was still clutched in Jessica's left hand. Beside the painting lay a black bull's head mounted on a polished shield board. The head was a dark island in a sea of wadded paper. Its mounting plaque lay flat on the floor, and the bull's shiny muzzle pointed at the ceiling as though it were ready to bellow a challenge into this echoing room.

	Jessica wondered what compulsion had brought her to uncover those two things first—the head and the painting. There was something symbolic in the action, she knew. Not since the day when the Duke's buyers had taken her from the school had she felt this frightened and unsure of herself. The head and the picture only heightened her feelings of confusion. She shuddered, glanced up at the slit windows.

	It was still early afternoon, and in these high latitudes the sky looked black and cold, so much darker than the warm blue of Caladan. A pang of homesickness sobbed through her.

	So far away, Caladan.

	"Here we are!"

	The voice was Duke Leto's. She whirled as he strode through the arched passage from the dining hall. His black working uniform with red armorial hawk crest at the breast looked dusty and rumpled.

	"I thought you might have lost yourself in this hideous place," he said.

	"It is a cold house," she said. She looked at his tallness, at the dark skin that made her think of olive groves and golden sun on blue waters. There was woodsmoke in the gray of his eyes, but the face was predatory: thin, full of sharp angles and planes.

	A sudden fear of him tightened her breast. He had become such a savage, driving person since the decision to bow to the Padishah Emperor's command. "The whole city feels cold," she said.

	"It's a dirty, dusty little garrison town," he agreed. "But we'll change that." He looked around the hall. "These are public rooms for state occasions. I've just glanced at some of the family apartments in the south wing. They're much nicer." He stepped closer, touched her arm, admiring her stateliness.

	And again, he wondered at her unknown ancestry—a renegade House, perhaps, or some black-barred royalty? She looks more regal than the Emperor's own blood, he thought.

	She turned half away under the pressure of his stare.

	And he realized that there was no single and precise thing that brought her beauty to focus. The face was oval under a cap of hair the color of polished bronze. Her eyes were set wide, as green and clear as the morning skies of Caladan. The nose was small, the mouth wide and generous. Her figure was good but ... scant—tall and with its curves gone to slimness.

	He remembered that the lay sisters at the school had called her skinny, so his buyers had told him, but that description oversimplified. She had brought a regal beauty back into the Atreides line. He was glad that Paul favored her.

	"Where's Paul?" he asked.

	"Some place around the house taking his lessons with Yueh."

	"They're probably in the south wing," he said. "I heard Yueh's voice, but I couldn't take the time to look." He looked down, hesitating. "I came in only to hang the key to Caladan Castle in the dining hall."

	She caught her breath, stopped the impulse to reach out to him. This was not the time or place for comforting. "I saw our banner over the house as we came in," she said.

	"But there're traces of the Imperial Yellow all around," he said. "I want it all removed." And as he saw her staring at him: "It's our right!"

	"Of course," she said, and seeking to turn the conversation: "I've told Yueh not to let up on Paul's lessons. I'll not have him turning into a barbarian simply because we're forced to live on a barbarian planet."

	A chill smile touched the Duke's mouth. "At such moments as this I often congratulate myself that I chose you for Paul's mother."

	She flushed, thinking: How little he knows of that choice.

	He glanced at the painting of his father. "Where were you going to hang that?" "Somewhere in here."

	"No." The word rang flat and final, telling her that she could use trickery to persuade, but that it was useless to argue. Still, she had to try, even if the gesture served only to remind herself that she would not trick him.

	"My Lord," she said, "if you'd only ..."

	"The answer remains no. I indulge you shamefully in most things. Not in this. I've just come from the dining hall where there ..."

	"My Lord! Please!"

	"The choice is between your digestion and my ancestral dignity, my dear. There are appropriate positions in the dining hall for both painting and bull's head."

	She sighed. "Yes, My Lord."

	"If you wish to resume your custom of dining in your rooms whenever possible, you may. I shall expect you at your proper position only on formal occasions."

	"Thank you, My Lord."

	"And don't go all cold and formal on me," he said. "Be thankful that I never married you, my dear. Then it would be your duty to join me at table for every meal."

	She held her face immobile, nodded.

	"Hawat already has our own poison snooper over the dining table," he said. "There's a portable in your room."

	"You anticipated this ... disagreement," she said.

	"I think also of your comfort," he said. "I've engaged servants. They're locals, but Hawat has cleared them. They'll do until our own people can be released from their other duties.

	"Can anyone from this place be truly safe?" she asked.

	"Anyone who hates Harkonnens," he said. "You may want to keep the housekeeper. She's known as the Shadout Mapes."

	"Shadout," Jessica said. "A title?" "I'm told it means 'well-dipper', a meaning with rather important overtones here. She will not strike you as a servant type, although Hawat speaks highly of her, and I'm convinced she truly wishes to serve. Specifically, she wishes to serve you." "Me?"

	"They've learned that you're Bene Gesserit," he said. "There are legends here about Bene Gesserit."

	The Missionaria Protectiva, Jessica thought. No place escapes them.

	"The Shadout Mapes is a Fremen," he said.

	The implications of this commanded her complete attention. "Then Duncan was successful? The Fremen will be our allies?"

	"There's nothing definite," he said. "They wish to observe for a while. However, they did promise to stop raiding the outlying villages. We have a truce of sorts. And that's a more important gain than it might seem. Hawat tells me the Fremen were a deep thorn in the Harkonnen side, that the extent of their ravages was a carefully guarded secret. It would not have helped for the Padishah Emperor to learn the ineffectiveness of the Harkonnen military."

	"She will have the blue eyes, then," Jessica said, returning her attention to the subject of the Shadout Mapes.

	"That's going to take a little getting used to," he said. "All these eyes without any whites in them ... very dark and mysterious."

	"Yueh inclines to the theory of spice diet," she said. "I give that my own qualified agreement, although there may be some genetic influence."

	"We'll have plenty of time to investigate it," he said. "One thing: don't let the appearance of these people deceive you. There's deep strength and a healthy animal vitality in them. I think they'll be everything we want."

	"It's a dangerous gamble," she said.

	"Let's not go into that again," he said.

	She forced a smile. "We are committed, no doubt of that." She went through the quick regimen of calming— the two deep breaths, the ritual thought, then: "When I look over the south wing to assign rooms, is there anything special I should reserve for you?"

	"You must teach me some day how you do that," he said, "the way you thrust aside your worries and turn to practical matters. It must be a Bene Gesserit thing. Well, assignment of rooms: Make certain that I have large office space next my sleeping quarters. A guard room, of course. Don't worry about any part of this house being safe. Hawat's men have been over it in depth."

	"I'm sure they have."

	He glanced at his wrist watch. "And you might see that all our timepieces are adjusted for Arrakeen time. I've assigned a technician to take care of it. He'll be along presently." He brushed a strand of her bronze hair back from her forehead. "I must return to the landing field now. The second shuttle's due any minute with my staff."

	"Couldn't Hawat meet them, My Lord? You look so tired."

	"The good Thufir is even busier than I am," he said. "You know there's no place on this planet that escaped Harkonnen intrigues. Besides, I must try persuading some of the trained spice hunters against leaving. They have the option, you know, with the change of fief. About eight hundred expect to go out on the spice shuttle and there's a Guild cargo ship standing by."

	"My Lord ..." She broke off, hesitating.

	"Yes?"

	He will not be persuaded against trying to make this planet secure for us, she thought. And I cannot use my tricks on him.

	"At what time will you be expecting dinner?" she asked.

	That's not what she was going to say, he thought. Ahh, my Jessica, would that we were somewhere, anywhere away from this terrible place—alone, the two of us, without a care.

	"I'll eat in the officers' mess at the field," he said. "Don't expect me until very late. And ... ah, I'll be sending a guardcar for Paul. I want him to attend our strategy conference."

	He cleared his throat as though to say something else, and without warning, turned and strode out through the entry. She heard his voice there, commanding and disdainful, the way he always spoke to servants when he was in a hurry: "The Lady Jessica is in the Great Hall. Join her there immediately." The outer door slammed.

	Turning away, Jessica faced the painting of Leto's father. It had been done by the famed artist, Albe, during the Old Duke's middle years. The Old Duke was portrayed in matador costume with a magenta cape flung over his left arm. The face looked young, little older than Leto's now, and with the same hawk features, the same gray stare. She clenched her fists at her sides, glared at the painting.

	"Damn you! Damn you! Damn you!" she whispered.

	"What are your orders, noble born?"

	It was a woman's voice, thin and stringy.

	Jessica whirled, stared down at a knobby gray-haired woman in a shapeless sack dress of bondsman brown. The woman was as wrinkled and desiccated looking as any member of the mob that had greeted them along the way from the landing field. Jessica thought that every native she had seen on this planet looked prune dried and undernourished, yet Leto had said they were strong and healthy-And then there were the eyes, of course, that wash of the deepest, darkest blue—looking secretive and withdrawn. Jessica forced herself not to stare at them.

	The woman gave a stiff-necked nod, said: "I am called the Shadout Mapes, noble born. What are your orders?"

	"You may refer to me as My Lady," Jessica said. "I am not noble born. I am the bound concubine of the Duke Leto."

	Again, that strange nod, and the woman peered at Jessica with a sly questioning. "There is a wife?"

	"There is not, nor has there ever been. I am the Duke's only ... companion, the mother of his heir designate."

	And even as she spoke, Jessica laughed inwardly at the pride behind her words. What was it St. Augustine said? "The mind commands the body and it obeys. The mind orders itself and meets resistance." Yes, she thought, I am meeting more resistance lately. I could use a quiet retreat by myself.

	A weird cry sounded from the road outside the house. It was repeated: "Soo-soo-Souk! Soo-soo-Souk!" Then: "Ikhut-Eigh! Ikhut-Eigh!" And again: "Soo-soo-Souk!"

	"What is that?" Jessica asked. "I kept hearing it as we drove through the streets from the field."

	"Only a water-seller, My Lady. But you've no need to interest yourself in such as they. The cistern here holds fifty thousand liters and it's always kept full." She glanced down at her dress. "Why, you know, My Lady, I don't even have to wear my stillsuit here and I've even had a bath!" She cackled. "And me not even dead!"

	Jessica hesitated, wanting to question this woman, needing data to guide her, but bringing order out of the mess in this castle was more imperative. Yet, the thought that water itself was a major mark of wealth here she found unsettling.

	"What do I call you, Shadout Mapes?" Jessica asked.

	"The Shadout is just a Fremen title," she said. "It means 'Well-Dipper.' You may call me Mapes, My Lady."

	"My husband told me of your title and then I recognized the word," Jessica said. "It's a very ancient word."

	"You know the ancient tongues, then?" Mapes asked, and she waited with an odd intentness on the answer.

	"Many times many ancient tongues," Jessica said. "For the Bene Gesserit, tongues are among the First Learnings."

	Mapes nodded knowingly. "It is true, then, just as the legend says."

	And Jessica wondered: Why do I play out this part, knowing the sham in it? But the Bene Gesserit ways are devious and compelling.

	"And I know the Dark Things and the ways of the Great Mother," Jessica said. She read the more obvious signs on Mapes' actions, the tiny betrayals. "I know that you have born children, that you have lost loved ones, that you have hidden in fear and that you have done violence. And I know much more than this."

	Mapes took a backward step, appeared poised to flee. In a low voice, she said: "I meant no offense, My Lady."

	"You meant only to seek answers, and you were prepared for violence should the questioning go wrong," Jessica said. "You carry a weapon in your bodice."

	"My Lady, I..."

	"There is a remote possibility that you could draw my life's blood," Jessica said, "but in so doing you would encompass your own ruin. There are worse things than dying, you know."

	Mapes appeared about to fall to her knees. "My Lady, the weapon was sent as a gift to you should you prove to be the One."

	"And as the means of my death should I prove otherwise," Jessica said. And she waited in the seeming relaxation that made the Bene Gesserit-trained so terrifying in combat. This exchange with the Fremen female betrayed deep possibilities, but the decision had not yet tipped one way or the other.

	Slowly, Mapes reached into the neck of her dress, brought out a dark sheath, a black handle with finger ridges protruding from it. She took the sheath in one hand, the handle in the other, withdrew a milk white blade that seemed to shine and glitter with a light of its own. It was double-edged like a kindjal and the blade perhaps twenty centimeters long.

	"Do you know what this is, My Lady?" Mapes asked.

	It could only be one thing, Jessica knew, the fabled crysknife of Arrakis. "It's a crysknife," she said.

	"Say it not casually," Mapes said. "Do you know the meaning of it?"

	And Jessica thought: There was an edge to that question. This is the answer that could precipitate violence or ... what? She seeks an answer from me—the meaning of a knife. She is called the Shadout. In that old tongue a knife was known as Death Maker. I must answer now. Delay, too, is dangerous. She said: "It is a maker ..."

	"Eigheeeeee!" Mapes wailed. It was a sound like both grief and elation. She was trembling.

	Jessica waited. She had intended to say the knife was a maker of death and then use the ancient word, but every sense warned her now, all the deep training for alertness that exposed a meaning in the most casual muscle twitch.

	The key word was maker. Maker? Maker.

	Still, Mapes held the knife as though ready to use it.

	Jessica said: "Did you think that I, knowing the mysteries of the Great Mother, would not know of the Maker?"

	Mapes lowered her eyes. "My Lady, when one has lived with prophecy for so long, the moment of revelation is like a shock."

	And Jessica thought about the prophecy: A Bene Gesserit Reverend Mother of the Missionaria Protectiva, dropped here long centuries ago with but one purpose-to implant the protective legends, preparing for a need that might never arise. Yet, it had arisen.

	Jessica, too, experienced some of that same feeling of shock at this meeting between the need and the preparation.

	Mapes returned the knife to its sheath, said: "How may I give this blade to you, My Lady?"

	The answer was obvious. "Never to take it back while I live," Jessica said, and she risked a gamble of words: "Mapes, you've let emotion betray you. You've sheathed that knife unblooded."

	With a gasp, Mapes dropped the sheathed knife, tore open her bodice. "Take the water of my life," she wailed.

	Jessica stooped, picked up the sheathed blade, withdrew it. How it glittered! She directed the point toward Mapes, saw a fear in the woman's manner that was greater than death-panic.

	Something special about the crysknife point. A poisoned well in it, perhaps.

	Jessica tipped the knife up, drew a delicate scratch mark with the blade's edge above Mapes' left breast. There was a thin welling of thick blood that stopped almost immediately.

	Sheathing the knife, Jessica said: "Your life is mine, Mapes. Now button your dress."

	Mapes obeyed, trembling, those eyes-without-whites staring at Jessica. "And you are ours," she muttered.

	There came another sound of unloading in the entry.

	Swiftly, Mapes grabbed the sheathed crysknife from Jessica, concealed it in Jessica's bodice. "Who sees that blade may not leave Arrakis alive!" she snarled. "You know that, My Lady!"

	I know it now, Jessica thought. And that's what she meant when she said I'm theirs.

	The cargo handlers left without intruding on the great hall.

	Mapes composed herself, said: "The thing must take its course. We cannot hurry it." She glanced at stacked boxes and piles of goods around them. "And there's work aplenty for us here."

	Jessica hesitated. 'The thing must take its course.' That referred to a specific one of the Missionaria Protectiva's stock of incantations—The Coming of The Reverend Mother To Free You.

	But I'm not a Reverend Mother, Jessica thought. And then: Great Mother! They planted that one here! This must be a hideous place!

	In a matter of fact tone, Mapes said: "What'll you be wanting me to do first ... My Lady?"

	Instinct told Jessica to match that casual tone. She said: "This painting here must be hung on one side of the dining hall and the head goes on the wall across from the painting."

	Mapes crossed to the bull's head. "What a great beast it must have been to carry such a head." She stopped. "But I'll have to be cleaning this first, won't I, My Lady?"

	"No."

	"But there's dirt caked on its horns."

	"That's not dirt, Mapes. That's the blood of the Duke's father. The horns were sprayed with a transparent fixitive within hours after this beast killed the Old Duke."

	Mapes stood up. "Ah, now!" she said.

	"It's just blood," Jessica said. "Old blood at that. Get some help hanging these now. The beastly things are heavy."

	"Did you think the blood bothered me?" Mapes asked. "I'm of the desert and I've seen blood aplenty."

	"Yes ... I see that you have," Jessica said.

	"And some of it my own," Mapes said. "More'n you drew with your puny scratch."

	"You'd rather I'd cut deeper?" Jessica asked.

	"Ah, no! The body's water is scant enough without gushing a wasteful lot of it out into the air. You did the thing right."

	And Jessica, noting the words and the manner, caught the deeper implications in the phrase 'the body's water' and again she felt a sense of oppression at the importance of water on this planet.

	"On which side of the dining hall shall I hang which one of these things, My Lady?" Mapes asked.

	Ever the practical one, Jessica thought. She said: "Use your own judgment. It makes no real difference."

	"As you say, My Lady." Mapes stooped, began clearing the rest of the wrappings and twine from the bull's head. "Killed an old duke, did you?" she crooned.

	Different lands, different customs, Jessica told herself. She said: "Shall I summon a handler to help you hang these?"

	"No, My Lady. I'll manage."

	And Jessica thought: Yes, she'll manage. There's that about her—the drive to accomplish. Jessica could feel the cold sheath of the crysknife beneath her bodice, and she thought of the long chain of Bene Gesserit accomplishments that had forged another link here. A crisis passed in the first hours on Arrakis.

	Mapes had said: "We cannot hurry it." Yet there was a tempo of rushing ahead to this place that filled Jessica with foreboding, and not all the preparations of the Missionaria Protectiva nor Hawat's suspicious inspection of this castellated pile of rocks could dispel the feeling.

	"When you've finished hanging these," Jessica said, "you may start unpacking the boxes. One of the cargo men at the entry has all the keys and knows where things should go. Get the list from him. If there are any questions, I'll be in the south wing."

	"As you will, My Lady," Mapes said.

	Jessica turned away. Hawat may have passed this place as safe, but there's something wrong about it, she thought. I can feel it. An urgent need to see her son gripped her. She began walking toward the arched doorway that led into the corbelled passage to the dining hall and the family wings beyond. Faster and faster she walked until she was all but running.

	Behind her, Mapes paused in clearing the wrappings from the bull's head, looked at the retreating back. "She's the One all right," she muttered. "Poor thing."

Chapter Eight

"Yueh! Yueh! Yueh!" goes the refrain. "A million deaths were not enough for Yueh!"
"A Child's History of Muad'Dib" 
by The Princess Irulan

	The door was ajar, and Jessica stepped through into a room with yellow walls. To her left stretched a low settee of black hide and two empty bookcases, a hanging waterflask. On her right, bracketing another door, stood more empty bookcases, a desk and three chairs. At windows directly across from her stood Dr. Yueh, his back to her and intent upon the outside world.

	Jessica took another silent step into the room.

	She saw that Yueh's coat was wrinkled, a white smudge streaking it near the left elbow as though he had leaned against chalk. From behind, he looked the fleshless stick figure concealed in overlarge black clothing, a caricature poised for stringy movement at the direction of some puppet master. Only the squarish block of his head with the long ebony hair caught in its silver ring at the shoulder seemed alive.

	She glanced around the room, saw no sign of her son, but the closed door on her right, she knew, led into a small bedroom for which Paul had expressed a liking.

	"Good afternoon, Dr. Yueh," she said. "Where's Paul?"

	He nodded as though to something out the window, spoke in an absent manner without turning: "Your son grew tired, Jessica. I sent him into the next room to rest."

	Abruptly, he stiffened, whirled with mustache flopping over his purplish lips. "Forgive me, My Lady! My thoughts were far away ... I ... did not mean to be familiar."

	She smiled, held out her hand. For a moment, she was afraid he might kneel. "Wellington, please."

	"To use your name like that ... I ..."

	"We've known each other for six years," she said. "It's long past time when formalities should have been dropped between us ... in private, that is."

	Dr. Yueh ventured a smile, thinking: I believe it has worked. Now, she will think anything unusual in my actions is due to embarrassment. She will not look for deeper reasons when she believes she already has the right answer.

	"I'm afraid I was woolgathering," he said. "Whenever I feel especially sorry for you, I find myself thinking of you as ... well, Jessica."

	"Sorry for me? Whatever for?"

	Dr. Yueh shrugged. Long ago, he had realized Jessica was not gifted with the full truthsay as his Wanna had been. Still, he always used the truth with Jessica whenever possible.

	"You've seen this place, My ... Jessica." He stumbled over the name, plunged on: "It's so barren after Caladan. And the people! Those townswomen we passed on the way in wailing beneath their veils! The way they look at us."

	She folded her arms across her breasts, hugging herself. "It's just that we're strange to them—different people, different customs." And she felt the crysknife pressed against her beneath her arms. "What were you looking at out there?"

	"The people." He turned back to the window.

	Jessica crossed to stand beside him, looking to the left toward the front of the house where Yueh's attention had been focused. A line of twenty palm trees had been planted there. The ground beneath them was barren, swept clean. A screen fence separated them from the road upon which people were passing. Jessica's acute senses detected a faint shimmering between her and the people—a house shield, naturally—and went on to study that passing throng, wondering why Yueh had found them so absorbing.

	The pattern emerged quickly. It was the way they looked at the palm trees. There was envy in the stares certainly, and even some hate, but she was sure she detected a sense of hope in them, too.

	"Do you know what they are thinking?" Dr. Yueh asked.

	"You profess to read minds?" she asked lightly. "Those minds," he said. "They look at those trees and Dr. Yueh hid his face from her by turning away. If only it were possible to hate these people instead of love them, he thought. In her mannerisms, in many ways, Jessica was like his Wanna. Yet, that thought carried its own rigor, hardening him to purpose. The ways of the Harkonnen cruelty were devious. Wanna might not be dead, but he had to be certain.

	"Do not worry for us, Wellington," she said. "The problem is not yours to solve."

	She thinks I worry for her! He blinked back tears. And I do, of course. But I must stand before the Baron with the deed accomplished, and take my only chance to strike him where he is weakest.

	He sighed.

	"I'd like to look in on Paul," she said. "Do you think they think: 'There are one hundred of us.' That's what they think."

	"What?" She looked at Dr. Yueh, puzzled.

	"Those are date palms," he said. "One date palm needs forty liters of water a day. A man requires but eight liters. A palm tree, then, equals five men, and there are twenty palms out there—one hundred men."

	"But some of them look at those trees hopefully."

	"They but hope some dates will fall to them, except it's the wrong season."

	"We look at this place with too critical an eye," she said. "No doubt it's everything we fear, yet there's hope in it, too. The spice could make us rich. With a fat treasury, we could make this world into whatever we wished."

	And she laughed silently at herself: Who am I trying to convince? The laugh broke through her restraint and came out brittle, empty of humor. "But you cannot buy security."

	it would disturb him?"

	"Not at all. I gave him a sedative. He was overexcited."

	"He's taking the change well, though," she said.

	"Except for getting overtired, I fear," Dr. Yueh said. "He's excited, but what fifteen-year-old wouldn't be? He wants to be outside doing the things any normal boy his age would want to be doing: testing this new air, looking at the strangeness, talking to different people." He crossed to the closed door, opened it. "He's in here."

	She followed, peered into the other room.

	Paul lay on a narrow cot, one arm under a light cover, the other arm thrown back over his head. Slatted blinds on a window beside the bed wove a loom of shadows across face and blanket.

	Jessica stared at her son's face, seeing the oval shape of it so like her own. But the hair was the Duke's—coal-colored and tousled. Long lashes concealed the lime-toned eyes. Jessica smiled, feeling her fears retreat a ways. She was suddenly caught by the idea of the genetic traces in her son's features. There were her lines in eyes and facial outline, but with sharp touches of the father peering through the outline like maturity emerging from childhood.

	And she thought of the boy's features as an exquisite distillation out of random patterns. She pictured endless queues of happenstance meeting at this nexus. The thought made her want to kneel beside the cot and take her son in her arms, but she was inhibited by the presence of Dr. Yueh. She stepped back, closed the door.

	Dr. Yueh had returned to the window, unable to bear watching the way Jessica stared at her son. Why did Wanna never give me children? he asked himself. There was no physical reason against it. Was there some Bene Gesserit reason? Was she, perhaps, instructed to serve a different purpose?

	For the first time, he was caught up in the thought that he might be part of a pattern more involuted and devious than his mind could grasp.

	Jessica stopped beside him. "What delicious abandon in the sleep of a child," she said.

	He spoke mechanically: "If only adults could relax like that."

	"Yes."

	"Where do we lose it?" he murmured.

	She glanced at him, catching the odd tone, but her mind was still on Paul, thinking of the new rigors in his training, thinking of the differences in the life facing him here ... so very different from the life they had once planned for him.

	"We do, indeed, lose something," she said.

	Jessica looked out to the right at a slope humped with wind-troubled gray-green bushes—dusty leaves and dry claw branches. The too-dark sky hung over the slope like a blot, and the milky light from the sun Arrakis gave the scene a silver cast—a light like that from the crysknife concealed in her bodice.

	"The sky's so dark," she said.

	"That's partly the lack of moisture," he said. "Arrakis is a tremendous planetological mystery. There's a theory that Arrakis experienced very little burning of oxygen and hydrogen during its formation—thus, the scarcity of water. Yet some regions abound in volcanic rock."

	"You think there's really water here, or that we won't know the real reason why there is so little?"

	"I think there is water," he said, and he thought: Yes. Let us talk about something interesting. Let us talk about something that will leave no room for suspicions.

	"Then where is it?" she asked. "I've read the reports put out by the Imperial Commission. There's water locked in polar ice, of course—but the cost of it! Where else would there be water we could get? You can't drill in the desert, they say. Storms and sandtides destroy the equipment faster than it can be installed ... and they've never found water traces there, anyway. The wells they've drilled up here in the sinks and basins produced a few trickles of water, then dried up."

	He heard her out, watching the way her attention focused down on the problem with a squinting of eyes and that poised relaxation of jaw muscles before each word.

	"There are two unexplained facts," he said. "Some of the wells produced a few trickles of water that dried up quickly. There is water down there, then. Yet, it never again collects in a well that has dried. Why? The water was there and was pumped out in a small amount. It dried up? All right. Why has no water collected in these wells after the pumps stopped? Why? Has no one ever been curious about this?"

	"I ..." Jessica stared at him. "You suspect some living agency that seals off the water? Wouldn't it have shown in the core samples?"

	"What would have shown? Would alien plant matter be recognizable?"

	"Plant matter?"

	"Or animal matter? Or some other as yet unrecognized agency? The water is stopped. This is the thing I see. What puts the plug in it?"

	"Perhaps the reason is known," she said. "The Harkonnens sealed off many sources of information about Arrakis. Perhaps there was a reason to suppress this."

	"Then, what of the atmospheric moisture?" he asked. "There is a certain amount of water vapor in the air. It's the major source of water, caught in the windtraps and the precipitators. Where does that come from?"

	"The ice caps."

	"Perhaps, but I think me it would not account for all the moisture. Cold air takes up little moisture. No. There are things here behind the Harkonnen veil that will bear investigating, and not all of these things are directly involved with the spice."

	He broke off, noting the different way she was studying him. "Is something wrong, My ... Jessica?"

	"The way you said Harkonnen," she said. "My Duke's voice does not carry that weight of venom when he says the hated name. I did not know you had personal reason to hate the Harkonnens, Wellington."

	Great Mother! I've aroused her suspicions! he thought. Now I must use every trick my Wanna taught me. Only one thing to do is use the truth as far as I can.

	He said: "You know that my Wanna ..." He shrugged, unable to speak past the constriction in his throat. Then: "They ..." The words would not come out. He clenched his eyes closed, feeling the agony in his breast and little else until a hand touched his arm gently.

	"Wellington," she said, "forgive me. I did not mean to open an old wound." And she thought: Those animals! His wife was Bene Gesserit, and it's obvious the Harkonnens killed her. This must be why Hawat trusts Yueh so much. We're bound together by a cherem of hate.

	"I'm sorry that I'm unable to talk about it," he said. He opened his eyes, giving himself up to the internal awareness of grief. That, at least, was truth.

	Jessica studied him, seeing the up-angled cheeks, the dark sequins of almond eyes, the butter complexion and the stringy mustache that hung like a curved frame around the thin purplish lips and narrow pointed chin. The deep creases of his cheeks and forehead, she saw, were lines of sorrow as much as age. A deep affection for him came over her.

	"I'm sorry we brought you into this dangerous place," she said.

	"I came willingly," he said. And that, too, was true.

	"But this whole planet is a Harkonnen trap," she said.

	"It will take more than a trap to catch the Duke Leto," he said. And that, too, was true.

	"Yes." She nodded, looked again out the window at the alien hillside. "Perhaps I don't have enough confidence in him. I should, I know. He's a brilliant tactician."

	"It's only natural to feel uneasy at a change such as this one," he said. "We've been uprooted."

	"And how easy it is to kill an uprooted plant," she said. "Especially if you put it down in hostile soil."

	"Do we know that the soil itself is hostile?"

	"There were water riots," she said. "When it was learned how many people the Duke was adding to the population. That bespeaks a certain hostility."

	He said in a questioning tone: "People the Duke was adding to ..."

	"The fighting men," she said. "In spite of the cost, the Duke brought most of his fighting men ... minimum dependence upon local recruiting. Guards! Guards everywhere. And shields. You see the blurring of them everywhere you look."

	He said: "But the Duke is installing new windtraps and condenser equipment, more than enough to care for his own people."

	"The population knows that now," she said. "It's what stopped the water riots. But mark the basic hostility of this planet where water is concerned. There is only so much of it to drink. If more comes to drink that water, the price goes up. And then, I am told, the very poor die."

	"But the Duke must have some plan."

	"Certainly, and I suspect I know what it is, but he has not unfolded the details of it to me." She grimaced. "You know, Wellington, I believe I'm going to hate this place."

	"You should give it a chance," he said.

	"Give it a chance ? Arrakis has been too long under the Harkonnen boot! You know what they do to land and people."

	We must get off this subject, he thought. He turned away as though it were too painful to speak.

	But Jessica was staring out the window. "I can smell death in this place," she said. "Thufir Hawat sent advance agents in here. Those guards outside are his men. The cargo handlers are his men. There've been unexplained withdrawals of large sums from the treasury. The amounts mean bribes in high places." She shook her head. "Where Thufir goes, death and deceit follow."

	"You malign him."

	"Malign? I praise him. Death and deceit are our only hopes. I just do not fool myself about Thufir's methods."

	"You should ... make yourself busy with things," he said. "Give yourself no time for morbid ..."

	"Busy! What is it that takes most of my time? Acting as the Duke's secretary. So busy that every day I learn new things to fear ... things even he doesn't suspect I know." She compressed her lips, spoke thinly: "Sometimes I wonder how much my Bene Gesserit business training figured in his choice of me."

	"What do you mean?" He found himself caught by the cynical tone in her voice, the buried bitterness that he had never before seen exposed in her.

	"Don't you think, Wellington," she asked, "that a secretary tied to one by love is so much safer?"

	"Is that a worthy thought, Jessica?" The rebuke came naturally to his lips because there was no doubt how the Duke felt about his concubine. One had only to watch him as he followed her with his eyes.

	She sighed. "No. It's not worthy."

	Again, she hugged herself, hands pressing against her shoulders as she stared at the dry landscape. And the position of her arms pressed the sheathed crysknife against her flesh so that she felt the outline of it and sensed the unfinished business it represented.

	"There will be much bloodshed soon," she said. "This new duchy wasn't a plum they threw to us to buy an end to the feud. The Harkonnens won't rest until they're dead or my Duke destroyed. The Baron cannot forget that Leto is a cousin of the Royal blood, while the Harkonnen titles came out of the CHOAM Company pocketbook. And deep in their minds is the knowledge that an Atreides had a Harkonnen banished for cowardice at Corrin."

	"The old feud," Dr. Yueh muttered. And for a moment he felt an acid touch of hate. The old feud had trapped him in its web and these people were part of that poisonous thing. And the irony of it was that the deadliness should come to flower here on Arrakis, the one source in the universe of the spice melange, a prolonger of life, a giver of health.

	"What are you thinking?" she asked softly.

	"I was thinking that the spice is bringing six hundred and twenty thousand Solaris the decagram on the open market right now. That is money to buy many things."

	"Does greed touch even you, Wellington?"

	"Greed? No."

	"Do not let that happen," she said. "The spice will be a source of riches just as long as Arrakis remains its only source. The day it is synthesized is the day ..."

	"So that's what you fear!"

	She nodded. "Else why would they have given us this place? Their intention is obvious: to use Arrakis to destroy us and to gain as much profit as possible in the bargain. It's the CHOAM Company way. It's the Harkonnen way."

	I can give her one little comfort then, he thought. She's not a medical specialist and hasn't seen the chemical research papers on melange.

	"It hasn't been synthesized," he said, "and I doubt it ever will be. My school was one of the centers for early study of melange. One of our people was the one who discovered how the spice sets up a protein digestive balance to help the body get more out of what is ingested. The spice presents many faces to the researcher. It should not be stable, yet it is. It should not react differently to the same tests given on successive days to the same spice lot. Yet it does. It adapts and changes yet retains those two priceless characteristics—aiding digestion and the blending of odd pairs and triplets of flavor to make them delightful to the palate."

	"Anything can be synthesized," she said.

	"Anything that will stand still long enough to be examined," he agreed. "You've eaten spice. Tell me: How did it taste to you?"

	"The first time, it tasted like cinnamon," she said. "The next time it tasted something like manccia with just a little pepper sting. Another time it ..."

	"Never exactly the same on two different occasions," he said. "The cinnamon? Well, it's cut sometimes with cassia or cinnamon and it does seem to have some cinnamic aldehyde of its own ... and eugenol ... it frequently smells like cinnamon ... but it never tastes twice the same. Some hold that melange produces learned flavors. The body, learning that a thing is good for it, then interprets that flavor as pleasurable ... slightly euphoric."

	She found herself unwilling to give up the fear that melange was at the core of the Harkonnen trap. "If not synthesized, then grown somewhere else," she said.

	"Where?" he asked. "How? The Harkonnens hid what they could about Arrakis, but there were always the smugglers, and the spice is one of the most fascinating mysteries in the universe. It seems to be a fungasoid, and must grow violently under proper conditions ... there are certain cell anomalies ... but what are the proper conditions? Who can study the spice in the desert? Every attempt to grow it artificially has failed. Some think the sandworms hold the key. Perhaps they do. Shall we then go ask the sandworms? They will engulf us as we speak."

	She shuddered at thought of the worms.

	"You heard the price the Guild asks for weather satellites," he said. "Impossible! And without them, or without long-range transport—which is ruled out by the storms —study of the spice in situ is virtually impossible."

	"So it remains a mystery," she said.

	He saw that he had convinced her, thought: Thus do I salve my conscience. With one hand I ease the mind, while with the other hand, I prepare death ... grief ... betrayal.

	Jessica frowned. "Then the attack will come from another quarter. More and more, I think it would have been wiser for us to go renegade, to take ourselves beyond the Imperial reach."

	Yes, he thought. Why didn't she make him do this? She could make him do virtually anything. And he spoke quickly because here was truth and a change of subject: "Would you think it bold of me ... Jessica, if I asked a personal question?"

	She turned away, pressed against the windowledge in a pang of disquiet. "Of course not. You're my ... friend."

	"Why haven't you made him marry you?"

	She whirled, head up, glaring. "Made him do it? But ..."

	"I should not have asked," he said.

	"No." She lowered her hand. "There's a good political reason—as long as the Duke remains unmarried some of the Great Houses can still hope for alliance. But ..." she sighed, "... motivating people, forcing them to your will, gives you a cynical attitude toward humanity. It degrades. If I made him do ... this, then it would not be his doing."

	"It is a thing my Wanna might have said," he murmured. And this, too, was truth.

	A wry smile touched Jessica's mouth. "Besides, Wellington, the Duke is really two men. One of them I love very, very much. He's charming, witty, considerate ... tender, everything a woman could desire. But the other man is ... cold, callous, demanding, selfish—as harsh and cruel as a winter wind. That's the man who was shaped by the father." Her face contorted. "Oh! If that old man had only died when my Duke was born!"

	In the silence that came between them, a breeze from a ventilator could be heard fingering the blinds.

	Presently she took a deep breath, said: "The Duke is right: these rooms are nicer than the ones in the other sections of the house—happier rooms." She turned, sweeping the room with her gaze. "These yellow walls give you the feeling of ... well, sunshine—the kind of sunshine familiar to us." She glanced at the doctor. "If you'll excuse me, Wellington, I want another look through this wing before I assign quarters."

	He nodded. "Of course." And he thought: If only there were some way not to do this thing.

	Jessica went out into the hall thinking: All the time we talked he was hiding something, holding something back. It was to save my feelings, no doubt. He's a good man. She hesitated, almost turned back to confront Dr. Yueh and drag the hidden thing from him. But that would only shame him, frighten him to learn that he's so easily read, she thought.

Chapter Nine

Many have marked the speed at which Muad'Dib learned the necessities of Arrakis. Bene Gesserits, of course, do not think this speed unusual; they know its basis. For the others, we can say that Muad'Dib learned rapidly because his first training was in how to learn. And the first lesson of all was the basic trust in himself that he could learn. It is shocking to think how many people do not believe they can learn, and how many more believe learning to be difficult. Muad'Dib knew that every experience carries its lesson.
"The Humanity of Muad-Dib" 
by The Princess Irulan

	Paul lay on the bed feigning sleep. It had been easy to palm Dr. Yueh's sleeping tablet, to pretend to swallow it. Paul suppressed a laugh. Even his mother had believed him asleep when she came and looked in the door. He had wanted to jump up and ask her to let him go exploring in the house, but she'd never have given that permission. Things were too unsettled yet. No. This way was best.

	If I slip out without asking I haven't disobeyed orders, he thought.

	He heard his mother and Dr. Yueh talking in the other room. Their words were indistinct ... something about the spice ... the Harkonnens.

	The conversation rose and fell. Paul thought of his mother, of the new training, of the hurried sense of danger on Arrakis. His attention was caught by the carved headboard of his bed—a false headboard attached to the wall and concealing the controls for this room's functions. A great leaping fish had been shaped on the wood with thick waves beneath it. He knew that if he pushed the fish's one visible eye that would turn on the room's lights. One of the waves controlled ventilation; another changed the temperature.

	Quietly, Paul sat up on the bed. A tall bookcase stood against the wall to his left. It could be swung aside to reveal a closet with wardrobe drawers along one side. A door in the far wall let into the hall.

	The room was full of such things, as though it had been designed to entice him.

	The room and this planet.

	He felt impatient for his mother to leave the other room, for things to quiet down and give him the opportunity to escape this confinement.

	He thought of the filmbook Dr. Yueh had shown him— "Arrakis: His Imperial Majesty's Desert Botanical Testing Station." Names flitted through his mind, each with its picture imprinted by the filmbook's mnemonic pulse— saguaro, burro bush, date palm, sand verbena, evening primrose, barrel cactus, incense bush, smoke tree, creosote bush, wild buckwheat ... Names and pictures, names and pictures—many from mankind's Terranic past and no longer to be found in the Universe except here on Arrakis.

	The names added to the mystery and enticement of this place. So many things to learn.

	There was melange—the Spice.

	And sandworms.

	Nothing else about this planet signaled danger as strongly as did the thought of these worms. Terrible winds, poisonous creatures, Harkonnen assassins, perils of thirst —none of these seemed as real in their threat as the sand-worms.

	In a way, the sandworms had become mixed in his mind with the Harkonnens, a tangible comparison: the Harkonnens were human sandworms who wanted to swallow him.

	A door closed in the other room, and Paul heard his mother's footsteps retreating down the hall. Dr. Yueh would remain, of course, believing Paul to be asleep. The doctor would find something to read.

	Now was the moment to escape.

	Paul slipped out of the bed, started toward the bookcase door that opened into a closet. He stopped at a sound behind him, turned. The carved headboard of the bed was folding down onto the spot where he had been sleeping. An odd fang protruded from the fish's eve.

	He froze in the grip of fear. Immobility saved his life.

	From behind the headboard slipped a tiny hunter-seeker no more than five centimeters long. Paul recognized it—one of the common assassination weapons that every child of royal blood learned about at an early age. It was a ravening sliver of metal guided by some nearby human eye and hand, and it could burrow into any moving thing of soft flesh, following nerve channels to the nearest vital organ.

	But the hunter-seeker had its limitations. The compressed suspensor field on which it moved distorted the vision of its transmitter eye. With nothing but the dim light of this room to reflect his target, the operator would be relying on motion—anything that moved. A shield could slow a seeker, giving time to destroy it, but Paul had put aside his shield on the bed. The belt had been uncomfortable beneath his back. Some prime targets for assassins even carried lasguns to knock down seekers, but lasguns were expensive and notoriously cranky of maintenance, and there was always the danger of explosive pyrotechnics with them if the laser beam intersected a hot shield. The Atreides had always relied on their body shields and their wits. Now, Paul had only his wits to meet this threat. He held himself in near catatonic immobility.

	The seeker lifted, swung sideways across the room and hack. It rippled through the slatted light from the windowblinds, back and forth, quartering.

	I must try to grab it, Paul thought. The suspensor field will make it slippery on the bottom, but if I grip tightly ...

	The hall door behind Paul opened. The seeker arrowed past his head toward the motion. Paul's reaction was a flashing reflex. His right hand shot out and down, gripping the deadly thing. It hummed and twisted in his hand, but his muscles were locked on it in desperation. With a violent turn and thrust, he slammed the seeker's nose against the metal doorplate. He felt the crunch of it as the nose eye smashed and the seeker went dead in his hand, but still he held it ... to be certain.

	Paul's eyes came up. met the open stare of total blue from the Shadout Mapes.

	"Your father has sent for you," she said. "There are men in the hall to escort you some place."

	Paul nodded, his eyes and awareness focusing on this odd woman in a sacklike dress of bondsman brown. She was looking now at the thing in his hand.

	"I've heard of suchlike," she said. "It would've killed me, not so?"

	He had to swallow before he could speak. "I ... was its target."

	"But it was coming for me."

	"Because you were moving." And he wondered: Who is this creature?

	"And you saved my life then," she said. "I saved both our lives."

	"Seems like you could've let it have me and made your own escape," she said.

	He scowled, thinking: Those will be Hawat's men she speaks of. We must find the operator of this thing.

	"Get those men you say came for me," he ordered. "Tell them I've caught a hunter-seeker in the house and they're to spread out and find the operator. They'll know how to go about it. Sure to be a stranger among us." He focused on the woman. "Who are you?"

	"The Shadout Mapes, new to the servantry here."

	"How did you know where to find me?"

	'Your mother told me. I encountered her at the stairs to that weirding room down the hall." She pointed to her right. "Before I do your bidding, manling, it's well I say this. You've put a burden on me I'm not sure I care to support, but we Fremen always pay our debts, be they black debts or white debts. And it's known to us that you've a traitor in your midst. Who it is we cannot say, but we're certain sure of it."

	Paul absorbed this—weirding room ... traitor. Before he could speak, though, the odd woman whirled away and ran back toward the entry and the great hall.

	He thought to call her back, but there was that about her which told him she'd do his bidding. The place would be swarming with Hawat's men soon. His mind picked out another part of her strange conversation: we Fremen. So that woman as a Fremen. He paused to go through the mnemonic blink that would store the pattern of her face in his mind—prune-wrinkled features darkly browned, and those blue-on-blue eyes without any white to them. He attached the label in his memory: The Shadout Mapes.

	Still holding the shattered seeker, Paul turned back into his room, scooped his shieldbelt from the bed left-handed and swung it around his waist, buckling it as he ran out of the place. She'd said his mother was some place to the left—stairs, a weirding room.

Chapter Ten

What had the Lady Jessica to sustain her in her lime of trial? Think you carefully on this Bene Gesserit proverb and perhaps you will see: "Any road followed precisely to its end leads precisely nowhere. You must climb a mountain just a little bit, enough to test that it's a mountain. From the top of the mountain, you cannot see the mountain. And what is beyond is the same as what is here. Let your senses tell you only reality."
"Muad'Dib: Family Commentaries" 
by The Princess Irulan

	At the end of the south wing, Jessica found a metal stairway spiraling up to an oval door. She glanced back down the hall, again up at the door.

	Oval, she thought. What an odd shape for a door in a house.

	Through the windows beneath the spiral stair she could see the great white sun of Arrakis moving on toward evening. Long shadows stabbed down the hall. She returned her attention to the stair. Harsh side-lighting picked out bits of dried earth on the open metal work of the winding steps.

	Jessica put a hand on the stair rail, began to climb. The vail felt cold under her sliding palm. She stopped at the door. There was no handle, but there was a faint depression on the door's surface where a handle should have been.

	Surely not a palm lock, she told herself. A palm lock has to be keyed to one individual's hand shape and palm lines.

	But there were ways to open any palm lock—as she had learned at the Bene Gesserit school. She glanced back to make certain she was unobserved, placed her palm against the depression in the door. The most gentle of pressures to distort the lines—a turn of the wrist, another turn, a sliding twist of the palm across the surface.

	She felt the click.

	But there were hurrying footsteps in the hall behind. Jessica lifted her hand away from the door, turned, saw Mapes come to the foot of the stairs.

	"There are men in the great hall say they've been sent by the Duke to get the young master Paul," Mapes said. She glanced at the oval door, back to Jessica.

	"He's in that fifth room from the end, the small bedroom," Jessica said. "If you have trouble awakening the boy, call on Dr. Yueh in the adjoining room. Paul may require a wakeshot."

	Again, Mapes shot a look at the oval door, and Jessica detected a deep emotion in the woman's face—quite possibly loathing. Before Jessica could ask about the door and what it hid, Mapes had turned and was hurrying back down the hall.

	Hawat's men certified this place, Jessica thought. There certainly cannot be anything too terrible in here.

	She pushed the door. It swung inward onto a small room with another oval door opposite. The other door had a wheel handle.

	An air lock! Jessica told herself. She glanced down, saw a door prop fallen to the floor of the little room. The prop carried Hawat's personal mark. The place was left open, she thought. The door was propped open and someone probably knocked the prop down accidentally, not realizing the outer door would close itself on a palm lock.

	Jessica stepped into the little room.

	But why would someone build an air lock into a fixed structure such as a house, a place that would never see the emptiness of space? she asked herself. She thought suddenly of exotic creatures sealed off in their special climates.

	Special climate!

	The door behind her began swinging itself closed. She caught it and propped it securely open with the stick Hawat had left. Again, she faced the wheel-locked inner door, and saw faint writing etched into the metal above the handle. It was written in Galach:

	"O, Man! Here is a lovely portion of God's Creation: then, stand before it and learn to love the perfection of Thy Supreme Friend."

	Jessica touched the wheel, turned it to the left, pushed the inner door open. A gentle draft feathered her cheek, stirred her hair. She felt the change in the air. It tasted richer. She swung the door wide, looked through the oval opening into masses of greenery with yellow sunlight pouring across it.

	A yellow sun? she asked herself. Then: Filter glass!

	She stepped over the sill and the door swung itself closed behind her.

	"A conservatory," she breathed. "A wet-planet conservatory!"

	Potted plants and low-pruned trees stood all about her. She recognized a mimosa, a flowering quince, a sondagi, green-blossomed pleniscenta, red and white striped akarso ... roses...

	Even roses!

	She bent to breathe the fragrance of a giant pink blossom, then straightened to peer around the room.

	A rhythmic noise invaded her senses.

	She parted a jungle overlapping of leaves, looked through to the center of the room. A low fountain stood there, small with fluted lips. The rhythmic noise was a peeling, spooling arc of water falling thud-a-gallop onto the metal bowl.

	Jessica sent herself through the quick sense-clearing regimen, began a methodical inspection of the rooms perimeter. It appeared to be about ten meters square. From its position above the end of the hall and from subtle differences in the construction, she knew it had been added onto the roof of this wing long after the original building had been completed.

	She stopped at the south limit of the room in front of the wide reach of filter glass, stared around her. Every available space in the room was crowded with exotic wet-climate plants. Something rustled in the greenery. She tensed, then glimpsed a servo-arm, one of the simple clock-set type. It lifted, sent up a fine spray of dampness that misted her cheeks, then retracted. She looked at the plant it had watered: a fern tree.

	Water everywhere in this room—on a planet where water was the most precious juice of life. Water being wasted so conspicuously that it shocked her.

	She glanced out at the filter-yellowed sun. It hung low on a jagged horizon above the cliffs that were part of the immense uplifting of rock known as the Shield Wall.

	Filter glass, she thought. To turn the white sun of Arrakis into something softer and more familiar. But who could have ordered the building of such a place? Leto? It would be like him to surprise me with such a gift, but there hasn't been time. And he's been busy with other problems.

	She recalled the report that many Arrakeen houses were sealed by air-lock doors and windows to conserve and reclaim the airborne moisture within. And Leto had told her that it was a deliberate statement of power and wealth for this house to ignore such procedures, its door and window seals being designed to exclude only the omnipresent dust.

	But this room embodied a statement far more significant than the lack of waterseals on the doors to the exterior world. This pleasure room, she estimated, used water enough to support a thousand persons—possibly more.

	Jessica moved along the window, still looking into the room. The change of position brought into view a metallic surface at table height beside the central fountain and, on that surface, a white notepad and stylus partly concealed by an overhanging fan leaf. She crossed to the table, noted one of Hawat's daysigns on it, studied a message written on the pad:

	"To the Lady Jessica: May this place give you as much pleasure as it has given me. Please permit this room to convey a lesson that we learned from the same teachers: the proximity of a desirable thing may tempt one to overindulgence. On that path lies danger. My kindest wishes, Margot Lady Fenring."

	Fenring? Jessica asked herself, then nodded remembering that Leto had referred to the Emperor's former proxy here as Count Fenring. But it was the hidden message of the note that demanded her attention, couched as it was in a way to tell her that the writer was another Bene Gesserit. And a bitter thought touched Jessica's mind in passing: The Count married his Lady.

	Even as this thought flicked through her mind, she bent to seek out the hidden message. It had to be there because the visible note contained the code phrase, the claxon warning that every Bene Gesserit not bound by a School Injunction was duty-called to give to another Bene Gesserit : "On that path lies danger."

	Jessica felt the back of the note, rubbing the surface for special coded dots. None. The edge of the pad came under her seeking fingers. Nothing. She put the pad back where she had found it. Something in the position of the pad? she wondered. But Hawat had probably moved it in checking the room. She looked at the leaf above the pad. The leaf! She brushed a finger along the under surface of it and, along the stem, found the subtle coded dots she had been seeking. She scanned them with the passage of her hand:

	"Your son and your Duke are in immediate danger. A bedroom has been made to attract your son and the H have loaded it with deathtraps to be discovered, but leaving one trap that may escape detection." Jessica silenced the urge to run back to Paul. The full message had to be learned. Her fingers sped over the dots. "I do not know the exact nature of the room's menace, but it has something to do with the headboard of a bed. As to your Duke, the threat involves the defection of a trusted companion or lieutenant. There is also something involving the use or the harvesting of the spice. The H plan for you is to give you as payment to a minion. To the best of my knowledge, this room is safe. Forgive that I cannot tell more, but my sources are few as my Count is not in the pay of the H. In haste, MF."

	Jessica thrust the leaf aside, whirled to dash back to Paul, and in that instant the oval air-lock door slammed open across the room from her. Paul jumped through, holding something in his right hand, slammed the door behind him. He pushed his way through the leaves to her, glanced at the fountain, thrust his hand and the thing it clutched under the falling water.

	She grabbed his shoulder, stared at the hand. "What is that?"

	He spoke casually, but she recognized that effort behind his words. "A hunter-seeker. Caught it in my room and smashed the nose of it, but I want to be sure. Water should short it out completely."

	"Immerse it!" she commanded. "Drop it!"

	He obeyed, shook water from his hand as they continued to stare at the shattered metal object in the fountain. It lay quiescent, dead.

	Jessica broke off a plant stem, prodded the seeker, peering into the broken end. Yes, it was destroyed. She dropped the plant stem into the fountain, looked at Paul. His eyes were opened wide and he was studying the room with a searching intensity that she recognized—the BG Way.

	"Anything could be hidden in here," he said.

	"I've good reason to believe it's safe here," she said.

	"My room was supposed to be safe, too. Hawat ..."

	"It was a hunter-seeker," she reminded him. "That means someone in the house to operate it. The thing could have been installed after Hawat's investigation."

	But she thought of the message on that leaf : "... defection of a trusted companion or lieutenant." Not Hawat, surely. Oh, surely not Hawat.

	"Hawat's men are searching the house now," he said.

	"That seeker almost got some old woman who came to wake me."

	"The Shadout Mapes," Jessica said, remembering the encounter at the stairs. "The message summoning you to your father ..."

	"That can wait," Paul said. "Why do you think this room's safe?"

	She pointed to the note. "There's a message in this from another Bene Gesserit."

	"You trust it?"

	"Yes."

	But Jessica remained inwardly tense, thinking: A hunter-seeker! O, Merciful Mother! It took all of her training to keep down a hysterical fit of trembling that she could feel just at the edge of awareness.

	Paul spoke matter-of-factly: "It's the Harkonnens, of course. This is too much. We shall have to destroy them."

	His words restored a measure of calmness to her, and she thought: He speaks like a man. His father all over again in a time of crisis action.

	A rapping sounded at the air-lock door—the code knock of one of Hawat's corps. "Come in," Paul called.

	The door swung wide and a man in Atreides uniform with the Hawat insignia at his cap leaned into the room. "There you are, sir," he said. "The old woman said you'd be here. We found a cairn into the cellar and caught a man trying to flee through it. He had a seeker console."

	"Who was it?" Paul asked.

	"No one we know, sir."

	"Take him some place where we can interrogate him," Jessica said.

	"Sorry, My Lady," the man said. "We messed him up too much catching him. He died."

	"Nothing on him to identify him?" she asked. "No, My Lady."

	"Was he a native or someone the Harkonnens left behind?" Paul asked.

	"He has the native look," the man said. "And he'd been in this cairn for a goodly time, put into it from the outside and left there to await our coming. The stone and mortar where he came through into the cellar were untouched when we inspected the place before. I'll stake my reputation on it."

	"No one questions your thoroughness," Jessica said.

	"Thank you, My Lady."

	"We would like to be certain there are no more of these little surprises left behind, however. Please send a message to the Duke that you'll be delayed and go over the house walls once more with sonic echo equipment."

	"We're already doing that, My Lady. And it's Hawat's orders that under such circumstances we sequester the young master in a safe place." He glanced around the room. "What of this place?"

	"Hawat himself checked it," Jessica said, "and I've other reasons to believe it secure."

	"Then I'll mount guard outside here, My Lady, until we've been over the house once more." He bowed, backed out the door which swung closed behind him.

	In the silence that followed, Paul again studied the room with that sensitive alertness. Presently, he said: "There's a palm lock on the door. I saw it as I came through there."

	"No doubt it was set to insure privacy for the Bene Gesserit Lady who lived here before us," Jessica said. "We like to have a quiet place for retreat; it soothes and restores us."

	"Will you have the lock changed to your palm?"

	"I may change it, but I can open any palm lock."

	He studied her face, then: "You said that for a special purpose."

	"Not many know it can be done simply and speedily," she said. "It's a thing I'll teach you that you must not use openly nor let others know you can do."

	"I see." He nodded. "Had we better go over the house now ourselves? Your eyes see things others might miss."

	"I've already been over most of the house," she said. "This wing was the only place I'd not studied carefully. I was putting it off because ..."

	"Because Hawat gave this wing his personal attention."

	She stared at him.

	"I trust Hawat," she said. "And you can depend on it that this wing will be made secure now. A stray insect won't be able to wander in here. Hawat will be shamed that ..."

	"I wasn't questioning Hawat," he said. "Then what are you doing?"

	"I was suggesting that Hawat is getting old ... he's overworked. We might be able to take some of the load from him."

	"It would only shame him and impair his effectiveness," she said. "Hawat has prepared his own replacement should he ever falter. One of his corps. Your father will know who he is."

	"You know who it is, too," he said.

	She smiled, remained silent.

	"I see," Paul said. "Hawat must tell me himself ... should he so choose."

	So perceptive, she thought. And she focused her mind anew on Hawat. Could he be the one ... the traitor? Impossible!

	Paul said: "When my father is bothered by something you've done, he says Bene Gesserit! like a swear word."

	"And what is it about me that bothers your father?"

	"When you thwart him. I've heard him call you a Bene Gesserit witch."

	She concealed the silent laughter which shook her.

	Paul's face remained sturdily somber. "Why will you not talk to me about Hawat?"

	"He has served three generations of Atreides with honor," she said. "He deserves every respect we can pay him ... many times over."

	"Now I know how my father feels about you sometimes," he said.

	She suppressed the feeling of wry humor, said: "Why is it so important to talk about Hawat?"

	And Paul thought: It will worry her, but I must tell her what the old Fremen woman said about a traitor among us.

	Paul shrugged, recounted his exchange with the Shadout Mapes.

	Jessica thought of the message on the leaf: "... a trusted lieutenant."

	She showed him the leaf and its message, told him what it said.

	"We must tell my father at once," he said. "He'll wring the truth out of that Fremen woman."

	"I think she told you all the truth," Jessica said.

	He thought about this, said: "Yes. She spoke the truth. But that means we must take special precautions. We can trust no one."

	"There's another possibility," she said.

	"Oh?"

	"That this message was meant to get back to us ... that the people carrying it believed it true, but the only purpose was to get this message to us."

	He pursed his lips, then: "To show distrust and suspicion in our ranks ... to weaken us in that way. I see."

	"You must tell your father, but privately and cautioning him of this aspect in it," she said.

	"Yes, of course."

	She put an arm around his shoulder, turned to the tall reach of filter glass facing southwest. Out there, the sun of Arrakis was moving well on toward sunset, a yellowed hall low over the cliffs.

	Paul glanced at his mother, said: "I don't think it's Hawat either. Could it be Dr. Yueh?"

	"He's not a lieutenant," she said. "And I can assure you he hates the Harkonnens as bitterly as we do."

	He directed his attention where his mother was looking—out toward the cliffs. And it couldn't be Gurney ... or Duncan, he thought.

	Paul stared at the landscape, thinking.

	Jessica, with her attention on the same scene, studied] it. Beyond the ducal grounds she saw a high-fenced storage yard—lines of spice silos within it, and with stilt-legged watch towers spaced along the edges like so many startled spiders. She noted the basic design for the spice silo: about twenty meters in diameter and thirty-five or so meters tall. She could see at least twenty storage yards of them reaching out to the cliffs of the shield wall—all tokens of wealth—silos repeated, stuttering across the flats.

	Slowly, the filter-yellowed sun buried itself beneath the horizon. Stars leaped out. She saw one bright star so low on the horizon that it twinkled with a clear, precise rhythm —a trembling of light—blink-blink-blink-blink-blink ...

	Paul stirred beneath her arm.

	But Jessica concentrated on that star, realizing that it was too low, that it must come from the Shield Wall cliffs. Her arm tightened on Paul's shoulder.

	Someone signaling!

	She tried to read the message, but it was in no code she had ever learned.

	Other lights had come on down on the plain beneath the cliffs—little yellows spaced out against blue darkness. And one light off to their left grew brighter, began to wink back at the cliff—very fast; blinksquirt, glimmer, blink. And it was gone.

	The false star winked out immediately.

	Signals ... and they filled her with premonition.

	Why were lights used to signal this basin? she wondered. Why couldn't they talk over the regular communications network?

	The answer was obvious: the communinet was certain to be tapped now by agents of the Duke Leto. Light signals could only mean that messages were being sent between his enemies ... between Harkonnen agents.

	There came a tapping at the door behind them, and the voice of Hawat's man intruded: "All clear, sir. Time to be getting to your father."

Chapter Eleven

It is said that the Duke Leto blinded himself to the perils of Arrakis, that he walked heedlessly into the pit. Would it not be more likely to suggest he had lived so long in the presence of extreme danger that a change in the intensity of it escaped him? Or is it possible he deliberately sacrificed himself that his son might find a better life? All the evidence indicates that the Duke was not a man easily hoodwinked.
"Muad'Dib: Family Commentaries" 
by The Princess Irulan

	The Duke Leto Atreides leaned against a parapet of the landing control tower outside Arrakeen. The night's first moon, an oblate silver coin, hung well above the southern horizon. Beneath it, the jagged cliffs of the "Shield Wall" shone like parched icing through a dust haze. To his left, the lights of Arrakeen glowed through the haze ... yellow ... white ... blue ...

	He thought of the notices posted above his signature all through the populous places of this planet: "Our sublime Padishah Emperor has charged me to take possession of this planet and end all dispute."

	The ritualistic formality of it touched him with a sense of loneliness. Who was fooled by that fatuous legalism? Not the Fremen, certainly. Nor the Houses Minor who controlled the interior trade of Arrakis ... and were Harkonnen creatures almost to a man.

	Lights of a moving vehicle could be seen coming toward the landing field from Arrakeen. That would be the guard and troop-carrier bringing Paul, he hoped. He did not like the delay in their return, but he had charged the lieutenant to take every precaution. Better a cautious delay than ... He shook his head to drive out morbid thoughts, glanced back at the field where five of his own frigates were posted around the rim like monolithic sentries.

	"Our Sublime Padishah Emperor ..."

	If the people of this drowsy, decadent garrison town could only see the Emperor's private note to "his" Duke, the disdainful comments about veiled men and women: ... But what else could you expect of barbarians whose major dream is to live outside the faufreluches?"

	At this moment, the Duke felt that his own dream was to end all class distinctions and never again think of the rigid stratifying of the faufreluches.

	He looked up and out of the dust at the unwinking stars, thought: Around one of those Utile lights circles Caladan. But I'll never see my home again. The longing for Caladan was a pain in his breast, and he felt that it did not come from within himself, but that it reached out to him from Caladan. He could not bring himself to call this dry wasteland of Arrakis his home, and he doubted that he ever would. I must mask my feelings, he thought. For the boy's sake. If ever he's to have a home, this must be it. I may think of Arrakis as a hell I've reached before death, but he must find that which is admirable here. There must be something.

	A wave of self pity, immediately despised and rejected, passed through him, and for some reason he found himself recalling two lines from that poem Gurney Halleck repeated so often:

	"My lungs taste the air of time "Blown past falling sands ..."

	Well, Gurney would find plenty of falling sands here, he thought. The central wastes beyond those moon-frosted cliffs were desert—barren rock, dunes and blowing dust, an uncharted dry wilderness with here and there along its rim and scattered through it, knots of people: the Fremen. If anything could buy a future for the Atreides line, those Fremen just might do it. Fighting men hardened by the rigors of this planet were a far more important wealth than the spice could ever be.

	Provided the Harkonnens had not managed to infect the Fremen, too, with their poisonous schemes.

	A scrapping metal racket vibrated through the tower and shook the parapet beneath his arms. Blast shutters dropped in front of him, blocking the view.

	Shuttle's coming, he thought. Time to get started. Time to find out just how bad this situation really is. He turned to the stairs behind him, headed down to the big waiting loom.

	The men already were boiling in from the field when he reached the yellow-domed room. They carried their spacebags over their shoulders, shouting and roistering like students returning from vacation.

	"Hey! Feel that under your dogs? That's gravity!" "How many gees does this place pull? It feels heavy." "Nine-tenths of a gee by the book."

	The crossfire of thrown words filled the room.

	"Did you get a good look at this hell hole on the way down? Where's all the loot this place's supposed to have?" "The Harkonnens took it with 'em!" "Me for a hot shower and a soft bed!" "Haven't you heard, stupid? No showers here." "Can it! The Duke!"

	The Duke suppressed a smile as he stepped out into the now-silent room.

	Gurney Halleck strode along at the point of the crowd, bag over one shoulder, the neck of his nine-stringed baliset clutched in the other hand. They were long-fingered hands with big thumbs, full of the tiny movements that drew delicate music from the baliset.

	The Duke watched Halleck, admiring the rolling, ugly lump of a man, noting the glass-splinter eyes with their gleam of savage understanding. Here was a man who lived outside the faufreluches while obeying every precept of them. What was it Paul had called him? Gurney, the valorous!

	Halleck's wispy blond hair trailed across barren spots on his head. His wide mouth was twisted into a pleasant sneer, and the sable scar of the inkvine whip slashed across his j awline. His whole air was of casual, shoulder-set capability. He came up to the Duke, bowed.

	"Gurney," Leto said.

	"My Lord." He gestured with the baliset toward the men in the room. "This is the last of them. I'd have preferred coming in with the first wave, but ..."

	"I know, Gurney." The Duke glanced left. "Step aside with me, Gurney, where we may talk."

	"Yours to command, My Lord."

	They moved into an alcove with a coin-slot water machine while the men stirred about restlessly in the big room.

	Halleck dropped his bag into a corner, kept his grip on the baliset.

	"How many men can you let Hawat have?" the Duke asked.

	"Is Thufir in trouble, sire?"

	"He's lost only two agents, but his advance men gave us an excellent line on the Harkonnen setup here in Arrakeen. If we move fast we may gain a measure of security here, the breathing room we require. He wants as many men as you can spare—men who won't balk at a little knife work."

	"They shall come all for violence: their faces shall sup up as the east wind, and they shall gather the captivity of the sand," Halleck quoted.

	"I've no time for OC prattle I" Leto countered. "How many?"

	Halleck smiled at the Duke's frown of impatience said: "I can let him have three hundred of my finest, sire. Where shall I send them?"

	"To the main gate. Hawat has an agent there waiting to take them."

	"Shall I get about it at once, sire?"

	"In a moment. We have another problem. I've bribed the field commandant to hold the shuttle until dawn. He ..."

	"Bribed, My Lord? Is this not your Duchy? You could ..."

	"Carefully and cautiously, Gurney. Do you doubt this place is a Harkonnen trap?"

	"No, My Lord. It could be nothing else. I've agreed with you on that from the first. The bait's in the sand— this lovely spice—and underneath it you'll find bloody steel jaws ready to snap closed at the Harkonnen signal."

	"Then we are still agreed. Now ... I've bribed the commandant. He'll hold the shuttle on some pretext until daylight tomorrow. The Guild Heighliner that brought us is going on about its business, and the shuttle's supposed to make contact with a cargo ship, taking up a load of spice."

	"Our spice, My Lord?"

	"Our spice. But the shuttle also will carry some of the freedmen from the old regime ... not Fremen, mind you, but spice workers, valuable laborers. About eight hundred of them. They've elected to leave at the change of fief, as is their option. Before the shuttle leaves, you must persuade some of those men to enlist with us."

	"How strong a persuasion is required, sire?"

	"I want their willing co-operation, Gurney. These men have experience and skills we need. We need them desperately. The fact that they're leaving suggests they're not part of the Harkonnen machine. Hawat believes there could be some bad ones planted in this group, but he sees assassins in every shadow."

	''Thufir has found some very productive shadows in his time, My Lord."

	"That's Hawat's job and I'm not complaining, Gurney. I just think planting sleepers in the outgoing crowd would show too much imagination for the Harkonnens."

	"Possibly, sire. And where are these men?"

	"On the lower level. I suggest you go down and play a tune or two to soften their minds, then turn on the pressure. You may offer positions of authority to those who qualify. You may offer twenty per cent higher wages than they received under the Harkonnens."

	"No more than that, sire? To men with their pockets full of termination pay and the wanderlust on them, twenty per cent would hardly seem inducement to stay."

	Leto spoke impatiently: "Then use your own discretion in particular cases. Just remember that the treasury is not bottomless. Hold it to twenty per cent wherever you can. We particularly need spice drivers, weather scanners, dune men—any with open sand experience."

	"I understand, sire."

	"Turn your own crew over to a lieutenant. Have him give a short drill on water discipline, then bed the men down for the night in the barracks adjoining the field. Field personnel will direct them. And don't forget the men for Hawat."

	"Three hundred of the best, sire." He took up his space-bag. "Where shall I report to you when I've completed my chores?"

	"I've taken over a council room on the third floor of this building. We'll hold our staff conference there. I want to arrange the planetary dispersal order as soon as possible, with armored squads going out first."

	Halleck stopped in the act of turning away, caught Leto's eye. "Are you anticipating that kind of trouble, sire?"

	"Both open battle and secret," the Duke said. "There'll be much blood spilled here before we're through."

	"And the water which thou takest out of the river shall become blood upon the dry land," Halleck quoted.

	The Duke sighed. "Get your little job done and hurry back, Gurney."

	"Very good, My Lord." The whipscar rippled to his grin. "Behold, as a wild ass in the desert, go I forth to my work." He turned away, strode to the center of the room, paused to relay his orders, hurried on through the men.

	Leto shook his head at the retreating back. Halleck was a continual amazement with his head full of songs, quotations and flowery phrases ... and the heart of an assassin when it came to the Harkonnens.

	Presently, Leto took a leisurely diagonal course across to the lift. He recognized a propaganda corpsman, stopped to tell him a message that could be relayed to the men: those who had brought women would want to know that the women were safe and where they could be found. The others would wish to know that the population here appeared to boast more women then men. He slapped the man's arm, a signal that the message could be put out immediately, continued on his way across the room. He nodded to the men, smiled, traded pleasantries with a subaltern.

	Command must always look confident, he thought. All that faith riding on your shoulders while you sit in the critical seat and never show it.

Chapter Twelve

Over the exit at the Arrakeen landing field, crudely carved as though with poor instruments, stretched an inscription that Muad'Dib was to recount many times. He saw it that first night on Arrakis, having been returned to the ducal command post at the field to participate in the first major staff conference. The words of the inscription were for the eyes of those leaving Arrakis, but they fell dark import on the eyes of a boy who had just escaped a close brush with death. They said: "O, you know what we suffer here, do not forget us in your prayers."
"Manual of Muad'Dib" 
by The Princess Irulan

	"The whole theory of warfare is calculated risk," the Duke said, "but when it comes to risking your own family, the element of calculation is submerged in ... many other things."

	He knew he wasn't holding in his anger as well as he should, and he turned, strode down the length of the long table and back.

	The Duke and Paul were alone in the conference room —a barren place except for the table, the old-fashioned three-legged chairs around it, a map board and projector at one end.

	Paul sat near the end of the table and close to the map board. He had just told his father about the hunter-seeker and the two tales that a traitor threatened him.

	The Duke stopped across from Paul, pounded the table. "Hawat told me that house was secure!"

	Paul spoke hesitantly: "I was angry, too ... at first. And I blamed Hawat. But the threat came from outside the house. It was simple, clever and direct. And it would've succeeded were it not for the training given me by you and many others ... including Hawat."

	"Are you defending him?" the Duke demanded.

	"Yes."

	"He's getting old. That's it. He should—"

	"He's wise with much experience," Paul said. "How many of Hawat's mistakes can you recall?"

	"I should be the one defending him," the Duke said. "Not you!"

	Paul smiled.

	Leto sat down at the head of the table put a hand over his son's. "You've ... matured lately, son." He lifted his hand. "It gladdens me." He matched his son's smile. "Hawat will punish himself. He'll direct more anger against himself over this than both of us could pour on him together."

	Paul glanced toward the darkened windows beside the map board, looking at the night beyond them. The room's lights reflected from a balcony railing out there. He saw movement and recognized the shape of a guard in Atreides uniform. He looked back at the white wall behind his father, then down to the shiny surface of the table, seeing his own hands clenched into fists there.

	The door opposite the Duke banged open and Thufir Hawat strode through it. His face looked older and more leathery than ever. He strode down the length of the table, stopped facing Leto.

	"My Lord," he said, speaking formally and crisply, "I have just learned how I failed you. It becomes necessary that I tender my resig—"

	"Oh, sit down and stop acting like a fool," the Duke said. He waved to the chair across from Paul. "If you made a mistake, it was in overestimating the Harkonnens. Their simple minds came up with a simple trick. We didn't count on simple tricks. And my son has been at pains to point out to me that he came through this largely because of your training. You didn't fail there!" He tapped the back of the chair. "Sit down, I say!"

	Hawat sank into the chair. "But—"

	"But nothing," the Duke said. "That incident is past. We have other and more pressing business. Where are the others?"

	"I asked them to wait outside while I—"

	"Call them in then."

	Hawat looked into Leto's eyes. "Sire, I—"

	"I know who my true friends are, Thufir," the Duke said. "Call in the men."

	"At once, My Lord." He swiveled in the chair, called toward the open door: "Come in!"

	Gurney Halleck led the file of men through the door. He was followed by the younger aides and specialists.

	Brief scuffing sounds echoed around the room as the men took seats. Paul noted the grim tiredness in their appearance.

	The Duke looked over his men, thinking: They're a good crew. A man could do far worse picking fighters for this kind of war. He nodded to himself, put on his mask of quiet efficiency and stood up. A knuckle rapped against the table commanded their attention.

	"Well, gentlemen," Leto said, "our civilization appears to have fallen so deeply into the habit of invasion that we cannot even obey a simple order of the Imperium without the old habit cropping up."

	Chuckles sounded around the table, and Paul realized that his father was an accomplished psychologist. He had said the precisely correct thing in the precisely correct tone. There was even a deliberate hint of fatigue in his voice.

	"I think first we'd better learn if Thufir has anything new to add to his report on the Fremen," the Duke said. "Thufir?" Hawat glanced up. "I have some economic matters to add after my general report, sire. But I can say now that the Fremen appear more and more to be the kind of allies we need. Essentially, they are waiting to see if they can trust us. They're dealing openly, though. They've sent us a gift—stillsuits of their own manufacture, which are superior to all others, I might add; maps of certain desert areas to use in reducing certain strong-points the Harkonnens left behind—" He glanced around the table. "Their intelligence reports have proved to be completely reliable thus far. They've also sent some incidental things—jewelry, spice liquor, candy, medicinals— my men are processing the lot right now, but there appears to be no trickery at all in their gifts."

	"You like these people, Thufir," a man down the table asked.

	Hawat turned to face his questioner. "Duncan Idaho says they're to be admired."

	Paul glanced at his father, back to Hawat, ventured a question: "Do you have any new information on how many Fremen there are?"

	Hawat looked at the Duke, then to Paul. "From the food processing and other evidence Idaho estimates the cave complex he visited consisted of some ten thousand people, all told. Their leader, a man called Stilgar, said himself that he ruled a sietch of two thousand hearths. We think there are a great many such sietch communities. They appear to give their allegiance to someone called Liet. That could be an error on my part, though, because there were things to suggest that this Liet could be a local diety."

	"Is it certain they deal with the smugglers?" another man down the table asked.

	"A smuggler caravan left Stilgar's sietch while Idaho was there, carrying a heavy load of spice on the backs of small horselike beasts. They indicated it was an eighteen-day journey to wherever they were going."

	"It would seem," the Duke said, "that these romantic businessmen, the smugglers, have redoubled their operations during this change-over period. This deserves some thought. We shouldn't worry ourselves so much about unlicensed frigates working off our planet—it's always done—but to have them absolutely outside our observation is not a good thing."

	"What do you suggest, My Lord?" Hawat asked.

	The Duke looked at Gurney Halleck. "Gurney, I want you to head a delegation, an embassy, if you will, to contact these romantic businessmen. Tell them we'll ignore their operations as long as they give me a ducal tithe. Hawat believes that graft and all the extra fighting men their form of operation required has been costing them four times that amount."

	"What if the Padishah Emperor gets wind of this?" Halleck asked. "He's very interested in CHOAM Company profits, I understand."

	Leto smiled grimly. "We'll bank the tithe openly in the name of Shaddam IV. Let the Harkonnens fight that! And we'll be ruining a few more of the local money grubbers who grew fat under the Harkonnen system. No more graft!"

	A half smile twisted Halleck's face. "A beautiful low blow, My Lord. Would I could see the Baron's face when he learns of this."

	The Duke turned to Hawat. "Thufir, did you get those account books you said you could buy?"

	"They are being examined in detail even now, My Lord."

	"Tell the men what they indicate."

	"The Harkonnens took ten billion Solaris out of here every three hundred thirty standard days."

	A muted gasp ran around the table. Even the younger aides, who had been betraying some boredom, sat up straighter and exchanged wide-eyed glances.

Halleck murmured: "For they shall such of the abundance of the seas and of the treasure hid in the sand."

	"You see, gentlemen," Leto said. "Is there anyone here so naive that he believes the Harkonnens have quietly walked away from all this merely because the Emperor ordered it?"

	There was a general shaking of heads, a low murmur of agreement.

	"We will have to take it," Leto said. He turned to Hawat. "This would be a good point to report on the equipment. How many sand crawlers, harvesters, spice factories and supporting equipment have they left us?"

	"A full complement, as it says in the Imperial inventory, My Lord," Hawat said. He gestured for an aide to pass a folder up the table, opened it in front of him. "They neglected to mention that less than half the crawlers are operable, that only about a third have carryalls to fly tliem—that everything the Harkonnens left us is ready to break down and fall apart. We'll be lucky to get half the equipment into operation and luckier yet if we have a fourth of it still working six months from now."

	"Pretty much as we expected," Leto said. "Do you have any firm estimates on basic equipment?"

	Hawat glanced at his folder. "About nine hundred and thirty harvester-factories that can be sent out in a few days. About sixty-two hundred and fifty ornithopters for survey, scouting and weather observation."

	Halleck said: "Wouldn't it be cheaper to reopen negotiations with the Guild for permission to put a frigate in orbit as a weather satellite?"

	The Duke glanced at Hawat. "Have you changed your first approximation on that?"

	"We must pursue other avenues for now," Hawat said. "The Guild agent wasn't really negotiating with us. He was merely making it plain—one Mentat to another—that the price was out of our reach and would remain so. Our task is to find out why before we approach them again."

	One of Gurney Halleck's aides down the table swiveled in his chair, snapped: "There's no justice in this!"

	"Justice?" The Duke looked at the man. "Who asks for justice? We make our own justice. We make it here. Do you regret your decision to join us here?"

	The man stared at the Duke, then: "No, sire. You couldn't turn down the richest single planetary source of income in the Imperium ... and I could do nought but follow you. Forgive the outburst, but"—he shrugged— "we must all feel bitter at times."

	"We do indeed," the Duke said. "Are any more of you harboring bitterness? If you are, let it out before it poisons you."

	Halleck stirred, said: "The bitterest thing is that we've had no volunteers from the other. Houses. They address you as 'Leto the Just' and promise eternal friendship, but they—"

	"They wait for a sign of victory," the Duke said. "The Houses, most of them, have grown great by taking few risks. One cannot truly blame them for this. One can only despise them." He glanced at Hawat. "We were talking about equipment. Would you care to project a few examples to familiarize the men with this machinery?"

	Hawat nodded, gestured to an aide down the table.

	A solido tri-D projection appeared on the table surface about a third of the way down from the Duke. Some of the men farther down the table stood up to get a better look at it. Scaled against the tiny projected human figures around it, the machine was about one hundred and twenty meters long and about forty meters wide. It moved on independent sets of wide endless tracks.

	"This is the latest model harvester-factory," Hawat said. "We chose one in good repair for this demonstration. There's one dragline outfit, though, that came in with the first team of Imperial ecologists and it's still running, although I don't know how ... or why."

	"If that's the one they call 'Old Maria,' it belongs in a museum," Halleck said. "I think the Harkonnens used it as a punishment job, a threat hanging over the heads of the workers. Be good or you'll be assigned to Old Maria."

	Chuckles sounded around the table.

	Paul didn't join in the humor. His attention was focused on the projection and the big question it raised in his mind. He pointed to the projection, said: "Thufir, are there sandworms big enough to swallow that? It must be more'n a hundred meters long!"

	The men around the table froze, and the Duke cursed under his breath. But then he thought: No. They have to face the realities here.

	"In the deep desert, there are worms that could take this entire factory in one gulp," Hawat said. "Up here close to the Shield Wall where most of the spicing's done there are plenty of worms that could cripple this factory and devour it at their leisure."

	"Then why don't we shield them?" Paul asked.

	"According to Idaho's report on the Fremen," Hawat said, "shields are dangerous to use in the desert. Apparently, a body-size shield will call every worm for many kilo miles around and it appears to drive them into a frenzy. We've no reason to doubt their word on this, and Idaho saw no evidence of shield equipment at the sietch."

	"None at all?" the Duke asked.

	"None, sire. The lack of a thing is as significant as its presence." Hawat said. "The fact puzzles me, too, M'Lord. But I cannot judge without more data. The Harkonnens certainly used plenty of shields here. They had repair depots in every garrison village. And those account books we bought show an unusually large expenditure for shield replacements."

	"Short of building up a shire-sized static-countercharge each time you want to burn out a shield, I've never heard of any method for nullifying one," Leto said. "What, then, could cause a large number of shields to require replacement? Could it be the sand?"

	"They're sealed against moisture," Hawat said. "How could it be sand? Sand won't pass a moisture seal. No, sire. I'm inclined to believe the Fremen, but I also know there's more here than meets the eye."

	"Could the Fremen have a way of nullifying shields?" Paul asked.

	The Duke nodded agreement to the question.

	"Anything's possible, of course," Hawat said. "But the Harkonnens were here for eighty years. Surely, they'd have gotten wind of it, used it, if such a device existed. And we'd have heard about it. The smugglers have close contact with the Fremen. They'd have acquired such a thing, too. And they'd have had no inhibition against marketing it off planet."

	"I don't like unanswered questions," Leto muttered.

	"The Fremen could be the reason for shield replacements, all the same," Paul said. "They could be such good fighters that they're killing off shielded men and capturing the shields."

	"Three shielded men, backed into a defensive triangle, could stand off an unshielded army," Hawat said. "They could at least call for help and last until it arrived."

	A man down the table looked at Hawat. "Could these Fremen have disguised their shields?"

	"We think not. They do have much electronic equipment, and there were some who obviously understood shield function, but you couldn't mistake their attitude toward shields in general. They were mostly amused by them."

	"Thufir," Leto said, "give priority to the solution of this problem."

	"We're already working on it, M'Lord."

	"Good. Then let's get back to the equipment."

	Hawat nodded, gestured to his aide at the solido projector.

	The harvester-factory was replaced by a winged device that dwarfed the projected human figures around it. "This is a carryall," Hawat said. "It's essentially a large 'thopter, and its sole function is to deliver a factory to a profitable site, then to rescue the factory when a sand-worm appears. And they always appear. Harvesting the spice is a process of getting in and getting out with as much as possible."

	"Admirably suited to Harkonnen morality," the Duke said.

	Laughter was abrupt and loud.

	An ornithopter replaced the carryall in the projected space.

	"The 'thopters are fairly conventional," Hawat said. "Major modifications are to give them extended range. Extra care has been used in sealing essential areas against sand and dust. And one thing more: only about one in thirty is shielded. They have dropped shield generators as part of the redesign to increase range."

	"I don't like this de-emphasis of shields," the Duke muttered. And he thought: Does it mean our shields won't protect us? Is that the Harkonnen secret? Does it mean we cannot escape aboard a shielded frigate if all goes against us? He shook his head sharply to drive out such thoughts. This was no way to think when everything depended upon clarity of mind. "Take over a room for training area, Thufir," he said. "Set up projectors and staff the room for briefing the people responsible for maintenance. Let's get on to the working estimate. What will our profit figure be?"

	Hawat turned a page in his notebook. "After assessing the repairs and operable equipment, we've worked out a first estimate on operating costs. It's based, naturally, on a depreciated figure ... for a clear margin of safety." He closed his eyes, and his voice took on the distant tone of mentat semitrance. "Under the Harkonnens, maintenance and salaries were held to fourteen per cent. We'll be lucky to make it at thirty per cent. With re-investment and growth factors accounted for—including the CHOAM percentage and military costs—our profit margin will be reduced to a very narrow six or seven per cent until we can replace the worn out equipment. We then should be able to boost it up to twelve or fifteen per cent where it belongs." He opened his eyes. "Unless M'Lord wishes to adopt Harkonnen methods."

	"Not unless we get sand happy," the Duke growled. "We're working for a solid and permanent planetary base. To get that, we have to keep a large proportion of the people happy—especially the Fremen. Our supremacy on Caladan depended on sea power and air power. Here, we must develop a factor I choose to call desert power. That may include air power, but it's possible that it may not. The lack of 'thopter shields leaves the question in doubt. No." He shook his head. "The Harkonnens relied on turnover from off-planet for key personnel. We don't dare. Every new shipment could bring in a new batch of provocateurs."

	"Then we'll have to be content with far less profit ... and upon a reduced harvest of spice," Hawat said. "Roughly, our output the first two seasons should be down a third from the Harkonnen average."

	"We have no choice," the Duke said. "And while we discuss profits, Thufir, have a delegation wait on the Guild Bank directors in Carthag. I want their headquarters moved back here."

	"And if they refuse?"

	"Tell them we'll submit it to the Landsraad. They dislike litigation that could complicate contractual negotiations in other spheres."

	"We can ill afford litigation ourselves, sire."

	"True. I don't think it will come to that, though. It would cloud the beginning of our association here. They don't wish to offend me any more than I wish to offend them. Each of us can institute measures that would reduce the other's profit."

	"As you say, sire," Hawat said. "I wish only to caution that matters may not go as usual here. The Guild may agree that 'The Master Science Is The Law,' but they've an eye for the main profit just as well as the next one."

	"I submit that they cannot yet be sure where the main profit is on Arrakis. All depends on who maintains the initiative here. We are in a war of assassins, but it has not achieved full scale and others are not yet choosing sides. Our initial problem is to upset the Harkonnen machine here. In that, we have the initiative." The Duke looked at Hawat.

	Hawat closed the book in front of him, shrugged. "All the results are not in, M'Lord. But we've eliminated two hundred and fifty-nine of their key people, broken up the major cell structure, and we're fighting only against them, not against the Fremen as well. I'll wager they never expected that."

	"But perhaps they did expect it," the Duke said.

	Hawat lowered his eyes, then glanced sharply at Leto.

	The great age of Thufir Hawat suddenly impressed itself on Paul, and he looked at his father, back to Hawat, acutely aware that the old Men tat had served three generations of Atreides. Aged. It showed in the dull, rheumy shine of the man's washed brown eyes, in his cheeks cracked and burned by exotic weathers, in the rounded curve of his shoulders, in the thin set of his lips with their cranberry-colored stain of sapho juice.

	So much depends on one aged man, Paul thought.

	"No more than three Harkonnen cells remains, M'Lord," Hawat said. "And those only minor ones."

	"These two hundred and fifty-nine Harkonnen creatures you eliminated," the Duke said, "did any of them have property?"

	"Most were well situated in the population, M'Lord—in the entrepeneur class," Hawat said.

	The Duke nodded. "Thufir, I want you to forge certificates of allegiance over the signatures of each of them. We will take the legal position that they stayed here under false allegiance. Once you've prepared the certificates, confiscate their property, and make sure the crown gets its ten per cent. It must be entirely legal."

	Thufir smiled, revealing red-stained teeth beneath the carmine lips. "A move worthy of your grandsire, M'Lord. It shames me I did not think of it first."

	Only Paul frowned. The others were smiling, nodding. But Paul felt a basic wrongness in the action. He knew the rules of kanly and the no-holds-barred convention that actually ruled, but this pointed in a direction that he felt could destroy them even as it gave them victory. The people of Caladan had grown soft of muscle and moral, that he recognized, and they'd not the wealth to buy weapons and mercenaries for open battle ... still, the stealth and cynicism of his father's choice rankled. In the face of the general approval he could see around him, though, Paul remained silent.

	"Another thing," the Duke said. "Today, we will issue the following proclamation: 'An oath of allegiance will be required of every human on Arrakis above the age of eight.' "

	Gurney Halleck stirred, turned his glass-splinter eyes on the Duke. "That will create fear, My Lord."

	And Paul thought: Power and fear—the tools of stale-craft.

	"It will not create fear among the lower classes, Gurney," the Duke said. "And I want fear among the entrepreneurs. This place shows all the signs of a typical Harkonnen cum CHOAM operation—a very few rich, none in between, and a mass of exploited semi-slaves on the bottom. The ones on top consider me a brash bumpkin. They didn't believe we would fight them here although they knew we couldn't fight them on Caladan. As yet, the ones on the bottom fear us only because we're the devil they don't know. This move won't escape their understanding. I want them to be very sure which direction our sword points. With those oaths of allegiance in my hands, I can rid myself of any of them, hanging a charge of ducal treason on them."

	"And the ones on the bottom will see only that you move against their masters," Hawat said. "Excellent. They'll begin to love you for that."

	Hallek's wide mouth tipped up into a half smile that twisted the sable scar on his jaw. He said: "I have been a stranger in a strange land." And he looked at Paul.

	Paul recognized the quotation. It was from the OC Bible Yueh had given him, and the words were a cry to heaven for deliverance. Does Gurney, too, wish an end to devious plottings? Paul wondered.

	The Duke looked at the darkness outside the windows, glanced at Halleck. "Gurney, how many more of those sandworkers did you persuade to stay?"

	"We have two hundred and eighty-six in all, sire. I think we should take them and consider ourselves lucky. They're all in useful categories."

	"No more?" the Duke asked. "Well ... pass the word along to—"

	A disturbance at the door interrupted him. Duncan Idaho came through the guard there, hurried down the length of the table and started to bend over the Duke's ear, but Leto waved him back.

	"Speak out with whatever it is," the Duke said.

	Pau! watched Idaho, noting how his movements remained feline even in hurry, how the dark round face with its cave-sitter eyes retained a mask of serenity even in excitement.

	"We've taken a force of Harkonnen mercenaries disguised as Fremen, M'Lord," Idaho said. "The Fremen themselves sent in a courier to warn us where to be. In the attack, though, we found that the Harkonnen force had just waylaid the Fremen courier and badly wounded him. We were bringing the courier back for treatment by our own doctors when he died. I could see he was badly off and had stopped to do what I could, and I surprised the man in the attempt to throw something away. It was a knife, M'Lord, such a beautiful knife as I have never before seen—milky white and glowing with an inner light." He reached into his tunic, brought forth a sheath with a black ridged handle protruding from it.

	"Do not unsheath that blade!"

	The voice was low, vibrant and penetrating. It came from the open door behind Idaho where a tall robed figure stood, barred by the crossed swords of the guard. The speaker was completely enveloped in robe, hood and dark veil except for a slit that exposed eyes of total blue —no whites in them.

	"Let him enter," the Duke said.

	The guardsmen hesitated, then lowered their swords. The Fremen swept into the room, stood at the end opposite the Duke.

	"Welcome, sir," Leto said. "And why should we not unsheath this blade?"

	Leto awaited the answer, suspecting that he had here a rare opportunity to improve relations with the Fremen. This man bore himself like a leader … a Fremen leader.

	Paul's thought, almost identical, differed in its touch of awe. Such an aura of power radiated from the robed man.

	"You have not earned the right to unsheath that blade," the Fremen said. And, as a mutter of protest sounded around the table, he held up a thin and darkly veined hand. "I remind you also that it is the blade of one who befriended you."	»

	Someone down the table muttered, "Who's he to tell us what rights we have on Arrakis?"

	"It is said that the Duke Leto Atreides rules with the consent of the governed," the Fremen said. "Thus, I must say to you, moreover, that a certain responsibility falls on those who have seen a crysknife. "They are ours. They may never leave Arrakis."

	Halleck and several of the others started to arise, angry expressions on their faces. Halleck said: "The Duke determines whether—"

	"One moment, please," Leto said. And he thought: This must not get out of hand! He addressed the Fremen: "Sir, we are indeed indebted to you. If it is your custom that this knife remain sheathed, then it is so ordered. If there is any other way we may honor the man who died in our service, you have but to name it."

	The Fremen stared at the Duke, then slowly pulled aside the veil, revealing a thin nose and full-lipped mouth in a glistening black beard. Deliberately, he bent over the end of the table, spat on its surface.

	As the men around the table started to surge to their feet, Idaho's voice boomed across the room: "Hold!"

	Into the sudden stillness, Idaho said: "We thank you, sir, for your body's moisture, and accept it in the spirit with which it is given." Aside to the Duke, he said: "That was a token of respect, sire. Remember how precious water is here."

	The Duke nodded, sensing the slow relaxation around the table as men sank back into their chairs.

	The Fremen looked at Idaho, said: "You came among us to my sietch. You measure well. Would you return among us to replace the one lost?"

	"My word of service is given to the Duke," Idaho said.

	Leto looked at Idaho, who still stood stiffly, the sheathed knife in his hands. "You could spread your allegiance, Duncan, if our Fremen friend permits it."

	"You wish me to go with him, sire?" Idaho asked.

	"I wish you to make your own decision in the matter," Leto said, and he could not conceal the edge of urgency he felt.

	Idaho looked at the Fremen. "Would you have me under these conditions, sir? There will be times when I must return to serve my Duke."

	"You fought well against that pack of vultures and you did your best for our friend," the Fremen said. "We'll have you." He turned back to the Duke. "Let it be thus: the man Idaho keeps the knife he holds. He serves us both, but his water is ours. The body of our friend remains with you. His water is yours. It is a bond between us. Again, he looked at Idaho. "I will await below while you make farewell with your friends." He started to turn away.

	"Will you not stay a while?" the Duke asked.

	The Fremen turned back, whipping his veil into place with a casual gesture, and adjusting something beneath it. Paul glimpsed what looked like a thin flexible tube before the veil settled into place.

	"Is there reason to stay?" the Fremen asked.

	"We would honor you," the Duke said.

	"Honor requires that I be elsewhere soon." the Fremen said. He shot another glance at Idaho, turned and strode out through the door guards.

	"I like that man," Leto said. "If the other Fremen match him, we'll serve each other well."

	"He's a fair sample," Idaho said in a dry voice.

	Leto studied Idaho. "You understand what you're to do? You're our ambassador to the Fremen now. Much depends on you."

	Idaho said: "What I was about to tell you is the thing we learned from one of the mercenaries we took. He was trying to get this blade from the Fremen when we struck. The mercenary says there's a Harkonnen reward of a million Solaris for anyone who'll bring in a crysknife."

	There was a concerted gasp around the table.

	Leto looked speculatively at the blade in Idaho's hands, then shook his head. "We're playing for higher slakes, but your first assignment is to find out why the Harkonnens want one of those blades so badly."

	"I already know, sire."

	Leto looked up into Idaho's eyes, waiting.

	"The Harkonnens are only intermediaries," Idaho said. "Our captive says the real buyer is the Guild."

	"I'll want to question this captive more closely," Leto said.

	"He's with my ... squad below, sire."

	"I'll also want to find out how that Fremen got into this building with—"

	"He came in with his troop, with us, sire," Idaho said. "They caught up with us at the entrance and demanded their friend's body. I brought them into the main hall with us and asked them to wait while I consulted you. They must've found this knife gone after I'd left them and—" He shrugged.

	"Send me a written report on the entire incident at your first opportunity," the Duke said. "For now, I suspect you'd best not keep our friend waiting."

	"What about this knife, sire?"

	"He said it was yours," Leto said. "If there's really such an offer out, we'll see about meeting it later. Meanwhile, do nothing to jeopardize our position with the Fremen. The knife, is yours. The rewards it could earn you may be far greater than this alleged Harkonnen-Guild offer." '

	Idaho slipped the sheathed knife beneath his tunic. "May I leave then, sire?"

	"By all means, and speedily," the Duke said.

	"I've a transmitter and I'll report as soon as possible," Idaho said, "Thufir has my code. I'll use battle language." He turned and hurried out of the room. They heard his footsteps beating down the hall.

	Leto looked at Hawat. "That knife interests me, Thufir. If it's true there's a bounty for one, we must find out why before ever thinking of collecting."

	"Likely it's one of those fables, sire," Hawat said. "Every planet has them." He shrugged. "But we can't assume that."

	The Duke again looked down the length of the table at the door, the guards. The major reason for this meeting had been to imbue the men with the mystique of victory and to acquaint them with the necessary realities and, while he felt no immediate loss of the initiative, still he knew that much escaped them. The danger potential of this planet remained high. He glanced down at Paul, met the young eyes studying him. Paul ventured a slight smile.

	"We've much to do, sire," Halleck said.

	"And I keep you from your work," Leto said. He rapped a knuckle on the table, becoming anew the incisive ruler. "All right, then—we know what we have ahead of us: work. We've been trained for it. We know what the rewards are. We know what the alternatives are. You all have your assignments." He looked at Halleck. "Take care of that smuggler situation right away, Gurney."

	"1 shall go unto the rebellious that dwell in the dry land," Halleck intoned.

	"Someday I'll catch that man without a quotation and he'll look undressed," the Duke said.

	Chuckles echoed around the table.

	The Duke glanced at Hawat. "Set up an intelligence command post on this floor, Thufir. When you have your command post moved, I'll want to see you."

	"Yes ... sire." Hawat looked at Paul. "Best your son remain the rest of the night here. I'll inform the Lady Jessica."

	And Paul, watching the old man, saw the subtle hesitations, the signs of unrest. Hawat was deeply troubled.

	"Before we break this up, sire," Hawat said, "I have some pertinent information ... economic information."

	All eyes focused on him.

	"It is said among the Fremen," Hawat said, "that there were more than two hundred advance bases built in sheltered places out in the desert under Imperial bequests and then abandoned. They're very old, part of the Desert Botanical Testing Station period. But all apparently were sealed down before abandonment. They're complete, loaded with equipment—"

	"Where are they?" the Duke asked.

	"The answer to that question," Hawat said, "is invariably 'Liet knows'."

	"God knows," Leto muttered.

	"Is there reason to believe this ... report?" the Duke asked.

	Hawat shrugged, "Idaho doesn't believe the Fremen ever lied to him. He was impressed with their system of honor."

	"This planet still has an Imperial ecologist," Leto said.

	"Name's Kynes."

	"Sire," Hawat cautioned, "Kynes is the Imperial Observer on this change of government."

	"I know," Leto said. "But we must find out about those bases. They'd be loaded with materials we could salvage for repair of our working equipment!"

	"Sire!" Hawat said. "Those bases would still be part of His Majesty's fief!"

	An aide down the table said: "And they could be a myth."

	Another aide said: "How could such things be—out in all that desert sand?"

	Leto said: "Only about a third of that desert is sand. Most of it's bare rock. There could be hundreds of hiding places ... thousands."

	"But 'twere dangerous to commandeer them," Hawat said.

	"The weather here's savage enough to destroy anything," Leto said. "Get that Kynes fellow and chase this down! If there are such bases, I want them scavenged!"

	Paul drew back from the wildness in his father's voice. He had never seen so much violence that close to the surface in him.

	"My Lord," Hawat said, "Fremen hold this matter important. I'd stake my reputation the bases actually exist. It's difficult to fool Duncan—"

	"Are you saying we might alienate the Fremen by taking those bases?" Leto asked.

	"I do suspect it, sire. Only a hunch ... yet—" He shook his head and glanced around the room as though seeking support. "It would be rash to move in this direction without greater knowledge. These bases could give us material to repair every piece of equipment, yet be beyond our reach for strategic reasons. Kynes has arbiter authority, sire. These bases might offer us areas of local operation, cutting down the wear on what equipment we do have, reducing maintenance and power costs, yet be more costly because they bring down Fremen wrath upon us."

	But we" are desperate, the Duke told himself, admitting it and then rejecting it lest the thought betray itself in his actions.

	"Look into the matter, Thufir," he said. "Bring in this Dr. Kynes and squeeze him ... gently ... for what he knows." He waved his hand in dismissal, watched silently as the men filed out of the room. He glanced at Paul, still seated beside him, feeling let down.

	Paul felt a sense of insufficiency about the meeting. He'd sat in staff before. There had always been a definitive incisive air about them at the end. This meeting had seemed to just trickle out, worn down by its own inadequacies. For the first time, Paul allowed himself to think about the real possibility of defeat... not thinking about it out of fear because of warnings such as that of the old Reverend Mother's, but facing up to it because of his own assessment of the situation.

	My father is desperate, he thought.

	"Why don't you pull a few of these chairs together and stretch out on them for a little rest, Paul?" the Duke asked.

	"I'm not very tired, sir."

	"As you will." The Duke folded his hands behind him, began pacing up and down along the length of the table.

	Like an animal in a cage, Paul thought. And Hawat was worried, too. And he didn't speak his worry in staff. Thai's wrong.

	"Are you going to discuss the traitor warning with Hawat?" Paul asked.

	"Thufir and I've talked over that possibility many times," Leto said. He paused across the table, stared down at his son.

	"But the old woman seemed so sure of herself, and mother said—"

	"We'll look into it," the Duke said. "Precautions have teen taken." He glanced around the room. "Remain here. I want to see about the command post." He turned, strode out of the room, nodding shortly to the guards at the door.

	Paul stared at the place where his father had been. The space had been empty even before the. Duke left the room. And he recalled the Reverend Mother's warning:

	"… For the father, nothing."

Chapter Thirteen

On that first day, when Muad'Dib rode through the streets of Arrakeen with his family, some of the people along the way recalled the legends and ventured to shout; "Mahdi!" But their shout was more a question than a statement, for as yet they could only hope he was the one foretold by the Lisan al-Gaib, the Voice from the Outer World. And their attention was focused much on the mother because it was obvious to them that she was like the Lisan al-Gaib.
"Manual of Muad'Dib" 
by The Princess Irulan

	The Duke found Thufir Hawat alone in the coiner room to which the guard directed him. There was the sound of men setting up communications equipment in an adjoining room, but this place was fairly quiet. It was a green-walled enclosure with three suspensor chairs from which the Harkonnen "H" had been hastily removed, leaving an imperfect color patch over the erasure.

	"The chairs are liberated but quite safe," Hawat said. He glanced at the door through which the Duke had entered. "Where is Paul, sire?"

	"I left him in the conference room. I'm hoping he'll get some rest without me there to distract him."

	Hawat nodded, crossed to the door to the adjoining room, closed it, shutting off the noise of static and electronic sparking.

	"Thufir," Leto said, "the Imperial and Harkonnen stockpiles of spice attract my attention."

	"M'Lord?"

	The Duke pursed his lips. "Storehouses are susceptible to destruction, Thufir." He raised a hand as Hawat started to interrupt. "Ignore the Imperial stockpile. The Padishah Emperor would secretly enjoy it if the Harkonnens were discomfited. And can the Baron object if something is destroyed which he cannot admit openly that he has?"

	"We've few men to spare, sire." Hawat shook his head.

	"Get some of Idaho's men," the Duke said. "A raid on Giedi Prime. There are tactical advantages to such a diversion."

	Hawat bowed, turned away. And again the Duke saw the evidences of nervousness he had detected during the staff conference. Perhaps he suspects that I distrust him, the Duke thought. He must know I have private reports of traitors. Well ... best quiet that fear immediately.

	"Thufir," he said, "since you're one of the few I can trust completely, there's another matter bears discussion between us. We both know how constant the watch must be to keep traitors from infiltrating our force. But I have two new reports."

	And Leto told Hawat the stories Paul had brought.

	Instead of bringing on that intense Mentat concentration in Hawat, the reports only increased his agitation.

	Leto studied the old man and presently said: "You've been holding something back, old friend. I should've suspected when you were nervous during staff. Well, what is it that was too hot to dump in front of a full conference ? What is you hesitate to tell me even now?"

	Hawat's sapho-stained lips were pulled into a prim straight line with tiny wrinkles radiating into them. They kept their wrinkled straightness as he said: "M'Lord, I don't quite know how to broach this."

	"We've suffered many a scar for each other, Thufir," the Duke said. "You know you can broach any subject with me."

	Hawat nodded, thinking: This is how I like him best. This is the man of honor who deserves every bit of my loyalty and service. Why must 1 hurt him?

	"Well?" Leto demanded.

	"M'Lord, it's a thing that could have great consequence or no consequence. It's a thing susceptible to various interpretation and—"

	"Don't bandy words with me, Thufir."

	Hawat shrugged. "It's a scrap of a note. We took it from a Harkonnen courier. The note was intended for an agent named Pardee. We've good reason to believe Pardee was top man in the Harkonnen secret organization here."

	"What's the delicate content of this note?"

	"Scrap of a note, M'Lord. Not the entire note. It was on minifilm with the usual destruction capsule attached. We stopped the acid action just short of complete erasure. However, the remaining fragment is extremely suggestive."

	"Well, get to it, man!"

	Hawat shrugged. "It says: '... eto will never suspect, and when the blow falls on him from a beloved hand, its source alone should be enough to destroy him.' The note was closed with the Baron's own seal."

	"Your suspicion is obvious," the Duke said.

	"I'd sooner cut off my arms than hurt you needlessly," Hawat said. "M'Lord, what if—"

	"The Lady Jessica," Leto said. He glared at Hawat. "Couldn't you wring the facts out of this Pardee?"

	"Unfortunately, Pardee no longer was among the living when we intercepted the courier. It is certain the courier knew nothing of what he carried."

	"I see." Leto shook his head, thinking: What a slimy piece of business. There cannot be anything in it. I know my woman. "No!" he barked. "This is too imaginative even for the Harkonnens. There's a mistake that—"

	"The Harkonnens are known to hire imaginative people, M'Lord."

	"She's been with me for sixteen years! There've been countless opportunities for— You yourself investigated the school and the woman!"

	Hawat spoke bitterly: "Things have been known to escape me."

	"It's impossible. I tell you! The Harkonnens want to destroy the Atreides line—meaning Paul, too. Could a woman conspire against her own son?"

	"It has been known, sire. The Bene Gesserits of the Schools are not supposed to know their parentage, but what if she knew and were an orphan? What if she were orphaned by an Atreides?"

	"If this were true, she'd have moved long before now. Poison in my drink ... a stiletto. Who has had better opportunities?"

	"The Harkonnens mean to destroy you, M'Lord. Don't ignore the language of this note. Their intent is not just to kill you. There's fine distinction in kanly revenge. This could be a work of art in the annals of vendettas."

	The Duke's shoulders slumped. He closed his eyes, looking suddenly old and tired. It cannot be, he thought. The woman has opened her heart to me.

	"What better way to destroy me than to make me suspicious of the woman I love?" he asked. He opened his eyes, stared at Hawat.

	"An interpretation that has not escaped me," Hawat said. "Still—"

	Let him be suspicious, Leto thought. Suspicion is his trade. It is not mine. And, perhaps if I appear to agree to this suspicion, that will make another man careless.

	"What do you suggest?" the Duke whispered.

	"For now, constant surveillance, M'Lord. She should be watched at all times. I will see it's done unobtrusively, by trusted operatives."

	"And what about Paul?"

	"I suggest we alert Dr. Yueh."

	"Dr. Yueh!" Leto barked. "What if he were the—" "If there's one thing certain in this universe, M'Lord, it's High College training. The compulsion to preserve life is hypnotically imbedded in them to such a depth that it cannot be removed except by death. They're conditioned for royal service, M'Lord."

	Leto turned his back on Hawat. "I leave it in your hands."

	"I'll recall Idaho to do the watching, M'Lord. I shall use discretion, M'Lord."

	At least I can be confident of that, Leto thought. He said: "I will take a walk. If you need me, I'll be within the perimeter. The guard can—"

	"M Lord, before you go, I've a filmclip here you should read at your first opportunity. It's a first approximation analysis on the Fremen religion. You'll recall that you asked me earlier to investigate what it was the crow d was shouting as you passed yesterday morning."

	"Is it urgent, Thufir?" He turned halfway back.

	"No, M'Lord. When they shouted 'Mahdi!' that was directed at the young master. When—"

	"At Paul?"

	"Yes, M'Lord. There's a legend here that a leader will come to them, to lead them to power in the universe. They've had a prophet something called Lisan al-Gaib, The Voice From the Outer World. They expect another ... perhaps a messiah."

	"And they think Paul is this ... this—"

	"They only hope, M'Lord. They're not sure."

	The Duke accepted the filmclip capsule, thrust it into a pocket. "I'll look at this later. Right now ... I need time to think."

	"Yes, M'Lord."

	The Duke took a deep, sighing breath, turned away and strode out the door. I must walk and think, he thought. And he walked. There were corridors, and stairs, and balconies, and halls—people who saluted and stood aside for him. In time, he came back to the conference room, found it darkened and Paul asleep on the table with a guard's robe thrown over him. The Duke walked softly down the length of the room and onto the balcony overlooking the landing field. A guard at the corner of the balcony snapped to attention, recognizing the Duke in the dim reflection of lights from the field.

	"At ease," the Duke murmured. He turned away and leaned against the cold metal of the guard rail.

	A pre-dawn hush had come over the desert basin. He looked up. Straight overhead the stars were a sequin shawl flung over blue-black. Low on the southern horizon, the night's second moon peered through a thin dust haze —an unbelieving moon that looked at him with a cynical cast.

	As the Duke watched, the moon dipped beneath the cliffs, and in the sudden intensity of darkness, he experienced a chill. He shivered.

	Anger shot through him. The Harkonnens have hindered and hounded and hunted me for the last time, he thought. They are dung heaps with village provost minds! Here, I make my stand! And he thought with a touch of sadness: I must rule with eye and claw—as the hawk among lesser birds.

	To the east, the night brew a faggot of luminous gray, then sea-shell opalescence that dimmed the stars. There came the long, bell-tolling movement of dawn striking across a broken horizon.

	It was a scene of such beauty that it caught all his attention.

	Some things beggar likeness, he thought.

	He had never imagined anything here could be as beautiful as that shattered red horizon and those purple and ochre cliffs. Beyond the landing field where the night's faint dew had touched life into the hurried seeds of Arrakis, he saw great puddles of red blooms and, running through them, an articulate tread of violet like giant footsteps.

	"It's a beautiful morning, sire," the guard said. The Duke nodded, thinking: Perhaps this planet could grow on one. Perhaps it could be a good home for my son.

	Then he saw the human figures moving into the flower field, sweeping it with strange scythe-like devices—water so precious here that dew gatherers must collect it.

	And it could be a terrible and hateful place, he thought.

Chapter Fourteen

"There is probably no more terrible instant of enlightenment than the one in which you discover that your father is a man—with human flesh."
"Collected Sayings of Muad'Dib" 
by The Princess Irulan

	The Duke said: "Paul, I'm doing a hateful thing, but I must."

	He stood beside the portable poison snooper that had been brought into the conference room for their breakfast. The sensor arms of the thing hung limply over the table, looking to Paul like some weird insect newly dead.

	The Duke's attention was directed out the windows at the landing field and its roiling of dust against the morning sky.

	Paul had a viewer in front of him containing a short filmclip of Fremen religious practices. The clip had been compiled by one of Hawat's experts and Paul found himself disturbed by the references to himself.

	"Mahdi!"

	"Lisan al-Gaib!"

	He could close his eyes and recall the shouts of the crowds as they passed. So that is what they hope, he thought. And he remembered what the old Reverend Mother had said ... Kwisatz Haderach. The memories touched his feelings of Terrible Purpose, shading this strange world with a sensation of familiarity that he could not understand.

	"A hateful thing," the Duke said.

	"What do you mean, sir?"

	Leto turned, looked down at his son. "Because the Harkonnens think to trick me by making me distrust your mother. They don't know that I'd sooner distrust myself."

	The words shocked Paul and he blurted out: "Distrust mother? I don't understand."

	Leto looked away out the windows and across the field. The white sun was well up into its morning quadrant. Milky light picked out a boiling of dust clouds that spilled over into the blind canyons interfingering the Shield Wall. Slowly, speaking in a low voice to contain his anger, he explained to Paul about the note.

	"You might just as well distrust me," Paul said.

	"They must think they've succeeded," the Duke said. "They must think me this much of a fool, and even she must not know otherwise."

	"But, sir! Why?"

	"I hope to smoke out the real traitor. Your mother's response must be no act. Oh, she's capable of a supreme act ... more capable than anyone I know, perhaps, but too much rides on this venture. It must seem that I've been cozened completely. For this, she must be hurt that she does not suffer greater hurt."

	"But, sir, if—"

	"It must be this way!"

	Paul heard the finality in his father's voice. "Then why do you bother telling me? Perhaps I won't be a good enough actor. I may give away your—"

	"You'll keep the secret," the Duke said. "You'll do it because you're my son and you must. I command it." He walked to the windows, spoke without turning. "This way, if anything should happen to me, you can tell her the truth—that I never doubted her."

	Paul recognized the death thoughts in his father's words, spoke quickly: "Nothing's going to happen to you, sir. The—"

	"Be still, son."

	Paul fell silent, staring at his father's back, seeing the fatigue in the angle of the neck, the line of the shoulders. "You're just tired," Paul said.

	"I am tired," the Duke agreed. "I'm morally tired. The melancholy degeneration of the Great Houses has afflicted me at last, perhaps. And we were such strong people once."

	Paul spoke in quick anger: "Our House hasn't degenerated!"

	"Hasn't it?" The Duke turned and faced his son, revealing the dark circles beneath the hard eyes, the cynical twist of mouth. "I should wed your mother, make her my Duchess. Yet ... my unwedded state gives some Houses the hope they may yet ally with me through their marriageable daughters." He shrugged. "So I—"

	"Mother knows how it is."

	"Nothing wins more loyalty for a leader than an air of bravura," the Duke said. "Therefore, I cultivate an air of bravura."

	"You lead well," Paul protested. "You govern well. Everyone says it."

	"My propaganda corps is one of the finest," the Duke said. Again, he turned away to stare out at the basin landscape. "There is greater possibility for us here on Arrakis than the Imperium could ever suspect. Yet, sometimes I think it would be better for us if we could sink back into anonymity among the people, lose our privileges by becoming less exposed to—"

	"Father!"

	"Yes, I am tired," he said. "Did you know that we're using spice residue as a raw material and already have our own plant set up to manufacture filmbase?"

	Hoping that his father was emerging from the melancholy mood, Paul spoke brightly: "Do they have a production estimate?"

	"More than enough to meet our needs," the Duke said. "We'll be able to flood the cities and villages with our information. After all, the people must know how well I govern them. And how would they know if we didn't tell them?" Again, the Duke turned to face his son. "And Arrakis has another advantage I almost forgot to mention. Consider the uses of poison in our society. We find now that a heavy spice diet imparts a certain natural immunity to some poisons. It makes one more resistant. And because of the need to watch all water consumption here, food production—both yeast culture and hydroponics—is very carefully guarded, sealed off from the environment and the casual intruder. It would be most difficult to weaken us by poisoning any large segment of our subjects."

	As Paul started to speak, the Duke cut him off, saying: "1 have to have someone I can say these things to." He sighed, glanced back at the dry landscape where even the flowers were gone now—trampled by the clew gatherers, wilted under the early sun.

	"On Caladan, Ave ruled with sea and air power," the Duke said. "Here, we must scrabble for desert power. This is your inheritance, Paul. What is to become of you if anything happens to me? You will not be a Renegade House ... but a guerrilla house, running, hunted—"

	Paul groped for words, could find nothing to say.

	"To hold Arrakis," the Duke went on, "one is faced with decisions that may cost one's self respect." He pointed out the window at the Atreides green and black banner hanging limply from a staff, at the side of the landing field. "That flag could come to mean many evil things here," he said.

	Paul swallowed in a dry throat. His father's words conveyed futility, a sense of fatalism that left the boy with an empty feeling in his chest.

	The Duke took an antifatigue tablet from his pocket, gulped it dry. "Power and fear," he said, "the tools of statecraft. And I must order a new emphasis on guerrilla training for you, son. You studied that filmclip there. The Fremen call you Mahdi—Lisan al-Gaib. As a last resort, you might capitalize on that."

	Paul stared silently at his father, watching the shoulders straighten as the tablet did its work, but remembering the words of fear and doubt and indecision.

	"What's keeping that ecologist?" the Duke muttered. "I told Thufir to have him here early."

Chapter Fifteen

A tiling many laymen never realize about an ecological system is that it is a system. A system, by definition, maintains a certain fluid stability which can be destroyed by the removal of any element from its niche within the system. There is, also, a certain point-to-point flowing of a system. Any unexplained gap in this flow tells you there's an unknown occupant of a niche within the system. For example, the Arrakeen ecologist, Liet-Kynes, knew that the planetary system of Arrakis sheltered the creature called "Water Seeker" long before he found and identified it. He saw the gap in the system.
"Maud'Dib's Collected Lectures: 
The Secret Ecology of Arrakis" 
Edited by The Princess Irulan

	His first encounter with the people he had been ordered to betray left Dr. Kynes shaken. He prided himself on being a scientist to whom legends merely were interesting clues, pointing toward cultural roots. (And he had long suspected the actual source of the Arrakeen Mother Goddess cum Messiah legends.) Yet, the boy fitted the legend's description so precisely. He had the "questing eyes," and the air of "reserved candor." Of course, the legends left a certain latitude on whether the Mother Goddess would bring the Messiah with her or produce him on the scene. Still, there was this odd correspondence of prediction and persons.

	They met in midmorning outside the Arrakeen landing field's administration building where, rumor had it, the Duke had set up his command post. An unmarked ornithopter squatted nearby, humming softly on standby like a somnolent insect. An Atreides guard stood beside it with bared sword and the faint air distortion of a shield around him.

	Kynes sneered at sight of the shield pattern, thinking: Arrakis has a surprise in store for them there!

	He raised a hand, signaled for his Fremen guard to fall back, strode on ahead toward the building's main entrance —the dark hole in the plastic-coated rock. So exposed, that monolithic building, he thought. So much less suitable than a cave.

	A movement in the entrance caught his attention, and he stopped, taking the moment to adjust his robe and the set of his stillsuit at the left shoulder.

	The doors swung wide at the entrance. Atreides guardsmen emerged, all armed with slow pellet stunners and swords, all shielded. Behind them came a tall man, hawk-faced, dark of skin and hair. He wore a jubba cloak with Atreides crest at the breast and w ore it in a way that betrayed his unfamiliarity with the garment. It clung to the legs of his stillsuit on one side and lacked a striding rhythm. Besides the man walked a youth with the same dark hair, but rounder in the face. The youth seemed small for the fifteen years Kynes knew him to have. But the young body carried a sense of command, a poised command, as though he saw and knew things around him that were not visible to others. And he wore the same style of jubba cloak as the father, yet with a casual ease that made one think the boy had always worn such clothing.

	"The Mahdi will be aware of things that others cannot see," went the legend.

	Kynes shook his head, telling himself: They're just two people!

	With man and youth, garbed like them for the desert, came one Kynes recognized—Gurney Halleck. Kynes took a deep breath to still his resentment against Halleck, who had briefed him on how to behave with Duke and ducal heir.

	"You may call the Duke 'My Lord' or 'Sire.' 'Noble Born' is correct, but usually reserved for more formal occasions. The son may be addressed as 'Young Master' or 'My Lord.' The Duke is a man of much leniency, but he brooks no familiarity."

	And Kynes thought as he watched the people approach: They'll learn soon enough who's master on Arrakis. Order me questioned half the night by that mentat, will they? They expect me to guide them on a review of the spice mining, do they?

	The import of Hawat's questions had not escaped Kynes. They wanted the Imperial bases. And it was obvious they'd learned about the bases from Idaho.

	There is one who will die, Kynes told himself. I will have Stilgar send Idaho's head to this Duke.

	The ducal party was only a few steps away now, their feet in desert boots crunching in the sand.

	Kynes bowed. "My Lord Duke," he said.

	As he had approached the solitary figure standing near the ornithopter, Leto had studied him: Tall, thin—dressed for the desert in loose robe, stillsuit and desert boots. The hood was thrown back, its veil hanging to one side, revealing long sandy hair, a sparse beard. The eyes were that fathomless blue-within-blue under thick brows and there were the remains of dark stains beneath them.

	"You're the ecologist," the Duke said.

	"We prefer the old title here, My Lord," Kynes said. "Planetologist."

	"As you wish," the Duke said. He glanced down at Paul. "This is my son."

	"My Lord," Kynes said.

	"Are you a Fremen?" Paul asked.

	Kynes smiled. "I am accepted in both sietch and village, Young Master. Primarily, I am in His Majesty's service as the Imperial Planetologist."

	Paul nodded, impressed by the man's air of strength. Gurney had pointed Kynes out to Paul from the upper window of the administration building: "The man standing there beyond the 'thopter." And Paul had inspected Kynes briefly with binoculars, noting then the prim straight mouth, the high forehead. Gurney had spoken into Paul's ear: "Odd sort of fellow. Has a precise way of speaking—clipped off, no fuzzy edges."

	And the Duke, behind them, had said: "Scientist type."

	Now, only a few feet from the man, Paul sensed the power in Kynes' personality—as though he were blood royal, born to command.

	"I understand we have you to thank for our stillsuits and these cloaks," the Duke said.

	"I hope they fit well, My Lord," Kynes said. "They're of Fremen make and as near as possible to the dimensions given me by your man Halleck here."

	"I was interested that you said you couldn't take us into the desert unless we wore these garments," the Duke said. "We can carry plenty of water. We don't intend to be out very long and we'll have an air cover—my escort you see overhead right now. It isn't likely we'd be forced down."

	Kynes stared at him, seeing the water-fat flesh. He spoke coldly: "You never talk of likelihoods on Arrakis. You speak only of possibilities."

	Halleck stiffened. "The Duke is to be addressed as My Lord or Sire!"

	Leto gave Halleck their private hand signal to desist, said: "Our ways are new here, Gurney. We must make allowances."

	Halleck nodded. "As you wish, sire."

	"We are indebted to you. Dr. Kynes," Leto said. "These suits and the consideration for our welfare will be remembered."

	On impulse, Paul called to mind a quotation from Yueh's OC Bible, said: "The gift is the blessing of the giver."

	The words rang out overloud in the still air. Kynes' Fremen guard in the shade of the administration building leaped up from their squatting repose, muttering in open agitation. One cried out: "Lisan al-Gaib!"

	Kynes whirled, gave a curt, chopping signal with his hand, waved the guard away. They fell back, slowly, grumbling among themselves.

	"Most interesting," Leto said.

	Kynes passed a hard glare over the Duke and to Paul, said: "Most of the desert natives here are a superstitious lot. Pay no attention to them. They mean no harm." But he thought of the words in the legend: "They will greet you with Holy Words and your gifts will be a blessing."

	Leto had formed an opinion about Kynes, based partly on Hawat's brief verbal report—guarded and full of suspicions — but mostly on observing him. Kynes had come with a Fremen guard. That, of course, could mean merely that the Fremen were testing their new freedom to enter the urban areas, but the Duke thought not. It had seemed an honor guard. And Kynes, by his manner, was a proud man, accustomed to freedom—his tongue and his manner guarded by his own suspicions. Paul's question had been direct and pertinent—the man was a Fremen.

	"Should we be going, sire?" Halleck asked.

	"Yes." The Duke nodded. "I'll fly my own 'thopter. Kynes can sit up front with me to direct me. You and Paul take the rear."

	"One moment, please," Kynes said. "With your permission, sire, I'd like to inspect the security of your suits." As the Duke started to speak, Kynes pressed on: "I have concern for my own flesh as well as yours ... My Lord. I'm well aware of whose throat would be slit should anything happen to you in my care."

	The Duke smiled, thinking: How delicate this moment! If I refuse, it may offend him. And I suspect that this is a man whose value to me is beyond measure. Yet... inside my shield, touching me when I know so little of him?

	The thoughts flicked through his mind with decision hard on their heels. "We are in your hands," the Duke said. He stepped forward, opening his robe, saw Halleck stiffen but remain where he was. "And, if you would be so kind," the Duke said, "I'd appreciate an explanation of the suit from one who lives so intimately with it."

	"Certainly." Kynes said. He felt up under the robe for the shoulder seals, speaking as he examined the suit. "It's basically a micro-sandwich—several layers." He adjusted the shoulder seals. "The skin layer's porous. Perspiration passes through it, having cooled the body. The next two layers include heat-exchange filaments and salt precepitators. The salt's reclaimed."

	The Duke lifted his arms at a gesture from Kynes, nodded.

	Kynes studied the underarm seals, adjusted one. "Motions of the body," he said, "and osmotic action provide the pumping force. The reclaimed water circulates to catchpockets from wdiich you may draw it by that tube at your neck." He knelt, examined the leg seals. "Urine and feces are processed in the thigh pads." He stood up, felt the neck, lifted a flap section there. "In the open desert you w^ear this filter across your face, this tube in the nostrils. Breathe in through the mouth filter, out through the nose tube. With a Fremen suit in good working order, you won't lose more than a thimbleful of moisture a day—even if you're caught in the Great Erg." Kynes pressed a finger against the forehead pad of the suit, said: "This may rub a little. If it does, please tell me. I could slit-patch it a bit tighter."

	"My thanks," the Duke said. He moved his shoulders in the suit as Kynes stepped back, realizing that it felt better now—tighter, less irritating."

	Kynes had turned to Paul, saying: "Now for you lad."

	A good man but he'll have to learn to address us properly, the Duke thought.

	Paul stood passively as Kynes "inspected the suit. It had been an odd sensation putting on the enclosing garment. In his foreconsciousness was the absolute knowledge that he had never before worn a stillsuit. Yet, each motion of adjusting the adhesion tabs under Gurney's inexpert guidance had seemed natural, instinctive. When he had tightened the chest fit to gain maximum pumping action from his breathing, he had known what he was doing and why. When he had fitted neck and forehead tabs tightly, he had known it was to prevent friction blisters.

	Kynes straightened, stepped back from Paul with a puzzled expression. "You've worn a stillsuit before, Young Master?" he asked.

	"No ... this is the first time."

	"Then someone adjusted it for you?"

	"No."

	"Your desert boots are fitted slip-fashion at the ankles. Who told you to do that?" "It... seemed the right way." "That it most certainly is."

	Kynes swallowed, thinking of the legend: "He shall know your ways as though born to them."

	"We waste time," the Duke said. He gestured toward the waiting 'thopter, turned and led the way, accepting the guard's salute with a casual nod. He climbed in, fastened his safety belt, checked the controls and instruments. The craft creaked as the others clambered aboard.

	Kynes, fastening his belt, focused as always on the padded comfort of such aircraft—the soft luxury of gray-green upholstery on seats and ceiling and walls, the gleaming instruments, the feeling of filtered air in his lungs as the doors were slammed and the vent fans whirred alive.

	So soft! he thought.

	"All secure, sire," Halleck said.

	Leto fed power to the wings, felt them cup and dip-once, twice. They were airborne within ten meters, wings feathered tightly and afterjets thrusting them up in a steep, hissing climb.

	"Southeast over the Shield Wall," Kynes said. "That's where I told your man Idaho to concentrate his equipment."

	The Duke nodded, banked into his air cover. The other craft took up position around them as they headed southeast.

	"The design and manufacture of these stillsuits bespeaks a high degree of sophistication," the Duke said.

	"Some day, perhaps I'll show you one of the sietch factories," Kynes said.

	"I'd enjoy that," the Duke said. "I note that they make them in some of the cities and villages, too."

	"Inferior copies," Kynes said. "Any Dune man who values his skin wears a Fremen suit."

	"And you can hold your water loss to a thimbleful a day?"

	"Properly suited and with your forehead cap tight, your major water loss is through the palms of your hands," Kynes said. "You can wear gloves if you're not using your hands for any critical work, but most Fremen in the open desert rub their hands with juice from the leaves of the creosote bush. It inhibits perspiration."

	The Duke glanced down to the left at the broken landscape of the Shield Wall—chasms of tortured rock, patches of yellow-brown crossed by black lines of fault shattering as though someone had dropped this ground from space and left it where it smashed. They crossed a shallow basin with the clear outline of gray sand spread across it from a canyon opening to the south. The sand fingers ran out into the basin, a dry delta outlined against the darker rock.

	Kynes thought about the water-fat flesh he had felt beneath the stillsuits as he examined them. They wore shield belts over their robes, slow pellet stunners at the waist, coin-sized emergency transmitters on cords around their necks. And both the Duke and his son carried knives in wrist sheaths. These people were a strange combination of softness and armed strength.

	"When you report to the Emperor on the changeover of Arrakis, will you say we observed the rules?" Leto asked. He glanced at Kynes, back to their course.

	"The Harkonnens left; you came," Kynes said.

	"And is everything as it should be?" Leto asked.

	A momentary tenseness showed in the tightening of a muscle along Kynes' jaw. "As Planetologist here, I am a direct subject of the Imperium ... My Lord."

	The Duke smiled grimly. "But we both know the realities."

	"I remind you that His Majesty supports my work."

	"Indeed? And what is your work?"

	In the brief silence, Paul thought: "He's pushing this Kynes too hard. Paul glanced at Halleck, but the minstrel-warrior was staring out at the barren landscape.

	Kynes spoke stiffly: "My work is mostly dry land biology and botany ... some geological work—core drilling and testing. You never really exhaust the possibilities of an entire planet."

	"Do you also investigate the spice?"

	Kynes turned, and Paul noted the hard line of the man's jaw. "A curious question, My Lord."

	"I want you to bear in mind, Kynes, that this is now my fief. My methods differ considerably from the Harkonnens. I do not care if you study the spice. You may now do openly what you no doubt have been doing secretly all along under the Harkonnens." The Duke glanced at Kynes. "They discouraged investigation of the spice, did they not?"

	Kynes stared at him without answering.

	"Another difference," the Duke said: "You may speak plainly to me on subjects that might displease me, yet have no fear for your skin."

	"The Imperial court is, indeed, a long way off," Kynes muttered. And he thought: What does this water-soft invader expect of me? Does he think me fool enough to enlist with him?

	The Duke chuckled, keeping his attention on their course. "I detect a sour note in your voice, sir. We've waded in here with our mob of tame killers, eh? And we expect you to realize immediately that we're different from the Harkonnens?"

	"You're different, all right," Kynes said. "You've filled sietch and village with your propaganda—'Love the good Duke!' Your corps of—"

	"Here now!" Halleck barked. He snapped his attention away from the window, leaned forward.

	Paul put a hand on Halleck's arm.

	"Gurney!" the Duke said. He glanced back. "This man's been long under the Harkonnens. Remember that." Halleck sat back. "Ayah."

	"And the pattern's familiar," Kynes said. "You've put your pressures on me. Your man Hawat is subtle, but his object's plain enough."

	"Will you open those bases to us, then?" the Duke asked:

	Kynes spoke curtly: "They're His Majesty's property." "They're not being used."

	"They could be used, though," Kynes said, and his voice dripped acid. "They could be used to help make an Eden out of Arrakis, not just to grub more money out of the spice."

	The Duke mulled the implications in this outburst, said: "How is a planet to become an Eden without money?"

	"What is money?" Kynes asked, "if it will not buy the services you need?"

	Ah, now! the Duke thought. He said: "We will discuss this another time. Right now, I think we're nearing the end of the Shield Wall. Do I hold the same course?"

	"The same course," Kynes muttered.

	Paul looked out his window. Beneath them, the broken ground began to drop away in tumbled creases toward a barren rock plain and a knife-edged shelf. Bey ond the shelf the fingernail crescents of dunes marched toward the horizon with here and there in the distance a dull smudge, a darker blotch to tell of something not sand. Rock outcroppings, perhaps. In the heat-addled air he couldn't be sure.

	"Are there any plants down there?" Paul asked.

	"Some," Kynes said. "This latitude's 'life zone" has mostly what we call minor water stealers—adapted to raiding each other for moisture, gobbling up the trace-dew. Some parts of the desert teem with life. But all of it's life that has learned how to survive under these rigors. If you get caught down there on the surface, you must imitate that life or die."

	"You mean steal water from each other?" Paul asked. The idea outraged him, and his voice betrayed the emotion.

	"It is done," Kynes said, "but that wasn't precisely my meaning. You see, my climate demands a special attitude toward water. You are aware of water at all times. You waste nothing that contains moisture."

	And the Duke thought: "... My climate!" Kynes was a proud, possessive man.

	"Come around two degrees more southerly, My Lord," Kynes said. "There's a blow coming up from the west."

	The Duke nodded. He had seen the billowing, of tan dust there. He banked the 'thopter around, noting the way the escort's wings reflected milky orange from the dust-refracted light as they turned to keep pace with him.

	"This will clear the storm's edge," Kynes said.

	"That sand must be dangerous if you fly into it," Paul said. "I'm told it cuts the strongest metals."

	"At this altitude, it's not sand but dust," Kynes said. "The danger is blindness, turbulence, the clogging of intakes."

	"We'll see actual spice mining today?" Paul asked. "Very likely," Kynes said.

	Paul sat back. He had been using the questions with all his senses to do what his mother called "registering" the person. He had Kynes registered now—the tone of the voice, each detail of face. An unnatural folding of the left sleeve on the man's robe told of a knife in an arm sheath. The waist bulged strangely. It was said the desert men wore a belted sash into which they tucked small necessities. Perhaps the bulges came from such a sash. A copper pin engraved with the likeness of a hare clasped the neck of Kynes' robe. Another smaller pin with similar likeness hung at the corner of the thrown-back hood, ready to fix the hood in place with veil across the lower half of the face.

	Halleck twisted in the seat beside Paul, reached back into the rear compartment and brought out his baliset. Kynes looked around as Halleck tuned the instrument, then turned back to keep his attention on their course.

	"What would you like to hear, young master?" Halleck asked.

	"I don't care, Gurney," Paul said. Halleck bent his ear close to the sounding board, strummed a chord and sang softly:

	"Our fathers ate manna in the desert, "In the burning places where whirlwinds came. "Lord, save us from that horrible land! "Save us ... ohhhh, save us "From the dry and thirsty land." Kynes glanced at the Duke, said: "You do travel with a light complement of guardsmen, My Lord. Are all your guards such men of many talents?"

	"Gurney?" The Duke chuckled. "Gurney is one of a kind. I like him with me for his eyes, too. His eyes miss very little."

	The planetologist frowned.

	Without missing a beat in his tune, Halleck interposed: "For I am like an owl of the desert, o! "Aiyah! am like an owl of the desert!"

	The Duke reached down, brought up the communinet microphone from the instrument panel, thumbed it to life, said: "Leader to Escort Gemma. Flying object at nine o'clock, sector B. Do you identify it?"

	"It is merely a bird," Kynes said, and added: "You have sharp eyes."

	The panel speaker crackled, then: "Escort Gemma. Object examined under full amplification. It's a bird."

	Paul, looking in the indicated direction, saw the distant speck—a dot of intermittent motion—and realized how keyed up his father must be. Every sense was at full alert.

	"I'd not realized there were birds that large this far into the desert," the Duke said.

	"That is likely an eagle," Kynes said. "Many creatures have adapted to this heat."

	"How hot does it get down on the surface of the desert?" Paul asked.

	The Duke nodded. The question had been poised on his own lips.

	Kynes shrugged. "Heat is relative. There are climates within climates. You have the microclimate of a dune where it may be a hundred degrees hotter on the surface than it is one foot into the sand. Black shade can reduce the heat by as much as forty degrees. Half a meter above the sand it can be twenty degrees cooler than on the surface."

	The ornithopter swept over a bare rock plain. Paul looked down from their two thousand meters' altitude, saw the wrinkled shadows of their craft and the escort. The land beneath them seemed flat, but shadow wrinkles said otherwise.

	"Has anyone ever walked out of the desert?" the Duke asked.

	Halleck's music stopped. He leaned forward to hear the answer.

	"Not from the deep desert," Kynes said. "Men have walked out of the second zone several times. They've survived by crossing the rock areas where the worms do not go."

	The timbre of Kynes' voice held Paul's attention. He felt his senses come alert the way they were trained to do.

	"Ahh, the worms," the Duke said. "I must see one sometime."

	"You may see one today," Kynes said. "Wherever there is spice there are worms." "Always?" Halleck asked. "'Always."

	"You may speak frankly with us," the Duke said. "What is the relationship between worms and the spice?"'

	Kynes turned and Paul saw the pursed lips as the man spoke. "They defend spice sands. Each worm has a ... territory. As to the spice—who knows? Worm specimens we've examined lead us to suspect complicated chemical interchanges within them. The canal is lined with gigantic cilia, each backed by a duct. We find traces of hydrochloric acid in the ducts, more complicated acid forms elsewhere. I'll give you a copy of my monograph on the subject."

	"A man with a shield would have an advantage, of course, if one attacked him," the Duke said.

	"Shields!" Kynes sneered. "Activate a shield within the zone of worms and you seal your fate. Worms will ignore territory lines, come from all around to attack a shield. And no man wearing a shield has ever survived such an attack."

	Is that why the desert folk wear no shields? the Duke wondered.

	"High voltage electrical shock applied separately to each ring is the only known way of killing and preserving an entire worm," Kynes said. "They can be stunned by explosives, but each ring segment has a life of its own. Outside of atomics, I know of no explosive powerful enough to destroy an entire worm. They're incredibly tough."

	And the Duke thought: They may be tough, yet they're only nonsentient creatures. A way can be found.

	"Why hasn't an effort been made to wipe them out?" Paul asked.

	"It couldn't be done," Kynes said. "Too much area to cover, too expensive."

	Paul leaned back in his corner. His special truthsense, the awareness of tone shadings, told him that Kynes was lying and telling half-truths. And he thought: If there's some relationship between worms and spice, killing all the worms could destroy the spice.

	"Well, no one has to walk out of the desert," the Duke said. "Just trip these little transmitters at our necks, and rescue is on its way. All our workers will be wearing them before long. We're setting up a special rescue service."

	"Very commendable," Kynes said.

	"Your tone says you don't agree with this action," the Duke said.

	"Agree? Certainly I agree, but it will not be much use. Static electricity from sandstorms masks out many signals, shorts out the transmitters. They've been tried before, you know. If a worm is hunting you, there's not much time. Frequently, you have no more than fifteen or twenty minutes."

	"What would you advise?" the Duke asked. "You ask me to advise?" "I do."

	"You would follow my advice?"

	"If I found it sensible."

	"Very well, My Lord. Never travel alone."

	The Duke turned his attention from the controls. "That's all?"

	"Never travel alone."

	"What if you're separated by a storm and then forced down," Halleck asked. "Isn't there anything you could do?"

	"Anything covers much territory," Kynes said. "What would you do?" Paul asked. Kynes turned a hard stare at the boy, brought his attention back to the Duke. "I? I would remember to protect the integrity of my stillsuit. If I were outside the worm zone or in rock, I'd stay with the ship. If I were down in open sand, I'd get away from the ship as fast as I could, walking softly. About a thousand meters should be far enough. Then I'd shield myself beneath my robe, blend into the landscape. A worm would get the ship, but it might miss me. I am smaller. The body does not generate as large an electrical field."

	"Then what?" Halleck asked.

	Kynes shrugged. "Wait for the worm to leave."

	"That's all?" Paul asked.

	"When the worm has gone, one may try to walk out," Kynes said. "You must walk softly, avoid drum sands, the tidal dust basins—head for the nearest rock zone. There are many such zones. You might make it to one."

	"Drum sand?" Halleck said.

	"An anomaly of sand compaction," Kynes said. "The slightest step upon it can set it to drumming. Worms always come to such drumming. The sound will travel for tremendous distances."

	"What is a tidal dust basin?" the Duke asked. "Certain depressions in the desert—basins, ravines and such—have been filled with dust over the centuries. Some are so vast they have actual currents and tides. All will swallow the unwary who step into them."

	Halleck sank back, resumed strumming the baliset. Presently, he began singing in a minor key:

	"Wild beasts of the desert do hunt there, "Waiting for the innocents to pass. "Ohhh, tempt not the gods of the desert, "Lest you seek a lonely epitaph. "The perils of the ..." He broke off, leaned forward. "There is a dust cloud ahead, sire." "I see it."

	"That's what we seek," Kynes said. He nodded toward a rolling yellow cloud low on the desert surface, still some thirty kilometers ahead. "One of your factory crawlers. It's on the surface and that means it's on spice. The cloud vented sand being expelled after the spice has been centrifugally removed. There is no other cloud quite like that one."

	"Aircraft over it," the Duke said.

	"I see two ... three ... four spotters," Kynes said. "They're looking for wormsign." "Wormsign?" the Duke said.

	"A sand ripple moving toward the crawler. They'll have seismic probes on the surface, too. Some worms travel too deep for the ripple to show." Kynes swung his gaze across the sky. "There should be a carryall wing around—the craft that brings in the factory crawler and retrieves it when the worm comes."

	"They always come, eh?" Halleck asked.

	"Always."

	Paul leaned forward, tapped Kynes on the shoulder. "How big an area does each worm stake out?"

	Kynes frowned. The child kept asking adult questions.

	"That depends on the size of the worm."

	"What's the variation?" the Duke asked.

	"A big one may control three or four hundred square kilometers. A small one ..." He broke off as the Duke kicked on the jet brakes. The ship bucked as its tail pods whispered to silence. Stub wings elongated, cupped the air. The craft became a full 'thopter as the Duke banked it, holding the wings to a gentle beat, pointing with his left hand off to the east beyond the factory crawler. "Is that wormsign?"

	Kynes leaned across the Duke to peer into the distance. Paul and Halleck were crowded together, looking in the same direction. Paul noted that their escort, caught by the sudden maneuver, had surged ahead, but now were curving back. The factory crawler was about three kilometers ahead.

	Where the Duke pointed, crescent dune tracks spread their shadow ripples toward the horizon and, running through them as a level line stretching into the distance, came an elongated mound in motion—a cresting of the sand. It reminded Paul of the way a big fish disturbed the water when swimming just under the surface.

	"Worm," Kynes said. "Big one." He leaned back, grabbed the microphone from the panel, punched out a new frequency selection. Glancing at a grid chart on rollers over their heads, he spoke into the microphone: "Calling crawler at Delta Ajav niner. Wormsign warning. Crawler at Delta Ajax niner. Wormsign warning. Come in, please." He waited.

	The panel speaker emitted static crackles, then a voice:

	"Who calls Delta Ajax niner? Over."

	"They seem pretty calm about it," Halleck said.

	Kynes spoke into the microphone: "This is an unlisted flight. We're north and east of you about three kilometers. Wormsign is on intercept course your position, estimated contact twenty-five minutes."

	Another voice came out of the speaker: "This is Spotter Control. Sighting is confirmed. Standby for a contact fix." There was a pause, then: "Contact in twenty-six minutes. That was a sharp estimate. Who's on that unlisted flight? Over."

	Halleck surged forward between Kynes and the Duke. "Is this the regular working frequency, Kynes?"

	"Why ... yes, but—"

	"Who'd be listening to it?"

	"Just the work crews in this area. Cuts down interference."

	Again the speaker crackled, then: "This is the crawler. Who gets the credit bonus for that spot? Over." Halleck glanced at the Duke.

	Kynes said: "There's a bonus based on the crawler's spice load for whoever gives first warning on a worm. They want to know—"

	"Tell them who had first sight of that worm," Halleck snapped.

	The Duke nodded.

	Kynes lifted the microphone. "Credit the sighting to the Duke Leto Atreides. Do you read? Credit the sighting to the Duke Leto Atreides. Over."»

	The voice from the speaker was flat and partly distorted by a burst of static. "We read and thank you."

	"Now, tell them to divide the bonus among themselves," Halleck ordered. "Tell them it's the Duke's wish."

	Kynes took a deep breath, then with mouth close to the microphone: "It is the Duke's wish that you divide the bonus among yourselves. Do you read? Over."

	"Acknowledged and thank you," the speaker said.

	The Duke spoke dryly: "I forgot to mention that Gurney is also very talented in public relations."

	Kynes turned a puzzled frown on Halleck.

	"This lets the men know their Duke's watching over them," Halleck said. "Word will get around. It was done on an area working frequency—not likely any Harkonnen agents heard." He glanced out the window at their cover. "And we're a pretty strong force. It's a good risk."

	The Duke banked their craft toward the sandcloud erupting from the factory crawler. "What happens now?"

	"There's a carryall wing somewhere close," Kynes said. "It'll come down now and lift off the crawler."

	"What if something goes wrong with the carryall?" Halleck asked.

	"A certain amount of equipment is lost," Kynes said. "Get in close over them, My Lord; you'll find this interesting."

	The Duke scowled, busied himself with the controls as they came into turbulent air over the crawler. Sand still spewed out of the metal and plastic monster beneath them. It looked like a great beetle with many wide tracks extending on arms around it. They could see a giant inverted funnel snout poked into the sand in front of it, a darker tone to the desert surface there.

	"They're on a rich spice bed by the color of it," Kynes said. "They'll continue working it until the last minute."

	The Duke fed more power to the wings, then stiffened them for a steeper descent as he settled lower in a circling glide above the crawler.

	Paul peered down out his window at the tan and blue machine creeping over the sand, noting the yellow cloud belching from the pipe vents.

	"Shouldn't we be hearing them ask for their carryall?" Halleck asked.

	"They usually have the wing on a different frequency Kynes said.

	"I don't see any sign of a carryall," Halleck said.

	"Shouldn't they have two carryalls standing by for every crawler?" the Duke asked. "There are twenty-six men on that machine down there, not to mention the cost of equipment."

	Kynes said: "There'll be—"

	The speaker erupted with an angry voice: "Any of you see the wing? He isn't answering my call."

	There was a garble of noise from the speaker, then an override signal, silence, and the first voice: "Report by the numbers! Over."

	"This is spotter control. Last I saw of the wing, he was up pretty high and just circling off to the northwest of us. I don't see him now. Over."

	"Spotter one: negative. Over."

	"Spotter two: negative. Over."

	"Spotter three: negative. Over."

	Silence.

	The Duke looked down. The shadow of his own craft was just passing across the crawler. "I count four spotters. That right?"

	"Correct," Kynes said.

	"There are five of us," the Duke said. "Our ships are larger. We can crowd in three extras to each ship. Their spotters ought to be able to take two each."

	Paul did the mental arithmetic, said: "That's three short."

	"Why don't they have two carryalls on each crawler?" barked the Duke.

	"You don't have that much equipment to spare, My Lord," Kynes said.

	"All the more reason we should protect what we have!" The Duke reached out, grabbed the microphone.

	Halleck asked: "Where could a carryall go?"	■

	"Could've been forced down somewhere out of sight," Kynes said.

	The Duke hesitated with the microphone at his mouth, thumb poised over the switch. "How could they lose sight of the carryall?" he demanded.

	"They probably were keeping their attention focused on the ground, watching for wormsign," Kynes said.

	The Duke pressed the switch, spoke into the microphone: "We are coming down to take off the crew. This is your Duke. We are coming down to take off the crew. All spotters are ordered to comply." He reached down, punched his own command frequency, repeated the order for his air cover, handed the microphone back to Kynes.

	Kynes returned to the working frequency and a voice erupted from the speaker. "... Almost a full load of spice! We have almost a full load! We can't leave that for the worm! Over."

	"Damn the spice!" the Duke snapped. He grabbed back the microphone, barked into it: "We can always get more spice. There are seats in our ships for all but three of you. Draw straws or decide any way you like who's to go. We are coming down to get you. That's an order!" He
slammed the microphone back into Kynes' hands, muttered: "Sorry," as Kynes shook an injured finger.

	"How much time?" Paul asked.

	"Nine minutes," Kynes said.

	The Duke said: "This ship has more power than our others. If we took off under jet with three-quarter wings, we could crowd in an additional man."

	"That sand is soft," Kynes said.

	"With four extra men aboard on a jet takeoff, we could snap the wings, sire," Halleck said.

	"Not on this ship if it's handled correctly," the Duke said. He hauled back on the controls. The wings tipped up, braked the 'thopter to a skidding stop within ten meters of the crawler.

	The big machine was still now, no sand spouting from its vents. Only a faint mechanical rumble issued from it. The Duke opened his door.

	Immediately, their nostrils were assailed by the odor of cinnamon—heavy and pungent.

	With a loud flapping, the spotter aircraft glided down to the sand on the other side of the crawler. The Duke's own escort swooped in to land around the factory. All were dwarfed by it—gnats beside a warrior beetle.

	"Gurney, you and Paul toss out that rear seat," the Duke ordered. He manually cranked the wings out to three-quarters, set their angle, checked the jet pod controls. "Why the devil aren't they coming out of that machine?"

	"They're hoping the carryall will show up," Kynes said. "They still have a few minutes." He glanced off to the east.

	All turned to look in the same direction, saw no sign of the worm, but there was a heavy, charged feeling of anxiety in the air.

	The Duke took the microphone, punched for his command frequency, said: "Two of you toss out your shield generators. By the numbers. You can carry one more man off that way. We're not leaving any men for that monster." He keyed back to the working frequency, barked: "All right, you in the crawler! Out! Now! This is a command from your Duke, and the devils will get any man who disobeys it!"

	A hatch snapped open near the front of the crawler, another at the rear, another at the top. Men came tumbling out, sliding and scrambling down to the sand. A tall man in a patched working robe was the last to emerge. He jumped down to a track and then to the sand.

	The Duke hung the microphone on the panel, swung out the door onto the wing step, shouted: "Two men each into those spotters."

	The last man out began tolling off pairs of men, pushing them toward the craft waiting on the other side of the crawler.

	"Four over here!" the Duke shouted. "Four into that ship there!" He jabbed a finger at an escort 'thopter directly behind him. The guards were just wrestling the shield generator out of it. "And four into that ship over there!" He pointed to the other escort that had shed its shield generator. "Three each into the others! Run, you sand hogs!"

	The tall man finished counting off his crew, came slogging across the sand followed by three of his companions.

	"I hear the worm," Kynes said, "but I can't see it."

	The others heard it then—an abrasive slithering, distant and growing louder.

	"Sloppy way to operate," the Duke muttered.

	Aircraft began flapping off the sand around them. It reminded the Duke of a time in his home planet's jungles, a sudden emergence into a clearing, and carrion birds lifting away from the carcass of a wild ox.

	The men slogged up to the side of the ship, started climbing in behind the Duke. Halleck helped them, dragging them back into the rear.

	"In you go, boys!" he snapped. "On the double!"

	Paul, crowded into a corner by sweating men, smelled the perspiration of fear, saw that two of the men had sloppy neck adjustments on their stillsuits. He filed this information in his mind for future action. His father would have to order tighter stillsuit discipline. Men tended to become lax if you didn't watch such things.

	The last man came gasping into the rear, said: "The worm! It's almost on us! Blast off!"

	The Duke slid into his seat, frowning, said: "We still have almost five minutes on the original estimate. Is that right, Kynes?" He shut his door, checked it.

	"Almost exactly, My Lord," Kynes said, and he thought: A cool one, this Duke.

	"All secure here, sire," Halleck said.

	The Duke nodded, watched the last of his escort take off, adjusted the igniter, glanced once more at wings, instruments, punched the jet throttle.

	The take-off thrust the Duke and Kynes into their seats, compressed the people in the rear. Kynes watched the way the Duke handled the controls—gently, surely. They were fully airborne now, and the Duke studied his instruments.

	"She's very heavy, sire," Halleck said.

	"But well within the tolerances of this particular ship," the Duke said. "You didn't really think I'd risk this cargo, did you Gurney?"

	Halleck grinned, said: "The idea crossed my mind, sire, but I rejected it."

	In a long, easy curve, the Duke banked his craft around, climbing over the crawler. He looked down.

	Paul, crushed against a wall beside a window, stared down at the scene which held his father's attention. The wormsign had broken off about three hundred meters from the crawler. There appeared to be turbulence in the sand around the factory, though.

	"The worm is now beneath the crawler," Kynes said. "You are about to see something interesting."

	Flecks of dust shadowed the sand around the crawler, now. The big machine began to tip down to the right. A gigantic sand whirlpool began forming to the right of the crawler. It moved faster and faster. Sand and dust filled the air for hundreds of meters around.

	Then they saw it!

	A gigantic hole emerged from the sand. Sunlight flashed from sharp spokes of white within it. The hole's diameter was at least twice the length of the crawler. The machine slid into the opening in a billowing of dust and sand, and the hole pulled back.

	"Gods, what a monster!" muttered a man beside Paul.

	"Got all our Hoggin' spice!" growled another.

	"You'll not lose anything by this," the Duke said. "I'll make up the loss myself. But someone is going to pay for it. I promise you that."

	In the very flatness of his father's tone Paul sensed a deep anger. He found that he shared it. This thing was stupid, criminal!

	"Some one will pay,'' the Duke said.

	In the silence that followed, they heard Kynes.

	"Bless the Maker and His water," Kynes murmured. "Bless the coming and going of Him. May His passage cleanse the world. May He keep the world for His people."

	"What's that you're saying?" the Duke asked.

	But Kynes remained silent.

	Paul glanced at the men crowded around him. They were staring fearfully at the back of Kvnes' head. One of them whispered: "Liet"

	Kynes turned, scowling. The man sank back, abashed.

	Another of the rescued men began coughing—dry and rasping. Presently, he gasped: "Curse the day I came to this hell hole!"

	The tall Dune man who had come last out of the crawler said: "Be you still. Coss. You but worsen your cough." He stirred among the men until he could look through them at the back of the Duke's head. "You be the Duke Leto, I warrant," he said. "It's to you we give our thanks for our lives."

	"Quiet, man, and let the Duke fly his ship," Halleck muttered.

	And Paul glanced at Halleck. He, too, had seen the tension wrinkles at the corner of his father's jaw. One walked softly when the Duke was in a rage.

	The Duke began easing his ornithopter out of its great banking circle, then stopped at a new sign of movement on the sand. Now that the worm had withdrawn into the depths beneath where the crawler had been, two figures could be seen moving north away from the depression in the sand. They appeared to glide over the surface with hardly a lifting of dust to mark their passage.

	"Who's that down there?" the Duke barked.

	"Those be two Johnnies who came along for the ride, soor," said the tall Dune man.

	"Why didn't someone say something about them?"

	"It w as the chance they took, soor," the Dune man said.

	"My Lord," Kynes said, "these men know it's of little use to do anything about a man trapped on the desert in norm country."

	"We'll send another ship back for them!" the Duke snapped.

	"As you wish, My Lord," Kynes said. "But likely when the rescuer returns there'll be no one to rescue."

	"We'll send a ship anyway," the Duke said. "We have the co-ordinales of this place."

	"You waste fuel here, sire," Halleck said.

	"Right you are, Gurney."

	The Duke brought his craft around in a course toward the Shield Wall. His escort came down from circling stations, took up positions above and on both sides.

	Paul thought about what Kynes had said. The man had been lying, no doubt of it. Why had he lied about the two men on the desert. And the Dune man here—Paul hadn't heard enough of his voice to be sure, but there was a note of concealment in it.

	The men had glided across the sand so surely, moving in a way obviously calculated to keep from luring the worm out of the depths. They had—

	Fremen! Paul thought. They live in the desert and around it. Who else would be so sure on the sand? Who else might be left out of your worries as a matter of course —because they are in no danger? They know how to live here! They know how to outwit the worm!

	"What were Fremen doing on that crawler?" Paul asked.

	The tall Dune man turned wide eyes on Paul—blue within blue within blue. "Who be this lad?" he asked.

	Halleck moved to place himself between the men and Paul, said, "This is Paul Atreides, the ducal heir."

	"Why says he there were Fremen on our rumbler?" the man asked.

	"They fit the description," Paul said.

	Kynes snorted. "You can't tell a Fremen just by looking at him!" He looked at the Dune man. "You. Who were those men?"

	"Friends of one of the other men," the Dune man said. "Just friends from a village who wanted to see the spice sands."

	Kynes turned away ."Fremen!"

	"And they be dead now, most likely, young soor," the Dune man said. "We should not speak unkindly on them."

	But Paul heard the falsehood in their voices, felt the menace that had brought Halleck into guarding position instinctively.

	Paul spoke dryly: "A terrible place for them to die."

	Without turning, Kynes said: "When God hath ordained a creature to die in a particular place, he causeth that creature's wants to direct him to that place."

	Leto turned a hard stare on Kynes.

	And Kynes, returning the stare, found himself troubled by only one fact out of this incident in the sands: This Duke was concerned much more over his men than he was over the spice. He had passed off the loss of a crawler with a gesture. The threat to men's lives had him in a rage. A man such as that could command fanatic loyalty. He would be difficult to defeat.

Chapter Sixteen

Greatness is a transitory experience of the individual. It is never consistent, and depends in part upon the myth-making imagination of humankind. The person who experiences greatness must have a feeling for the myth he is in. He must reflect what is projected upon him. And he must have a strong sense of the sardonic. This is what uncouples him from belief in his pretensions. The sardonic is all that permits him to move within himself. Without this quality, even occasional greatness will destroy a man.
"Collected Sayings of Muad'Dib" 
by The Princess Irulan

	In the dining hall of the Arrakeen great house, suspensor lamps had been lighted against the early dark. They cast their yellow glow upward onto the black bull's head with its bloody horns, and onto the dark glistening oil painting of the Old Duke.

	Beneath these talismen, white linen shone around the burnished reflections of the Atreides silver which was placed in precise arrangements along the great table-little archipelagoes of service waiting before heavy wooden chairs. The classic central chandelier remained unlighted, and its chain twisted upward into shadows where the mechanisms of the poison-snooper had been concealed.

	Pausing in the doorway to inspect the arrangements, the Duke Leto thought about the poison-snooper and what it signified in his society. All of a pattern, he thought. You can plumb us by our language—all the precise, delicate delineations for ways to administer treacherous death. Will someone try chaumurky tonight—poison in the drink? Or will it be chaumas—poison in the food?

	Beside each plate on the long table stood a flagon of water. The Duke estimated there was enough water along the table to keep a poor Arrakeen family for more than a year.

	Flanking the door in which the Duke stood were broad laving basins of ornate tile. Each basin had its rack of towels. It was the custom here, the housekeeper had explained, for guests as they entered to dip their hands ceremoniously in a basin, slop several cups of water onto the floor, dry their hands on a towel and fling the towel into the growing puddle at the door. After the dinner, beggars would gather outside to get the water squeezings from the towels.

	The Duke muttered to himself.

	It's wrong, he thought. But how typical of a Harkonnen  fief Every degradation of the spirit the imagination can conceive. He took a deep breath, feeling the rage as a tightness in his stomach.

	"This custom stops here!" he muttered.

	He saw a serving woman—one of the old and gnarled ones the housekeeper, Mapes, had recommended and Jessica had approved—hovering in the door from the kitchen opposite him. The Duke signaled with an upraised hand. She moved out of the shadows, scurried around the table toward him, and he noted the leathery face, the blue-within-blue eyes.

	"My Lord wishes?" She kept her head bowed, the blue-cast eyes shielded as she spoke.

	He gestured. "Have these basins and towels removed."

	"But ... Noble Born—" She looked up, mouth gaping.

	"I know the custom!" he barked. "Take these basins to the front door. While we are eating and until we have finished, each beggar who calls may have a full cup of water. Understood?"

	Her leathery face displayed a twisting of emotions-dismay, anger.

	In a sudden insight, Leto realized she must have planned to sell the water squeezings from the foot-trampled towels, wringing a few coppers from the beggars. Perhaps that also was the custom. His face clouded, and he barked: "I'm posting a guard to see that my orders are carried out to the letter! We Atreides do not waste; we share!"

	He whirled, strode back down the passage to the great hall. Memories rolled in his mind like the toothless mutterings of old women. He remembered ©pen water and waves—days of grass instead of dry sand—dazed summers that had whipped past him like windstorm leaves. All gone.

	I'm getting old, he thought. I've felt the cold hand of my mortality. And in what? An old woman's greed!

	In the great hall, the Lady Jessica was the center of a mixed group standing in front of the fireplace. An open blaze crackled behind the group, casting flickers of orange light onto jewels and lace and costly fabrics. He recognized in the group a stillsuit manufacturer down from Carthag, an electronics equipment importer, a water-shipper whose summer mansion was near his polar-cap factory—a representative of the Guild Bank—lean and remote, a dealer in replacement parts for spice-mining equipment, a thin and hard-faced woman whose escort service for off-planet visitors reputedly operated as cover for various smuggling, spying and blackmail operations.

	The other women of the group seemed cast from a specific type—decorative, and odd mingling of untouchable sensuousness.

	Even without her position as hostess, Jessica would have stood out in this group, he thought. She wore no jewelry and had chosen warm colors—a long dress almost the shade of the open blaze and an earth-brown band around her bronzed hair. He realized that she had done this to taunt him subtly, a reproof against his recent pose of coldness. She was well aware he liked her best in these colors—that he saw her as a rustling of warm colors.

	Nearby, more an outflanker than a member of the group, stood Duncan Idaho in glittering dress uniform, flat face unreadable, the curling black hair neatly combed. He had been summoned back from the Fremen and his orders from Hawat—"Under the pretext of guarding her, you will keep the Lady Jessica under constant surveillance."

	The Duke glanced around the room.

	There was Paul in the corner, surrounded by a fawning group of the younger Arrakeen richece, and aloof among them—three officers of the House Troop. The Duke particularly noted the young women. What a catch a ducal heir would make! Paul was treating all with an equal air of reserved nobility.

	He'll wear the title well, the Duke'thought.

	Paul, looking around him at the clusterings of the guests, the jeweled hands clutching drinks—and the unobtrusive inspections with tiny remote-cast snoopers-seeing all the faces chattering, was suddenly repelled by them. He saw them as cheap masks locked upon festering thoughts—voices gabbling to drown out the loud silence of clocks beating in every breast.

	I'm in a sour mood, he thought.

	He knew why. He hadn't wanted to attend this function, but his father had been firm. "You have a place—a position to uphold. You are old enough now to do this."

	Paul saw his father pause in the doorway from the dining hall, inspect the room, then cross to the group around the Lady Jessica.

	As Leto approached Jessica's group, the water-shipper was asking: "Is it true that the Duke intends to put in weather control?"

	From behind the man, the Duke said: "We haven't gone that far in our thinking, sir."

	The man turned smoothly, exposing a bland round face, darkly tanned. "Ah, the Duke," he said. "We missed you."

	Leto glanced at Jessica. "A thing needed doing." He turned back to the water-shipper, explained what he had ordered about the laving basins, adding: "As far as I'm concerned, the old custom ends now."

	"Is this a ducal order, M'Lord?" the man asked.

	"I leave that to your own ... ah ... conscience," the Duke said. He turned slightly, noting a new figure come up to the group.

	The newcomer was Kynes. The planetologist wore an old-style dark brown uniform with epaulets of the Imperial Civil Servant and a tiny gold teardrop of rank at his collar.

	The water-shipper asked in an angry voice: "Does the Duke imply criticism of the old custom?"

	"The custom has been changed," the Duke said.

	"With the Duke's permission," the water-shipper said, "I'd like to inquire further about customs."

	Leto heard the oily, unctuous tone in the man's voice, noted the watchful silence in this group, the way heads were beginning to turn toward them around the room.

	"Isn't it almost time for dinner?" Jessica asked.

	"But our guest has some questions," Leto said. And he recalled Hawat's memorandum on this man. "... And this water-shipper, Lin gar Bewt, is a man to watch. The Harkonnens used him, but never fully controlled him."

	"Water customs are so interesting," Bewt said, and there was a thin smile on his face. "I'm curious what you intend about the conservatory attached to this house. Do you intend to continue flaunting it in the people's faces ... M'Lord?"

	Leto held his anger in check, staring at the man.

	Thoughts raced through his mind. It had taken bravery to challenge him in his own ducal castle. It had taken, also, a knowledge of personal power. Water was, indeed, power here. If water facilities were mined, for instance, ready to be destroyed at a signal—The man looked capable of such a thing. Destruction of water facilities might well destroy Arrakis.

	"My Lord, the Duke, and I have other plans for our conservatory," Jessica said. She smiled at Leto. "We intend to keep it, certainly, but only to hold it in trust for the people of Arrakis. It is our hope that some day the climate of Arrakis may be changed sufficiently to grow such plants anywhere in the open."

	Bless her! Leto thought. Let our water-shipper chew on that.

	"Your interest in water and weather control is obvious," the Duke said. "One day, water will not be a precious commodity on Arrakis." And he thought: Hawat must redouble his efforts at infiltrating this Bewt's organization. And we must start on standby water facilities at once. No man is going to hold a club over my head!

	Bewt nodded, the thin smile still on his face. "A commendable hope, My Lord." He withdrew a pace.

	Leto's attention was caught by the expression on Kynes' face. The man was staring at Jessica. He appeared transfigured—like a man in love ... or caught in a religious trance.

	Presently, Kynes spoke, and his words were aimed at Jessica: "Do you bring the shortening of the way?"

	"Ahhh, Dr. Kynes," the water-shipper said. "You've come in from tramping around the Great Flat with your mobs of Fremen. How gracious of you."

	Kynes passed an unreadable glance across Bewt, said: "It is said in the desert that possession of water in great amount can inflict a man with fatal carelessness."

	"They have many strange sayings in the desert," Bewt said, but his voice betrayed uneasiness.

	Jessica crossed to Leto, slipped her hand under his arm to gain a moment in which to calm herself. Kynes had said: "... The shortening of the way." In the old tongue, the phrase translated as "Kwisatz Haderach." The odd question seemed to have gone unnoticed by the others, and now Kynes was bending over one of the consort women, listening to a low-voiced coquetry.

	Kwisatz Haderach, Jessica thought. Is that legend planted here, too?

	Although she was coldly aware of the dangers surrounding them, the words had fanned her secret hopes for Paul.

	He could be the Kwisatz Haderach, she thought. He could be.

	The Guild Bank representative had fallen into conversation with the water-shipper, and Bewt's voice lifted above the renewed hum of conversations: "Many people have sought to change Arrakis."

	The Duke noted how the words appeared to pierce Kynes, jerking the planetologist upright and away from the flirting consort.

	Kynes turned toward Bewt. "It is said that there is nothing firm, nothing balanced, nothing durable—that nothing remains in its state, that each day, some time each hour, brings change."

	Into the sudden silence, a house trooper in uniform of a footman cleared his throat close behind Leto. "Dinner is served, My Lord."

	The Duke nodded, directed a questioning glance down at Jessica beside him.

	"The custom here is for host and hostess to follow their guests to table," she said.

	He spoke coldly. "So I have been informed."

	The illusion that I suspect her must be maintained, he thought. He glanced at the guests filing past them. Who among you believes this lie?

	Jessica, sensing the remoteness of him, wondered at it. He acts like a man struggling with himself, she thought. Is it because I moved so swiftly to set up this dinner? Yet, he knows how important it is that we begin to mix our officers and men with the locals. We are the father and mother surrogate to them all. Nothing impresses this fact more firmly than a sharing such as this.

	Leto was recalling what Thufir Hawat had said when informed of this dinner. "Sire! I forbid it!"

	A grim smile touched the Duke's mouth. What a scene that had been. And when the Duke had remained adamant about attending the dinner, Hawat had shaken his head. "I have a bad feeling about this, sire" he'd said. "Things move too swiftly here on Arrakis. That is not like the Harkonnens. Not at all."

	Paul passed them escorting a young woman half a head taller than he. He shot a sour glance at his father.

	"Her father manufactures stillsuits," Jessica said. "I'm told only a fool would be caught in the deep desert in one of the man's suits."

	"The man with the scarred face who preceded Paul?" Leto asked. "I don't place him."

	"A late addition to the list," she whispered. "Gurney arranged for him to be here. Smuggler."

	"Gurney arranged?"

	"At my request. I cleared with Hawat. The smuggler is called Tuek. He's a power among his kind. They all know him here. He's dined at many of the houses."

	"Why is he here?"

	"Everyone here will be asking that question," she said. "He will sow doubt and suspicion just by being here. He will also serve notice that you are prepared to back up > our order against graft—by enforcement from the smugglers' end as well."

	"I'm not sure I like this," he said.

	"Hawat's reaction until I told him you must make it plain that you intend to rule all of your planet."

	"I see no Fremen here," he said.

	"There is Kynes," she said.

	"Have you arranged any other little surprises for me?" he asked. He led her into step behind the procession. "The dinner is a conventional one," she said. And she thought: We must have one way out, one door through which we can escape if all turns against us on Arrakis. This smuggler controls fast ships. He can be bribed.

	As they emerged into the dining hall, she disengaged her arm from his, allowed him to seat her. He strode to his end of the table. A footman held his chair for him. The others settled down with a swishing of fabrics, a scraping of chairs. The Duke remained standing. He gave a hand signal, and the house troopers in footman uniforms around the table stepped back, standing at attention.

	Jessica, looking down the table at him. saw a trembling on his mouth, noted the dark flush of his cheeks. He's angry, she thought. What has angered him?

	"It occurs to me that some might question my changing of the laving basin custom," Leto said. "But this is my way of telling you that many things will change now on Arrakis."

	An embarrassed silence settled on the table.

	They think he's drunk, Jessica thought.

	Leto lifted his water flagon, held it aloft. "As a Chevalier of the Imperium, then, I give you a toast."

	The others grasped their flagons, all eyes focused on the Duke.

	"Here I am and here I remain!" he barked.

	There was an abortive movement of flagons toward mouths—stopped as the Duke remained with his arm upraised. "My toast is those maxims so dear to our hearts —Business makes progress! Fortune passes everywhere!"

	He sipped his water.

	The others joined him. Questioning glances passed among them.

	"Gurney!" the Duke called.

	From an alcove at Leto's end of the room came Halleck's voice: "Here, My Lord." "Give us a tune, Gurney."

	A minor chord from the baliset floated out of the alcove. Servants began putting plates on the table—roast desert hare in sauce, aplomage sirian. chukka under glass, coffee with melange—a rich cinnamon odor from the spice wafted across the table—a true pot-d-oie served with sparkling wine.

	Still, the Duke remained standing. He had recognized Gurney's tune.

	As the guests waited, their attention torn between the dishes placed before them and the standing Duke. Leto said: "In olden times it was the duty of the host to entertain his guests personally." His knuckles turned white so fiercely did he grip his water flagon. "I cannot sing, but I give you the words of Gurney's song. It's somewhat of another toast ... a toast to all who've died to bring us wealth."

	An uncomfortable stirring sounded around the table.

	Jessica lowered her gaze, glanced at the people seated nearest her—there was the round-faced water-shipper and his woman, the austere Guild Bank representative—a whistle-faced scarecrow with eyes fixed on Leto; the smuggler, Tuek, his blue-within-blue eyes veiled.

	"Review, friends—troops long past review," the Duke intoned. "All to fate a weight of pains and dollars. Their spirits wear our silver collars. Review, friends—troops long past review. Each a dot of time without pretense or guile—with them passes the lure of fortune. And when our time ends on its rictus smile, we will pass beyond the lure of fortune. Review, friends—troops long past review."

	The Duke allowed his voice to trail off on the last line, took a deep drink from his water flagon, slammed it back on the table. Water slopped over the brim onto the linen.

	The others sipped in embarrassed silence.

	The Duke took up his water flagon, emptied its remaining half onto the floor, knowing the others around the table must now do likewise.

	Jessica was the first to follow his example.

	There was a frozen moment before the others began to empty their flagons.

	Jessica watched her guests, fascinated by what their actions revealed, especially some of the women. This was clean, potable water—and the reluctance to just cast it away revealed itself in trembling hands, delayed reactions, violent obedience to the necessity. One woman dropped her flagon.

	It was Kynes, though, who caught her attention most sharply. The planetologist hesitated only briefly, then emptied his flagon into a container beneath his jacket. He smiled at Jessica as he caught her watching him, raised the empty flagon toward her in a silent toast. He appeared completely unembarrassed by his action.

	Gurney Halleck's music still wafted over the room, but it had come out of its minor key, lilting and lively now as though he were trying to lift the mood.

	"Let us eat," the Duke said. He sank into his chair.

	He's angry and uncertain, Jessica thought. The loss of that factory crawler hit him deeply. But it must be more than that. He acts like a desperate man. And she thought bitterly: Why not? He is desperate.

	Slowly at first, then with increasing animation, the dinner began. The stillsuit manufacturer complimented Jessica on her chef and the wine.

	"Superb!" he said, tasting the chukka. "Simply superb! And not even a hint of melange in it."

	The Guild Bank representative looked across at Kynes. "I understand, Dr. Kynes, that another factory crawler has been lost to a worm."

	"News travels fast on Arrakis," the Duke said.

	"Then it's true?" the banker asked, shifting his attention to Leto.

	"Of course it's true!" the Duke snapped. "The blasted carryall disappeared. It shouldn't be possible for anything that big to disappear!"

	"And when the worm came there was nothing to lift off the craw ler," Kynes said.

	"It should not be possible," the Duke repeated.

	"No one saw the carryall leave?" the banker asked.

	"It is customary for those overhead to keep their eyes on the sand," Kynes said. "They look downward, you see, searching for wormsign. Each man has his assigned task. A carryall's complement usually is four men—two pilots and two journeymen attachers. If one—or even two of this crew were in the pay of one of the Duke's foes—"

	"Ahhhh, I see." The banker nodded, returned his attention to his food.

	And Jessica was remembering a lecture from her Bene Gesserit schooldays. The subject had been espionage and counter espionage. A plump, happy faced Reverend Mother had been the lecturer, her jolly voice contrasting weirdly with her subject matter.

	"The thing to note about any espionage and or counter espionage school is that all the graduates will have a similar basic reaction pattern conditioned by that school. This is true, of course, with the teaching of any enclosed discipline. It sets its stamp, its pattern upon the students. That pattern is susceptible to analysis and prediction. Which is what you actually will be learning in this course —analysis and prediction.

	"Now, motivational patterns are going to be similar among all espionage agents generally. That is to say, there will be certain types of motivation which are similar despite differing schools or opposed aims. We will be studying how to separate this element in our analyses —first, through interrogation patterns which betray the inner orientation of the interrogators; second, by closely observing language/thought orientation of those we analyze. You will find it fairly simple to determine the root languages of your subjects—both through voice inflection and speaking pattern."

	Now, sitting at table with her Duke and their guests, hearing the Guild Bank representative, Jessica realized the man was a Harkonnen agent. He had the Giedi Prime voice inflection and speech pattern—subtly marked, true, but plainly exposed to her trained senses. And she asked herself: Does this mean the Guild itself has taken sides against the House of Atreides?

	This thought shocked her, and she masked her emotions, listening for the man to betray more of himself. He will shift the conversation next to something seemingly innocent, but with ominous overtones, she thought.

	The banker swallowed, took a sip of wine, smiled at something said to him by the woman on his right. A man at the opposite end of the table was explaining to the Duke about the native plants having no thorns.

	"I enjoy watching the flights of birds on Arrakis," the banker said, directing his words at Jessica. "Did you know that some of our birds exist without water, having become blood drinkers?"

	The stillsuit manufacturer's daughter, seated between Paul and his father at the other end of the table, twisted her pretty face into a frown. "Oh, Soo-Soo, you say the most disgusting things," she said.

	The banker smiled. "They call me Soo-Soo because of my unofficial position as financial adviser to the Water Peddlers' Union." And, as Jessica continued to look at him, he added: "Because of the water sellers' cry—'Soo-Soo Souk!'" And he imitated it with such accuracy that many around the table laughed.

	Jessica heard the boastful quality in his voice, but she noted most that the young woman had spoken on cue—a set piece. She had produced the excuse for the banker to say what he had said. She glanced at Lingar Bewt, the water magnate. He was scowling, concentrating on his dinner. It became clear to Jessica what the banker had said. "I, too, control water, the ultimate source of power on Arrakis."

	Paul, too, had heard the falseness in his dinner companion's voice, but the greater depths of the interplay were hidden from him. He saw, though, that his mother was getting something out of this conversation.

	"Do you mean, sir," he asked, "that these birds are cannibals?"

	"Not at all," the banker said. He stared at Paul. "That was an odd question, Young Master."

	"It wasn't odd," Paul said, and Jessica noted that his voice carried the brittle riposte quality being trained into it. "Most people know that the worst potential competition for any young organism can come from its own kind." He deliberately forked a bite of food from his companion's plate, ate it. "They are eating from the same bowl and have the same basic requirements."

	The banker stiffened under the lash of Paul's voice, scowled at the Duke who was smiling broadly.

	"Do not make the error of considering my son a child," the Duke said.

	Jessica glanced around the table, noted that Lingar Bewt had brightened. Both Kynes and the smuggler, Tuek, were smiling at Paul.

	"It is a rule of ecology," Kynes said, "that the struggle between life forms is the struggle for the free energy of a system. Blood is an efficient source of energy."

	The banker put down his fork, spoke in an angry voice: "It is said that the Fremen scum in the desert drink the blood of the dead."

	Kynes shook his head, spoke in a casual, lecturing tone: "Not the blood, sir. But a man's water—all of it-belongs ultimately to his people, to his tribe. It is a necessity when you live in the Great Flat. All water is precious there, and the human body is composed of about seventy per cent water by weight. A dead man no longer requires this water."

	The banker put both hands against the table beside his plate, and Jessica thought for a moment he was going to push himself back, leave the table in rage.

	Kynes looked at Jessica. "Forgive me, My Lady, for elaborating on such an ugly subject at table, but you were being told a falsehood that needed clarifying."

	"You have associated so much with Fremen that you've lost many sensibilities," the banker said.

	Kynes looked at the banker, studied the pale, trembling face. "Are you challenging me, sir?" he asked.

	The banker froze. He swallowed, spoke stiffly: "Of course not. I would not so insult our host and hostess."

	Jessica heard the fear in the man's voice, saw it in his face, in his breathing, in the pulse of a vein at his temple. He was terrified of Kynes!

	"Our host and hostess are quite capable of deciding for themselves when they have been insulted," Kynes said. "They are brave people who understand defense of honor. Attest their courage by the fact that they are here, on Arrakis."

	Jessica saw that Leto was enjoying this. Most of the others were not. People all around the table sat poised for flight, hands in laps. Two notable exceptions were Bewt, who was openly smiling at the banker's discomfiture, and the smuggler, who appeared to be watching Kynes for a cue. Jessica saw that Paul was looking at Kynes in open admiration.

	"Well?" Kynes said.

	"I meant no offense," the banker muttered. "If offense was taken, I apologize."

	Kynes nodded, resumed eating as though nothing had happened.

	Jessica saw that the smuggler, too, relaxed. She marked this down in her mind. The man had shown every aspect of an aide ready to leap to Kynes' assistance. There was an accord of some sort between Kynes and Tuek.

	The Duke looked speculatively at Kynes. There was that in the ecologist's manner which indicated a change in attitude toward the House of Atreides. He had seemed colder on their trip over the desert.

	Jessica signaled for another course of food and drink to be brought to the table. Servants appeared with langues de lapins de garenne, red wine and a sauce of mushroom-yeast.

	Slowly, the dinner conversation resumed, but Jessica noted that it appeared more brittle, and the banker ate in sullen silence.

	"I find myself continually amazed by the importance of water on Arrakis," Jessica said to the stillsuit manufacturer on her left. And she noted that no more than half the women at the table shifted direction of conversation with her—indicating a difference of custom here, although they apparently knew the custom of Caladan.

	"Very important," the stillsuit manufacturer agreed. "What is this dish? It's delicious."

	"Tongues of wild rabbit in a special sauce." Jessica said. "It's a very old recipe."

	"I must have that recipe," the man said.

	She nodded. "I'll see that you get it."

	Kynes looked at Jessica, said: "The newcomer to Arrakis too frequently underestimates the position of importance that water holds here. You see, you are dealing with the Law of the Minimum."

	Jessica nodded, noting the testing quality in Kynes' voice. He wishes to discover if I know the Law of the Minimum, she thought.

	"I see," she said. "Growth is limited by that necessity which is present in least amount. And where a number of conditions are necessary to a process, its rate is controlled by the least favorable of these conditions."

	Kynes smiled. "Water is the least favorable condition for most life on Arrakis. And you must always keep in mind that growth itself can produce unfavorable conditions unless it is treated with extreme care."

	"Are you speaking of population pressures?" Jessica asked.

	"In part," Kynes said. "The aim should be to set up an orderly natural cycle of water that will sustain life as humans wish it to be sustained."

	Lingar Bewt, the water magnate, joined the conversation. "Impossible to do on Arrakis," he barked. "Been plenty of laboratory confirmation of it."

	Kynes shifted his attention to Bewt, and Jessica noted that other conversations around the table had stopped while the people watched and listened. When Kynes spoke, they listened. Her estimate of the planetologist's importance was being revised rapidly.

	"Laboratory analysis tends to blind us to a very simple fact," Kynes said. "That fact is that we are dealing here with matters which have their origin and setting in the out-of-doors where plants and animals carry on their normal existence."

	"Normal!" Bewt snorted. "Nothing about Arrakis is normal!"

	"Quite the contrary," Kynes said. "You merely have to understand the limits of the planet and the pressures upon it. Certain harmonies could be set up here along self-sustaining lines."

	"It'll never be done," Bewt said.

	Kynes turned back to his dinner, smiling.

	He knows something the others don't, Jessica thought.

	The Duke, too, came to a sudden realization. He had placed the point where Kynes' attitude had changed— w hen Jessica had spoken of holding the plants of their conservatory in trust for Arrakis.

	"What would it take to set up the self-sustaining system, Dr.. Kynes?" Jessica asked.

	"If we can get only three per cent of the green plant element on Arrakis involved in the process of forming carbon compounds as foodstuffs, we have started the cyclic system."

	"Water is the only problem?" Jessica asked the planetologist.

	"It overshadows the other problems," Kynes said. "But this planet has much oxygen without its usual concomitants—widespread plant life and large sources of free carbon dioxide. This tells us there are unusual chemical interchanges over large surface areas."

	"Do you have pilot projects going?" she asked.

	"On Arrakis," he said, "we have had a long period of time in which to build up the Tansley Effect—that is, small unit experiments on an amateur basis from which applied science, my science, may now draw its working facts."

	"There isn't enough water," Bewt said. "There just isn't enough water."

	"Master Bewt is an expert on water," Kynes said.

	The Duke gestured down with his right hand, said: "No! I wish to hear more of this, Dr. Kynes. Is there enough water?"

	Kynes stared at his plate.

	Jessica watched the play of emotion in subtle movements on his face. He masked himself well, she thought, but she had him registered now, and could read him. He was regretting his words.

	"Is there?" the Duke demanded.

	"There ... may be," Kynes said.

	He's faking uncertainty! Jessica thought. But she failed to catch the direction of the man's concealment.

	Paul, with his deeper truthsense, caught the underlying motive, and had to use every ounce of his training to mask his excitement. There is enough water! But he doesn't wish this to be known!

	"Our Planetologist has many interesting theories," Bewt said. "He thinks the Fremen are interesting, too."

	Chuckles sounded at odd places around the table. Jessica marked them—the smuggler, the stillsuit manufacturer's daughter, Duncan Idaho, the woman with the mysterious escort service ... Jessica put a mnemonic marker beside the woman's name, Jenuay, for further investigation.

	The tensions are oddly distributed here tonight, Jessica thought. There's too much going on of which I'm not aware. I'll have to develop new information sources.

	"May be," the Duke muttered.

	Kynes spoke quickly: "The real problem, My Lord, is the delicacy of the chemical balance between atmosphere and life. There is no ecological fact of greater importance. The low stage of carbon dioxide in the ..."

	The planetologist broke off as a uniformed trooper hurried in through the service door, was passed by the guard and rushed to the Duke's side. The man bent over, whispering in Leto's ear.

	Jessica recognized the capsign of Hawat's corps on the man, fought down her uneasiness. She addressed herself to the stillsuit manufacturer's feminine companion —a tiny, dark-haired woman with a doll face, a touch of epicanthic fold to the eyes.

	"You've hardly touched your dinner, my dear," Jessica said. "May I order something special for you?"

	The woman looked at the stillsuit manufacturer before speaking, said: "I'm not very hungry."

	Abruptly, the Duke stood up beside his trooper, spoke in a harsh tone of command: "Stay seated everyone, please. You will have to forgive me, but a matter has arisen which requires my personal attention." He stepped aside. "Paul, will you take over as host for me?"

	Paul swallowed, wanting to ask why his father had to leave, knowing he could not ask. He stood up, moving around to his father's chair.

	The Duke turned to the alcove where Gurney Halleck sat, said: "Gurney, please take Paul's place at table. We mustn't have an odd number here. When the dinner is over, bring Paul to the field CP."

	Halleck emerged from the alcove in dress uniform, carrying his baliset at the trail. He leaned the instrument against the wall, crossed to the chair Paul had occupied and sat down.

	 "There is no need for alarm," the Duke said, "but I must ask that no one leave until our house guard says it is safe. You will be perfectly secure as long as you remain here, and we'll have this trouble cleaned up very shortly."

	Paul caught the code words in his father's message— guard, safe, secure, shortly. The problem was security, not violence. He saw that his mother had heard the same message and relaxed.

	The Duke turned, strode out through the service door.

	Paul said: "Please go on with the dinner. I believe Dr. Kynes was talking about the atmosphere."

	"It's really a very dull and complicated subject," Kynes said. "May I discuss it with you another time?"

	"By all means," Paul said.

	And Jessica noted how well her son wore his position— the dignity, the mature sense of assurance.

	The banker picked up his water flagon, gestured with it toward the water magnate. "None of us here can surpass Master Lingar Bewt in flowery phrases. Come, Master Bewt, lead us in a toast to our new host, the boy who must be treated as a man."

	Jessica clenched her right hand into a fist beneath the table.

	Bewt cast a venomous glare at the banker.

	Paul smiled, glanced once at Halleck, then at the banker, said: "Once, on Caladan, I saw the recovery of a drowned fisherman's body. He ..."

	"Drowned?" It was the stillsuit manufacturer's daughter.

	Paul hesitated, then: "Yes. Immersed in water where he could not breathe and until he died. Drowned."

	"What an interesting way to die," she said.

	Paul's smile became brittle. He returned his attention to the banker. "The interesting thing about this man was that his shoulders and neck were wounded by another fisherman's clawboots. There apparently were several fishermen in a boat—a craft for traveling over the water— when the boat foundered and sank beneath the water. Another fisherman who was helping recover this body said he had seen such marks several times. They meant that one of the drowning fishermen had tried to stand on this poor fellow's shoulders in the attempt to reach up to the surface of the water—to reach the air."

	"Why is this interesting?" the banker asked.

	"It is interesting because of an observation made by my father at the time. He said that the drowning man who climbs on your shoulders to save himself is understandable ... except when you see it happen in the drawing room." Paul hesitated, then: "And I might add— except when you see it happen at the dinner table."

	A sudden, deathly stillness enfolded the room.

	That was rash of him, Jessica thought. She glanced at Idaho, halfway down the table on her right, saw that he was poised for instant action. The house troopers in servant livery were alert. And she comforted herself with the thought that Gurney Halleck remained with them, although he seemed so relaxed and casual where he sat near Paul.

	"Hoh-ho!" It was the smuggler, Tuek, head thrown back, laughing.

	Bewt grinned at the banker, who was directing a black glare at Paul.

	"Is it the Atreides custom to insult their guests?" the banker demanded.

	Before Paul could answer, Jessica leaned forward, said: "Sir!" And she thought: We must have more information about this Harkonnen creature.

	"My son displays a general garment and you claim that it's cut to your fit?" Jessica asked. "What an interesting revelation."

	The banker turned his glare on Jessica.

	Kynes directed a speculative look at Jessica, gave a subtle hand signal to Tuek.

	The smuggler lurched to his feet, lifted his flagon. "I'll give you a toast," he said. "To young Paul Atreides, still a lad by his looks, but a man by his actions!"

	Why do they intrude? Jessica asked herself.

	The banker was staring now at Kynes, and Jessica saw terror return to the Guild agent's face.   '

	People were responding to the toast all around the table. Jessica lifted her flagon to Kynes, who responded in kind.

	Only Paul and the banker—Soo-Soo! What an idiotic nickname! Jessica thought—remained empty handed. The banker's attention remained on Kynes. Paul was staring at his plate.

	Gurney Halleck stirred, spoke as though to no one in particular, directing his words over the heads of the people across from him: "In our society, people should not be quick to take offense. It's frequently suicidal."' He turned, looked at the stillsuit manufacturer's daughter beside him. "Don't you think so. miss?"

	"Oh, yes. Yes. Indeed I do," she said. "There's too much violence. It makes me sick. And lots of limes no offense is meant, but people get hurt anyway. It doesn't make sense."

	"Indeed it doesn't," Halleck said.

	The banker turned a sickly grin toward Jessica, said: "My Lady, I fear I've overindulged in your wines. You serve potent drink at table, and I'm not accustomed to it."

	Jessica heard the venom beneath his tone, spoke sweetly: "When strangers meet, great allowance should be made for differences of custom and training."

	"Thank you, My Lady," he said.

	The dark-haired woman beside the stillsuit manufacturer leaned toward Jessica. "The Duke spoke of our being secure here. I hope that doesn't mean there's more fighting.

	She was directed to lead the conversation this nay, Jessica thought.

	"Every rumor has to be checked out," Jessica said. "Likely this will prove unimportant. But as long as there's bad blood between Atreides and Harkonnen we cannot be too careful. The Duke has sworn to leave no Harkonnen agent alive on Arrakis, and, of course, the Convention supports him in this." The woman nodded, sat back.

	Jessica turned, smiled at the banker, said: "You spoke earlier of birds and their habits. I find so many things interesting about Arrakis. Please, tell me more from your intimate experience with this strange place."

	"Tell her about the thumpers," Bewt called.

	"Thumpers?" Jessica asked. "What are thumpers?"

	"It has something to do with the Fremen religious practices," the banker said.

	Out of the coiners of her eyes, Jessica saw Kynes rubbing at his upper lip. It was a curious gesture to her with the hand standing out so sharply against the beard.

	"But what is a thumper?" Jessica asked.

	"A ... a device," the banker said. "They're found in the sand occasionally. Designs and materials differ, but they all appear to have the same purpose, to create a thumping sound within the sand. A typical one would have a stick about a meter in length to be pushed into the sand. At the upper end would be an elastic cord and ratchet mechanism driving a flail to (hump against the stick."

	"A prayer wheel of some kind?" Jessica asked.

	Then she recalled that drumming sounds within the sand were supposed to attract the giant worms.

	"Something like that. I suppose," the banker said.

	"Are they found in many parts of the desert?"

	"Pm not familiar with all the finds, My Lady."

	Jessica looked at Kynes. "Perhaps our planetologist could tell us."

	Kynes cleared his throat, glanced at Tuek, back to Jessica. "Such finds are rare, My Lady. But it is said that most such finds are near the Shield Wall."

	"And none in the empty southern regions?"

	"Very little is known of those areas," Kynes said. "It is said there's a great Mother Lode of spice to be found there, and, occasionally, some daring spice hunter penetrates somewhat into the region, but it is extremely dangerous. Casualties increase very dramatically the farther \ou operate from a fixed base. It has not been found profitable to venture too far into those regions. The storm watch doesn't cover that area, you know. Perhaps if we had a weather satellite ..."

	"There's no water at all there?" Jessica asked.

	The banker said: "It is said the Fremen travel anywhere, that they've hunted out soaks and sip-wells even into the deepest southern latitudes."

	"Soaks and sip-wells?" Jessica asked.

	Kynes spoke quickly: "Wild rumors, My Lady. A soak is supposedly a place where water seeps up from the planet's interior and may be found by digging according to certain signs. A sip-well is a form of soak. It is said that a person may take a straw and slowly draw water from such a soak, sucking it up and expelling it into a container. The system is known on other planets."

	He's lying. Jessica thought. Falsehood and concealment <dl through what he's been telling us. She glanced at Paul, saw that he, too, was aware of Kynes' deception.

	"How very interesting," Jessica said. And she thought: What a curious speech mannerism they have here. If they only knew how much it tells me!

	Paul thought: He lies about water. He lies about the purpose of the thumper. I must discuss this man's lies with my mother.

	 "My teacher. Dr. Yueh. says you have a saying on Arrakis." Paul said, ''that polish comes from the cities; wisdom comes from the desert."

	"Oh, there are many sayings on Arrakis," Kynes said.

	"How about the saying: 'Don't build on land that can be irrigated'?" Bewt asked.

	Kynes frowned at the man. "It is said," he said, "that the streets in the poorer quarters of Arrakis are full of refuse, but all of it is dry refuse."

	Before Jessica could try to penetrate this interchange, a servant bent over her with a note. She opened it, saw the Duke's handwriting, scanned it.

	"You'll all be delighted to know," she said, "that our Duke sends his reassurances. The matter which called him away has been solved. The missing carryall has been found. A Harkonnen agent in the crew overpowered the others and flew the machine to a smugglers' base, hoping to sell it to them. Both the man and the machine are now in Atreides hands."

	"How fortunate for you," the banker said.

	Jessica nodded, refolded the note, tucked it into her sleeve.

	"I'm glad it didn't come to open battle," the stillsuit manufacturer said. "The people have such hopes that the Atreides will bring peace and prosperity."

	"Especially prosperity," Bewt said.

	"Shall we have our dessert now?" Jessica asked. "I've had our chef prepare a Caladanian sweet—pongi rice in sauce dolsa."

	"It sounds wonderful," the stillsuit manufacturer said. "Would it be possible to get the recipe?"

	"Any recipe you desire," Jessica said. She stared down the table, thinking of the coded part of the message which she had not recounted: "The Harkonnens tried to get in a shipment of lasguns. We captured them. This may mean, though, that they've succeeded with other shipments. It certainly means they do not place much store in our shields. Take the appropriate precautions."

	Jessica thought of lasguns—the white hot beams of disruptive light that could get through any known substance, provided that substance was not shielded. The fact that feedback from a shield would explode a lasgun did not bother the Harkonnens? She wondered why.

	Paul said: "I never doubted we'd find that carryall. Once my father moves to solve a problem, he solves it. He is a great man, my father, as the Harkonnens are beginning to discover."

	He's boasting, Jessica thought. He shouldn't boast. No person who will he sleeping below the ground level this night as a protection against lasguns has the right to boast.

Chapter Seventeen

"There is no escape—we pay for the violence of our ancestors."
"The Collected Sayings of Muad'Dib" 
by The Princess Irulan 

	Jessica heard the disturbance in the great hall, turned on the light beside her bed. The clock there had not been properly adjusted to local time, and she had to subtract twenty-one minutes to realize it must be about two o'clock. The disturbance was loud and incoherent. Is this the Harkonnen attack that will destroy us? she asked herself.

	She slipped out of bed, checked the screen monitors to see where her family was. The screen showed Paul asleep in the cellar room they had hastily converted to a bedroom for him. The noise obviously wasn't penetrating to his quarters. There was no one in the Duke's room, the bed unrumpled. He was still at the CP probably.

	There were no screens yet to the front of the house.

	Jessica stood in the middle of her room, listening.

	There was one shouting, incoherent voice. She heard someone call for Dr. Yueh. Jessica found a robe, pulled it over her shoulders, pushed her feet into slippers.

	Again, a voice called for Dr. Yueh.

	Jessica belted the robe around her, stepped into the hallway. Then the thought struck her: What if Leto's been hurt?

	The hall seemed to stretch out forever under her running feet. She turned through the angled arch at the end, dashed through the dining hall and down the passage into the great hall.

	The place was brightly lighted, all the wall suspensors glowing at maximum. To her right, near the front entry, she saw two house guards holding Duncan Idaho between them. His head lolled forward, and there was a panting silence to the scene now.

	One of the house guards spoke accusingly to Idaho: "You see what you did? You woke the Lady Jessica."

	The great draperies billowed behind the men, show ing that the front door remained open. There was no sign of the Duke or Dr. Yueh. Mapes stood to one side staring coldly at Idaho. She wore a long brown robe with serpentine design at the hem. Her feet were pushed into desert boots.

	"So I woke the Lady Jessica," Idaho muttered. He  lifted his face toward the ceiling, bellowed: "My sword was firs' bloodied on Grumman!"

	And Jessica thought: Great Mother! He's drunk!

	The dark round face was drawn into a frown. His hair, curling like the fur of a black goat, was plastered with dirt. A jagged rent in his tunic exposed an expanse of the dress shirt he had worn at the dinner party earlier.

	Jessica crossed to him.

	One of the guards nodded to her without releasing his hold on Idaho. "We didn't know what to do with him, My Lady. He was creating a disturbance out front, refusing to come inside. We were afraid some locals might come along and see him. That wouldn't do at all. Give us a bad name here."

	"Where has he been?" Jessica asked.

	"He escorted one of the young ladies home from the dinner, My Lady. Duke's orders."

	"Which young lady?"

	"One of the escort wenches who came with that Madame Jenuay. You understand, My Lady." He glanced at Mapes, lowered his voice. "They're always calling on Idaho for special surveillance of the ladies."

	And Jessica thought: So they are.

	She frowned, turned to Mapes. "Mapes, bring a stimulant. Caffeine, I'd suggest. Perhaps there's some of the spice coffee left from dinner."

	Mapes shrugged, headed toward the kitchen. Her untied desert boots slap-slapped against the floor.

	Idaho swung his unsteady head around to peer at an angle toward Jessica. "Killed more'n three hunner' men f'r th' Duke," he muttered. "Wadduh wanna know is why'm here. Can't live nnner th' groun' here. Can't live on th' groun' here. Wha' kinna place is 'iss, huh?"

	A sound from the side hall entry caught Jessicas attention. She turned her head, saw- Dr. Yueh crossing to them, his medical kit swinging in his left hand. He was fully dressed, looked pale, exhausted. The diamond tattoo of his school stood out sharply on his forehead.

	"The' good docker!" Idaho shouted. "Whad're you, Doc? Splint 'n' pill man?" He turned blearily to Jessica. "Makin' uh damn' fool uh m'self, huh?"

	Jessica frowned, remained silent. Why should he do such a thing? she wondered. Was he drugged?

	"Had too much spice beer," Idaho said, attempting to straighten himself. "Wunnerful stuff."

	Mapes returned with a steaming cup in her hands, stopped uncertainly behind the doctor. She looked at Jessica, who shook her head.

	Dr. Yueh put his kit on the floor, said: "Spice beer?"

	"Bes' damn' stuff ever tas'ed," Idaho said. He tried to pull himself to attention. "My sword was firs' blooded on Grumman! Killed a Harkon ... Harkon ... killed 'im f r th' Duke."

	Dr. Yueh turned, looked at Mapes, at the cup in her hand. "What's that?"

	"Caffeine, doctor," Jessica said.

	Dr. Yueh nodded, took the cup, turned and held it toward Idaho. "Drink this, lad." "Don' need any more drink." "Drink it, I say!"

	Idaho's head wobbled toward the doctor, and he stumbled ahead one step, dragging the house guards with him. "I'm almighdy fed up with pleasin' th' 'Mperial Universe, Doc. Jus' once ... just once ... we're gonna do th' thing my way."

	"After you drink this," Dr. Yueh said. "It's just caffeine."

	"How'd I know? 'Sprolly like alia res' uh this place. Damn' sun 'stoo brighd. Nothin' has uh righd color. Ever'thing's gray or brown or …"

	"Well it's nighttime now," Dr. Yueh said. He spoke reasonably. "Drink this, lad. It'll make you feel better."

	"Don' wanna feel bedder!"

	"We can't argue with him all night," Jessica said. And she thought: This calls for a bit of shock.

	"There's no reason for you to stay, My Lady," Dr. Yueh said. "I can take care of this."

	Jessica shook her head. She stepped forward, slapped Idaho sharply across the cheek.

	He stumbled back with his guards, glaring at her.

	"This is no way to act in your Duke's home," she said. She snatched the cup from Dr. Yueh's hands, spilling part of it, thrust the cup toward Idaho. "Now, you drink this! That's an order!"

	Idaho jerked himself upright, scowling at her. He spoke slowly, with careful and precise enunciation: "I do not have to take orders from a damn Harkonnen spy!"

	Dr. Yueh stiffened, whirled to face Jessica.

	Her face had gone pale, but she was nodding. Something had become clear to her—all the broken stems of meaning she had seen in the Duke's words and actions these past few days now could be translated. She found herself in the grip of an anger almost too great to contain. It took the deepest of her Rene Gesserit training in calmness to quiet her pulse and smooth her breathing. And even then she could feel the blaze flickering.

	They were always calling on Idaho for special surveillance of the ladies!

	She shot a glance at Dr. Yueh. The doctor lowered his eyes.

	"You knew this?" she demanded.

	"I heard ... rumors, My Lady. I saw ... I suspected. But I didn't want to add to your burdens."

	"Hawat!" she snapped. "I want Thufir Hawat brought here immediately!"

	"But, My Lady ..."

	"Immediately!"

	It has to be Hawat, she thought. A suspicion such as this could come from no other source.

	Idaho shook his head, mumbled: "Chuck th' whole damn' thing. 'Sno damn' good."

	Jessica looked down at the cup in her hand, abruptly dashed its contents across Idaho's face. "Lock him in one of the guest rooms In the east wing," she ordered. "Let him sleep it off."

	The two guards stared at her unhappily. One ventured: "Perhaps we should take him some place else, M'Lady. We could ..."

	"He's supposed to be here!" Jessica snapped. "He has a job to do here, you know." Her voice dripped bitterness. "He's so good at watching the ladies, isn't he?"

	The guard swallowed.

	"Do you know where the Duke is?" Jessica asked. "He's at the Command Post, My Lady. At the landing field."

	"Is Hawat with him?"

	"Hawat is in the city, My Lady."

	"You will bring Hawat to me immediately," Jessica said. "I will be in my sitting room when he arrives." "But, My Lady ..."

	"If necessary, I will call the Duke," she said. "Yes, My Lady."

	Jessica thrust the empty cup into Mapes' hands, met the questioning stare of the blue-within-blue eyes. "You may go back to bed, Mapes."

	"You're sure you will not need me?"

	Jessica smiled grimly. "I'm sure."

	"Perhaps this could wait until tomorrow," Dr. Yueh said. "I could give you a sedative and ..."

	"You will return to your quarters and leave me to handle this my way," she said. She patted his arm to take the sting out of her command. "This is the only way."'

	Abruptly, head high, she turned and stalked off through the house to her rooms. She slammed the door behind her, stood there glaring at the shield-blanked windows. Hawat! Is he the one the Harkonnens bought?

	Jessica crossed to her deep old-fashioned armchair, moved it into position to command the door. She was suddenly very conscious of the crysknife in its sheath secreted beneath her pillow, went into the bedroom and returned with it strapped to her arm. She glanced around the room, taking in the chaise, the reel and bookcases, the low tables, the straight chairs, her stand-mounted zither. Pale rose light came from the suspensor lamps. She dimmed them, sat down in the armchair, appreciating its regal heaviness for this occasion.

	We shall see, she thought. And she prepared herself to wait, accumulating patience, saving her strength.

	Presently, Hawat came in the door across from her. He moved with a stiff sense of drug-induced energy, and she could see the fatigue beneath it. The rheumy old eyes glittered. His leathery skin appeared faintly yellow in the room's light, and there was a wide wet stain on the sleeve of his knife arm.

	Jessica gestured to a straight backed chair against the wall. "Bring that chair and sit here facing me."

	Hawat bowed, obeyed. That drunken fool of an Idaho! he thought. He studied Jessica's face, wondering how he could save this situation.

	"It's long past time to clear the air between us," Jessica •aid.

	"What troubles My Lady?"

	"Don't play coy with me!" she snapped. "If Dr. Yueh didn't tell you why I summoned you, then one of your 6pies in my household did. Shall we be at least that honest with each other?"

	"As you wish, My Lady."

	"First, you will answer me one question," she said. "Are you now a Harkonnen agent?"

	Hawat's face darkened. He surged half out of his chair, demanding: "You dare insult me so?"

	"Did you not insult me this way?" she asked. "Sit down."

	Slowly, he sank back into the chair.

	And Jessica, reading the signs on this face she knew so well, allowed herself a deep breath of relief. It isn't Hawat, she thought.

	"Now, I know you remain loyal to my Duke," she said. "Therefore I'm prepared to forgive your affront to me."

	"Is there something to forgive?" he asked.

	Jessica scowled, wondering, Shall I play my trump? Shall I tell him of the Duke's daughter I've carried within me these two weeks? No, Leto himself doesn't know and this would only complicate his life, divert him when he must concentrate on our survival. There is yet time to use this.

	And Hawat thought: She's even beautiful when she's angry. An extremely dangerous adversary.

	"Since learning that there could be a traitor among us," Jessica said, "I've been studying our people with care. Let us re-examine the possibilities. Who could be a Harkonnen agent? It's not Gurney. It's certainly not Duncan Idaho. It's not any of their immediate lieutenants. It's not you, Thufir. It cannot be Paul. Great Mother! I know it's not me. Dr. Yueh, then? Even without consideration for his conditioning, I know about his wife. She was Bene Gesserit, Thufir, and was slain by the Harkonnens."

	"So that's what happened to her," Hawat muttered. "How'd you find out?"

	"An inadvertent revelation, Thufir. Haven't you ever noticed the hate in his voice when he speaks of the Harkonnens?"

	"I do not have the ear," Hawat said.

	"Then where do we look?" she asked. "Among the household guard?"

	"I swear by them on my own honor," he said.

	"It is to the Harkonnen advantage to sow dissension among us," she said. "I do not have to tell you that."

	Hawat frowned.

	"What caused you to direct a baseless suspicion at me?" she asked.

	Hawat's frown deepened. "My Lady puts her servant in an impossible position. My first loyalty is to the Duke."

	"I am prepared to forgive much because of that loyalty," she said.

	 "And I must ask again: Is there something to forgive?"

	"You imply there'd be nothing to forgive were your suspicions correct," she said.

	"Should I reveal the source of my ... ah, curiosity, would that not put another weapon into the hands of someone who could be an adversary?"

	"Stalemate?" she asked.

	He shrugged.

	"Let us discuss something else then," she said. "Duncan Idaho, the admirable fighting man whose abilities at guarding and surveillance are so highly esteemed. Tonight, he overindulged in something called spice beer. I hear reports that many others among our people have been stupefied by this concoction. Is that true?"

	"You have your reports, My Lady."

	"So I do. Don't you see this drunkenness as a symptom, Thufir?"

	"My Lady speaks riddles."

	"Apply your Mentat training to it!" she snapped. "What is the problem with Duncan and the others? I can tell you in four words—they have no home."

	He stared at her, pointing to the floor beneath them. "Arrakis, that's their ..."

	"Arrakis is an unknown! Caladan was their home and we've uprooted them. They have no home. And they fear the Duke is failing them."

	He stiffened. "Such defeatist talk from one of the men would be cause for ..."

	"Is it defeatist for a doctor to diagnose a disease correctly, his intention being to cure the disease?"

	"The Duke has given me charge over such matters, as did his father before him."

	"But you will understand my natural concern over the progress of this disease," she said. And she thought: I will have to shock him severely. He needs to be shaken up.

	Hawat shrugged. "There could be many interpretations for your ... concern."

	"How many of our people are aware of this suspicion you direct at me?" she demanded.

	Ho studied her, then: "Unfortunately, it has leaked to ... ah, several." And he thought: In the hope it would reveal a channel in the Harkonnen machine leading back to you.

	"Then you've already convicted me?"

	"Of course not, My Lady. But, the situation being what it is, I cannot afford to take any chances."

	"A threat to my son got past you right here in this house," she said. "Who took that chance?"

	His face darkened. "I offered my resignation to the Duke. He refused."

	"Did you offer your resignation to me ... or to Paul?"

	Now, he was openly angry, betraying it in quickness of breathing, in dilation of his nostrils, the steady stare. She saw a pulse beating heavily at his temple.

	"I am the Duke's man," he said, biting off the words.

	"Would you destroy the Duke in your effort to save him?"

	He took a deep breath, then: "If you are innocent, it is a sadness to have you placed in this position, but it cannot be helped."

	"Look you now, Thufir," she said. "Humans live best when each has his own place, when each knows where he belongs in the scheme of things. Destroy the place and you destroy the person. This is frequently the case. You and I, Thufir, of all those who love the Duke, we are most ideally situated to destroy the other's place. Could I not whisper suspicions about you into the Duke's ear at night. When would he be most susceptible to such whispering, Thufir? Must I draw it for you more clearly?"

	"You threaten me?" he asked, and his voice was low, withdrawn.

	"Indeed not. I merely say to you that someone is attacking us through the basic arrangement of our lives. It is clever, diabolical. I propose to negate this attack by so ordering our lives that there will be no chink through which such barbs may enter."

	"You accuse me of whispering baseless suspicions?" he asked.

	"Baseless, yes."

	"You would meet this with your own whispers?" "No, Thufir. Your life is compounded of whispers, not mine."

	"You question my abilities?"

	She sighed. "Thufir, the natural human is an animal without logic. It's an wn-natural development, this projection of logic onto all our affairs, and it's suffered to continue because of its supreme usefulness. You, now, you are the embodiment of logic—a Mentat. Yet, you mu.-t know, Thufir, that your solutions for problems are conceptions which, in a very real sense, are projected outside yourself—there to be rolled around, studied, examined from all sides."

	"You think now to teach me my trade?" he asked, and he did not try to hide the disdain in his voice.

	"When something goes wrong, you're extremely capable of seeing it and fixing it just as long as it's outside yourself," she said. "This is the natural human ability with logic. But when we encounter personal problems— that which is most deeply personal is the most difficult to bring out for external examination—we tend to flounder around, blaming everything but the actual, deep-seated matter really chewing on us."

	"You are deliberately attempting to undermine my faith in my abilities as a Mentat," he said. "Were I to find one of our people attempting to sabotage any other weapon in our arsenal, I should not hesitate to denounce him and destroy him."

	"The finest Mentats have a healthy respect for the error factor in their computations," she said.

	"I've never said otherwise!"

	"Then study these symptoms I parade before you: Drunkenness among the men. They're quarrelsome. They gossip and exchange weird rumors about Arrakis. What sickness ..."

	"Idleness, no more," he said. "The men must be kept alert and prepared for' any violence, but this is a form of idleness. They prefer action. There were pleasant diversions on Caladan which are denied them here. We could make work, but they'd know what we were doing. You must remember we brought the cream of our forces only. Don't attempt to divert my attention by trying to make a simple matter appear mysterious."

	She stared at him, thinking of the Duke's men rubbing their woes together in the barracks until you could all but smell the charge there—like burnt insulation. They're becoming like the men of the pre-Guild legend, she thought. Like the men of the lost star-searcher, Ampoliros—sick at their guns—forever prepared and forever unready.

	"As you said," he murmured, "stalemate."

	"Why have you never used my abilities in your service to the Duke?" she asked. "Do you fear a rival for your position?"

	He glared at her, the old eyes blazing. "I know about some of the training they give you Bene Gesserit..." He broke off, frowning.

	"Go ahead, say it." she said. "Bene Gesserit witches."

	"I know something of the real training they give you," he said. "I'm not fooled by the program they give out to the public."

	He is almost ready to be shaken up, she thought.

	"You listen respectfully to me in Council," she said, "yet you seldom heed my advice. Why?"

	"You may think you can look through a man," he said. "You may think you can make a man do exactly what..."

	"You poor fool, Thufir!" she snapped.

	He scowled, pushing himself back in the chair.

	"Whatever rumors you've heard," she said, "the truth is far greater. If I wished to destroy the Duke ... or you, or any other person within my reach, you could not stop me ... short of killing me. And you might even find that a problem you couldn't solve."

	And she thought: Why do I let pride drive such words out of me? This is not the way I was trained. And this is not how I must shock him.

	Hawat slipped a hand into his tunic pocket where he kept a tiny projector of poison darts. She wears no shield, he thought. Is this an idle brag of hers? She could not have such ability. I could slay her now ... but, ah, the consequences if I'm wrong.

	Jessica saw the gesture toward the pocket. "Let us pray that violence shall never be necessary between us," she said.

	"A worthy prayer," he agreed.

	"Meanwhile, the sickness spreads among our people," she said. "Thufir. I ask you again: Is it not more reasonable to suppose the Harkonnens have planted this suspicion to pit us against each other, you and I?"

	"You know I've asked myself that question," he said.

	"We appear to have returned to stalemate," she said.

	"So it would seem."

	He's almost ready, she thought.

	"What's really our weakest link, Thufir?" she asked.

	"My Lady?"

	"The Duke and I are father and mother surrogates to our people," she said. "The ..."

	"He has not married you," Hawat said. A good riposte, she thought.

	"But he will not marry anyone else," she said. "Not as long as I live. And we are the surrogates, as I said. To break up this natural order in our affairs, which target offers itself most enticingly to the Harkonnens? The Duke? No one among us, with the possible exception of Paul, is better guarded. Me? I tempt them, surely. But there's a better target, one whose duties necessarily create a monstrous blind spot. One to whom suspicion is as natural as breathing. One who builds his entire life on innuendo and mystery." She darted out her hight hand, pointing at him. "You!"

	Hawat started to leap up from his chair.

	"I have not dismissed you, Thufir" she flared.

	The old man almost fell back into the chair, so quickly did his muscles betray him.

	She smiled without mirth.

	"You know something of the real training they give us?" she asked.

	He swallowed in a dry throat. Her command had been regal, peremptory—uttered in a tone and manner he had found completely irresistible. His body had obeyed before he could think about it. To do such a thing required a sensitive, intimate knowledge of the person thus commanded, a depth of control that he had not dreamed was possible.

	"I have said to you before that we should understand each other," she said. "What I meant was that you must understand me. I already understand you. And I tell you that it's your loyalty to the Duke alone which guarantees your safety with me."

	He wet his lips with his tongue, staring at her.

	"If I desired a puppet, the Duke would marry me," she said. "He might even think he did it of his own free will."

	Hawat lowered his head, looked upward at her through his sparse lashes. Only the habits of a lifetime kept him from calling out for the guard. The habits of a lifetime ... and the suspicion now that this woman might not permit it. His skin crawled at the memory of how she had controlled him. In that moment of hesitation, she could have drawn a weapon and destroyed him!

	Does every human have this blind spot? he wondered. Can any among us be thus ordered into action before he can resist? The idea staggered him. The power that would give a person! Who could stop such a one?

	"You have glimpsed the fist within the Bene Gesserit glove," she said. "What I did was a simple thing for us. Think on that. You have not seen my entire arsenal."

	 "Why are you not out destroying the Duke's enemies?" he asked.

	"What would you have me destroy?" she asked. "Would you have me make of our Duke a weakling, forever leaning on me?"

	"But, with such power..."

	"You think: How easy it would be for her to shape a human tool to thrust into an enemy's vitals. Even into your vitals, Thufir. Yet, what would such action accomplish? Would I not make all Bene Gesserits suspect? No, Thufir. We do not want such power in matters of state. We do not want it, nor can we have it. We would destroy ourselves in seeking it."

	"Then what is it you want?"

	"A universe in which humans may live."

	The words hung between them.

	There's hidden meaning in that statement, he thought.

	"It's enough for now that you've glimpsed the fist," she said. "I know you Thufir."

	"So it would seem," he admitted.

	"You'll say nothing about this to anyone," she said. "But you'll think now what it means that your life hangs by the thread of your loyalty to my Duke."

	"My Lady ..." The old man tried to swallow.

	And he thought: She has power over me, yes. But would that not make of her an even more dangerous tool for the Harkonnens?

	"The Duke could be destroyed as quickly by his friends as by his enemies," she said. "I trust now you'll get to the bottom of this suspicion and remove it."

	"If it prove baseless, you will have my humblest apologies," he said.

	"//," she sneered.

	"If," he said.

	"You are, indeed, tenacious," she said. "Then I'll give you another thing to consider. Apply yourself as a Mentat to this question."

	"I always use all of my abilities, My Lady."

	"It is to be hoped," she said. "I pose a question, then: What does it mean to you that you stand before another human, that you are bound and helpless and the other human holds a knife at your throat—yet this other human refrains from killing you, frees you from your bonds and hands you the knife?"

	She lifted herself out of the chair, turned her back on him. "You may go now, Thufir."

	The old man arose, hesitated, hand creeping toward the weapon in his tunic pocket. He was reminded of the bull ring, and of the Duke's father—who had been brave, no matter his other failings—and one day of the corrida long ago: The fierce black beast had stood there, head bowed, immobilized and confused. The old Duke had turned his back on the horns, cape thrown flamboyantly over one arm, while cheers rained from the stands.

	I am the bull and she the matador, Hawat thought. He withdrew his hand from the weapon, glanced at the sweat glistening in his empty palm.

	And he knew that whatever the facts proved to be in the end, he would never forget this moment nor lose this sense of supreme admiration for the Lady Jessica.

	Quietly, he left the room.

	Jessica lowered her gaze from the reflection in the windows, turned, smiling.

	"Now we will see some proper action," she whispered.

Chapter Eighteen

Do you wrestle with dreams? Do you contend with shadows? Do you move in a kind of sleep? Time has slipped away. Your life is stolen. You tarried with trifles, Victim of your folly.
Dirge for Jamis on the Funeral Plain, 
from "Songs of Muad'Dib" 
by The Princess Irulan

	Leto stood in the foyer of his house, studying a note by the light of a single suspensor lamp. Dawn was yet a few hours away, and he felt his tiredness. A Fremen messenger had brought the note to the outer guard just now as the Duke arrived from his command post at the landing field.

	The note read: "A column of smoke by day, a pillar of fire by night."

	There was no signature.

	What does it mean? he wondered.

	The messenger had gone without waiting for an answer and before he could be questioned, slipping into the night like some smoky shadow.

	Leto pushed the paper into his tunic pocket, thinking to show it to Hawat later. He brushed a lock of hair from his forehead, took a sighing breath. The anti-fatigue pills were beginning to wear thin again. It had been a long two days since the dinner party and longer than that since he had slept. The problem of the lasgun shipment and interrogating the traitor who'd stolen the carryall had eaten time. There'd been a full day of redistributing his forces on the basis of the latest intelligence. And this night there'd been more reports from the planetary outposts to review and evaluate.

	To top it, there'd been that disquieting session with Hawat, the report on Jessica's reaction.

	Blast Duncan Idaho! Leto thought.

	He shook his head. No, not Duncan. I was wrong not to take Jessica into my confidence at the beginning. I must do it now, before more damage is done.

	The decision made him feel better, and he hurried from the foyer, through the great hall and down the passages toward the family wing.

	At the turn where the passages split to the service area, he stopped. A strange mewling sound came from somewhere down the service passage. Leto put his left hand on the switch of his shield belt, slipped his kindjal into his right hand. The knife conveyed a sense of reassurance. The strange sound had sent a chill through him.

	Softly, the Duke moved down the service passage, cursing at the inadequate illumination. The smallest of sus-pensors had been spaced about eight meters apart along here and turned to their dimmest level. The dark stone avails seemed to swallow the light.

	A dull blob appeared out of the gloom stretched across the floor ahead.

	Leto hesitated, almost activated his shield, but refrained because that would limit his movements. Silently, he moved up to the blob, saw that it was a human figure, a man, face down on the stone. Leto turned him over with a foot, bent close in the dim light to see the face. It was the smuggler, Tuek, a wet stain down his chest. The eyes stared with empty darkness. Leto touched the stain-warm.

	How could this man be here and dead? Leto asked himself. Who killed him?

	The mewling sound was louder here. It seemed to come from ahead and down the side passage to the room where they had installed the main shield generator for the house.

	Hand on belt switch, kindjal poised ahead, the Duke skirted the body, slipped down the passage and peered around the corner toward the shield generator room. Another blob appeared on the floor only a few paces away, and it was the source of the noise. The shape crawled toward him, gasping, mumbling.

	Leto stilled the sudden constriction of fear, darted down the passage, crouched beside the crawling figure. It was Mapes, the Fremen housekeeper, hair tumbled around her face, clothing disarrayed. A dull shininess of dark stain along her side. He touched her shoulder. She lifted herself on her elbows, tipped her head up to peer at him.

	" 'Syou," she gasped. "He ... killed … guard … sent me ... get... Tuek ... escape ... for ... M'Lady ... Yueh... here ... no ... chance ... to ..." She flopped forward, her head thumping against the stone.

	Leto felt for a pulse at the temples. There was none.

	His mind raced. Who did she mean had killed the guard? And that smuggler, Tuek. Had Jessica sent for him to escape? Why?

	He started to stand up. A sixth sense warned him, and he flashed a hand toward the shield belt switch, but was too late. A numbing shock slammed his arm aside. He felt pain there, saw a dart protruding from the sleeve, sensed paralysis spreading up the arm. It took an agonizing effort to lift his head and look down the passage. Dr. Yueh stood in the open door of the generator room. His face appeared to glow yellow in the light of a single, bright suspensor above the door. There was stillness from the room behind Yueh, no sound of generators.

	Yueh! Leto thought. He's sabotaged the house generators! We're wide open!

	Yueh began walking toward him, pocketing a dartgun.

	Leto found that he could still speak, gasped: "Yueh! How?" Then the paralysis reached his legs and he slid to the floor, his back propped against the stone wall.

	Yueh bent over him, a look of sadness on his face, touched Leto's forehead. Leto found that he could feel the touch, but it was remote, dull.

	"Yes, I'm betraying you," Yueh said. He straightened. "The drug on the dart is selective. You can speak, but I'd advise against it." He glanced down the hall, bent again over Leto, pulled out the dart and tossed it aside. The sound of the dart clattering on the floor was faint and distant to the Duke.

	Yueh! Leto thought. It can't be. It's impossible. He's conditioned.

	"How?" Leto whispered.

	"An override on my pyretic conscience," the doctor said. "I'm sorry, my dear Duke, but there are things which will make greater demands on even this conditioning." He touched the diamond tattoo on his forehead. "I find it very strange, myself, but I wish to kill a man. Yes, I actually wish it."

	It took great effort, but the Duke managed to gasp: "Who?"

	"The Baron Harkonnen."

	"But..."

	"Be quiet, please, my poor Duke. You haven't much time. In a moment, I will render you unconscious. You recall that peg tooth I put in your mouth after your tumble at Narcal? While you are unconscious, I shall remove that peg tooth and replace it with another." He opened his hand, stared at something in it. "An exact duplicate of the original tooth. It has a core shaped most exquisitely like a nerve. It will escape the usual detection methods, even a fast scanning. This tooth I'll put in your mouth, if you bite down hard on it, the cover will crush. Then, when you expel your breath sharply, you will fill the air around you with a deadly poison gas."

	"But ..."

	"Do not try to talk, my poor Duke. You are dead anyway. But you will get close to the Baron before you die. He will believe you are stupified by drugs beyond any dying effort to attack him. And, in fact, you will be drugged ... and tied. But you will remember the tooth. The tooth, Duke Leto Atreides. You will remember the tooth."

	The old doctor leaned closer and closer until his face and the drooping mustache dominated Leto's narrowing vision.

	"The tooth," Yueh muttered. "Why?" Leto whispered.

	Yueh lowered himself onto his knees beside the Duke. "I made a bargain with the Baron. It's probable he fulfilled his half of it, but I must be certain. When I see him, I will know. When I look at him, then I will know. And I will never enter his presence, even at a distance, without you as the price. But I will know when I see him. My Wanna taught me many things, and one is to see a certainty of truth when the stress is great enough. I cannot do it always, but I am sure I will know when I see the Baron."

	"If you're ..."

	"Quiet! Do not waste your strength. Hah!" The purple lips turned up in a grimace. "I will not get close enough to the Baron, of this I am sure. I will be detained at a safe distance. Be sure of this. But you ... ah, now! You! He will want you close to him, to gloat over you, and boast. Suitably drugged and restrained, of course."

	Leto found himself almost hypnotized by a muscle on the left side of Yueh's jaw. The muscle twisted when the man spoke.

	Yueh leaned closer. "And you, my good Duke, my precious Duke, must remember this tooth. It will be all that remains to you."

	Leto's mouth moved without sound, then: "If ... I... refuse?"

	"In return for the tooth"—Yueh glanced down the hall, back to Leto—"in return, I will do a thing for you. I will save your son and your woman. No other can do it. They can be removed to a place where no Harkonnen can reach them."

	Leto felt a sensation of fire in his throat, pressed the words out. "How … do … I… know … you ..."

	"That I'll carry out my part of the bargain? You know I'll do it. I wish only to kill a Harkonnen. You? You already were doomed."

	"Too much is concentrated against you, Duke Leto. You must believe it. Most of the CHOAM Company directors resent your inclusion amongst them. The Emperor does not permit possible rivals to live. And there're the Great Houses who resent your easy ways. You weren't wise to refuse marital alliance, you know."

	He touched Leto's jaw, and there was a sensation of coldness in the jaw. "Oh, I know that's why you've never married your Lady. But it wasn't wise. Some people believe all non-friends are enemies, and the only friends are those of family alliance."

	"How ... save ... them?" Leto whispered.

	"By making it appear they're dead. By secreting them among people who spit at the name of Harkonnen, who hate the Harkonnens so much they'll burn a chair in which a Harkonnen has sat, salt the ground over which a Harkonnen has walked. Can you feel anything in your jaw?"

	The Duke found that he could not answer. He sensed a distant tugging, saw Yueh's hand come up with the Ducal signet ring.

	"For Paul," Yueh said. "You will be unconscious presently. Good-by, my poor Duke. When next we meet we'll have no time for more conversation."

	Cool remoteness spread upward from Leto's jaw, across his cheeks. The hall narrowed to a pinpoint with Yueh's purplish lips centered in it.

	"Remember the tooth!" Yueh hissed. "The tooth!"

Chapter Nineteen

There .should be a science of discontent. People need fiord times and oppression to develop psychic muscles.
"Collected Sayings of Muad'Dib" 
by The Princess Irulan

	Jessica awoke in the dark, feeling first a premonition in the stillness around her. She could not understand why her mind felt so sluggish. Skin raspings of fear ran along her nerves. She thought of sitting up and turning on the light, but something kept her from it ... and her mouth felt... strange.

	"Lump-lump-lump-lump!"

	It was a dull sound, directionless in the dark.

	The waiting moment was packed with time, with rustling needle-stick movements.

	She began to feel her body, grew aware of bindings on wrists and ankles, a gag in her mouth. She was on her side, hands tied behind her.

	Now, she remembered.

	There had been movement in the darkness of her bedroom, something wet and pungent slapped against her face, filling her mouth, hands grasping her. She had gasped—one indrawn breath—sensing the narcotic in the wetness. Consciousness had receded, sinking her into a black bin of terror.

	She tested her bonds. They were adhesive, tight.

	It has come, she thought.

	Slowly, she marshaled the inner calmness.

	She grew aware of the smell of stale sweat with its chemical infusion of fear. Where is Paul? she asked herself. My son—what have they done to him?

	Calmness.

	But terror was so near. Leto? Where are you, Leto?

	She sensed a first diminishing of the dark. It began with shadows. Dimensions separated, became new thorns of awareness. White—a line under a door.

	I'm on the floor.

	Movement. She heard it through the floor.

	She squeezed back the memory of terror. I must remain calm, alert and prepared. I may get only one chance. She forced the inner calmness.

	The ungainly thumping of her heartbeats evened, shaping out time. She counted back. I was unconscious about an hour. She closed her eyes, focused her diffused awareness onto the approaching sounds.

	Footsteps. She counted the different ones. Four people.

	With the returned calm, her awareness grew. I must pretend I'm still unconscious. She relaxed against the cold hardness of the floor, testing her body's readiness.

	She heard a door open, sensed the increased light through her eyelids.

	Feet approached, someone standing over her.

	"You are awake," rumbled a basso voice. "Do not pretend."

	She opened her eyes.

	It was the cellar room where Paul had slept. She saw his cot at one side—empty. Suspensor lamps were brought in, distributed near the open door. There was a glare of light in the hallway that hurt her eyes.

	The Baron Valdimir Harkonnen stood over her. He wore a yellow cape that bulged over his portable suspensors. The fat cheeks were two cherubic mounds beneath spider-black eyes.

	"The drug was timed," he rumbled. "We knew to the minute when you would be coming out of it."

	How could that be? she asked herself. They'd have to know my exact weight, my metabolism, my ... Yueh!

	"Such a pity that you must remain gagged," the Baron said. "We could have such a very interesting conversation."

	Yueh's the only one, she thought. How could it be?

	The Baron glanced behind him at the door. "Come in, Piter."

	She had never before seen the man who entered and stood beside the Baron, but the face was vaguely familiar —narrow and with hawk features. The blue-ink eyes suggested he was a native of Arrakis, but subtleties of movement and stance told her otherwise. And his flesh was too well firmed with water. He was tall, though, and slender, and something about him suggested effeminance.

	"Such a pity we cannot have our conversation, my dear Lady Jessica," the Baron said. "However, we're aware of your abilities." He glanced at the other man. "Aren't Ave, Piter?"

	"As you say, Baron," the man said.

	The voice was tenor, and it touched her spine with a wash of coldness. She had never heard such a chill voice. To one with the Bene Gesserit training, that voice screamed: Killer!

	"For Piter, I have a surprise," the Baron said. "He thinks he has come here merely to collect his reward—you, Lady Jessica. But I wish to demonstrate a thing—that he does not really want you."

	"You play with me. Baron?" Piter asked, and he smiled.

	Seeing the smile, Jessica wondered that the Baron did not leap to defend himself from this Piter. Then she inwardly corrected herself. The Baron could not read that smile. He did not have the Training.

	"In many ways Piter is quite naive," the Baron said. "He does not admit to himself what a deadly creature you are, Lady Jessica. I could show him, but it would be a foolish risk." The Baron smiled at Piter, whose face had become a waiting mask. "I know what Piter really wants. Piter wants power. And I am prepared to give him power."

	"You promised me that I could have her," Piter said. The tenor voice had lost some of its cold reserve, and took on a subtle tremor.

	Jessica, having studied the man, allowed herself an inward gasp. He's a Mentat! How could he make such an animal out of a Mentat, this Baron?

	"And I always keep my promises," the Baron said. "I give you a choice, and if it remains your wish, you shall have her."

	"What choice?"

	The Baron snapped his fat fingers. "This woman and exile from the Imperium, or the Duchy of Atreides on Arrakis to rule as you see fit in my name."

	Jessica watched the Baron's spider eyes study Piter.

	"You could be a Duke here in all but name," the Baron said.

	Is Leto dead then? Jessica asked herself. She felt a silent wail begin somewhere in her mind.

	The Baron kept his attention on Piter. "Do you not understand yourself, Piter? You want this woman because she was a Duke's woman. She is a symbol of his power—beautiful, useful, exquisitely trained for her role. But an entire Duchy, Piter, is not just a symbol; it is reality. With it you could have many women. Not this woman, but others as desirable."

	"You do not joke with Piter?"

	The Baron turned toward Piter with that dancing lightness the suspensors gave his gross figure. "I do not joke. Remember—I am giving up the boy. You heard what the traitor said about the lad's training. Well, Piter?" The Baron smiled. "I must go now, but first I will send in a special guard. He is stone deaf. He has orders to convey you on the first leg of your journey into exile. His orders are to subdue this woman if he sees her gain control of you. He will not permit you to untie her gag until you are off Arrakis."

	"You don't have to leave," Piter said. "I have chosen."

	"Ah, hah!" the Baron said. "Such a quick decision can mean only one thing."

	"I will take the Duchy," Piter said.

	And Jessica thought: Doesn't this Piter know the Baron has been lying to him? But ... how could he know. He's only a twisted Mentat.

	The Baron glanced down at Jessica. "Is it not wonderful that I know Piter so well? I wagered with my Master at Arms that such would be Piter's choice. Hah! Well, I shall leave now. This is much better. Ah, much better. You understand, Lady Jessica. I hold no rancor toward you. It is a necessity. And much better this way. Yes. I shall not order you destroyed. When it is asked of me what happened to you, I can shrug it off in all truth."

	"You leave it to me?" Piter asked.

	"Whatever is done I leave to you," the Baron said. He stared at Piter. "Yes. There will be no blood on my hands here. It is your decision. I know nothing of it. To be sure of this, you will wait until I have gone. Well... ah, yes. Yes. Good."

	He fears the questioning of a Truthsayer, Jessica thought. Who? Ahhh, the Reverend Mother Gaius Helen, of course! If he knows he must face her questions, then the Emperor is in this dirtiness for certain. Ahhh, my poor Leto!

	With a last glance at Jessica, the Baron turned, went out the door. She followed him with her eyes, thinking: It's as the Reverend Mother warned us—too potent an adversary.

	Two troopers in Harkonnen livery came in the door. Another trooper, his face a scarred mask, followed the pair, stood in the doorway with drawn handgun.

	The deaf one, Jessica thought. She looked at the scarred face. He's the one they'll order to kill me. That diabolical Baron! He knows I could use the Voice on any other man.

	Scarface glanced at Jessica, lifted his attention to Piter, spoke in a flat voice. "We have the boy on a litter outside. What are your orders?"

	Piter spoke to Jessica. "I had thought of binding you to me by threatening your son, but now I suspect that might not have worked. It's as the Baron said. I let emotion cloud my reason. Bad policy for a Mentat." He looked at the first pair of troopers. "This is the way of it, then: Take them into the desert. Their bodies must never be found."

	"You don't wish to dispatch them yourself?" one of the troopers asked.

	They know him, Jessica thought.

	"I follow my Baron's example," Piter said. "You heard where the traitor said to dispose of the bodies?" "We heard."

	"A worm must get all the evidence," Piter said. "We know."

	And Jessica heard the harsh Mentat control in Piter's voice. He, too, fears the Truthsayer, she thought.

	Piter shrugged, turned and went through the doorway. He hesitated there, and Jessica thought he might turn back for a last look at her, but he went out without turning.

	"Leaves it to us to do the dirty work," said one of the troopers. "Just like him." He aped Piter's voice: "Their bodies must never be found. Does he think we don't know what's going on?"

	"You ain't ever likely to run into that old witch," the other trooper said. He went around to Jessica's head, bent over her. "And it ain't getting our work done by standing around here chattering. Take her feet and ..."

	 "Whyn't we kill both of 'em here?" the other asked.

	"Too messy," the first one said. "Unless you wants to strangle 'em. Me, I likes a nice straightforward job. Drop 'em on the desert, cut 'em once or twice, leave the evidence for the worms. Nothing to clean up afterwards."

	"Yeah ... well, I guess you're right," the other said.

	Jessica listened to the voices, watched the men, registering. But the gag blocked her Voice, and there was the deaf one to consider.

	They lifted her like a sack of grain, maneuvered her through the doorway and dumped her onto a suspensor-buoyed litter with another bound figure. As they turned her, fitting her to the litter, she saw her companion's face —Paul! He was bound, but not gagged. His face was no more than ten centimeters from hers, eyes closed, breathing even.

	Is he drugged? she wondered.

	The troopers lifted the litter, and Paul's eyes opened the smallest fraction—dark slits staring at her.

	He mustn't try his Voice! she prayed. The deaf guard! Paul's eyes closed.

	He had been practicing the awareness-breathing, calming his mind, listening to their captors. The deaf one posed a problem, but Paul could not give himself up to despair. The mind-calming Bene Gesserit regimen his mother had taught him kept him poised, ready to expand any opportunity.

	Paul allowed himself another slit-eyed inspection of his mother's face. She appeared unharmed. Gagged, though.

	He wondered who could have captured her. His own captivity was odd enough—to bed with a medical capsule prescribed by Dr. Yueh, awakening to find himself bound to a litter. Perhaps a similar thing had befallen his mother. He had his own suspicions about the traitor now —Yueh. Logic said it could be no other. There was no understanding it yet, but understanding would come in time ... if they lived.

	The litter tipped slightly as the Harkonnen troopers maneuvered it through a door into the starlighted night. A suspensor bulb grated against the doorway. Then they were on sand, feet grating in it. A 'thopter wing loomed over them. The litter settled to the ground.

	Paul's eyes adjusted to starlight. He recognized the deaf trooper as the man opened the 'thopter door, peered inside.

	"This is one of them little liaison jobs," the deaf man rasped. "Ain't room in there for all of us."

	One of the other troopers moved up close to the deaf one, presenting his lips for reading. "Czigo an' me, we can take care of it from here on."

	"The Baron he told me to make sure about them two," the deaf one said.

	"You think we can't do in a woman and a boy?" the trooper demanded. There was anger in his voice. "An' them tied?"

	The deaf one said: "Well..."

	"What you so worried about?" the trooper demanded.

	"You will not remove her gag?" the deaf trooper asked. "If you say," the trooper said.

	"She is a Bene Gesserit witch," the deaf trooper said. "They have powers."

	"Ahhhh ..." The other trooper made the sign of the fist at his ear. "One of those, eh? Know watcha mean."

	The trooper by the door grunted. "She'll be worm meat soon enough. Don't suppose even a Bene Gesserit witch has powers against one of them big worms. Yee-up." He crossed to the litter, bent over Jessica's head. "C'mon Czigo. Let's get this done."

	With a casual efficiency, Jessica and Paul were jammed into the rear of the 'thopter, strapped down. Jessica recognized the 'thopter: one of the Duke's own and newly converted for desert reconnaissance.

	The two troopers climbed into the front of the 'thopter, and the deaf man leaned across the controls on the left, peered up at the one who would pilot the craft.

	"You will not remove the gag?"

	"Don't worry your head none," the trooper said. "Now, stand clear."

	The deaf one withdrew; the door slammed.

	They took off in swift, wing-tucked surge, and the 'thopter settled into a swooping rhythm, headed south over the Shield Wall. The trooper at the controls said: "Best we don't use the jets for a while. Why'n't you turn around and keep an eye on them two?"

	"Sure. You know the way?"

	"I listened to the traitor same's you. Now keep your eye on them two."

	The other guard swiveled his seat. Jessica saw the glint of starlight on a lasgun in his hand. The light-walled interior of the 'thopter seemed to collect illumination as her eyes adjusted, but the trooper's face remained in shadows. Jessica cautiously tested the seat belt, found it loose. She felt a roughness in the strap against her left arm, realized the strap had been almost cut through, would snap at any sudden jerk. In that instant, she discerned on the ceiling, scrawled large and easily visible in the dim light of the instrument panel, Yueh's house-sign. Yueh! She twisted slowly to bring her feet clear of Paul's.

	"Sure do seem a shame to waste a good looking woman like that," the trooper facing them said. "Sure do seem a shame. Never had me no highborn types. You ever?"

	"Bene Gesserits ain't all highborn," the pilot said.

	"Yeah, but they all looks heighty."

	And Jessica thought: It just may be possible. Certainly he can see me here plain enough. She brought her bound legs up onto the seat, curled into a sinuous ball, staring at the guard.

	"Real pretty, she is," the trooper said. He wet his lips with his tongue. "Sure do seem a shame."

	"You thinking what I think you're thinking?" the pilot asked.

	"Who'd be to know?" the guard asked. "Afterwards ..." He shrugged. "I just never had me no high-borns. And I might never get a chance like this one again."

	"You lay a hand on my mother ..." Paul grated. He glared at the guard.

	"Hey!" The guard laughed. "Cub's got a bark. He ain't got no bite, though."

	And Jessica thought: Paul's pitching his Voice too high! It may work, though.

	The 'thopter banked over the southern rim of the Shield Wall, and Jessica saw a shadowed expanse of sand beneath them.

	"This oughta be far enough," the pilot said. He dipped the craft toward the sand in a long, falling stoop, brought it up stiffly over the dunes.

	Jessica saw Paul begin taking the rhythmic breaths of the calming exercise. He closed his eyes, opened them. Jessica stared, helpless to aid him. He hasn't mastered the Voice yet, she thought. If he fails ...

	The 'thopter touched sand with a soft lurch, and Jessica, looking north back across the Shield Wall saw a shadow of wings settle out of sight up there.

	Someone's following us! she thought. Who? Then— The deaf one, of course. He's the only one who knows about us.

	Their pilot shut off his wing rotors. Silence flooded in upon them.

	"What you say?" asked the guard.

	Jessica turned her head. She could see out the window beyond the guard a dim glow of light from a rising moon, a frosted rim of rock rising from the desert. Sandblast ridges streaked its sides.

	Paul cleared his throat.

	The pilot said: "I dunno, Czigo."

	"Ahh, look," said the guard. He reached out for Jessica's skirt.

	"Remove her gag," Paul commanded.

	Jessica felt the words rolling on the air. The tone, the timbre excellent—imperative very sharp. A slightly lower pitch would have been better, but it could still fall within this man's spectrum.

	The guard shifted his hand up to the band around Jessica's mouth, began untying it.

	"Stop that!" the pilot said. "You heard what.. "

	"Ah, shut your trap." the guard said. "Her hands're tied."

	''Don't you tell me to shut my trap," the pilot said. Jessica felt the binding around her mouth loosen. "I'll tell you anything I want," the guard said. He freed the knot. His eyes glittered as they studied Jessica.

	The pilot put a hand on the guard's arm. "Look, Czigo. No need to ..."

	Jessica twisted her neck, felt the bandage slip from around her mouth. She spat out the gag, pitched her voice in low, intimate tones. "Gentlemen! No need to fight over me."

	She saw them grow tense, knowing that in this instant they were convinced of the need to fight over her. Their disagreement now required no other reason. They were fighting over her in their minds.

	"You mustn't disagree," she said, seeing them draw farther apart, glance warily at each other. "Is any woman worth fighting over?"

	And by uttering the words, she made herself infinitely worth their fighting.

	Paul clamped his lips tightly together, forced himself to silence. There had been one chance for him to succeed with the Voice. Now ... everything depended on his mother, whose experience went so far beyond his.

	"Yeah," the pilot said. "No need to fight over ..."

	His hand flashed, chopping toward the guard's neck. The blow was met by a splash of metal that caught the arm and in the same motion slammed into the pilot's chest.

	The pilot grunted, sagged backward against his door.

	"Thought I was some dummy didn't know that trick," the guard muttered. He brought back his hand, revealing the knife. It flashed in reflected moonlight.

	"Now for the cub," the guard said. He leaned toward Paul with the knife.

	"No need for that," Jessica murmured.

	The guard hesitated.

	"Wouldn't you rather have me co-operative?" Jessica asked. "Give the boy a chance." Her lip curled in a sneer. "Little enough chance he'd have out there in the sand. Give him that chance"—she smiled—"and you could find yourself well repaid."

	The guard glanced left, right, returned his attention to Jessica. "I've heard me what can happen to a man on this desert," he said. "Boy might find the knife a kindness."

	"Is it so much I ask?" Jessica asked.

	"You're trying to trick me," the guard muttered.

	"I don't want to see my boy die," Jessica said. "Is that a trick?"

	The guard moved back, elbowed his door's latch. He grabbed Paul, dragged him across the seat, pushed him half out the door, held the knife poised. "What'll y' do, cub, if I cut y'r bonds?"

	"He'll leave here immediately and head for those rocks," Jessica said.

	"Is that what y'll do, cub?" the guard asked.

	Paul's voice was properly surly. "Yes."

	The knife moved down, slashed the bindings of his legs. He felt the hand on his back to hurl him down onto the sand, feigned a stumble against the door frame, and in turning as though to catch himself, lashed out with his right foot. The toe was aimed with a precision that did full credit to his long years of training. Almost every muscle of his body co-operated in the placement of it. The tip struck the soft part of the guard's abdomen just below the sternum, slammed upward with terrible force over the liver and through the diaphragm to crush the right ventricle of the man's heart.

	With one gurgling scream, the guard jerked backward across the seats. Paul, unable to use his hands, continued his tumble onto the sand, landing with a roll that took up the force and brought him back to his feet in one motion. He saw his mother moving in the cabin.

	Presently, Jessica joined him. She carried the guard's knife, stooped and slashed the bindings on Paul's hands.

	"I could've handled him," she said. "That was a foolish risk."'

	Paul chafed his wrists. Words rose up in his mouth-that his father had taught him it was a matter of honor with the Atreides to protect their women—but thought of his father brought a sharp sense of fear.

	"I saw the opening and used it," he said.

	She heard the harsh control in his voice, turned back to the 'thopter. Yueh's house sign on the cabin ceiling and a strange loose bundle beneath the pilot's seat that she had felt during the flight—she had to investigate them. She reached into the cabin, seeing the dead guard's feet close to her face, feeling dampness on the strange bundle as she withdrew it, and realizing that must be the pilot's blood.

	Paul stared around them, glimpsed a rock scarp lifting out of the desert like a beach rising from the sea, wind-carved palisades beyond it. He turned back as his mother lifted the bundle out of the 'thopter, saw that she was staring across the dunes tow aid the Shield Wall. He looked to see what drew her attention, saw another 'thopter swooping toward them, and realized they would not have time to clear the bodies out of their 'thopter and escape in it.

	"Run, Paul!" Jessica shouted. "It's the deaf one!"

Chapter Twenty

Arrakis teaches the attitude of the knife—chopping off what's incomplete and saying: "Now, it's complete because it's ended here."
"Collected Sayings of Muad-Dib"
by The Princess Irulan

	A man in Harkonnen uniform had skidded to a stop at the end of the hall, stared in at Yueh, taking in Mapes' body, the sprawled form of the Duke in a single glance. The man held a lasgun in his right hand. There was a casual air of brutality about him, a sense of toughness and poise that sent a shiver through Yueh.

	Sardaukar, he thought. A Bashar by the look of command about him. Probably one of the Emperor's own sent here to keep an eye on things. No matter what uniform they wear there's no disguising them.

	"You're Yueh," the man said. He looked speculatively at the Suk School ring on the doctor's hair, stared once at the diamond tattoo and then met Yueh's eyes.

	The doctor straightened beside the unconscious Duke, lowered his eyes. "I am Yueh."

	"You can relax, Yueh," the man said. "When you dropped the house shield we came right in. Everything's under control here. Is that the Duke?"

	"Yes."

	"Dead?"

	"Merely unconscious. I suggest you tie him."

	"Did you do for these others?" He glanced back down the main hall where Tuek's body lay, flicked his eyes over the sacklike form of Mapes.

	"More's the pity," Yueh muttered.

	"Pity!" the Sardaukar barked. He advanced, looked down at Leto. "So that's the great Red Duke."

	If I had doubts about what he is, that would end them, Yueh thought. Only the Emperor called the Atreides the Red Duke.

	The Sardaukar reached down, cut the red hawk insignia from Leto's uniform. "Little souvenir," he said. "Where's the Ducal signet ring?"

	"He doesn't have it on him," Leto said.

	"I can see that!" the Sardaukar snapped.

	Yueh stiffened, swallowed. If they press me, bring in a Truthsayer, they'll find out about Idaho.

	"Sometimes the Duke sent the ring with a messenger as token an order came directly from him." Yueh said.

	"Must be trusted messengers," the Sardaukar muttered.

	And Yueh thought: How else could I have convinced Idaho?

	"Aren't you going to tie him?" Yueh asked.

	"You recognize me, don't you," the Sardaukar said.

	Yueh nodded.

	"No matter," the Sardaukar said. "You'll not be telling anyone. How long did you say the Duke'll be unconscious?"

	"I didn't say." Yueh glanced at Leto. "Two hours or so, give or take a few minutes. I wasn't as precise with his dosage as I was for the woman and boy."

	The Sardaukar spurned the Duke with a toe. "This was nothing to fear even when armed, Yueh. When will the woman and boy awaken?"

	"About ten minutes."

	"So soon?"

	"I was told the Baron would be here immediately behind his men."

	"Correct," the Sardaukar said. "You will wait outside for him." He shot a hard stare at Yueh. "Now!"

	"What about..." Yueh glanced at Leto.

	"He'll be delivered to the Baron, all properly trussed like a roast ready for the oven." Again, the Sardaukar looked at the diamond tattoo on Yueh's forehead. "You'll be safe in the halls, Yueh. We were all told how to recognize you." His voice grew colder. "We've no more time for chatting, traitor. I hear the others coming."

	He calls me traitor with a sneer in his voice, Yueh thought. He lowered his gaze, pressed past the trooper, obeying the order to leave. Traitor, Yueh thought. And he knew that this was a foretaste of how he would be remembered.

	Slowly, Yueh walked toward the front entrance. He passed more bodies and Harkonnen guards who stared after him. He ignored all.

	I must get the 'thopter, put the Ducal signet in the Fremkit, Yueh thought. They must know I tell the truth now. And a fear struck him.

	If Idaho is impatient, Yueh thought, if he doesn't wait and do exactly as I told him, Jessica and Paul will not be saved from this carnage. And if they aren't saved, I'll be denied even the smallest relief from this treachery.

	He saw himself abruptly as cast away in this place of destruction, spared nothing, given not the smallest pity. Idaho must not fail, he thought. And I must be cautious and certain. It's their only chance.

	Hesitantly, every step betraying his inward battle for calmness, Yueh emerged from the house into flame-lighted night. The palms along the road had been fired to illuminate the house. Black smoke from the flammable used to ignite them poured upward through the flames.

	A Harkonnen trooper grabbed Yueh's arm.

	"It's the traitor," someone said. "Have him wait over there."

	"The Baron wants to see you, traitor," another voice said.

	Even when they've profited by me they despise me, Yueh thought. He straightened himself as he was pushed aside, regained some of his dignity. "And I want to see the Baron," he said.

	"Yeah," someone laughed. "For what he must be paying you for this job, I don't blame you."

	Yueh managed a knowing smile, walked with controlled casualness around the stone front of the house, entered the shadows away from the burning palms. Quickly, he made for the rear yard beneath the conservatory where the 'thopter waited, and one they had placed there to carry away Paul and his mother.

	A guard stood at the open rear door of the house, but his attention was focused on the lighted hall and men banging through there from room to room. How confident they were!

	Yueh hugged the shadows, worked his way around the 'thopter, eased open the door across from the guard. He felt under the front seats for the Fremkit, lifted its flap and slipped in the Ducal signet. He felt the crinkling of the spice paper on which he had written a note, pressed the ring into it, removed his hand and resealed the pack.

	Softly, Yueh closed the 'thopter door, worked his way back and around the house.

	Once more in the light of the blazing palm trees, Yueh pulled his cloak around him, stared at the flames. Soon, I will know, he thought. Soon, I will see the Baron and I will know. And the Baron—he will encounter a small tooth.

Chapter Twenty-One

There is a legend that the instant the Duke Leto Atreides died a meteor streaked across the skies above his ancestral palace on Caladan.
"Introduction to A Child's History of Muad'Dib"
by The Princess Irulan

	The Baron Valdimir Harkonnen stood at a viewpoint of the grounded lighter he was using as a command post. Out the port he saw the flame-lighted night of Arrakeen. His attention focused on the distant Shield Wall where his secret weapon was doing its work.

	Explosive artillery.

	The guns nibbled at the caves where the Duke's fighting men had retreated for their last ditch stand. Slowly measured bites of orange glare, showers of rock and dust in the brief illumination—and the Duke's men were being sealed off to die by starvation, caught like animals in burrows.

	The Baron could feel the distant chomping—a drumbeat carried to him through his ship's metal: broomp ... broomp. Then: BROOMP-broomp!

	Who would think of reviving the use of artillery in this day of shields? The thought was a chuckle in his mind. But it was predictable the Duke's men would run for those caves. And the Emperor will appreciate my cleverness in preserving the lives of our mutual force.

	He adjusted one of the little suspensors that guarded his fat body against the pull of gravity. A smile creased his mouth, pulled at the lines of his jowls.

	A pity to waste such fighting men as the Duke's, he thought. Then he smiled more broadly, laughing at himself. Pity should be cruel! He nodded. A failure was, by definition, expendable. The whole universe sat there, open to the man who could make the right decisions. The uncertain rabbits had to be exposed, made to run for their burrows. Else how could you control and breed them? He pictured his fighting men as bees routing the rabbits. And he thought: The day hums sweetly when you have enough bees working for you.

	A door opened behind him. The Baron studied the reflection in the black viewport before turning.

	Piter advanced into the chamber followed by Umman Kudu, the captain of the Baron's personal guard.

	The Baron turned.

	Piter touched finger to forelock in his half mocking salute. "Good news, M'Lord. The Sardaukar have brought in the Duke."

	"Of course they have," the Baron rumbled.

	And he studied the sober mask of villainy on Piter's effeminate face. And the eyes: those shaded slits of bluest blue-in-blue.

	Some day soon I must remove him, the Baron thought. He has almost outlasted his usefulness, almost reached a point of positive danger to my person. First, though, he must make the people of Arrakis hate him. Then ... they will welcome my darling Feyd-Rautha as a savior.

	The Baron shifted his attention to the guard captain, Umman Kudu: scissor-line of jaw muscles, chin like a boot toe—a man to be trusted because the captain's vices were known.

	A man will do things for his vices he'd do on no other demand, the Baron thought.

	"First, where is the traitor who gave me the Duke?" the Baron asked. "Where is he? I must give the traitor his reward."

	Piter turned on one toe, motioned to the guard outside the door.

	A bit of black movement there and Dr. Yueh walked through. His motions were stiff and stringy. The mustache drooped beside purple lips. Only the old eyes seemed alive. He came to a stop three paces into the room, obeying a motion from Piter, and stood there staring across the open space at the Baron.

	"Ahhh, Dr. Yueh."

	"M'Lord Harkonnen."

	"You've given us the Duke, I hear."

	"My half of the bargain, M'Lord."

	The Baron looked at Dr. Yueh. "The letter of the bargain, eh? And I ..." He spat the words out: "What was I to do in return?"

	"You remember quite well, M'Lord Harkonnen."

	And Yueh allowed himself to think now, hearing the loud silence of clocks in his mind. He had seen in the subtle betrayals of the Baron's manner that Wanna was, indeed, dead, gone far beyond their reach. Otherwise, there'd still be a hold on the weak doctor. The Baron showed that he had no hold; it was ended.

	"Do I?" the Baron asked.

	"You promised to deliver my Wanna from the agony," said Dr. Yueh.

	The Baron nodded. "Oh, yes. Now, I remember. So I did. That was my promise. That was how we finally broke through your conditioning. You couldn't endure seeing your Bene Gesserit witch groveling in Piter's pain amplifiers. Not after we'd given you a taste of them, eh. Well, the Baron Valdimir Harkonnen always keeps his promises. I told you I would free her from her agony, and permit you to join her. So be it." He waved a hand to Piter.

	Piter's blue eyes took on a glazed look. His motion w as catlike in its sudden fluidity. The knife in his hand glistened like a claw as it flashed into Dr. Yueh's back.

	The old man stiffened, never taking his attention from the Baron.

	"So join her!" the Baron spat.

	Dr. Yueh stood, swaying. His lips moved with careful precision, and his voice came in an oddly measured cadence: "You ... think ... you ... de ... feated ... me. You ... think ... I ... did ... not ... know ... what ... I ... bought... for ... my ... Wanna."

	He toppled. No bending or softening. It was like a tree falling.

	"So join her," the Baron repeated. But his words were like a weak echo.

	Dr. Yueh had filled him with a sense of foreboding. He whipped his attention to Piter, watched the man wipe the blade on a scrap of cloth, watched the creamy look of satisfaction in the blue eyes.

	So he can kill by his own hand, the Baron thought. It's well to know.

	"He did give us the Duke?" the Baron asked.

	"Of a certainty, M'Lord," Piter said.

	"Then get him in here!"

	Piter glanced at the guard captain, who whirled to obey.

	The Baron looked down at Dr. Yueh. From the way the man had fallen, you could suspect oak in him instead of bones, he thought.

	"I never could bring myself to trust a traitor," the Baron said. "Not even a traitor I created."

	He glanced up at the night-shrouded viewport. That black bag of stillness out there was his, the Baron knew. There was no more crump of artillery against the Shield Wall's caves. The burrow traps were sealed off. Quite suddenly, the Baron's mind could conceive of nothing more beautiful than that utter emptiness of black. Unless it were white on the black. Plated white on the black. Porcelain white. But there was still the feeling of doubt.

	What had the old fool of a doctor meant? Of course, he'd probably known what would happen to him in the end. But that bit about thinking he had been defeated ... "You think you defeated me."

	The Duke Leto Atreides came through the door, his arms bound in chains, the eagle face streaked with dirt. His uniform was torn where someone had ripped off his insignia, and there were tatters at the waist where the shield belt had been removed without first freeing the uniform ties. The Duke's eyes held a glazed, insane look. "Welllll," the Baron said. He hesitated, drawing in a deep breath. He knew he had spoken too loudly. This moment, long envisioned, had lost some of its savor. That cursed doctor!

	"I believe the good Duke is drugged," Piter said. "That's how the doctor caught him for us." Piter turned to the Duke. "Aren't you drugged, my dear Duke?"

	The voice was far away. Leto could feel the chains, the ache of muscles, his own cracked lips, his burning cheeks, the dry taste of thirst whispering its grit in his mouth. But sounds were dull, hidden by a cottony blanket. And he saw only dim shape through the blankets.

	"What of the woman and the boy, Piter?" the Baron asked. "Any word, yet?"

	Piter glanced at the guard captain, back to the Baron. "The men who were sent to do the job, M'Lord. They've been found.'

	Well, what do they report?" They were dead, M'Lord."

	What had that meant?

	 The Baron's face went livid. "And the woman and the boy?"

	"No sign of them, M'Lord, but there was a worm ... it came while the scene was being investigated. Possibly..."

	"We do not deal in possibilities, Piter. What of the missing 'thopter? Does that suggest anything to you?"

	"One of the Duke's men escaped with it, M'Lord. Killed our pilot and escaped. That seems clear enough."

	"Which of the Duke's men?"

	"It was a clean, silent killing, M'Lord. Hawat, perhaps. Or that Halleck one. Possibly Idaho. Or any of their top lieutenants."

	"Possibilities," the Baron muttered. He glanced at the swaying, drugged figure of the Duke.

	"The situation is in hand, M'Lord," Piter said.

	"No it isn't! Where is that stupid planetologist? Where is this man, Kynes?

	"We have a report of where to find him and he has been sent for, M'Lord."

	"Where is the Ducal signet ring?" the Baron demanded. "His finger is bare!"

	"It was not on him when we took him, M'Lord," the guard captain said.

	"We killed the doctor too soon," the Baron said. "That was a mistake. You should have warned me, Piter."

	The thought hung like a sine wave in Leto's mind: Paul and Jessica have escaped! There was something else in his memory: a bargain. He could almost remember it.

	Someone had told him to remember the tooth. It was in his mouth. He could feel its shape with his tongue. All he had to do was bite sharply on it. But not yet! Someone had told him to wait until he was near the Baron. Who?

	"How long will he remain drugged like this?" the Baron asked.

	"Perhaps another hour, M'Lord."

	Reality faded into blackness for Leto ... then-There was a table. Leto saw the table quite clearly. And a gross fat man on the other side of the table, the remains of a meal in front of him. Leto felt himself sitting in a chair across from the fat man, felt the chains, the straps that held him into the chair. He knew time had passed. "I believe he's coming around, Baron." "So I see, Piter."

	Leto sensed increasing definition in his surroundings. The chair beneath him took on new firmness: the bindings that held him to the chair were sharper.

	And he saw the Baron Valdimir Harkonnen. Leto saw the movements of the man's hands: compulsive touchings —the edge of a plate, the handle of a spoon, a finger tracing the round fold of the jowls.

	"You can hear me, Duke Leto," the Baron said. "I know you hear me. We want to know from you where to find your concubine and the child you sired."

	No sign escaped Leto, but the words were like a wash of calmness through him. It's true, then, he thought. They don't have Paul and Jessica.

	"This is not a child's game we play with you," the Baron rumbled. "You must know that." He leaned toward Leto, studying the face. It pained the Baron that this could not be handled privately, just between the two of them. To have others see royalty in such straits—it set a bad precedent.

	Leto could feel strength returning swiftly. Now, the memory of the false tooth stood out in his mind. The nerve-shaped capsule within that tooth—the poison gas— he remembered who had put the deadly weapon in his mouth.

	Dr. Yueh.

	A drug-fogged memory of seeing a limp corpse dragged past him in this room hung like a vapor in Leto's mind.

	"Do you hear that noise, Duke Leto?" the Baron asked.

	Leto grew conscious of a frog sound, the burred mewling of someone's pain.

	"We caught one of your men disguised as a Fremen," the Baron said. "We penetrated the disguise quite easily. The eyes, you know. He tells us he was sent among the Fremen to spy on them. I've lived for a time on this planet, cher cousin. One does not spy on those ragged scum of the desert. Tell me, did you buy their help? Did you send your woman and your son among them?"

	Leto felt the fear tighten his chest. If Yueh sent Paul and Jessica among the desert folk ... the Harkonnens won't stop the search until they're found.

	"Come, come," the Baron said. "We do not have much time and pain is quick. Please don't bring it to this, my dear Duke." The Baron looked up at Piter who stood at Leto's shoulder. "Piter doesn't have all his tools here, but I'm sure he could improvise."

	"By all means, Baron."

	That silky, insinuating voice! Leto heard it behind him, next to his ear.

	"You had a plan in case we captured them," the Baron said. "Where have your woman and the boy been sent?"

	The Baron stared into Leto's eyes.

	"You don't answer," the Baron said. "Will you force me to do a thing I do not want to do? Piter will use simple, direct methods."

	Leto suddenly recalled a thing Gurney Halleck had once said, seeing a picture of this Baron he hated: "And I stood upon the sand of the sea and saw a beast rise up out of the sea ... and upon his heads the name of blasphemy."

	"We waste time, Baron," Piter said.

	"Perhaps." The Baron nodded. "You know, my dear Leto, that you will tell us in the end where they are. There's a level of pain that will buy your words."

	The Baron picked up a sliver of meat in his fingers, pressed the morsel into his mouth. He chewed slowly, swallowed. We must try a new tack, he thought.

	"Observe this prize person who denies he's for hire," the Baron said. "Observe him, Piter."

	And the Baron thought: Yes! See him there, this one who believes he cannot be bought. See him detained there by a million shares of himself he's sold in dribbles every second of his life! If you took him up now and shook him, he'd rattle inside. Emptied! Sold out! What difference how he dies now?

	The frog sounds in the background stopped. The Baron saw his guard captain, Umman Kudu, appear in the doorway across the room, shake his head. The captive had not produced the information they needed. Another failure. Time now to quit stalling with this fool Duke, this stupid soft fool who didn't realize how much hell there was so near him—just a nerve's thickness away.

	This thought calmed the Baron, overcoming his reluctance to have a royal person subjected to pain. He suddenly saw himself as a kind of surgeon, exercising endless supple scissor dissections—cutting the masks away from fools to expose the hell beneath. Rabbits, all of them! And how they cowered when they saw the carnivore!

	Leto stared across the table, wondering why he waited. The tooth would end it all quickly.

	"Too bad," the Baron muttered. He pushed himself back from the table, stood up in his suspensors, hesitated, seeing a change come over the Duke. He saw the man draw in a deep breath, the jawline stiffen, the ripple of a muscle there as the Duke clamped his mouth shut.

	How he fears me, the Baron thought.

	Leto, shocked by fear that the Baron might escape him, had bitten sharply on the capsule tooth, felt it break. He opened his mouth, expelled the biting vapor he could taste as it formed on his tongue. The Baron seemed to grow smaller, a figure seen in a tightening tunnel. Leto heard a gasp beside his ear—the silky-voiced one: Piter. It got him, too!

	"Piter? What's wrong?"

	The rumbling voice was far away.

	Leto sensed memories rolling in his mind like toothless mutterings. The room, the table, the Baron, a pair of terrified eyes—blue within blue—all compressing around him in ruined symmetry. There was a man with a boot-toe chin, a toy man falling. The toy man had a broken nose slanted to the left: an offbeat metronome caught forever at the start of an upward stroke. Leto heard the crash of crockery—so distant—a roaring in his ears. His mind was a bin without end, catching everything. Everything that had ever been—every shout, every whisper, every ... silence.

	One thought remained to him. Leto saw it in formless light on rays of black: The day the flesh shapes and the flesh the day shapes. The thought struck him with a sense of fullness that he knew he could never explain.

	Silence.

	The Baron Harkonnen stood with his back against his private door, his own bolt hole behind the table. He had slammed it on a room full of dead men. His senses took in guards swarming around him. Did I breathe it? he asked himself.

	Sounds returned to him and reason. He heard someone shouting orders—gas masks ... keep a door closed ... get blowers going.

	The others fell quickly, he thought. I'm still standing. I'm still breathing. Merciless hell! That was close!

	He could analyze it now. His shield had been activated, set low but still enough to slow molecular interchange across the barrier. And he had been pushing himself away from the table ... that and Piter's shocked gasp which had brought the guard captain darting forward into his own doom. Chance and the warning in a dying mans gasp—these had saved him.

	But the Baron felt no gratitude to Piter. The fool had got himself killed. And that stupid guard captain! He'd said he scoped everyone before bringing them into the Baron's presence! How had it been possible for the Duke ... Well, no matter, the Baron thought, his mind firming. The next guard captain will begin by finding an answer to that question.

	He grew aware of more activity around a corner of the metallic corridor—around there at the other door to that room of death. The Baron pushed himself away from his own door, studied the lackeys around him. They stood there, staring, silent, waiting for his reaction. Would the Baron be angry? And he realized that only a few seconds had passed since his flight from that room.

	Some of the guards had weapons leveled at the door. Some were directing their ferocity toward the empty hall that stretched away to the right.

	A man came striding around the corner from the opposite direction, gas mask dangling by its strap at his neck, his eyes intent on the overhead poison snoopers that lined the corridor. He was a yellow-haired man, flat face and green eyes, crisp lines radiating from a thick-lipped mouth. He looked like some water creature misplaced among those who walked the dry land.

	The Baron stared at the approaching man, recalling the name: Nefud. Iakin Nefud. Guard corporal. Nefud was addicted to scmuta, the drug-music combination that played itself in the deepest consciousness. A useful item of information, that.

	The man stopped in front of the Baron, saluted. "The corridors are clear, M'Lord. I was outside the door, watching, and saw that it must be poison gas. Ventilators in your room were pulling air from these corridors." He glanced at the snooper over the Baron's head. "None of the stuff escaped. We have the room cleaned out now. What are your orders?"

	The Baron recognized the voice that had been shouting orders. Efficient, this corporal, he thought. Well, we must adjust.

	"First," the Baron said, "let me congratulate you, Nefud. You are the new captain of my guard. And I hope you will take to heart the lesson to be learned from the fate of your predecessor."

	The Baron watched awareness grow in the face of the newly promoted guardsman. Nefud knew he would never again be without his semuta.

	Nefud nodded. "My Lord knows I will devote myself entirely to his safety."

	"Yes. Well, as to my orders. The Duke had something in his mouth, I suspect. You will find out what it was, how it was used, who helped him put it there. You will take every precaution to ..."

	He stopped, his chain of thought broken by a disturbance in the corridor behind him—guards at the lift from the lower levels of the lighter trying to hold back a tall colonel who had just emerged from the lift with them.

	The Baron couldn't place the colonel's face: thin-featured, eyes like twin ink spots, mouth like a slash in leather.

	"Get your hands off me you pack of carrion-eaters!" the man roared, and he dashed the guards aside, strode toward the Baron. "I came to see you, Baron!"

	Ahhh, one of the Sardaukar, the Baron thought. His eyes went to slits, studying the approaching man.

	The man stopped, planting himself half a pace in front of the Baron, hands on hips. The guard hovered him in twitching uncertainty.

	The Baron noted the lack of salute, the disdainful manner of the Sardaukar, and his unease grew. There was only one Legion of them in Arrakeen, but the Baron did not fool himself. That one Legion was perfectly capable of turning on the Harkonnen mercenaries and overcoming them.

	"I came to see you, Baron," the colonel snapped. "One of our platoons brought the Atreides Duke before I could discuss it with you."

	I must not lose face in front of my men, the Baron thought.

	"My Emperor has charged me to make certain that his royal cousin dies swiftly and cleanly, without agony," the colonel said.

	The Padishah Emperor does not trust me, the Baron thought.

	"Such were the Imperial orders to me," the Baron lied. "Did you think I would disobey?"

	"My duty is only to act on my Emperor's orders," the colonel said.

	"The Duke is already dead," the Baron said, and he waved a hand to dismiss the fellow.

	The colonel remained planted facing the Baron. Not by a flicker of the eyes or muscles did he acknowledge that he had been dismissed. "How?" he growled.

	Really! the Baron thought. This is too much.

	"By his own hand, if you must know," the Baron snapped. "He took poison."

	"I will see with my own eyes," the colonel said.

	The Baron raised his gaze to the ceiling in feigned exasperation while his thoughts raced. Damnation! This sharp-eyed Sardaukar beast would see the room before a thing had been changed!

	There was no helping it, the Baron realized. The Sardaukar would see all. He'd know that the Duke killed Harkonnen men in dying ... that the Baron most likely had escaped by a narrow margin. There was the evidence of the plate on the table, the just completed meal, and the dead Duke across the table with destruction around him.

	"I will not be put off!" the colonel snarled.

	"You're not being put off," the Baron said, and he stared into the obsidian eyes of the Sardaukar. "I hide nothing from my Emperor." He nodded to Nefud. "The colonel is to see everything. At once. Take him in by the door where you stood, Nefud."

	"This way, colonel," Nefud said.

	Slowly, insolently, the colonel moved around the Baron, shouldering a way through the guardsmen.

	Insufferable, the Baron thought. Now, the Emperor will know how I slipped up. He will recognize it as a sign of weakness.

	And it was an agonizing thing to realize that the Padishah Emperor and his Sardaukar were alike in their disdain for weakness. At least they hadn't learned of the Atreides raid on Giedi Prime, the destruction of the spice stores there.

	The Baron watched the retreating backs—the arrogant Sardaukar and the stocky, efficient Nefud.

	We must adjust, the Baron thought. I will have to put Rabban over this planet once more. Without restraint. I must spend him, my own Harkonnen blood, to put Arrakis into a proper condition for accepting Feyd-Rautha.

	The Baron sighed.

	And I must send at once to Tielax for a new Mentat. They must have one ready for me by now. One of the guardsmen beside him coughed. The Baron turned toward the man. "I am hungry." "Yes, My Lord."

	"And clear out this room and study its secrets for me," the Baron rumbled.

	The guardsman lowered his eyes. "Yes, M'Lord."

	"I will be in my resting chambers."

	The Baron turned away, began moving ponderously toward his chambers.

Chapter Twenty-Two

O, Seas of Caladan, 
O, people of Duke Leto— 
Citadel of Leto fallen, 
Fallen forever ...
"Songs of Muad'Dib" 
by The Princess Irulan 

	Paul felt that all his past, every experience before this night, had become sand curling in an hourglass. He sat near his mother hugging his knees in a small fabric and plastic hutment—a stilltent—that had come like the Fremen clothing they now wore from the pack left in the 'thopter. And there was no doubt who had put it there, who had directed where the 'thopter carrying them as captives should go. Yueh!

	The traitor-doctor had sent them directly into the hands of a trusted friend—Duncan Idaho.

	Paul stared out the transparent end of the stilltent at the moonshadowed rocks which ringed this place where Idaho had hidden them. Hiding like a child when I am now the Duke, he thought, and felt the thought gall him.

	He could not deny the wisdom in what they did, though. Something had happened to his awareness this night—he saw with sharpened clarity every circumstance and occurrence around him. He felt unable to stop the inflow, of data nor the cold precision with which each new item was added to his knowledge and the computation centered in his awareness.

	Paul thought back to the moment of impotent rage as the strange 'thopter dived out of the night onto them, stooping like a giant hawk above the desert with the wind screaming through its wings. The thing in his mind had happened then. The 'thopter had skidded and slewed across a sand ridge toward the running figures—his mother and himself.

	His mother, he knew, had turned, expecting to meet a lasgun in the hands of the deaf guard, and had recognized Duncan Idaho leaning out of the open door, shouting: "Hurry! There's a wormsign south of you!"

	But Paul had known as he turned who piloted the 'thopter. An accumulation of minutae in the way it was flown, the dash of the landing—clues so small that even his mother could not detect them—had told Paul precisely who sat at these controls.

	Across the stilltent from Paul, Jessica stirred, said: "There can be only one explanation. The Harkonnens held Yueh's wife. He hated the Harkonnens! I cannot be wrong about that. You read his note. But why has he saved the two of us from this carnage?"

	She is only now seeing it, Paul thought, and the thought was a shock. He had known this as a by-the-way thing while reading the note that had accompanied the Ducal signet in the pack.

	"Do not try to forgive me," Yueh had written. "I do not want your forgiveness, for I already have enough burdens. What I have done I have done without malice nor hope of another's understanding. It is my own tahaddi al-burhan, my ultimate test. I give you the Atreides Ducal signet as token that I write truly. By the time you read this, Duke Leto will be dead. Take consolation from my assurance that he did not die alone, that one we hate above all others died with him."

	It had not been addressed or signed, but there was no doubt of the familiar scrawl—Yueh's.

	Remembering the letter, Paul re-experienced the distress of that moment—a thing sharp and strange that seemed to happen outside his new mental alertness. He had read that his father was dead, known the truth of the words, but had felt them as no more than another datum to be entered in his mind and used.

	I loved my father, Paul thought, and he knew this for truth. I should mourn him ... I should feel something.

	But he had felt nothing except: Here is an important fact.

	Gurney Halleck's words suddenly came back to Paul: "Mood's a thing for cattle or for making love. You fight when the necessity arises, no matter your mood."

	Perhaps that's it, Paul thought. I'll mourn my father later ... when there's time. But he could feel no letup in the cold precision of his being.

	He felt that his new awareness was only a beginning, that it was growing. The sense of Terrible Purpose that he had first experienced in his ordeal with the Reverend Mother Gaius Helen Mohiam pervaded him. His right hand—the hand of remembered pain, tingled and throbbed. Is this what it is to be their Kwisatz Haderach? he wondered.

	"For a while, I thought Hawat had failed us again," Jessica said. "I thought perhaps Yueh wasn't a Suk doctor, that he was a fake."

	"No," Paul said. "He was everything we thought him ... and more."

	Jessica nodded in the gray darkness of the tent. She stared at Paul across from her, a silhouette against moon-frosted rocks. "They chose their traitor well," she said "—an old man defenseless against bestiality, whose strongest tie had become that to his Bene Gesserit wife. He was tied to her by long years of tenderness and sharing. His school and its imprint were far behind. They reached him through his wife."

	Why is she so slow in seeing these things? Paul wondered. And he said: "If Idaho doesn't get through to that planetologist, we'll be ..."

	"He's not our only hope," she said.

	"Such was not my suggestion," he said.

	"Others among your father's men will have escaped," she said. "We must endeavor to regather them, to find ..."

	"We will depend upon ourselves," he said. "Our immediate concern is our Family atomics. We must get them before the Harkonnens can search them out."

	"Not likely they'll be found," she said, "the way they were hidden."

	"It must not be left to chance," he said.

	And she thought: Blackmail with the Family atomics as a threat to the planet and its spice—that's what he has in mind. But all he can hope for then is escape into renegade anonymity.

	His mother's words had provoked another train of thought in Paul—a Duke's concern for all the people they had lost this night. People are the true strength of a Great House, he thought. And he remembered Hawat's words: "Parting with people is a sadness. A place is only a place."

	"We must wait," Jessica said. "They're using Sardaukar. We must wait until the Sardaukar have been withdrawn. They cannot go on risking exposure of the Emperor's involvement in this."

	"Perhaps," Paul said. "But they think us caught between the desert and the Sardaukar, and they intend there to be no Atreides survivors—total extermination. Do not count on many of our people escaping."

	"Some are bound to."

	"Are they?"

	Jessica turned away, hearing the bitter strength in her son's voice—the precise assessment of chances. She sensed that his mind had leaped ahead of her, that it now saw more in some respects than she did. She had helped train the intelligence which did this, but she suddenly found herself afraid of it. Her thoughts turned, seeking toward the lost sanctuary of her Duke, and she felt tears burn her eyes.

	This is the way it had to be, Leto, she thought: "A time of love and a time of grief."

	"Try the communinet receiver again," Paul said. "See if the static has lowered."

	The mind goes on working no matter how we seek to hold it back, she thought. She found the tiny receiver Idaho had left them, flipped its switch. A green light glowed on the instrument's face, and a tinny screeching came from its speaker. She reduced the volume, hunted across the bands. A voice speaking the Atreides battle language came into the tent.

	"... Back and regroup at the ridge. Fedor reports no survivors in Carthag and the Guild Bank has been sacked."

	Carthag! Jessica thought. But that was a Harkonnen stronghold.

	"They're Sardaukar," the voice said. "Watch out for Sardaukar wearing Atreides uniforms. They're ..."

	A roaring filled the speaker, then silence.

	"Try the other bands," Paul said.

	"Do you realize what this means?" Jessica said.

	"Yes. I expected it. They mean for the Guild to blame us in the destruction of their bank. With the Guild against us, we're trapped on Arrakis. Try the other bands."

	Weighing his words—"I expected it" —Jessica returned to the instrument. As she moved the band slide, broken glimpses of violence emerged from a few voices calling out in the Atreides battle language—"... Fall back ..." "... Try to regroup at ..." "... Trapped in a cave at ..."

	And there was no mistaking the victorious exultation in the Harkonnen gibberish that poured from other bands. Sharp commands—battle reports. There wasn't enough of it for Jessica to register and break the language, but the tone was obvious.

	Harkonnen victory!

	Paul shook the pack beside him, hearing the two literjons of water gurgle there. He took a deep breath, looked up through the transparent end of the tent at the rock escarpment outlined against the stars. His left hand felt the sphincter-seal of the tent's entrance. "It'll be dawn soon," he said. "We can wait through the day for Idaho, but not through another night. In the desert you must travel by night and rest in shade through the day."

	Remembered lore insinuated itself into Jessica's mind: Without a stillsuit, a man sitting in shade on the desert needs five liters of water a day to maintain body weight. She felt the slick-soft skin of the stillsuit against her body, thinking how their lives depended on these garments.

	"If we leave here, Idaho cannot find us," she said.

	"There are ways of making any man talk," he said. "If Idaho hasn't returned by midnight, we must consider the possibility he has been captured."

	Paul opened the tab seal on the pack, lifted a tiny micro-manual with glow tab and magnifier from it. Green and orange letters leaped up at him from the pages: "literjons, stilltent, energy caps, recaths, sandsnork, binoculars, stillsuit repkit, baradye pistol, sinkchart, filt-plugs, paracompass, maker hooks, thumpers, Fremkit..." So many things for survival on the desert. Presently he put the manual aside on the tent floor.

	"Where can we possibly go?" Jessica asked.

	"My father spoke of desert power," Paul said. "The Harkonnens cannot rule this planet without it. They have never ruled this planet, nor shall they. Not even with ten thousand legions of Sardaukar."

	"Paul, you cannot think that ..."

	"We have all the evidence in our hands," he said. "Right here—this tent, this pack and its contents, these stillsuits. We know the Guild wants a prohibitive price for weather-control satellites. We know that ..."

	"What've weather-control sat ..." She broke off.

	Paul could sense the hyper-alertness of his mind reading her reactions, computing on minutae. "You see it now," he said. "Satellites watch the terrain below. There are things in the deep desert that will not bear frequent inspection."

	"You're suggesting that the Guild itself controls this planet?"

	"No ... the Fremen. They're paying the Guild for privacy, paying in a coin that's freely available to anyone with desert power—the spice. This is more than a first-approximation answer; it's the straight-line computation. You may depend on it."

	"Paul," Jessica said, "You're not yet a Mentat; you can't know for sure how ..."

	"I'll never be a Mentat," he said. "I'm something else ... a freak."

	"Paul! How can you say ..."

	"Leave me alone!" He turned away from her, looking out into the night. Why can't I mourn? he wondered. He felt that every fiber of his being wanted this release but that it would be denied him forever.

	Jessica had never heard such distress in her son's voice. She wanted to reach out to him, hold him, comfort him, to help him—but she sensed there was nothing she could do. He had to solve his problem by himself.

	The glowing tab of the Fremkit manual between them on the tent floor caught her eye. She lifted it, glanced at the flyleaf, reading: "Manual of 'The Friendly Desert,' the place full of life." She turned the page, read: "Here are the ayat and burhan of Life. Believe, and al-Lat will will never burn you."

	It reads like the Azhar Book, she thought. And she recalled the copy of it they had studied at school in the training on Great Secrets. Has a manipulator of religious been here? she wondered.

	"A strange manual," Paul said, "—both religious and practical."

	"It's like the Azhar Book," she said.

	"Here, they call it the Kitab al-Ibar," he said.

	Jessica turned another page, read: "God give us water in torrents that we may bring forth vegetation and grain and gardens luxuriant."

	How does he know what it's called here? she asked herself. Is it another of his prescient dreams?

	Paul lifted the paracompass from the pack, returned it, said. "Think of these artifacts, think of these suits we wear—think of these stillsuits as machines. All of these ... machines, show a sophistication unrivaled in our universe. They're special application machines superior in conception even to those of Tupile or Richessa. The Fremen culture behind them has depths no one has suspected."

	Hesitating, still worried by the harshness in his voice, Jessica returned her attention to the book in her hands, turned up an illustration—a constellation from the sky of Arrakis. The captain called it "Muad'Dib: The Mouse" and noted that the tail pointed north.

	Paul stared into the tent's darkness at the dimly discerned movements of his mother revealed by the manual's glowtab. Now is the time to carry out my father's wish, he thought. I must give her his message now while she has lime for grief. The grief would inconvenience us later. And he found himself shocked by the precise logic of the decision.

	"Mother," he said.

	"Yes?" She heard the change In his voice.

	"My father is dead," he said.

	She searched within herself for the coupling of fact and fact and fact ad infinitum—the Bene Gesserit Way of assessing data, and she felt the sensation of terrifying loss. Jessica nodded, unable to speak.

	"My father charged me once," Paul said, "to give you a message if anything happened to him. He feared that you might believe he distrusted you."

	Idaho and Hawat and that useless suspicion, she thought.

	"He wanted you to know that he never suspected you," Paul said, and explained the deception, adding: "He wanted you to know that he always trusted you completely, always loved you and cherished you. He said he would sooner mistrust himself and that he had one regret—that he had not made you his Duchess."

	She brushed at tears coursing down her cheeks, thought: What a stupid waste of the body's water! But she knew this thought for what it was—the attempt to retreat from grief into anger. Leto, my Leto, she thought. What terrible things ice do to those we love! With a violent motion, she extinguished the manual's glowtab.

	Sobs shook her.

	Paul heard his mother's grief and felt the emptiness within himself. I have no grief, he thought. Why? Why? He felt the inability as a terrible flaw.

	"A time to get and a time to lose" Jessica thought, quoting to herself from the OC Bible. "A time to keep and a time to cast away; a time to love and a time to hate; a time of war and a time of peace."

	But Paul's mind had gone on in its chilling precision. He saw the avenues ahead of them on this seemingly hostile planet. Without even the safety-valve of dreaming, he focused on his prescient awareness, seeing it as a computation of most-probable futures, but with something more, an edge of mystery, as though his mind dipped into some timeless stratum and sampled the winds of the future.

	Abruptly, as though he had found a necessary key.

	Paul's mind climbed another step in awareness. He felt himself clinging to this new level, clutching at some precarious hold and peering about. It was as though he existed within a globe with avenues radiating away in all directions ... yet this only approximated the sensation.

	He remembered once seeing a gauze kerchief blowing in the wind and now he sensed the future as though it twisted across some surface as undulant and impermanent as that of the windblown kerchief ... he saw Time blowing the kerchief. He saw people. He felt the heat and cold of uncounted probabilities. He knew names and places, experienced emotions without number, reviewed data of innumerable unexplored crannies. There was time to probe and test and taste ... but no time to shape.

	The thing was a spectrum of possibilities from the most remote past to the most remote future—from the most probable to the most improbable. He saw his own death in countless ways—he saw new planets, new cultures, people ... people ... in such swarms they could not be listed—yet his mind catalogued them.

	Even the Guildsmen.

	And he thought: The Guild—there would be a way for us—my strangeness a familiar thing to them and with a high value. But the idea of living out his life in the groping-ahead-through-possible-futures that guided hurtling spaceships appalled him. It was a way, though. In meeting the possible future that contained Guildsmen, he recognized his own strangeness—another kind of sight. 1 see another kind of terrain: the available paths.

	As swiftly as it had come, the sensation slipped away from him, and he realized that the entire experience had happened within the space of a heartbeat.

	Yet his own personal awareness had been turned over, illumined in a terrifying way. He stared around him.

	Night still covered their stilltent within its rock enclosed hideaway.

	His mother's grief could still be heard.

	His own lack of grief could still be felt... that hollow place somewhere separated from his mind which went on its steady pace—dealing with data, evaluating, computing, submitting answers. And now he saw that he had a wealth of data few such minds ever before had encompassed. But this made the empty place no easier to bear. He felt that something must shatter within him. It was as though a clockwork control for a bomb had been set to ticking within him. It went on about its business no matter what he wanted. It recorded minuscule shadings of difference around him—a slight change in moisture, a fractional fall in temperature, the progress of an insect across their tent roof, the solemn approach of dawn in the starlighted patch of sky he could see out the tent's transparent end.

	The emptiness was unbearable. Knowing how the clockwork had been set in motion made no difference. He could look to his own past and see the start of it—the training, the sharpening of talents, the refined pressures of sophisticated disciplines, even exposure to the OG Bible at a critical moment. And he could look ahead— the most terrifying direction—to sec where it all pointed.

	I'm a monster! he thought. A freak!

	"No," he said. Then: "No. No! NO!"

	He found that he was pounding the tent floor with his fists. (The implacable part of him recorded this as an interesting datum and fed it into computation.)

	"Paul!"

	His mother was beside him, holding his hands, her face a gray blob peering at him. "Paul, what's wrong?" "You!" he said.

	"I'm here, Paul," she said. "It's all right."

	"What have you done to me?" he demanded.

	In a burst of clarity, she sensed some of the roots in the question, said: "I gave birth to you."

	It was, from instinct as much as from her own subtle knowledge, the precisely correct answer to calm him. He felt her hands holding him, focused on the dim outline of her face.

	(Certain gene traces in her facial structure were noted in a new way by his onflowing-mind, the clues added to other new data, and a second-approximation answer put forward.)

	"Let go of me," he said.

	She heard the iron in his voice and obeyed. "Do you want to tell me what's wrong, Paul?"

	"Did you know what you were doing when you trained me?" he asked.

	There's no more childhood in his voice, she thought. And she said: "I hoped the thing any parent hopes—that you'd be ... superior ... different."

	"Different?"

	She heard the bitterness in his tone, said: "Paul, I ..." "You didn't want a son," he said, "you wanted a Kwisatz Haderach! You wanted a male Bene Gesserit!" "But, Paul ..."

	"Did you ever consult my father in this?"

	She spoke gently out of the freshness of her grief: "Whatever you are, Paul, the heredity is as much your father as me."

	"But not the training," he said. "Not the things that... awakened ... the ... sleeper."

	"Sleeper?"

	"It's here." He put his hands to his head and breast. "In me. It goes on and on and on ..." "Paul!"

	She had heard the hysteria at the edge of his voice.

	"Listen to me," he said. "You wanted the Reverend Mother to hear about my dreams. You listen in her place, now. I've just had a dream for you—a walking dream. Do you know why?"

	"You must calm yourself, Paul," she said. "If you have something you want to ..."

	"The spice," he said. "It's in everything here—the air, the soil, the food. The geriatric spice. It's a poison!"

	His voice lowered and he repeated: "A poison—so subtle, so insidious ... so irreversible. It won't even kill you unless you stop taking it. We cannot leave Arrakis unless we take part of Arrakis with us."

	The terrifying presence of his voice brooked no dispute.

	"You and the spice," Paul said. "What I inherited from you, what I learned from you—they met the spice and were changed."

	Then we are trapped here, she thought.

	No pressure of the Bene Gesserit, no trickery could pry them completely free from this place: the spice was addictive. And she accepted the truth of this. Her body had known the fact long before the mind awakened to it.

	So here we live out. our lives, she thought ... on this hell-planet. Well—the place has been prepared for us, if we can evade the Harkonnens. And there's no doubt of my course.

	"I must tell you about my waking dream," Paul said. (She heard fury in his voice.) "To be sure you accept the truth of what I say, let me tell you first a thing I know: you'll bear a daughter here on Arrakis. My sister."

	Jessica placed her hands against the tent floor, pressed back against the curving fabric wall to still a sudden pang of fear. She knew that her pregnancy could not show yet. Only her own Bene Gesserit training had allowed her to read the first faint signals of her body, to know of the embryo only a few weeks old.

	"Only To Serve," Jessica whispered, clinging to the Bene Gesserit motto. "We Exist Only To Serve."

	"We'll find a home among the Fremen," Paul said, "where your Missionaria Protectiva has bought us a bolt hole."

	They have prepared a way for us in the desert, Jessica told herself. But how can he know of the Missionaria Protectiva? She found it increasingly difficult to subdue her terror at the overpowering strangeness in Paul.

	He studied the dark shadow of her, seeing her fear and every reaction with his new awareness as though she were outlined in blinding light. A beginning of compassion for her crept over him.

	"The things that can happen here, I cannot begin to tell you," he said. "I cannot even begin to tell myself, although I've seen them. This sense of the future, this ... testing the probabilities ... I seem to have no control over it. The thing just happens. But the immediate future—say, a year—I can see some of that ... road as broad as our Central Avenue on Caladan. There are places, of course ... shadowed places ... as though it went behind a hill— and again he thought of the surface of a blowing kerchief— ... and there are branchings ..."

	He fell silent as memory of that seeing filled him. No prescient dream, no experience of his life had quite prepared him for the totality with which the veils had been ripped away to reveal naked Time. He recalled the experience, recognizing his own Terrible Purpose—the pressure of his life spreading outward like an expanding bubble and Time retreating before it.

	Jessica found the tent's glowtab control, activated it. Dim green light drove back the shadows, easing her fear. She looked at Paul's face, his eyes—the inward stare. And she knew where she had seen such looks before—pictured in records of disasters—on the faces of children who experienced starvation or terrible injury: eyes like pits, mouth a straight line, cheeks indrawn.

	It's the look of terrible awareness, she thought, of someone who has been forced to the knowledge of his own mortality.

	He was, indeed, no longer a child.

	The underlying import of his words began to take over in her mind, pushing fear farther aside. Paul could see ahead ... a way of survival for them among the desert people ... a way of escape from the Harkonnens.

	"There's a way to evade the Harkonnens." she said.

	"The Harkonnens!" he sneered. "Put them out of your mind. The twisted humans shall be untwisted and made to see themselves as they truly are. Do not fear the Harkonnens."

	And he thought: No, don't fear the Harkonnens; fear the Sardaukar. He stared at his mother, studying the lines of her face in the light of the glowtab.

	"It'd be foolish to treat the Harkonnens too lightly,"  she said. "And you shouldn't refer to people as humans without..."

	"Don't be so sure you know precisely where to draw the line across the spectrum," he said. "Above this point, human; below this point, animal. We carry our past with us. And, mother mine, there's a thing you do not know and should—we are Harkonnens."

	Her mind did a terrifying thing: it blanked out as though it needed to shut off all experience.

	"The Fremen have a saying they credit to Shai-hulud, Old Father Eternity," Paul said. "They say: 'You cannot clap with only one hand'. When next you find a mirror, study your face—study mine now. The traces are there if you do not blind yourself. Look at my hands, the set of my bones. And if none of this convinces you—then take only my word for it: I have walked in the future, I have looked at a record, I have seen a place, I have all the data needed to be certain."

	"A ... renegade branch of the family," she said. "That's it, isn't it? Some Harkonnen cousin who ..."

	"You're the Baron's own daughter," he said. "In his youth, the Baron sampled many pleasures, and once permitted himself to be seduced. But it was for the genetic purposes of the Bene Gesserit, by one of you.'

	The way he said you struck her like a slap. But it set her mind to working and she could not deny his revelation. So many blank ends of meaning in her past now reached out and linked. The daughter the Bene Gesserits wanted ... it wasn't to end the Atreides-Harkonnen feud, but to fix some genetic factor in their lines. What? She groped for an answer.

	As though he saw inside her mind, Paul said: "They thought they were reaching for me. Their planning—so they believed—was to produce me. But I'm not what they expected, and I've arrived before my time. And they don't know it."

	Jessica put a hand to her mouth.

	Great Mother! He is the Kwisatz Haderach! she thought.

	She felt exposed and naked before him, realizing then that he saw her with eves from which little could be hidden. And that, she knew, was the basis of her fear.

	"You're thinking I'm the Kwisatz Haderach," he said. "Put that thought out of your mind. I am something unexpected. They reached into darkness only thinking they knew what was there."

	I must get word out to one of the schools, she thought. The mating index will show what has happened.

	"They won't learn about me until it's too late," he said.

	She sought to divert him, said: "We'll find a place among the Fremen?"

	"They have another saying, the Fremen," he said. "They say: 'Be prepared to appreciate what you meet'."

	And he thought: Among the Fremen? Certainly. You'll acquire the blue eyes, mother mine, and a callous beside your lovely nose from abrasion by the filter tube to your stillsuit; and you'll be seated more firmly than ever in spice addiction. And you'll bear my sister: St. Alia of the Knife.

	"If you're not the Kwisatz Haderach," Jessica said, "what are ..."

	"You cannot possibly know," he said. "You will not believe it until you see it."

	And he thought: I am a seed.

	He suddenly saw how fertile was the ground into which he had fallen, and with this realization, the Terrible Purpose filled him—creeping through the empty place within, threatening to choke him with grief.

	He had seen two branchings along the way ahead—in one he reached a point where he confronted an evil old Baron and said: "Hello, grandfather." The thought of that path and what lay along it sickened him.

	The other path of the branching held long patches of gray obscurity except for peaks of violence. He had seen a warrior religion there, a fire spreading across the universe with the Atreides green and black banner waving at the head of fanatic legions drunk on spice liquor. Gurney Halleck and a few others of his father's men—a pitiful few—were among them, all marked by the hawk symbol from the shrine of his father's skull. And laced back and forth along that avenue of the future, standing like a cold goddess at many of its turnings—he had seen a sharp-eyed and stiffly proper Imperial Princess: the Princess Irulan—a stylus in one hand and a recorder lens in the other.

	"I cannot go that way," he muttered. "That's what the old witches of your schools really want, though they don't see me at the heart of it."

	"I don't understand you, Paul," his mother said. "What are you saying?"

	But he remained silent, thinking like the seed he was, thinking with the Race Consciousness that he had first experienced as Terrible Purpose. He found that he no longer could hate the Bene Gesserits or the Harkonnens or even the Emperor. They were ail caught up in the need of their race to renew its scattered inheritance, to cross and mingle and infuse their bloodlines in a great new pooling of genes. And the race knew only one sure way for this—the ancient way, the tried and certain way that rolled over everything in its path.

	Surely, I cannot choose that way, he thought. But he saw again the shrine of his father's skull and the violence with the green and black banner waving in its midst.

	Jessica cleared her throat, worried by his silence. "Then ... the Fremen will accept us, give us sanctuary?"

	He looked up, staring across the green-lighted tent at the inbred, patrician lines of her face. "Yes," he said. "They'll ... call me 'Muad'Dib, The One Who Points The Way.' Yes ... that is what they'll call me."

	And he closed his eyes, thinking: Now, my father, I can mourn you. And he felt the tears pouring down his cheeks. 

The End