Book Three. THE PROPHET

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   No woman, no man, no child ever was deeply intimate with my father. The closest anyone ever came to casual camaraderie with the Padishah Emperor was the relationship offered by Count Hasimir Fenring, a companion from childhood. The measure of Count Fenring's friendship may be seen first in a positive thing: he allayed the Landsraad's suspicions after the Arrakis Affair. It cost more than a billion solaris in spice bribes, so my mother said, and there were other gifts as well: slave women, royal honors, and tokens of rank. The second major evidence of the Count's friendship was negative. He refused to kill a man even though it was within his capabilities and my father commanded it. I will relate this presently.
   –"Count Fenring: A Profile" by the Princess Irulan

   The Baron Vladimir Harkonnen raged down the corridor from his private apartments, flitting through patches of late afternoon sunlight that poured down from high windows. He bobbed and twisted in his suspensors with violent movements.
   Past the private kitchen he stormed – past the library, past the small reception room and into the servants' antechamber where the evening relaxation already had set in.
   The guard captain, Iakin Nefud, squatted on a divan across the chamber, the stupor of semuta dullness in his flat face, the eerie wailing of semuta music around him. His own court sat near to do his bidding.
   “Nefud!” the Baron roared.
   Men scrambled.
   Nefud stood, his face composed by the narcotic but with an overlay of paleness that told of his fear. The semuta music had stopped.
   “My Lord Baron,” Nefud said. Only the drug kept the trembling out of his voice.
   The Baron scanned the faces around him, seeing the looks of frantic quiet in them. He returned his attention to Nefud, and spoke in a silken tone:
   “How long have you been my guard captain, Nefud?”
   Nefud swallowed. “Since Arrakis, my Lord. Almost two years.”
   “And have you always anticipated dangers to my person?”
   “Such has been my only desire, my Lord.”
   “Then where is Feyd-Rautha?” the Baron roared.
   Nefud recoiled. “M'Lord?”
   “You do not consider Feyd-Rautha a danger to my person?” Again, the voice was silken.
   Nefud wet his lips with his tongue. Some of the semuta dullness left his eyes. “Feyd-Rautha's in the slave quarters, my Lord.”
   “With the women again, eh?” The Baron trembled with the effort of suppressing anger.
   “Sire, it could be he's –”
   “Silence!”
   The Baron advanced another step into the antechamber, noting how the men moved back, clearing a subtle space around Nefud, dissociating themselves from the object of wrath.
   “Did I not command you to know precisely where the na-Baron was at all times?” the Baron asked. He moved a step closer. “Did I not say to you that you were to know precisely what the na-Baron was saying at all times – and to whom?” Another step. “Did I not say to you that you were to tell me whenever he went into the quarters of the slave women?”
   Nefud swallowed. Perspiration stood out on his forehead.
   The Baron held his voice flat, almost devoid of emphasis: “Did I not say these things to you?”
   Nefud nodded.
   “And did I not say to that you were to check all slave boys sent to me and that you were to do this yourself . . . personally?”
   Again, Nefud nodded.
   “Did you, perchance, not see the blemish on the thigh of the one sent me this evening?” the Baron asked. “Is it possible you –”
   “Uncle.”
   The Baron whirled, stared at Feyd-Rautha standing in the doorway. The presence of his nephew here, now – the look of hurry that the young man could not quite conceal – all revealed much. Feyd-Rautha had his own spy system focused on the Baron.
   “There is a body in my chambers that I wish removed,” the Baron said, and he kept his hand at the projectile weapon beneath his robes, thankful that his shield was the best.
   Feyd-Rautha glanced at two guardsmen against the right wall, nodded. The two detached themselves, scurried out the door and down the hall toward the Baron's apartments.
   Those two, eh? the Baron thought. Ah, this young monster has much to learn yet about conspiracy!
   “I presume you left matters peaceful in the slave quarters, Feyd,” the Baron said.
   “I've been playing cheops with the slavemaster,” Feyd-Rautha said, and he thought: What has gone wrong? The boy we sent to my uncle has obviously been killed. But he was perfect for the job. Even Hawat couldn't have made a better choice. The boy was perfect!
   “Playing pyramid chess,” the Baron said. “How nice. Did you win?”
   “I . . . ah, yes, Uncle.” And Feyd-Rautha strove to contain his disquiet.
   The Baron snapped his fingers. “Nefud, you wish to be restored to my good graces?”
   “Sire, what have I done?” Nefud quavered.
   “That's unimportant now,” the Baron said. “Feyd has beaten the slavemaster at cheops. Did you hear that?”
   “Yes . . . Sire.”
   “I wish you to take three men and go to the slavemaster,” the Baron said. “Garrote the slavemaster. Bring his body to me when you've finished that I may see it was done properly. We cannot have such inept chess players in our employ.”
   Feyd-Rautha went pale, took a step forward. “But, Uncle, I –”
   “Later, Feyd,” the Baron said, and waved a hand. “Later.”
   The two guards who had gone to the Baron's quarters for the slave boy's body staggered past the antechamber door with their load sagging between them, arms trailing. The Baron watched until they were out of sight.
   Nefud stepped up beside the Baron. “You wish me to kill the slavemaster, now, my Lord?”
   “Now,” the Baron said. “And when you've finished, add those two who just passed to your list. I don't like the way they carried that body. One should do such things neatly. I'll wish to see their carcasses, too.”
   Nefud said, “My Lord, is it anything that I've –”
   “Do as your master has ordered,” Feyd-Rautha said. And he thought: All I can hope for now is to save my own skin.
   Good! the Baron thought. He yet knows how to cut his losses. And the Baron smiled inwardly at himself, thinking: The lad knows, too, what will please me and be most apt to stay my wrath from falling on him. He knows I must preserve him. Who else do I have who could take the reins I must leave someday? I have no other as capable. But he must learn! And I must preserve myself while he's learning.
   Nefud signaled men to assist him, led them out the door.
   “Would you accompany me to my chambers, Feyd?” the Baron asked.
   “I am yours to command,” Feyd-Rautha said. He bowed, thinking: I'm caught.
   “After you,” the Baron said, and he gestured to the door.
   Feyd-Rautha indicated his fear by only the barest hesitation. Have I failed utterly? he asked himself. Will he slip a poisoned blade into my back . . . slowly, through the shield? Does he have an alternative successor?
   Let him experience this moment of terror, the Baron thought as he walked along behind his nephew. He will succeed me, but at a time of my choosing. I'll not have him throwing away what I've built!
   Feyd-Rautha tried not to walk too swiftly. He felt the skin crawling on his back as though his body itself wondered when the blow could come. His muscles alternately tensed and relaxed.
   “Have you heard the latest word from Arrakis?” the Baron asked.
   “No, Uncle.”
   Feyd-Rautha forced himself not to look back. He turned down the hall out of the servants' wing.
   “They've a new prophet or religious leader of some kind among the Fremen,” the Baron said. “They call him Muad'Dib. Very funny, really. It means 'the Mouse.' I've told Rabban to let them have their religion. It'll keep them occupied.”
   “That's very interesting, Uncle,” Feyd-Rautha said. He turned into the private corridor to his uncle's quarters, wondering: Why does he talk about religion? Is it some subtle hint to me?
   “Yes, isn't it?” the Baron said.
   They came into the Baron's apartments through the reception salon to the bedchamber. Subtle signs of a struggle greeted them here – a suspensor lamp displaced, a bedcushion on the floor, a soother-reel spilled open across a bedstand.
   “It was a clever plan,” the Baron said. He kept his body shield tuned to maximum, stopped, facing his nephew. “But not clever enough. Tell me, Feyd, why didn't you strike me down yourself? You've had opportunity enough.”
   Feyd-Rautha found a suspensor chair, accomplished a mental shrug as he sat down in it without being asked.
   I must be bold now, he thought.
   “You taught me that my own hands must remain clean,” he said.
   “Ah, yes,” the Baron said. “When you face the Emperor, you must be able to say truthfully that you did not do the deed. The witch at the Emperor's elbow will hear your words and know their truth or falsehood. Yes. I warned you about that.”
   “Why haven't you ever bought a Bene Gesserit, Uncle?” Feyd-Rautha asked. “With a Truthsayer at your side –”
   “You know my tastes!” the Baron snapped.
   Feyd-Rautha studied his uncle, said: “Still, one would be valuable for –”
   “I trust them not!” the Baron snarled. “And stop trying to change the subject!”
   Feyd-Rautha spoke mildly; “As you wish, Uncle.”
   “I remember a time in the arena several years ago,” the Baron said. “It seemed there that day a slave had been set to kill you. Is that truly how it was?”
   “It's been so long ago, Uncle. After all, I –”
   “No evasions, please,” the Baron said, and the tightness of his voice exposed the rein on his anger.
   Feyd-Rautha looked at his uncle, thinking: He knows, else he wouldn't ask.
   “It was a sham, Uncle. I arranged it to discredit your slavemaster.”
   “Very clever,” the Baron said. “Brave, too. That slave-gladiator almost took you, didn't he?”
   “Yes.”
   “If you had finesse and subtlety to match such courage, you'd be truly formidable.” The Baron shook his head from side to side. And as he had done many times since that terrible day on Arrakis, he found himself regretting the loss of Piter, the Mentat. There'd been a man of delicate, devilish subtlety. It hadn't saved him, though. Again, the Baron shook his head. Fate was sometimes inscrutable.
   Feyd-Rautha glanced around the bedchamber, studying the signs of the struggle, wondering how his uncle had overcome the slave they'd prepared so carefully.
   “How did I best him?” the Baron asked. “Ah-h-h, now, Feyd – let me keep some weapons to preserve me in my old age. It's better we use this time to strike a bargain.”
   Feyd-Rautha stared at him. A bargain! He means to keep me as his heir for certain, then. Else why bargain. One bargains with equals or near equals!
   “What bargain, Uncle?” And Feyd-Rautha felt proud that his voice remained calm and reasonable, betraying none of the elation that filled him.
   The Baron, too, noted the control. He nodded. "You're good material, Feyd. I don't waste good material. You persist, however, in refusing to learn my true value to you. You are obstinate. You do not see why I should be preserved as someone of the utmost value to you. This . . . " He gestured at the evidence of the struggle in the bedchamber. "This was foolishness. I do not reward foolishness."
   Get to the point, you old fool! Feyd-Rautha thought.
   “You think of me as an old fool,” the Baron said. “I must dissuade you of that.”
   “You speak of a bargain.”
   “Ah, the impatience of youth,” the Baron said. “Well, this is the substance of it, then: You will cease these foolish attempts on my life. And I, when you are ready for it, will step aside in your favor. I will retire to an advisory position, leaving you in the seat of power.”
   “Retire, Uncle?”
   "You still think me the fool," the Baron said, "and this but confirms it, eh? You think I'm begging you! Step cautiously, Feyd. This old fool saw through the shielded needle you'd planted in that slave boy's thigh. Right where I'd put my hand on it, eh? The smallest pressure and – snick! A poison needle in the old fool's palm! Ah-h-h, Feyd . . . "
   The Baron shook his head, thinking: It would've worked, too, if Hawat hadn't warned me. Well, let the lad believe I saw the plot on my own. In a way, I did. I was the one who saved Hawat from the wreckage of Arrakis. And this lad needs greater respect for my prowess.
   Feyd-Rautha remained silent, struggling, with himself. Is he being truthful? Does he really mean to retire? Why not? I'm sure to succeed him one day if I move carefully. He can't live forever. Perhaps it was foolish to try hurrying the process.
   “You speak of a bargain,” Feyd-Rautha said. “What pledge do we give to bind it?”
   “How can we trust each other, eh?” the Baron asked. “Well, Feyd, as for you: I'm setting Thufir Hawat to watch over you. I trust Hawat's Mentat capabilities in this. Do you understand me? And as for me, you'll have to take me on faith. But I can't live forever, can I, Feyd? And perhaps you should begin to suspect now that there're things I know which you should know.”
   “I give you my pledge and what do you give me?” Feyd-Rautha asked.
   “I let you go on living,” the Baron said.
   Again, Feyd-Rautha studied his uncle. He sets Hawat over me! What would he say if I told him Hawat planned the trick with the gladiator that cost him his slavemaster? He'd likely say I was lying in the attempt to discredit Hawat. No, the good Thufir is a Mentat and has anticipated this moment.
   “Well, what do you say?” the Baron asked.
   “What can I say? I accept, of course.”
   And Feyd-Rautha thought: Hawat! He plays both ends against the middle . . . is that it? Has he moved to my uncle's camp because I didn't counsel with him over the slave boy attempt?
   “You haven't said anything about my setting Hawat to watch you,” the Baron said.
   Feyd-Rautha betrayed anger by a flaring of nostrils. The name of Hawat had been a danger signal in the Harkonnen family for so many years . . . and now it had a new meaning: still dangerous.
   “Hawat's a dangerous toy,” Feyd-Rautha said.
   “Toy! Don't be stupid. I know what I have in Hawat and how to control it. Hawat has deep emotions, Feyd. The man without emotions is the one to fear. But deep emotions . . . ah, now, those can be bent to your needs.”
   “Uncle, I don't understand you.”
   “Yes, that's plain enough.”
   Only a flicker of eyelids betrayed the passage of resentment through Feyd-Rautha.
   “And you do not understand Hawat,” the Baron said.
   Nor do you! Feyd-Rautha thought.
   “Who does Hawat blame for his present circumstances?” the Baron asked. “Me? Certainly. But he was an Atreides tool and bested me for years until the Imperium took a hand. That's how he sees it. His hate for me is a casual thing now. He believes he can best me any time. Believing this, he is bested. For I direct his attention where I want it – against the Imperium.”
   Tensions of a new understanding drew tight lines across Feyd-Rautha's forehead, thinned his mouth. “Against the Emperor?”
   Let my dear nephew try the taste of that, the Baron thought. Let him say to himself: “The Emperor Feyd-Rautha Harkonnen!” Let him ask himself how much that's worth. Surely it must be worth the life of one old uncle who could make that dream come to pass!
   Slowly, Feyd-Rautha wet his lips with his tongue. Could it be true what the old fool was saying? There was more here than there seemed to be.
   “And what has Hawat to do with this?” Feyd-Rautha asked.
   “He thinks he uses us to wreak his revenge upon the Emperor.”
   “And when that's accomplished?”
   “He does not think beyond his revenge. Hawat's a man who must serve others, and doesn't even know this about himself.”
   “I've learned much from Hawat,” Feyd-Rautha agreed, and felt the truth of the words as he spoke them. “But the more I learn, the more I feel we should dispose of him . . . and soon.”
   “You don't like the idea of his watching you?”
   “Hawat watches everybody.”
   “And he may put you on a throne. Hawat is subtle. He is dangerous, devious. But I'll not yet withhold the antidote from him. A sword is dangerous, too, Feyd. We have the scabbard for this one, though. The poison's in him. When we withdraw the antidote, death will sheathe him.”
   “In a way, it's like the arena,” Feyd-Rautha said. “Feints within feints within feints. You watch to see which way the gladiator leans, which way he looks, how he holds his knife.”
   He nodded to himself, seeing that these words pleased his uncle, but thinking: Yes! Like the arena! And the cutting edge is the mind!
   “Now you see how you need me,” the Baron said. “I'm yet of use, Feyd.”
   A sword to be wielded until he's too blunt for use, Feyd-Rautha thought.
   "Yes, Uncle, "he said.
   “And now,” the Baron said, “we will go down to the slave quarters, we two. And I will watch while you, with your own hands, kill all the women in the pleasure wing.”
   “Uncle!”
   “There will be other women, Feyd. But I have said that you do not make a mistake casually with me.”
   Feyd-Rautha's face darkened. “Uncle, you –”
   “You will accept your punishment and learn something from it,” the Baron said.
   Feyd-Rautha met the gloating stare in his uncle's eyes. And I must remember this night, he thought. And remembering it, I must remember other nights.
   “You will not refuse,” the Baron said.
   What could you do if I refused, old man? Feyd-Rautha asked himself. But he knew there might be some other punishment, perhaps a more subtle one, a more brutal lever to bend him.
   “I know you, Feyd,” the Baron said. “You will not refuse.”
   All right, Feyd-Rautha thought. I need you now. I see that. The bargain's made. But I'll not always need you. And . . . someday . . .

= = = = = =

   Deep in the human unconscious is a pervasive need for a logical universe that makes sense. But the real universe is always one step beyond logic.
   –from “The Sayings of Muad'Dib” by the Princess Irulan

   I've sat across from many rulers of Great Houses, but never seen a more gross and dangerous pig than this one, Thufir Hawat told himself.
   “You may speak plainly with me, Hawat,” the Baron rumbled. He leaned back in his suspensor chair, the eyes in their folds of fat boring into Hawat.
   The old Mentat looked down at the table between him and the Baron Vladimir Harkonnen, noting the opulence of its grain. Even this was a factor to consider in assessing the Baron, as were the red walls of this private conference room and the faint sweet herb scent that hung on the air, masking a deeper musk.
   “You didn't have me send that warning to Rabban as an idle whim,” the Baron said.
   Hawat's leathery old face remained impassive, betraying none of the loathing he felt. “I suspect many things, my Lord,” he said.
   “Yes. Well, I wish to know how Arrakis figures in your suspicions about Salusa Secundus. It is not enough that you say to me the Emperor is in a ferment about some association between Arrakis and his mysterious prison planet. Now, I rushed the warning out to Rabban only because the courier had to leave on that Heighliner. You said there could be no delay. Well and good. But now I will have an explanation.”
   He babbles too much, Hawat thought. He's not like Leto who could tell me a thing with the lift of an eyebrow or the wave of a hand. Nor like the Old Duke who could express an entire sentence in the way he accented a single word. This is a clod! Destroying him will be a service to mankind.
   “You will not leave here until I've had a full and complete explanation,” the Baron said.
   “You speak too casually of Salusa Secundus,” Hawat said.
   “It's a penal colony,” the Baron said. “The worst riff-raff in the galaxy are sent to Salusa Secundus. What else do we need to know?”
   “That conditions on the prison planet are more oppressive than anywhere else,” Hawat said. “You hear that the mortality rate among new prisoners is higher than sixty per cent. You hear that the Emperor practices every form of oppression there. You hear all this and do not ask questions?”
   “The Emperor doesn't permit the Great Houses to inspect his prison,” the Baron growled. “But he hasn't seen into my dungeons, either.”
   “And curiosity about Salusa Secundus is . . . ah . . . " Hawat put a bony finger to his lips. ". . . discouraged.”
   “So he's not proud of some of the things he must do there!”
   Hawat allowed the faintest of smiles to touch his dark lips. His eyes glinted in the glowtube light as he stared at the Baron. “And you've never wondered where the Emperor gets his Sardaukar?”
   The Baron pursed his fat lips. This gave his features the look of a pouting baby, and his voice carried a tone of petulance as he said: “Why . . . he recruits . . . that is to say, there are the levies and he enlists from –”
   “Faaa!” Hawat snapped. “The stories you hear about the exploits of the Sardaukar, they're not rumors, are they? Those are first-hand accounts from the limited number of survivors who've fought against the Sardaukar, eh?”
   “The Sardaukar are excellent fighting men, no doubt of it,” the Baron said. “But I think my own legions –”
   “A pack of holiday excursionists by comparison!” Hawat snarled. “You think I don't know why the Emperor turned against House Atreides?”
   “This is not a realm open to your speculation,” the Baron warned.
   Is it possible that even he doesn't know what motivated the Emperor in this? Hawat asked himself.
   “Any area is open to my speculation if it does what you've hired me to do,” Hawat said. “I am a Mentat. You do not withhold information or computation lines from a Mentat.”
   For a long minute, the Baron stared at him, then: “Say what you must say. Mentat.”
   “The Padishah Emperor turned against House Atreides because the Duke's Warmasters Gurney Halleck and Duncan Idaho had trained a fighting force – a small fighting force – to within a hair as good as the Sardaukar. Some of them were even better. And the Duke was in a position to enlarge his force, to make it every bit as strong as the Emperor's.”
   The Baron weighed this disclosure, then: “What has Arrakis to do with this?”
   “It provides a pool of recruits already conditioned to the bitterest survival training.”
   The Baron shook his head. “You cannot mean the Fremen?”
   “I mean the Fremen.”
   “Hah! Then why warn Rabban? There cannot be more than a handful of Fremen left after the Sardaukar pogrom and Rabban's oppression.”
   Hawat continued to stare at him silently.
   “Not more than a handful!” the baron repeated. “Rabban killed six thousand of them last year alone!”
   Still, Hawat stared at him.
   “And the year before it was nine thousand,” the baron said. “And before they left, the Sardaukar must've accounted for at least twenty thousand.”
   “What are Rabban's troop losses for the past two years?” Hawat asked.
   The Baron rubbed his jowls. “Well, he has been recruiting rather heavily, to be sure. His agents make rather extravagant promises and –”
   “Shall we say thirty thousand in round numbers?” Hawat asked.
   “That would seem a little high,” the baron said.
   “Quite the contrary,” Hawat said. “I can read between the lines of Rabban's reports as well as you can. And you certainly must've understood my reports from our agents.”
   “Arrakis is a fierce planet,” the Baron said. “Storm losses can –”
   “We both know the figure for storm accretion,” Hawat said.
   “What if he has lost thirty thousand?” the Baron demanded, and blood darkened his face.
   “By your own count,” Hawat said, “he killed fifteen thousand over two years while losing twice that number. You say the Sardaukar accounted for another twenty thousand, possibly a few more. And I've seen the transportation manifests for their return from Arrakis. If they killed twenty thousand, they lost almost five for one. Why won't you face these figures, Baron, and understand what they mean?”
   The Baron spoke in a coldly measured cadence: “This is your job, Mentat. What do they mean?”
   “I gave you Duncan Idaho's head count on the sietch he visited,” Hawat said. “It all fits. If they had just two hundred and fifty such sietch communities, their population would be about five million. My best estimate is that they had at least twice that many communities. You scatter your population on such a planet.”
   “Ten million?” The Baron's jowls quivered with amazement.
   “At least.”
   The Baron pursed his fat lips. The beady eyes stared without wavering at Hawat. Is this true Mentat computation? he wondered. How could this be and no one suspect?
   “We haven't even cut heavily into their birth-rate-growth figure,” Hawat said. “We've just weeded out some of their less successful specimens, leaving the strong to grow stronger – just like on Salusa Secundus.”
   “Salusa Secundus!” the Baron barked. “What has this to do with the Emperor's prison planet?”
   “A man who survives Salusa Secundus starts out being tougher than most others,” Hawat said. “When you add the very best of military training –”
   “Nonsense! By your argument, I could recruit from among the Fremen after the way they've been oppressed by my nephew.”
   Hawat spoke in a mild voice: “Don't you oppress any of your troops?”
   “Well . . . I . . . but –”
   “Oppression is a relative thing,” Hawat said. “Your fighting men are much better off than those around them, heh? They see unpleasant alternative to being soldiers of the Baron, heh?”
   The Baron fell silent, eyes unfocused. The possibilities – had Rabban unwittingly given House Harkonnen its ultimate weapon?
   Presently he said: “How could you be sure of the loyalty of such recruits?”
   “I would take them in small groups, not larger than platoon strength,” Hawat said. “I'd remove them from their oppressive situation and isolate them with a training cadre of people who understood their background, preferably people who had preceded them from the same oppressive situation. Then I'd fill them with the mystique that their planet had really been a secret training ground to produce just such superior beings as themselves. And all the while, I'd show them what such superior beings could earn: rich living, beautiful women, fine mansions . . . whatever they desired.”
   The Baron began to nod. “The way the Sardaukar live at home.”
   “The recruits come to believe in time that such a place as Salusa Secundus is justified because it produced them – the elite. The commonest Sardaukar trooper lives a life, in many respects, as exalted as that of any member of a Great House.”
   “Such an idea!” the Baron whispered.
   “You begin to share my suspicions,” Hawat said.
   “Where did such a thing start?” the Baron asked.
   “Ah, yes: Where did House Corrino originate? Were there people on Salusa Secundus before the Emperor sent his first contingents of prisoners there? Even the Duke Leto, a cousin on the distaff side, never knew for sure. Such questions are not encouraged.”
   The Baron's eyes glazed with thought. “Yes, a very carefully kept secret. They'd use every device of –”
   “Besides, what's there to conceal?” Hawat asked. “That the Padishah Emperor has a prison planet? Everyone knows this. That he has –”
   “Count Fenring!” the Baron blurted.
   Hawat broke off, studied the Baron with a puzzled frown. “What of Count Fenring?”
   “At my nephew's birthday several years ago,” the Baron said. “This Imperial popinjay. Count Fenring, came as official observer and to . . . ah, conclude a business arrangement between the Emperor and myself.”
   “So?”
   “I . . . ah, during one of our conversations, I believe I said something about making a prison planet of Arrakis. Fenring –”
   “What did you say exactly?” Hawat asked.
   “Exactly? That was quite a while ago and –”
   “My Lord Baron, if you wish to make the best use of my services, you must give me adequate information. Wasn't this conversation recorded?”
   The Baron's face darkened with anger. “You're as bad as Piter! I don't like these –”
   “Piter is no longer with you my Lord,” Hawat said. “As to that, whatever did happen to Piter?”
   “He became too familiar, too demanding of me,” the Baron said.
   “You assure me you don't waste a useful man,” Hawat said. “Will you waste me by threats and quibbling? We were discussing what you said to Count Fenring.”
   Slowly, the Baron composed his features. When the time comes, he thought, I'll remember his manner with me. Yes. I will remember.
   “One moment,” the Baron said, and he thought back to the meeting in his great hall. It helped to visualize the cone of silence in which they had stood. “I said something like this,” the Baron said. “The Emperor knows a certain amount of killing has always been an arm of business.' I was referring to our work force losses. Then I said something about considering another solution to the Arrakeen problem and I said the Emperor's prison planet inspired me to emulate him.”
   “Witch blood!” Hawat snapped. “What did Fenring say?”
   “That's when he began questioning me about you.”
   Hawat sat back, closed his eyes in thought. “So that's why they started looking into Arrakis,” he said. “Well, the thing's done.” He opened his eyes. “They must have spies all over Arrakis by now. Two years!”
   “But certainly my innocent suggestion that –”
   “Nothing is innocent in an Emperor's eyes! What were your instructions to Rabban?”
   “Merely that he should teach Arrakis to fear us.”
   Hawat shook his head. “You now have two alternatives, Baron. You can kill off the natives, wipe them out entirely, or –”
   “Waste an entire work force?”
   “Would you prefer to have the Emperor and those Great Houses he can still swing behind him come in here and perform a curettement, scrape out Giedi Prime like a hollow gourd?”
   The Baron studied his Mentat, then: “He wouldn't dare!”
   “Wouldn't he?”
   The Baron's lips quivered. “What is your alternative?”
   “Abandon your dear nephew, Rabban.”
   "Aband . . . " The Baron broke off, stared at Hawat.
   “Send him no more troops, no aid of any kind. Don't answer his messages other than to say you've heard of the terrible way he's handled things on Arrakis and you intend to take corrective measures as soon as you're able. I'll arrange to have some of your messages intercepted by Imperial spies.”
   “But what of the spice, the revenues, the –”
   “Demand your baronial profits, but be careful how you make your demands. Require fixed sums of Rabban. We can –”
   The Baron turned his hands palms up. “But how can I be certain that my weasel nephew isn't –”
   “We still have our spies on Arrakis. Tell Rabban he either meets the spice quotas you set him or he'll be replaced.”
   “I know my nephew,” the Baron said. “This would only make him oppress the population even more.”
   “Of course he will!” Hawat snapped. “You don't want that stopped now! You merely want your own hands clean. Let Rabban make your Salusa Secundus for you. There's no need even to send him any prisoners. He has all the population required. If Rabban is driving his people to meet your spice quotas, then the Emperor need suspect no other motive. That's reason enough for putting the planet on the rack. And you, Baron, will not show by word or action that there's any other reason for this.”
   The Baron could not keep the sly tone of admiration out of his voice. “Ah, Hawat, you are a devious one. Now, how do we move into Arrakis and make use of what Rabban prepares?”
   “That's the simplest thing of all, Baron. If you set each year's quota a bit higher than the one before, matters will soon reach a head there. Production will drop off. You can remove Rabban and take over yourself . . . to correct the mess.”
   “It fits,” the Baron said. “But I can feel myself tiring of all this. I'm preparing another to take over Arrakis for me.”
   Hawat studied the fat round face across from him. Slowly the old soldier-spy began to nod his head. “Feyd-Rautha,” he said. “So that's the reason for the oppression now. You're very devious yourself, Baron. Perhaps we can incorporate these two schemes. Yes. Your Feyd-Rautha can go to Arrakis as their savior. He can win the populace. Yes.”
   The Baron smiled. And behind his smile, he asked himself: Now, how does this fit in with Hawat's personal scheming?
   And Hawat, seeing that he was dismissed, arose and left the red-walled room. As he walked, he could not put down the disturbing unknowns that cropped into every computation about Arrakis. This new religious leader that Gurney Halleck hinted at from his hiding place among the smugglers, this Muad'Dib.
   Perhaps I should not have told the Baron to let this religion flourish where it will, even among the folk of pan and graben, he told himself. But it's well known that repression makes a religion flourish.
   And he thought about Halleck's reports on Fremen battle tactics. The tactics smacked of Halleck himself . . . and Idaho . . . and even of Hawat.
   Did Idaho survive? he asked himself.
   But this was a futile question. He did not yet ask himself if it was possible that Paul had survived. He knew the Baron was convinced that all Atreides were dead. The Bene Gesserit witch had been his weapon, the Baron admitted. And that could only mean an end to all – even to the woman's own son.
   What a poisonous hate she must've had for the Atreides, he thought. Something like the hate I hold for this Baron. Will my blow be as final and complete as hers?

= = = = = =

   There is in all things a pattern that is part of our universe. It has symmetry, elegance, and grace – those qualities you find always in that which the true artist captures. You can find it in the turning of the seasons, in the way sand trails along a ridge, in the branch clusters of the creosote bush or the pattern of its leaves. We try to copy these patterns in our lives and our society, seeking the rhythms, the dances, the forms that comfort. Yet, it is possible to see peril in the finding of ultimate perfection. It is clear that the ultimate pattern contains its own fixity. In such perfection, all things move toward death.
   –from “The Collected Sayings of Muad'Dib” by the Princess Irulan

   Paul-Muad'Dib remembered that there had been a meal heavy with spice essence. He clung to this memory because it was an anchor point and he could tell himself from this vantage that his immediate experience must be a dream.
   I am a theater of processes, he told himself. I am a prey to the imperfect vision, to the race consciousness and its terrible purpose.
   Yet, he could not escape the fear that he had somehow overrun himself, lost his position in time, so that past and future and present mingled without distinction. It was a kind of visual fatigue and it came, he knew, from the constant necessity of holding the prescient future as a kind of memory that was in itself a thing intrinsically of the past.
   Chani prepared the meal for me, he told himself.
   Yet Chani was deep in the south – in the cold country where the sun was hot – secreted in one of the new sietch strongholds, safe with their son, Leto II.
   Or, was that a thing yet to happen?
   No, he reassured himself, for Alia-the-Strange-One, his sister, had gone there with his mother and with Chani – a twenty-thumper trip into the south, riding a Reverend Mother's palanquin fixed to the back of a wild maker.
   He shied away from thought of riding the giant worms, asking himself: Or is Alia yet to be born?
   I was on razzia, Paul recalled. We went raiding to recover the water of our dead in Arrakeen. And I found the remains of my father in the funeral pyre. I enshrined the skull of my father in a Fremen rock mound overlooking Harg Pass.
   Or was that a thing yet to be?
   My wounds are real, Paul told himself. My scars are real. The shrine of my father's skull is real.
   Still in the dreamlike state, Paul remembered that Harah, Jamis' wife, had intruded on him once to say there'd been a fight in the sietch corridor. That had been the interim sietch before the women and children had been sent into the deep south. Harah had stood there in the entrance to the inner chamber, the black wings of her hair tied back by water rings on a chain. She had held aside the chamber's hangings and told him that Chani had just killed someone.
   This happened, Paul told himself. This was real, not born out of its time and subject to change.
   Paul remembered he had rushed out to find Chani standing beneath the yellow globes of the corridor, clad in a brilliant blue wraparound robe with hood thrown back, a flush of exertion on her elfin features. She had been sheathing her crysknife. A huddled group had been hurrying away down the corridor with a burden.
   And Paul remembered telling himself: You always know when they're carrying a body.
   Chani's water rings, worn openly in sietch on a cord around her neck, tinkled as she turned toward him.
   “Chani, what is this?” he asked.
   “I dispatched one who came to challenge you in single combat, Usul.”
   “You killed him?”
   “Yes. But perhaps I should've left him for Harah.”
   (And Paul recalled how the faces of the people around them had showed appreciation for these words. Even Harah had laughed.)
   “But he came to challenge me!”
   “You trained me yourself in the weirding way, Usul.”
   “Certainly! But you shouldn't –”
   “I was born in the desert, Usul. I know how to use a crysknife.”
   He suppressed his anger, tried to talk reasonably. “This may all be true, Chani, but –”
   “I am no longer a child hunting scorpions in the sietch by the light of a handglobe, Usul. I do not play games.”
   Paul glared at her, caught by the odd ferocity beneath her casual attitude.
   “He was not worthy, Usul,” Chani said. “I'd not disturb your meditations with the likes of him.” She moved closer, looking at him out of the corners of her eyes, dropping her voice so that only he might hear. “And, beloved, when it's learned that a challenger may face me and be brought to shameful death by Muad'Dib's woman, there'll be fewer challengers.”
   Yes, Paul told himself, that had certainly happened. It was true-past. And the number of challengers testing the new blade of Muad'Dib did drop dramatically.
   Somewhere, in a world not-of-the-dream, there was a hint of motion, the cry of a nightbird.
   I dream, Paul reassured himself. It's the spice meal.
   Still, there was about him a feeling of abandonment. He wondered it if might be possible that his ruh-spirit had slipped over somehow into the world where the Fremen believed he had his true existence – into the alam al-mithal, the world of similitudes, that metaphysical realm where all physical limitations were removed. And he knew fear at the thought of such a place, because removal of all limitations meant removal of all points of reference. In the landscape of a myth he could not orient himself and say: “I am I because I am here.”
   His mother had said once: “The people are divided, some of them, in how they think of you.”
   I must be waking from the dream, Paul told himself. For this had happened – these words from his mother, the Lady Jessica who was now a Reverend Mother of the Fremen, these words had passed through reality.
   Jessica was fearful of the religious relationship between himself and the Fremen, Paul knew. She didn't like the fact that people of both sietch and graben referred to Muad'Dib as Him. And she went questioning among the tribes, sending out her Sayyadina spies, collecting their answers and brooding on them.
   She had quoted a Bene Gesserit proverb to him: “When religion and politics travel in the same cart, the riders believe nothing can stand in their way. Their movement become headlong – faster and faster and faster. They put aside all thought of obstacles and forget that a precipice does not show itself to the man in a blind rush until it's too late.”
   Paul recalled that he had sat there in his mother's quarters, in the inner chamber shrouded by dark hangings with their surfaces covered by woven patterns out of Fremen mythology. He had sat there, hearing her out, noting the way she was always observing – even when her eyes were lowered. Her oval face had new lines in it at the corners of the mouth, but the hair was still like polished bronze. The wide-set green eyes, though, hid beneath their over-casting of spice-imbued blue.
   “The Fremen have a simple, practical religion,” he said.
   “Nothing about religion is simple,” she warned.
   But Paul, seeing the clouded future that still hung over them, found himself swayed by anger. He could only say: “Religion unifies our forces. It's our mystique.”
   “You deliberately cultivate this air, this bravura,” she charged. “You never cease indoctrinating.”
   “Thus you yourself taught me,” he said.
   But she had been full of contentions and arguments that day. It had been the day of the circumcision ceremony for little Leto. Paul had understood some of the reasons for her upset. She had never accepted his liaison – the “marriage of youth” – with Chani. But Chani had produced an Atreides son, and Jessica had found herself unable to reject the child with the mother.
   Jessica had stirred finally under his stare, said: “You think me an unnatural mother.”
   “Of course not.”
   “I see the way you watch me when I'm with your sister. You don't understand about your sister.”
   “I know why Alia is different,” he said. “She was unborn, part of you, when you changed the Water of Life. She –”
   “You know nothing of it!”
   And Paul, suddenly unable to express the knowledge gained out of its time, said only: “I don't think you unnatural.”
   She saw his distress, said: “There is a thing, Son.”
   “Yes?”
   “I do love your Chani. I accept her.”
   This was real, Paul told himself. This wasn't the imperfect vision to be changed by the twistings out of time's own birth.
   The reassurance gave him a new hold on his world. Bits of solid reality began to dip through the dream state into his awareness. He knew suddenly that he was in a hiereg, a desert camp. Chani had planted their stilltent on flour-sand for its softness. That could only mean Chani was near by – Chani, his soul, Chani his Sihaya, sweet as the desert spring, Chani up from the palmaries of the deep south.
   Now, he remembered her singing a sand chanty to him in the time for sleep.

   "O my soul,
   Have no taste for Paradise this night,
   And I swear by Shai-hulud
   You will go there,
   Obedient to my love."

And she had sung the walking song lovers shared on the sand, its rhythm like the drag of the dunes against the feet:

   "Tell me of thine eyes
   And I will tell thee of thy heart.
   Tell me of thy feet
   And I will tell thee of thy hands.
   Tell me of thy sleeping
   And I will tell thee of thy waking.
   Tell me of thy desires
   And I will tell thee of thy need."

   He had heard someone strumming a baliset in another tent. And he'd thought then of Gurney Halleck. Reminded by the familiar instrument, he had thought of Gurney whose face he had seen in a smuggler band, but who had not seen him, could not see him or know of him lest that inadvertently lead the Harkonnens to the son of the Duke they had killed.
   But the style of the player in the night, the distinctiveness of the fingers on the baliset's strings, brought the real musician back to Paul's memory. It had been Chatt the Leaper, captain of the Fedaykin, leader of the death commandos who guarded Muad'Dib.
   We are in the desert, Paul remembered. We are in the central erg beyond the Harkonnen patrols. I am here to walk the sand, to lure a maker and mount him by my own cunning that I may be a Fremen entire.
   He felt now the maula pistol at his belt, the crysknife. He felt the silence surrounding him.
   It was that special pre-morning silence when the nightbirds had gone and the day creatures had not yet signaled their alertness to their enemy, the sun.
   “You must ride the sand in the light of day that Shai-hulud shall see and know you have no fear,” Stilgar had said. “Thus we turn our time around and set ourselves to sleep this night.”
   Quietly, Paul sat up, feeling the looseness of a slacked stillsuit around his body, the shadowed stilltent beyond. So softly he moved, yet Chani heard him.
   She spoke from the tent's gloom, another shadow there: “It's not yet full light, beloved.”
   “Sihaya,” he said, speaking with half a laugh in his voice.
   “You call me your desert spring,” she said, “but this day I'm thy goad. I am the Sayyadina who watches that the rites be obeyed.”
   He began tightening his stillsuit. "You told me once the words of the Kitab al-Ibar," he said. "You told me: 'Woman is thy field; go then to thy field and till it.' "
   “I am the mother of thy firstborn,” she agreed.
   He saw her in the grayness matching him movement for movement, securing her stillsuit for the open desert. “You should get all the rest you can,” she said.
   He recognized her love for him speaking then and chided her gently: “The Sayyadina of the Watch does not caution or warn the candidate.”
   She slid across to his side, touched his cheek with her palm. “Today, I am both the watcher and the woman.”
   “You should've left this duty to another,” he said.
   “Waiting is bad enough at best,” she said. “I'd sooner be at thy side.”
   He kissed her palm before securing the faceflap of his suit, then turned and cracked the seal of the tent. The air that came in to them held the chill not-quite-dryness that would precipitate trace dew in the dawn. With it came the smell of a pre-spice mass, the mass they had detected off to the northeast, and that told them there would be a maker near by.
   Paul crawled through the sphincter opening, stood on the sand and stretched the sleep from his muscles. A faint green-pearl luminescence etched the eastern horizon. The tents of his troop were small false dunes around him in the gloom. He saw movement off to the left – the guard, and knew they had seen him.
   They knew the peril he faced this day. Each Fremen had faced it. They gave him this last few moments of isolation now that he might prepare himself.
   It must be done today, he told himself.
   He thought of the power he wielded in the face of the pogrom – the old men who sent their sons to him to be trained in the weirding way of battle, the old men who listened to him now in council and followed his plans, the men who returned to pay him that highest Fremen compliment: “Your plan worked, Muad'Dib.”
   Yet the meanest and smallest of the Fremen warriors could do a thing that he had never done. And Paul knew his leadership suffered from the omnipresent knowledge of this difference between them.
   He had not ridden the maker.
   Oh, he'd gone up with the others for training trips and raids, but he had not made his own voyage. Until he did, his world was bounded by the abilities of others. No true Fremen could permit this. Until he did this thing himself, even the great southlands – the area some twenty thumpers beyond the erg – were denied him unless he ordered a palanquin and rode like a Reverend Mother or one of the sick and wounded.
   Memory returned to him of his wrestling with his inner awareness during the night. He saw a strange parallel here – if he mastered the maker, his rule was strengthened; if he mastered the inward eye, this carried its own measure of command. But beyond them both lay the clouded area, the Great Unrest where all the universe seemed embroiled.
   The differences in the ways he comprehended the universe haunted him – accuracy matched with inaccuracy. He saw it in situ. Yet, when it was born, when it came into the pressures of reality, the now had its own life and grew with its own subtle differences. Terrible purpose remained. Race consciousness remained. And over all loomed the jihad, bloody and wild.
   Chani joined him outside the tent, hugging her elbows, looking up at him from the corners of her eyes the way she did when she studied his mood.
   “Tell me again about the waters of thy birthworld, Usul,” she said.
   He saw that she was trying to distract him, ease his mind of tensions before the deadly test. It was growing lighter, and he noted that some of his Fedaykin were already striking their tents.
   “I'd rather you told me about the sietch and about our son,” he said. “Does our Leto yet hold my mother in his palm?”
   “It's Alia he holds as well,” she said. “And he grows rapidly. He'll be a big man.”
   “What's it like in the south?” he asked.
   “When you ride the maker you'll see for yourself,” she said.
   “But I wish to see it first through your eyes.”
   “It's powerfully lonely,” she said.
   He touched the nezhoni scarf at her forehead where it protruded from her stillsuit cap. “Why will you not talk about the sietch?”
   “I have talked about it. The sietch is a lonely place without our men. It's a place of work. We labor in the factories and the potting rooms. There are weapons to be made, poles to plant that we may forecast the weather, spice to collect for the bribes. There are dunes to be planted to make them grow and to anchor them. There are fabrics and rugs to make, fuel cells to charge. There are children to train that the tribe's strength may never be lost.”
   “Is nothing then pleasant in the sietch?” he asked.
   “The children are pleasant. We observe the rites. We have sufficient food. Sometimes one of us may come north to be with her man. Life must go on.”
   “My sister, Alia – is she accepted yet by the people?”
   Chani turned toward him in the growing dawnlight. Her eyes bored into him. “It's a thing to be discussed another time, beloved.”
   “Let us discuss it now.”
   “You should conserve your energies for the test,” she said.
   He saw that he had touched something sensitive, hearing the withdrawal in her voice. “The unknown brings its own worries,” he said.
   Presently she nodded, said, “There is yet . . . misunderstanding because of Alia's strangeness. The women are fearful because a child little more than an infant talks . . . of things that only an adult should know. They do not understand the . . . change in the womb that made Alia . . . different.”
   “There is trouble?” he asked. And he thought: I've seen visions of trouble over Alia.
   Chani looked toward the growing line of the sunrise. "Some of the women banded to appeal to the Reverend Mother. They demanded she exorcise the demon in her daughter. They quoted the scripture: 'Suffer not a witch to live among us.' "
   “And what did my mother say to them?”
   “She recited the law and sent the women away abashed. She said: 'If Alia incites trouble, it is the fault of authority for not foreseeing and preventing the trouble.' And she tried to explain how the change had worked on Alia in the womb. But the women were angry because they had been embarrassed. They went away muttering.”
   There will be trouble because of Alia, he thought.
   A crystal blowing of sand touched the exposed portions of his face, bringing the scent of the pre-spice mass. “El Sayal, the rain of sand that brings the morning,” he said.
   He looked out across the gray light of the desert landscape, the landscape beyond pity, the sand that was form absorbed in itself. Dry lightning streaked a dark corner to the south – sign that a storm had built up its static charge there. The roll of thunder boomed long after.
   “The voice that beautifies the land,” Chani said.
   More of his men were stirring out of their tents. Guards were coming in from the rims. Everything around him moved smoothly in the ancient routine that required no orders.
   “Give as few orders as possible,” his father had told him . . . once . . . long ago. “Once you've given orders on a subject, you must always give orders on that subject.”
   The Fremen knew this rule instinctively.
   The troop's watermaster began the morning chanty, adding to it now the call for the rite to initiate a sandrider.
   “The world is a carcass,” the man chanted, his voice wailing across the dunes. “Who can turn away the Angel of Death? What Shai-hulud has decreed must be.”
   Paul listened, recognizing that these were the words that also began the death chant of his Fedaykin, the words the death commandos recited as they buried themselves into battle.
   Will there be a rock shrine here this day to mark the passing of another soul? Paul asked himself. Will Fremen stop here in the future, each to add another stone and think on Muad'Dib who died in this place?
   He knew this was among the alternatives today, a fact along lines of the future radiating from this position in time-space. The imperfect vision plagued him. The more he resisted his terrible purpose and fought against the coming of the jihad, the greater the turmoil that wove through his prescience. His entire future was becoming like a river hurtling toward a chasm – the violent nexus beyond which all was fog and clouds.
   “Stilgar approaches,” Chani said. “I must stand apart now, beloved. Now, I must be Sayyadina and observe the rite that it may be reported truly in the Chronicles.” She looked up at him and, for a moment, her reserve slipped, then she had herself under control. “When this is past, I shall prepare thy breakfast with my own hands,” she said. She turned away.
   Stilgar moved toward him across the flour sand, stirring up little dust puddles. The dark niches of his eyes remained steady on Paul with their untamed stare. The glimpse of black beard above the stillsuit mask, the lines of craggy cheeks, could have been wind-etched from the native rock for all their movement.
   The man carried Paul's banner on its staff – the green and black banner with a water tube in the staff – that already was a legend in the land. Half pridefully, Paul thought: I cannot do the simplest thing without its becoming a legend. They will mark how I parted from Chani, how I greet Stilgar – every move I make this day. Live or die, it is a legend. I must not die. Then it will be only legend and nothing to stop the jihad.
   Stilgar planted the staff in the sand beside Paul, dropped his hands to his sides. The blue-within-blue eyes remained level and intent. And Paul thought how his own eyes already were assuming this mask of color from the spice.
   “They denied us the Hajj,” Stilgar said with ritual solemnity.
   As Chani had taught him, Paul responded: “Who can deny a Fremen the right to walk or ride where he wills?”
   “I am a Naib,” Stilgar said, “never to be taken alive. I am a leg of the death tripod that will destroy our foes.”
   Silence settled over them.
   Paul glanced at the other Fremen scattered over the sand beyond Stilgar, the way they stood without moving for this moment of personal prayer. And he thought of how the Fremen were a people whose living consisted of killing, an entire people who had lived with rage and grief all of their days, never once considering what might take the place of either – except for a dream with which Liet-Kynes had infused them before his death.
   “Where is the Lord who led us through the land of desert and of pits?” Stilgar asked.
   “He is ever with us,” the Fremen chanted.
   Stilgar squared his shoulders, stepped closer to Paul and lowered his voice. “Now, remember what I told you. Do it simply and directly – nothing fancy. Among our people, we ride the maker at the age of twelve. You are more than six years beyond that age and not born to this life. You don't have to impress anyone with your courage. We know you are brave. All you must do is call the maker and ride him.”
   “I will remember,” Paul said.
   “See that you do. I'll not have you shame my teaching.”
   Stilgar pulled a plastic rod about a meter long from beneath his robe. The thing was pointed at one end, had a spring-wound clapper at the other end. “I prepared this thumper myself. It's a good one. Take it.”
   Paul felt the warm smoothness of the plastic as he accepted the thumper.
   “Shishakli has your hooks,” Stilgar said. “He'll hand them to you as you step out onto that dune over there.” He pointed to his right. “Call a big maker, Usul. Show us the way.”
   Paul marked the tone of Stilgar's voice – half ritual and half that of a worried friend.
   In that instant, the sun seemed to bound above the horizon. The sky took on the silvered gray-blue that warned this would be a day of extreme heat and dryness even for Arrakis.
   “It is the time of the scalding day,” Stilgar said, and now his voice was entirely ritual. “Go, Usul, and ride the maker, travel the sand as a leader of men.”
   Paul saluted his banner, noting how the green and black flag hung limply now that the dawn wind had died. He turned toward the dune Stilgar had indicated – a dirty tan slope with an S-track crest. Already, most of the troop was moving out in the opposite direction, climbing the other dune that had sheltered their camp.
   One robed figure remained in Paul's path: Shishakli, a squad leader of the Fedaykin, only his slope-lidded eyes visible between stillsuit cap and mask.
   Shishakli presented two thin, whiplike shafts as Paul approached. The shafts were about a meter and a half long with glistening plasteel hoods at one end, roughened at the other end for a firm grip.
   Paul accepted them both in his left hand as required by the ritual.
   “They are my own hooks,” Shishakli said in a husky voice. “They never have failed.”
   Paul nodded, maintaining the necessary silence, moved past the man and up the dune slope. At the crest, he glanced back, saw the troop scattering like a flight of insects, their robes fluttering. He stood alone now on the sandy ridge with only the horizon in front of him, the flat and unmoving horizon. This was a good dune Stilgar had chosen, higher than its companions for the viewpoint vantage.
   Stooping, Paul planted the thumper deep into the windward face where the sand was compacted and would give maximum transmission to the drumming. Then he hesitated, reviewing the lessons, reviewing the life-and-death necessities that faced him.
   When he threw the latch, the thumper would begin its summons. Across the sand, a giant worm – a maker – would hear and come to the drumming. With the whiplike hook-staffs, Paul knew, he could mount the maker's high curving back. For as long as a forward edge of a worm's ring segment was held open by a hook, open to admit abrasive sand into the more sensitive interior, the creature would not retreat beneath the desert. It would, in fact, roll its gigantic body to bring the opened segment as far away from the desert surface as possible.
   I am a sandrider, Paul told himself.
   He glanced down at the hooks in his left hand, thinking that he had only to shift those hooks down the curve of a maker's immense side to make the creature roll and turn, guiding it where he willed. He had seen it done. He had been helped up the side of a worm for a short ride in training. The captive worm could be ridden until it lay exhausted and quiescent upon the desert surface and a new maker must be summoned.
   Once he was past this test, Paul knew, he was qualified to make the twenty-thumper journey into the southland – to rest and restore himself – into the south where the women and the families had been hidden from the pogrom among the new palmaries and sietch warrens.
   He lifted his head and looked to the south, reminding himself that the maker summoned wild from the erg was an unknown quantity, and the one who summoned it was equally unknown to this test.
   “You must gauge the approaching maker carefully,” Stilgar had explained. “You must stand close enough that you can mount it as it passes, yet not so close that it engulfs you.”
   With abrupt decision, Paul released the thumper's latch. The clapper began revolving and the summons drummed through the sand, a measured "lump . . . lump . . . lump . . . "
   He straightened, scanning the horizon, remembering Stilgar's words: “Judge the line of approach carefully. Remember, a worm seldom makes an unseen approach to a thumper. Listen all the same. You may often hear it before you see it.”
   And Chani's words of caution, whispered at night when her fear for him overcame her, filled his mind: “When you take your stand along the maker's path, you must remain utterly still. You must think like a patch of sand. Hide beneath your cloak and become a little dune in your very essence.”
   Slowly, he scanned the horizon, listening, watching for the signs he had been taught.
   It came from the southeast, a distant hissing, a sand-whisper. Presently he saw the faraway outline of the creature's track against the dawnlight and realized he had never before seen a maker this large, never heard of one this size. It appeared to be more than half a league long, and the rise of the sandwave at its cresting head was like the approach of a mountain.
   This is nothing I have seen by vision or in life, Paul cautioned himself. He hurried across the path of the thing to take his stand, caught up entirely by the rushing needs of this moment.

= = = = = =

   “Control the coinage and the courts – let the rabble have the rest.” Thus the Padishah Emperor advises you. And he tells you: “If you want profits, you must rule.” There is truth in these words, but I ask myself: “Who are the rabble and who are the ruled?”
   –Muad'Dib's Secret Message to the Landsraad from “Arrakis Awakening” by the Princess Irulan

   A thought came unbidden to Jessica's mind: Paul will be undergoing his sandrider test at any moment now. They try to conceal this fact from me, but it's obvious.
   And Chani has gone on some mysterious errand.
   Jessica sat in her resting chamber, catching a moment of quiet between the night's classes. It was a pleasant chamber, but not as large as the one she had enjoyed in Sietch Tabr before their flight from the pogrom. Still, this place had thick rugs on the floor, soft cushions, a low coffee table near at hand, multicolored hangings on the walls, and soft yellow glowglobes overhead. The room was permeated with the distinctive acrid furry odor of a Fremen sietch that she had come to associate with a sense of security.
   Yet she knew she would never overcome a feeling of being in an alien place. It was the harshness that the rugs and hangings attempted to conceal.
   A faint tinkling-drumming-slapping penetrated to the resting chamber. Jessica knew it for a birth celebration, probably Subiay's. Her time was near. And Jessica knew she'd see the baby soon enough – a blue-eyed cherub brought to the Reverend Mother for blessing. She knew also that her daughter, Alia, would be at the celebration and would report on it.
   It was not yet time for the nightly prayer of parting. They wouldn't have started a birth celebration near the time of ceremony that mourned the slave raids of Poritrin, Bela Tegeuse, Rossak, and Harmonthep.
   Jessica sighed. She knew she was trying to keep her thoughts off her son and the dangers he faced – the pit traps with their poisoned barbs, the Harkonnen raids (although these were growing fewer as the Fremen took their toll of aircraft and raiders with the new weapons Paul had given them), and the natural dangers of the desert – makers and thirst and dust chasms.
   She thought of calling for coffee and with the thought came that ever-present awareness of paradox in the Fremen way of life: how well they lived in these sietch caverns compared to the graben pyons; yet, how much more they endured in the open hajr of the desert than anything the Harkonnen bondsmen endured.
   A dark hand inserted itself through the hangings beside her, deposited a cup upon the table and withdrew. From the cup arose the aroma of spiced coffee.
   An offering from the birth celebration, Jessica thought.
   She took the coffee and sipped it, smiling at herself. In what other society of our universe, she asked herself, could a person of my station accept an anonymous drink and quaff that drink without fear? I could alter any poison now before it did me harm, or course, but the donor doesn't realize this.
   She drained the cup, feeling the energy and lift of its contents – hot and delicious.
   And she wondered what other society would have such a natural regard for her privacy and comfort that the giver would intrude only enough to deposit the gift and not inflict her with the donor? Respect and love had sent the gift – with only a slight tinge of fear.
   Another element of the incident forced itself into her awareness: she had thought of coffee and it had appeared. There was nothing of telepathy here, she knew. It was the tau, the oneness of the sietch community, a compensation from the subtle poison of the spice diet they shared. The great mass of the people could never hope to attain the enlightenment the spice seed brought to her; they had not been trained and prepared for it. Their minds rejected what they could not understand or encompass. Still they felt and reacted sometimes like a single organism.
   And the thought of coincidence never entered their minds.
   Has Paul passed his test on the sand? Jessica asked herself. He's capable, but accident can strike down even the most capable.
   The waiting.
   It's the dreariness, she thought. You can wait just so long. Then the dreariness of the waiting overcomes you.
   There was all manner of waiting in their lives.
   More than two years we've been here, she thought, and twice that number at least to go before we can even hope to think of trying to wrest Arrakis from the Harkonnen governor, the Mudir Nahya, the Beast Rabban.
   “Reverend Mother?”
   The voice from outside the hangings at her door was that of Harah, the other woman in Paul's menage.
   “Yes, Harah.”
   The hangings parted and Harah seemed to glide through them. She wore sietch sandals, a red-yellow wraparound that exposed her arms almost to the shoulders. Her black hair was parted in the middle and swept back like the wings of an insect, flat and oily against her head. The jutting, predatory features were drawn into an intense frown.
   Behind Harah came Alia, a girl-child of about two years.
   Seeing her daughter, Jessica was caught as she frequently was by Alia's resemblance to Paul at that age – the same wide-eyed solemnity to her questing look, the dark hair and firmness of mouth. But there were subtle differences, too, and it was in these that most adults found Alia disquieting. The child – little more than a toddler – carried herself with a calmness and awareness beyond her years. Adults were shocked to find her laughing at a subtle play of words between the sexes. Or they'd catch themselves listening to her half-lisping voice, still blurred as it was by an unformed soft palate, and discover in her words sly remarks that could only be based on experiences no two-year-old had ever encountered.
   Harah sank to a cushion with an exasperated sigh, frowned at the child.
   “Alia.” Jessica motioned to her daughter.
   The child crossed to a cushion beside her mother, sank to it and clasped her mother's hand. The contact of flesh restored that mutual awareness they had shared since before Alia's birth. It wasn't a matter of shared thoughts – although there were bursts of that if they touched while Jessica was changing the spice poison for a ceremony. It was something larger, an immediate awareness of another living spark, a sharp and poignant thing, a nerve-sympatico that made them emotionally one.
   In the formal manner that befitted a member of her son's household, Jessica said: “Subakh ul kuhar, Harah. This night finds you well?”
   With the same traditional formality, she said: “Subakh un nar. I am well.” The words were almost toneless. Again, she sighed.
   Jessica sensed amusement from Alia.
   “My brother's ghanima is annoyed with me,” Alia said in her half-lisp.
   Jessica marked the term Alia used to refer to Harah – ghanima. In the subtleties of the Fremen tongue, the word meant “something acquired in battle” and with the added overtone that the something no longer was used for its original purpose. An ornament, a spearhead used as a curtain weight.
   Harah scowled at the child. “Don't try to insult me, child. I know my place.”
   “What have you done this time, Alia?” Jessica asked.
   Harah answered; "Not only has she refused to play with the other children today, but she intruded where . . . "
   “I hid behind the hangings and watched Subiay's child being born,” Alia said. “It's a boy. He cried and cried. What a set of lungs! When he'd cried long enough –”
   “She came out and touched him,” Harah said, “and he stopped crying. Everyone knows a Fremen baby must get his crying done at birth, if he's in sietch because he can never cry again lest he betray us on hajr.”
   “He'd cried enough,” Alia said. “I just wanted to feel his spark, his life. That's all. And when he felt me he didn't want to cry anymore.”
   “It's just made more talk among the people,” Harah said.
   “Subiay's boy is healthy?” Jessica asked. She saw that something was troubling Harah deeply and wondered at it.
   "Healthy as any mother could ask," Harah said. "They know Alia didn't hurt him. They didn't so much mind her touching him. He settled down right away and was happy. It was . . . " Harah shrugged.
   “It's the strangeness of my daughter, is that it?” Jessica asked. “It's the way she speaks of things beyond her years and of things no child her age could know – things of the past.”
   “How could she know what a child looked like on Bela Tegeuse?” Harah demanded.
   “But he does!” Alia said, “Subiay's boy looks just like the son of Mitha born before the parting.”
   “Alia!” Jessica said. “I warned you.”
   "But, Mother, I saw it and it was true and . . . "
   Jessica shook her head, seeing the signs of disturbance in Harah's face. What have I borne? Jessica asked herself. A daughter who knew at birth everything that I knew . . . and more: everything revealed to her out of the corridors of the past by the Reverend Mothers within me.
   “It's not just the things she says,” Harah said. “It's the exercises, too: the way she sits and stares at a rock, moving only one muscle beside her nose, or a muscle on the back of a finger, or –”
   “Those are the Bene Gesserit training,” Jessica said. “You know that, Harah. Would you deny my daughter her inheritance?”
   “Reverend Mother, you know these things don't matter to me,” Harah said. “It's the people and the way they mutter. I feel danger in it. They say your daughter's a demon, that other children refuse to play with her, that she's –”
   “She has so little in common with the other children,” Jessica said. “She's no demon. It's just the –”
   “Of course she's not!”
   Jessica found herself surprised at the vehemence in Harah's tone, glanced down at Alia. The child appeared lost in thought, radiating a sense of . . . waiting. Jessica returned her attention to Harah.
   “I respect the fact that you're a member of my son's household,” Jessica said. (Alia stirred against her hand.) “You may speak openly with me of whatever's troubling you.”
   “I will not be a member of your son's household much longer,” Harah said. “I've waited this long for the sake of my sons, the special training they receive as the children of Usul. It's little enough I could give them since it's known I don't share your son's bed.”
   Again Alia stirred beside her, half-sleeping, warm.
   “You'd have made a good companion for my son, though,” Jessica said. And she added to herself because such thoughts were ever with her: Companion . . . not a wife. Jessica's thoughts went then straight to the center, to the pang that came from the common talk in the sietch that her son's companionship with Chani had become a permanent thing, the marriage.
   I love Chani, Jessica thought, but she reminded herself that love might have to step aside for royal necessity. Royal marriages had other reasons than love.
   “You think I don't know what you plan for your son?” Harah asked.
   “What do you mean?” Jessica demanded.
   “You plan to unite the tribes under Him,” Harah said.
   “Is that bad?”
   “I see danger for him . . . and Alia is part of that danger.”
   Alia nestled closer to her mother, eyes opened now and studying Harah.
   “I've watched you two together,” Harah said, “the way you touch. And Alia is like my own flesh because she's sister to one who is like my brother. I've watched over her and guarded her from the time she was a mere baby, from the time of the razzia when we fled here. I've seen many things about her.”
   Jessica nodded, feeling disquiet begin to grow in Alia beside her.
   “You know what I mean,” Harah said. “The way she knew from the first what we were saying to her. When has there been another baby who knew the water discipline so young? What other baby's first words to her nurse were: 'I love you, Harah'?”
   Harah stared at Alia. “Why do you think I accept her insults? I know there's no malice in them.”
   Alia looked up at her mother.
   “Yes, I have reasoning powers, Reverend Mother,” Harah said. “I could have been of the Sayyadina. I have seen what I have seen.”
   "Harah . . . " Jessica shrugged. "I don't know what to say." And she felt surprise at herself, because this literally was true.
   Alia straightened, squared her shoulders. Jessica felt the sense of waiting ended, an emotion compounded of decision and sadness.
   “We made a mistake,” Alia said. “Now we need Harah.”
   “It was the ceremony of the seed,” Harah said, “when you changed the Water of Life, Reverend Mother, when Alia was yet unborn within you.”
   Need Harah? Jessica asked herself.
   “Who else can talk among the people and make them begin to understand me?” Alia asked.
   “What would you have her do?” Jessica asked.
   “She already knows what to do,” Alia said.
   “I will tell them the truth,” Harah said. Her face seemed suddenly old and sad with its olive skin drawn into frown wrinkles, a witchery in the sharp features. “I will tell them that Alia only pretends to be a little girl, that she has never been a little girl.”
   Alia shook her head. Tears ran down her cheeks, and Jessica felt the wave of sadness from her daughter as though the emotion were her own.
   “I know I'm a freak,” Alia whispered. The adult summation coming from the child mouth was like a bitter confirmation.
   “You're not a freak!” Harah snapped. “Who dared say you're a freak?”
   Again, Jessica marveled at the fierce note of protectiveness in Harah's voice. Jessica saw then that Alia had judged correctly – they did need Harah. The tribe would understand Harah – both her words and her emotions – for it was obvious she loved Alia as though this were her own child.
   “Who said it?” Harah repeated.
   “Nobody.”
   Alia used a corner of Jessica's aba to wipe the tears from her face. She smoothed the robe where she had dampened and crumpled it.
   “Then don't you say it,” Harah ordered.
   “Yes, Harah.”
   “Now,” Harah said, “you may tell me what it was like so that I may tell the others. Tell me what it is that happened to you.”
   Alia swallowed, looked up at her mother.
   Jessica nodded.
   “One day I woke up,” Alia said. “It was like waking from sleep except that I could not remember going to sleep. I was in a warm, dark place. And I was frightened.”
   Listening to the half-lisping voice of her daughter, Jessica remembered that day in the big cavern.
   “When I was frightened,” Alia said, “I tried to escape, but there was no way to escape. Then I saw a spark . . . but it wasn't exactly like seeing it. The spark was just there with me and I felt the spark's emotions . . . soothing me, comforting me, telling me that way that everything would be all right. That was my mother.”
   Harah rubbed at her eyes, smiled reassuringly at Alia. Yet there was a look of wildness in the eyes of the Fremen woman, an intensity as though they, too, were trying to hear Alia's words.
   And Jessica thought: What do we really know of how such a one thinks . . . out of her unique experiences and training and ancestry?
   “Just when I felt safe and reassured,” Alia said, “there, was another spark with us . . . and everything was happening at once. The other spark was the old Reverend Mother. She was . . . trading lives with my mother . . . everything . . . and I was there with them, seeing it all . . . everything. And it was over, and I was them and all the others and myself . . . only it took me a long time to find myself again. There were so many others.”
   “It was a cruel thing,” Jessica said. “No being should wake into consciousness thus. The wonder of it is you could accept all that happened to you.”
   "I couldn't do anything else!" Alia said. "I didn't know how to reject or hide my consciousness . . . or shut if off . . . everything just happened . . . everything . . . "
   “We didn't know,” Harah murmured. “When we gave your mother the Water to change, we didn't know you existed within her.”
   "Don't be sad about it, Harah," Alia said. "I shouldn't feel sorry for myself. After all, there's cause for happiness here: I'm a Reverend Mother. The tribe has two Rev . . . "
   She broke off, tipping her head to listen.
   Harah rocked back on her heels against the sitting cushion, stared at Alia, bringing her attention then up to Jessica's face.
   “Didn't you suspect?” Jessica asked.
   “Sh-h-h-h,” Alia said.
   A distant rhythmic chanting came to them through the hangings that separated them from the sietch corridors. It grew louder, carrying distinct sounds now: “Ya! Ya! Yawm! Ya! Ya! Yawm! Mu zein, wallah! Ya! Ya! Yawm! Mu zein, Wallah!”
   The chanters passed the outer entrance, and their voices boomed through to the inner apartments. Slowly the sound receded.
   When the sound had dimmed sufficiently, Jessica began the ritual, the sadness in her voice: “It was Ramadhan and April on Bela Tegeuse.”
   “My family sat in their pool courtyard,” Harah said, “in air bathed by the moisture that arose from the spray of a fountain. There was a tree of portyguls, round and deep in color, near at hand. There was a basket with mish mish and baklawa and mugs of liban – all manner of good things to eat. In our gardens and, in our flocks, there was peace . . . peace in all the land.”
   “Life was full with happiness until the raiders came,” Alia said.
   “Blood ran cold at the scream of friends,” Jessica said. And she felt the memories rushing through her out of all those other pasts she shared.
   “La, la, la, the women cried,” said Harah.
   “The raiders came through the mushtamal, rushing at us with their knives dripping red from the lives of our men,” Jessica said.
   Silence came over the three of them as it was in all the apartments of the sietch, the silence while they remembered and kept their grief thus fresh.
   Presently, Harah uttered the ritual ending to the ceremony, giving the words a harshness that Jessica had never before heard in them.
   “We will never forgive and we will never forget,” Harah said.
   In the thoughtful quiet that followed her words, they heard a muttering of people, the swish of many robes. Jessica sensed someone standing beyond the hangings that shielded her chamber.
   “Reverend Mother?”
   A woman's voice, and Jessica recognized it: the voice of Tharthar, one of Stilgar's wives.
   “What is it, Tharthar?”
   “There is trouble, Reverend Mother.”
   Jessica felt a constriction at her heart, an abrupt fear for Paul. “Paul . . .” she gasped.
   Tharthar spread the hangings, stepped into the chamber. Jessica glimpsed a press of people in the outer room before the hangings fell. She looked up at Tharthar – a small, dark woman in a red-figured robe of black, the total blue of her eyes trained fixedly on Jessica, the nostrils of her tiny nose dilated to reveal the plug scars.
   “What is it?” Jessica demanded.
   “There is word from the sand,” Tharthar said. “Usul meets the maker for his test . . . it is today. The young men say he cannot fail, he will be a sandrider by nightfall. The young men are banding for a razzia. They will raid in the north and meet Usul there. They say they will raise the cry then. They say they will force him to call out Stilgar and assume command of the tribes.”
   Gathering water, planting the dunes, changing their world slowly but surely – these are no longer enough, Jessica thought. The little raids, the certain raids – these are no longer enough now that Paul and I have trained them. They feel their power. They want to fight.
   Tharthar shifted from one foot to the other, cleared her throat.
   We know the need for cautious waiting, Jessica thought, but there's the core of our frustration. We know also the harm that waiting extended too long can do us. We lose our senses of purpose if the waiting's prolonged.
   “The young men say if Usul does not call out Stilgar, then he must be afraid,” Tharthar said.
   She lowered her gaze.
   “So that's the way of it,” Jessica muttered. And she thought: Well I saw it coming. As did Stilgar.
   Again, Tharthar cleared her throat. “Even my brother, Shoab, says it,” she said. “They will leave Usul no choice.”
   Then it has come, Jessica thought. And Paul will have to handle it himself. The Reverend Mother dare not become involved in the succession.
   Alia freed her hand from her mother's, said: “I will go with Tharthar and listen to the young men. Perhaps there is a way.”
   Jessica met Tharthar's gaze, but spoke to Alia: “Go, then. And report to me as soon as you can.”
   “We do not want this thing to happen, Reverend Mother,” Tharthar said.
   “We do not want it,” Jessica agreed. “The tribe needs all its strength.” She glanced at Harah. “Will you go with them?”
   Harah answered the unspoken part of the question: “Tharthar will allow no harm to befall Alia. She knows we will soon be wives together, she and I, to share the same man. We have talked, Tharthar and I.” Harah looked up at Tharthar, back to Jessica. “We have an understanding.”
   Tharthar held out a hand for Alia, said: “We must hurry. The young men are leaving.”
   They pressed through the hangings, the child's hand in the small woman's hand, but the child seemed to be leading.
   “If Paul-Muad'Dib slays Stilgar, this will not serve the tribe,” Harah said. “Always before, it has been the way of succession, but times have changed.”
   “Times have changed for you, as well,” Jessica said.
   “You cannot think I doubt the outcome of such a battle,” Harah said. “Usul could not but win.”
   “That was my meaning,” Jessica said.
   “And you think my personal feelings enter into my judgment,” Harah said. She shook her head, her water rings tinkling at her neck. “How wrong you are. Perhaps you think, as well, that I regret not being the chosen of Usul, that I am jealous of Chani?”
   “You make your own choice as you are able,” Jessica said.
   “I pity Chani,” Harah said.
   Jessica stiffened. “What do you mean?”
   “I know what you think of Chani,” Harah said. “You think she is not the wife for your son.”
   Jessica settled back, relaxed on her cushions. She shrugged. “Perhaps.”
   “You could be right,” Harah said. “If you are, you may find a surprising ally – Chani herself. She wants whatever is best for Him.”
   Jessica swallowed past a sudden tightening in her throat. “Chani's very dear to me,” she said. “She could be no –”
   “Your rugs are very dirty in here,” Harah said. She swept her gaze around the floor, avoiding Jessica's eyes. “So many people tramping through here all the time. You really should have them cleaned more often.”

= = = = = =

   You cannot avoid the interplay of politics within an orthodox religion. This power struggle permeates the training, educating and disciplining of the orthodox community. Because of this pressure, the leaders of such a community inevitably must face that ultimate internal question: to succumb to complete opportunism as the price of maintaining their rule, or risk sacrificing themselves for the sake of the orthodox ethic.
   –from “Muad'Dib: The Religious Issues” by the Princess Irulan

   Paul waited on the sand outside the gigantic maker's line of approach. I must not wait like a smuggler – impatient and jittering, he reminded himself. I must be part of the desert.
   The thing was only minutes away now, filling the morning with the friction-hissing of its passage. Its great teeth within the cavern-circle of its mouth spread like some enormous flower. The spice odor from it dominated the air.
   Paul's stillsuit rode easily on his body and he was only distantly aware of his nose plugs, the breathing mask. Stilgar's teaching, the painstaking hours on the sand, overshadowed all else.
   “How far outside the maker's radius must you stand in pea sand?” Stilgar had asked him.
   And he had answered correctly: “Half a meter for every meter of the maker's diameter.”
   “Why?”
   “To avoid the vortex of its passage and still have time to run in and mount it.”
   “You've ridden the little ones bred for the seed and the Water of Life,” Stilgar had said. “But what you'll summon for your test is a wild maker, an old man of the desert. You must have proper respect for such a one.”
   Now the thumper's deep drumming blended with the hiss of the approaching worm. Paul breathed deeply, smelling mineral bitterness of sand even through his filters. The wild maker, the old man of the desert, loomed, almost on him. Its cresting front segments threw a sandwave that would sweep across his knees.
   Come up, you lovely monster, he thought. Up. You hear me calling. Come up. Come up.
   The wave lifted his feet. Surface dust swept across him. He steadied himself, his world dominated by the passage of that sand-clouded curving wall, that segmented cliff, the ring lines sharply defined in it.
   Paul lifted his hooks, sighted along them, leaned in. He felt them bite and pull. He leaped upward, planting his feet against that wall, leaning out against the clinging barbs. This was the true instant of the testing: if he had planted the hooks correctly at the leading edge of a ring segment, opening the segment, the worm would not roll down and crush him.
   The worm slowed. It glided across the thumper, silencing it. Slowly, it began to roll – up, up – bringing those irritant barbs as high as possible, away from the sand that threatened the soft inner lapping of its ring segment.
   Paul found himself riding upright atop the worm. He felt exultant, like an emperor surveying his world. He suppressed a sudden urge to cavort there, to turn the worm, to show off his mastery of this creature.
   Suddenly he understood why Stilgar had warned him once about brash young men who danced and played with these monsters, doing handstands on their backs, removing both hooks and replanting them before the worm could spill them.
   Leaving one hook in place, Paul released the other and planted it lower down the side. When the second hook was firm and tested, he brought down the first one, thus worked his way down the side. The maker rolled, and as it rolled, it turned, coming around the sweep of flour sand where the others waited.
   Paul saw them come up, using their hooks to climb, but avoiding the sensitive ring edges until they were on top. They rode at last in a triple line behind him, steadied against their hooks.
   Stilgar moved up through the ranks, checked the positioning of Paul's hooks, glanced up at Paul's smiling face.
   “You did it, eh?” Stilgar asked, raising his voice above the hiss of their passage. “That's what you think? You did it?” He straightened. “Now I tell you that was a very sloppy job. We have twelve-year-olds who do better. There was drumsand to your left where you waited. You could not retreat there if the worm turned that way.”
   The smile slipped from Paul's face. “I saw the drumsand.”
   “Then why did you not signal for one of us to take up position secondary to you? It was a thing you could do even in the test.”
   Paul swallowed, faced into the wind of their passage.
   “You think it bad of me to say this now,” Stilgar said. “It is my duty. I think of your worth to the troop. If you had stumbled into that drumsand, the maker would've turned toward you.”
   In spite of a surge of anger, Paul knew that Stilgar spoke the truth. It took a long minute and the full effort of the training he had received from his mother for Paul to recapture a feeling of calm. “I apologize,” he said. “It will not happen again.”
   “In a tight position, always leave yourself a secondary, someone to take the maker if you cannot,” Stilgar said. “Remember that we work together. That way, we're certain. We work together, eh?”
   He slapped Paul's shoulder.
   “We work together,” Paul agreed.
   “Now,” Stilgar said, and his voice was harsh, “show me you know how to handle a maker. Which side are we on?”
   Paul glanced down at the scaled ring surface on which they stood, noted the character and size of the scales, the way they grew larger off to his right, smaller to his left. Every worm, he knew, moved characteristically with one side up more frequently. As it grew older, the characteristic up-side became an almost constant thing. Bottom scales grew larger, heavier, smoother. Top scales could be told by size alone on a big worm.
   Shifting his hooks, Paul moved to the left. He motioned flankers down to open segments along the side and keep the worm on a straight course as it rolled. When he had it turned, he motioned two steersmen out of the line and into positions ahead.
   “Ach, haiiiii-yoh!” he shouted in the traditional call. The left-side steersman opened a ring segment there.
   In a majestic circle, the maker turned to protect its opened segment. Full around it came and when it was headed back to the south, Paul shouted: “Geyrat!”
   The steersman released his hook. The maker lined out in a straight course.
   Stilgar said. “Very good, Paul Muad'Dib. With plenty of practice, you may yet become a sandrider.”
   Paul frowned, thinking: Was I not first up?
   From behind him there came sudden laughter. The troop began chanting, flinging his name against the sky.
   “Muad'Dib! Muad'Dib! Muad'Dib! Muad'Dib!”
   And far to the rear along the worm's surface, Paul heard the beat of the goaders pounding the tail segments. The worm began picking up speed. Their robes flapped in the wind. The abrasive sound of their passage increased.
   Paul looked back through the troop, found Chani's face among them. He looked at her as he spoke to Stilgar. “Then I am a sandrider, Stil?”
   “Hal yawm! You are a sandrider this day.”
   “Then I may choose our destination?”
   “That's the way of it.”
   “And I am a Fremen born this day here in the Habbanya erg. I have had no life before this day. I was as a child until this day.”
   “Not quite a child,” Stilgar said. He fastened a corner of his hood where the wind was whipping it.
   “But there was a cork sealing off my world, and that cork has been pulled.”
   “There is no cork.”
   “I would go south, Stilgar – twenty thumpers. I would see this land we make, this land that I've only seen through the eyes of others.”
   And I would see my son and my family, he thought. I need time now to consider the future that is a past within my mind. The turmoil comes and if I'm not where I can unravel it, the thing will run wild.
   Stilgar looked at him with a steady, measuring gaze. Paul kept his attention on Chani, seeing the interest quicken in her face, noting also the excitement his words had kindled in the troop.
   “The men are eager to raid with you in the Harkonnen sinks,” Stilgar said. “The sinks are only a thumper away.”
   “The Fedaykin have raided with me,” Paul said. “They'll raid with me again until no Harkonnen breathes Arrakeen air.”
   Stilgar studied him as they rode, and Paul realized the man was seeing this moment through the memory of how he had risen to command of the Tabr sietch and to leadership of the Council of Leaders now that Liet-Kynes was dead.
   He has heard the reports of unrest among the young Fremen, Paul thought.
   “Do you wish a gathering of the leaders?” Stilgar asked.
   Eyes blazed among the young men of the troop. They swayed as they rode, and they watched. And Paul saw the look of unrest in Chani's glance, the way she looked from Stilgar, who was her uncle, to Paul-Muad'Dib, who was her mate.
   “You cannot guess what I want,” Paul said.
   And he thought: I cannot back down. I must hold control over these people.
   “You are mudir of the sandride this day,” Stilgar said. Cold formality rang in his voice: “How do you use this power?”
   We need time to relax, time for cool reflection, Paul thought.
   “We shall go south,” Paul said.
   “Even if I say we shall turn back to the north when this day is over?”
   “We shall go south,” Paul repeated.
   A sense of inevitable dignity enfolded Stilgar as he pulled his robe tightly around him. “There will be a Gathering,” he said. “I will send the messages.”
   He thinks I will call him out, Paul thought. And he knows he cannot stand against me.
   Paul faced south, feeling the wind against his exposed cheeks, thinking of the necessities that went into his decisions.
   They do not know how it is, he thought.
   But he knew he could not let any consideration deflect him. He had to remain on the central line of the time storm he could see in the future. There would come an instant when it could be unraveled, but only if he were where he could cut the central knot of it.
   I will not call him out if it can be helped, he thought. If there's another way to prevent the jihad . . .
   “We'll camp for the evening meal and prayer at Cave of Birds beneath Habbanya Ridge,” Stilgar said. He steadied himself with one hook against the swaying of the maker, gestured ahead at a low rock barrier rising out of the desert.
   Paul studied the cliff, the great streaks of rock crossing it like waves. No green, no blossom softened that rigid horizon. Beyond it stretched the way to the southern desert – a course of at least ten days and nights, as fast as they could goad the makers.
   Twenty thumpers.
   The way led far beyond the Harkonnen patrols. He knew how it would be. The dreams had shown him. One day, as they went, there 'd be a faint change of color on the far horizon – such a slight change that he might feel he was imagining it out of his hopes – and there would be the new sietch.
   “Does my decision suit Muad'Dib?” Stilgar asked. Only the faintest touch of sarcasm tinged his voice, but Fremen ears around them, alert to every tone in a bird's cry or a cielago's piping message, heard the sarcasm and watched Paul to see what he would do.
   “Stilgar heard me swear my loyalty to him when we consecrated the Fedaykin,” Paul said. “My death commandos know I spoke with honor. Does Stilgar doubt it?”
   Real pain exposed itself in Paul's voice. Stilgar heard it and lowered his gaze.
   “Usul, the companion of my sietch, him I would never doubt,” Stilgar said. “But you are Paul-Muad'Dib, the Atreides Duke, and you are the Lisan al-Gaib, the Voice from the Outer World. These men I don't even know.”
   Paul turned away to watch the Habbanya Ridge climb out of the desert. The maker beneath them still felt strong and willing. It could carry them almost twice the distance of any other in Fremen experience. He knew it. There was nothing outside the stories told to children that could match this old man of the desert. It was the stuff of a new legend, Paul realized.
   A hand gripped his shoulder.
   Paul looked at it, followed the arm to the face beyond it – the dark eyes of Stilgar exposed between filter mask and stillsuit hood.
   “The one who led Tabr sietch before me,” Stilgar said, “he was my friend. We shared dangers. He owed me his life many a time . . . and I owed him mine.”
   “I am your friend, Stilgar,” Paul said.
   “No man doubts it,” Stilgar said. He removed his hand, shrugged. “It's the way.”
   Paul saw that Stilgar was too immersed in the Fremen way to consider the possibility of any other. Here a leader took the reins from the dead hands of his predecessor, or slew among the strongest of his tribe if a leader died in the desert. Stilgar had risen to be a naib in that way.
   “We should leave this maker in deep sand,” Paul said.
   “Yes,” Stilgar agreed. “We could walk to the cave from here.”
   “We've ridden him far enough that he'll bury himself and sulk for a day or so,” Paul said.
   “You're the mudir of the sandride,” Stilgar said. “Say when we . . .” He broke off, stared at the eastern sky.
   Paul whirled. The spice-blue overcast on his eyes made the sky appear dark, a richly filtered azure against which a distant rhythmic flashing stood out in sharp contrast.
   Ornithopter!
   “One small 'thopter,” Stilgar said.
   “Could be a scout,” Paul said. “Do you think they've seen us.”
   “At this distance we're just a worm on the surface,” Stilgar said. He motioned with his left hand. “Off. Scatter on the sand.”
   The troop began working down the worm's sides, dropping off, blending with the sand beneath their cloaks. Paul marked where Chani dropped. Presently, only he and Stilgar remained.
   “First up, last off,” Paul said.
   Stilgar nodded, dropped down the side on his hooks, leaped onto the sand. Paul waited until the maker was safely clear of the scatter area, then released his hooks. This was the tricky moment with a worm not completely exhausted.
   Freed of its goads and hooks, the big worm began burrowing into the sand. Paul ran lightly back along its broad surface, judged his moment carefully and leaped off. He landed running, lunged against the slipface of a dune the way he had been taught, and hid himself beneath the cascade of sand over his robe.
   Now, the waiting . . .
   Paul turned, gently, exposed a crack of sky beneath a crease in his robe. He imagined the others back along their path doing the same.
   He heard the beat of the 'thopter's wings before he saw it. There was a whisper of jetpods and it came over his patch of desert, turned in a broad arc toward the ridge.
   An unmarked 'thopter, Paul noted.
   It flew out of sight beyond Habbanya Ridge.
   A bird cry sounded over the desert. Another.
   Paul shook himself free of sand, climbed to the dune top. Other figures stood out in a line trailing away from the ridge. He recognized Chani and Stilgar among them.
   Stilgar signaled toward the ridge.
   They gathered and began the sandwalk, gliding over the surface in a broken rhythm that would disturb no maker. Stilgar paced himself beside Paul along the windpacked crest of a dune.
   “It was a smuggler craft,” Stilgar said.
   “So it seemed,” Paul said. “But this is deep into the desert, for smugglers.”
   “They've their difficulties with patrols, too,” Stilgar said.
   “If they come this deep, they may go deeper,” Paul said.
   “True.”
   “It wouldn't be well for them to see what they could see if they ventured too deep into the south. Smugglers sell information, too.”
   “They were hunting spice, don't you think?” Stilgar asked.
   “There will be a wing and a crawler waiting somewhere for that one,” Paul said. “We've spice. Let's bait a patch of sand and catch us some smugglers. They should be taught that this is our land and our men need practice with the new weapons.”
   “Now, Usul speaks,” Stilgar said. “Usul thinks Fremen.”
   But Usul must give way to decisions that match a terrible purpose, Paul thought.
   And the storm was gathering.

= = = = = =

   When law and duty are one, united by religion, you never become fully conscious, fully aware of yourself. You are always a little less than an individual.
   –from “Muad'Dib: The Ninety-Nine Wonders of the Universe” by Princess Irulan

   The smuggler's spice factory with its parent carrier and ring of drone ornithopters came over a lifting of dunes like a swarm of insects following its queen. Ahead of the swarm lay one of the low rock ridges that lifted from the desert floor like small imitations of the Shield Wall. The dry beaches of the ridge were swept clean by a recent storm.
   In the con-bubble of the factory, Gurney Halleck leaned forward, adjusted the oil lenses of his binoculars and examined the landscape. Beyond the ridge, he could see a dark patch that might be a spiceblow, and he gave the signal to a hovering ornithopter that sent it to investigate.
   The 'thopter waggled its wings to indicate it had the signal. It broke away from the swarm, sped down toward the darkened sand, circled the area with its detectors dangling close to the surface.
   Almost immediately, it went through the wing-tucked dip and circle that told the waiting factory that spice had been found.
   Gurney sheathed his binoculars, knowing the others had seen the signal. He liked this spot. The ridge offered some shielding and protection. This was deep in the desert, an unlikely place for an ambush . . . still . . . Gurney signaled for a crew to hover over the ridge, to scan it, sent reserves to take up station in pattern around the area – not too high because then they could be seen from afar by Harkonnen detectors.
   He doubted, though, that Harkonnen patrols would be this far south. This was still Fremen country.
   Gurney checked his weapons, damning the fate that made shields useless out here. Anything that summoned a worm had to be avoided at all costs. He rubbed the inkvine scar along his jaw, studying the scene, decided it would be safest to lead a ground party through the ridge. Inspection on foot was still the most certain. You couldn't be too careful when Fremen and Harkonnen were at each other's throats.
   It was Fremen that worried him here. They didn't mind trading for all the spice you could afford, but they were devils on the warpath if you stepped foot where they forbade you to go. And they were so devilishly cunning of late.
   It annoyed Gurney, the cunning and adroitness in battle of these natives. They displayed a sophistication in warfare as good as anything he had ever encountered, and he had been trained by the best fighters in the universe then seasoned in battles where only the superior few survived.
   Again Gurney scanned the landscape, wondering why he felt uneasy. Perhaps it was the worm they had seen . . . but that was on the other side of the ridge.
   A head popped up into the con-bubble beside Gurney – the factory commander, a one-eyed old pirate with full beard, the blue eyes and milky teeth of a spice diet.
   “Looks like a rich patch, sir,” the factory commander said. “Shall I take 'er in?”
   “Come down at the edge of that ridge,” Gurney ordered. “Let me disembark with my men. You can tractor out to the spice from there. We'll have a look at that rock.”
   “Aye.”
   “In case of trouble,” Gurney said, “save the factory. We'll lift in the 'thopters.”
   The factory commander saluted. “Aye, sir.” He popped back down through the hatch.
   Again Gurney scanned the horizon. He had to respect the possibility that there were Fremen here and he was trespassing. Fremen worried him, their toughness and unpredictability. Many things about this business worried him, but the rewards were great. The fact that he couldn't send spotters high overhead worried him, too. The necessity of radio silence added to his uneasiness.
   The factory crawler turned, began to descend. Gently it glided down to the dry beach at the foot of the ridge. Treads touched sand.
   Gurney opened the bubble dome, released his safety straps. The instant the factory stopped, he was out, slamming the bubble closed behind him, scrambling out over the tread guards to swing down to the sand beyond the emergency netting. The five men of his personal guard were out with him, emerging from the nose hatch. Others released the factory's carrier wing. It detached, lifted away to fly in a parking circle low overhead.
   Immediately the big factory crawler lurched off, swinging away from the ridge toward the dark patch of spice out on the sand.
   A 'thopter swooped down nearby, skidded to a stop. Another followed and another. They disgorged Gurney's platoon and lifted to hoverflight.
   Gurney tested his muscles in his stillsuit, stretching. He left the filter mask off his face, losing moisture for the sake of a greater need – the carrying power of his voice if he had to shout commands. He began climbing up into the rocks, checking the terrain – pebbles and pea sand underfoot, the smell of spice.
   Good site for an emergency base, he thought. Might be sensible to bury a few supplies here.
   He glanced back, watching his men spread out as they followed him. Good men, even the new ones he hadn't had time to test. Good men. Didn't have to be told every time what to do. Not a shield glimmer showed on any of them. No cowards in this bunch, carrying shields into the desert where a worm could sense the field and come to rob them of the spice they found.
   From this slight elevation in the rocks, Gurney could see the spice patch about half a kilometer away and the crawler just reaching the near edge. He glanced up at the coverflight, noting the altitude – not too high. He nodded to himself, turned to resume his climb up the ridge.
   In that instant, the ridge erupted.
   Twelve roaring paths of flame streaked upward to the hovering 'thopters and carrier wing. There came a blasting of metal from the factory crawler, and the rocks around Gurney were full of hooded fighting men.
   Gurney had time to think: By the horns of the Great Mother! Rockets! They dare to use rockets!
   Then he was face to face with a hooded figure who crouched low, crysknife at the ready. Two more men stood waiting on the rocks above to left and right. Only the eyes of the fighting man ahead of him were visible to Gurney between hood and veil of a sand-colored burnoose, but the crouch and readiness warned him that here was a trained fighting man. The eyes were the blue-in-blue of the deep-desert Fremen.
   Gurney moved one hand toward his own knife, kept his eyes fixed on the other's knife. If they dared use rockets, they'd have other projectile weapons. This moment argued extreme caution. He could tell by sound alone that at least part of his skycover had been knocked out. There were gruntings, too, the noise of several struggles behind him.
   The eyes of the fighting man ahead of Gurney followed the motion of hand toward knife, came back to glare into Gurney's eyes.
   “Leave the knife in its sheath, Gurney Halleck,” the man said.
   Gurney hesitated. That voice sounded oddly familiar even through a stillsuit filter.
   “You know my name?” he said.
   “You've no need of a knife with me, Gurney,” the man said. He straightened, slipped his crysknife into its sheath back beneath his robe. “Tell your men to stop their useless resistance.”
   The man threw his hood back, swung the filter aside.
   The shock of what he saw froze Gurney's muscles. He thought at first he was looking at a ghost image of Duke Leto Atreides. Full recognition came slowly.
   “Paul,” he whispered. Then louder: “Is it truly Paul?”
   “Don't you trust your own eyes?” Paul asked.
   “They said you were dead,” Gurney rasped. He took a half-step forward.
   “Tell your men to submit,” Paul commanded. He waved toward the lower reaches of the ridge.
   Gurney turned, reluctant to take his eyes off Paul. He saw only a few knots of struggle. Hooded desert men seemed to be everywhere around. The factory crawler lay silent with Fremen standing atop it. There were no aircraft overhead.
   “Stop the fighting,” Gurney bellowed. He took a deep breath, cupped his hands for a megaphone. “This is Gurney Halleck! Stop the fight!”
   Slowly, warily, the struggling figures separated. Eyes turned toward him, questioning.
   “These are friends,” Gurney called.
   “Fine friends!” someone shouted back. “Half our people murdered.”
   “It's a mistake,” Gurney said. “Don't add to it.”
   He turned back to Paul, stared into the youth's blue-blue Fremen eyes.
   A smile touched Paul's mouth, but there was a hardness in the expression that reminded Gurney of the Old Duke, Paul's grandfather. Gurney saw then the sinewy harshness in Paul that had never before been seen in an Atreides – a leathery look to the skin, a squint to the eyes and calculation in the glance that seemed to weigh everything in sight.
   “They said you were dead,” Gurney repeated.
   “And it seemed the best protection to let them think so,” Paul said.
   Gurney realized that was all the apology he'd ever get for having been abandoned to his own resources, left to believe his young Duke . . . his friend, was dead. He wondered then if there were anything left here of the boy he had known and trained in the ways of fighting men.
   Paul took a step closer to Gurney, found that his eyes were smarting. "Gurney . . . "
   It seemed to happen of itself, and they were embracing, pounding each other on the back, feeling the reassurance of solid flesh.
   “You young pup! You young pup!” Gurney kept saying.
   And Paul: “Gurney, man! Gurney, man!”
   Presently, they stepped apart, looked at each other. Gurney took a deep breath. "So you're why the Fremen have grown so wise in battle tactics. I might've known. They keep doing things I could've planned myself. If I'd only known . . . " He shook his head. "If you'd only got word to me, lad. Nothing would've stopped me. I'd have come arunning and . . . "
   A look in Paul's eyes stopped him . . . the hard, weighing stare.
   Gurney sighed. “Sure, and there'd have been those who wondered why Gurney Halleck went arunning, and some would've done more than question. They'd have gone hunting for answers.”
   Paul nodded, glanced to the waiting Fremen around them – the looks of curious appraisal on the faces of the Fedaykin. He turned from the death commandos back to Gurney. Finding his former swordmaster filled him with elation. He saw it as a good omen, a sign that he was on the course of the future where all was well.
   With Gurney at my side . . .
   Paul glanced down the ridge past the Fedaykin, studied the smuggler crew who had come with Halleck.
   “How do your men stand, Gurney?” he asked.
   “They're smugglers all,” Gurney said. “They stand where the profit is.”
   “Little enough profit in our venture,” Paul said, and he noted the subtle finger signal flashed to him by Gurney's right hand – the old hand code out of their past. There were men to fear and distrust in the smuggler crew.
   Paul pulled at his lip to indicate he understood, looked up at the men standing guard above them on the rocks. He saw Stilgar there. Memory of the unsolved problem with Stilgar cooled some of Paul's elation.
   “Stilgar,” he said, “this is Gurney Halleck of whom you've heard me speak. My father's master-of-arms, one of the swordmasters who instructed me, an old friend. He can be trusted in any venture.”
   “I hear,” Stilgar said. “You are his Duke.”
   Paul stared at the dark visage above him, wondering at the reasons which had impelled Stilgar to say just that. His Duke. There had been a strange subtle intonation in Stilgar's voice, as though he would rather have said something else. And that wasn't like Stilgar, who was a leader of Fremen, a man who spoke his mind.
   My Duke! Gurney thought. He looked anew at Paul. Yes, with Leto dead, the title fell on Paul's shoulders.
   The pattern of the Fremen war on Arrakis began to take on new shape in Gurney's mind. My Duke! A place that had been dead within him began coming alive. Only part of his awareness focused on Paul's ordering the smuggler crew disarmed until they could be questioned.
   Gurney's mind returned to the command when he heard some of his men protesting. He shook his head, whirled. “Are you men deaf?” he barked. “This is the rightful Duke of Arrakis. Do as he commands.”
   Grumbling, the smugglers submitted.
   Paul moved up beside Gurney, spoke in a low voice. “I'd not have expected you to walk into this trap, Gurney.”
   “I'm properly chastened,” Gurney said. “I'll wager yon patch of spice is little more than a sand grain's thickness, a bait to lure us.”
   “That's a wager you'd win,” Paul said. He looked down at the men being disarmed. “Are there any more of my father's men among your crew?”
   “None. We're spread thin. There're a few among the free traders. Most have spent their profits to leave this place.”
   “But you stayed.”
   “I stayed.”
   “Because Rabban is here,” Paul said.
   “I thought I had nothing left but revenge,” Gurney said.
   An oddly chopped cry sounded from the ridgetop. Gurney looked up to see a Fremen waving his kerchief.
   “A maker comes,” Paul said. He moved out to a point of rock with Gurney following, looked off to the southwest. The burrow mound of a worm could be seen in the middle distance, a dust-crowned track that cut directly through the dunes on a course toward the ridge.
   “He's big enough,” Paul said.
   A clattering sound lifted from the factory crawler below them. It turned on its treads like a giant insect, lumbered toward the rocks.
   “Too bad we couldn't have saved the carryall,” Paul said.
   Gurney glanced at him, looked back to the patches of smoke and debris out on the desert where carryall and ornithopters had been brought down by Fremen rockets. He felt a sudden pang for the men lost there – his men, and he said: “Your father would've been more concerned for the men he couldn't save.”
   Paul shot a hard stare at him, lowered his gaze. Presently, he said: “They were your friends, Gurney. I understand. To us, though, they were trespassers who might see things they shouldn't see. You must understand that.”
   “I understand it well enough,” Gurney said. “Now, I'm curious to see what I shouldn't.”
   Paul looked up to see the old and well-remembered wolfish grin on Halleck's face, the ripple of the inkvine scar along the man's jaw.
   Gurney nodded toward the desert below them. Fremen were going about their business all over the landscape. It struck him that none of them appeared worried by the approach of the worm.
   A thumping sounded from the open dunes beyond the baited patch of spice – a deep drumming that seemed to be heard through their feet. Gurney saw Fremen spread out across the sand there in the path of the worm.
   The worm came on like some great sandfish, cresting the surface, its rings rippling and twisting. In a moment, from his vantage point above the desert, Gurney saw the taking of a worm – the daring leap of the first hookman, the turning of the creature, the way an entire band of men went up the scaly, glistening curve of the worm's side.
   “There's one of the things you shouldn't have seen,” Paul said.
   “There's been stories and rumors,” Gurney said. “But it's not a thing easy to believe without seeing it.” He shook his head. “The creature all men on Arrakis fear, you treat it like a riding animal.”
   “You heard my father speak of desert power,” Paul said. “There it is. The surface of this planet is ours. No storm nor creature nor condition can stop us.”
   Us, Gurney thought. He means the Fremen. He speaks of himself as one of them. Again, Gurney looked at the spice blue in Paul's eyes. His own eyes, he knew, had a touch of the color, but smugglers could get offworld foods and there was a subtle caste implication in the tone of the eyes among them. They spoke of “the touch of the spicebrush” to mean a man had gone too native. And there was always a hint of distrust in the idea.
   “There was a time when we did not ride the maker in the light of day in these latitudes,” Paul said. “But Rabban has little enough air cover left that he can waste it looking for a few specks in the sand.” He looked at Gurney. “Your aircraft were a shock to us here.”
   To us . . . to us . . .
   Gurney shook his head to drive out such thoughts. “We weren't the shock to you that you were to us,” he said.
   “What's the talk of Rabban in the sinks and villages?” Paul asked.
   “They say they've fortified the graben villages to the point where you cannot harm them. They say they need only sit inside their defenses while you wear yourselves out in futile attack.”
   “In a word,” Paul said, “they're immobilized.”
   “While you can go where you will,” Gurney said.
   “It's a tactic I learned from you,” Paul said. “They've lost the initiative, which means they've lost the war.”
   Gurney smiled, a slow, knowing expression.
   “Our enemy is exactly where I want him to be,” Paul said. He glanced at Gurney. “Well, Gurney, do you enlist with me for the finish of this campaign?”
   “Enlist?” Gurney stared at him. “My Lord, I've never left your service. You're the only one left me . . . to think you dead. And I, being cast adrift, made what shrift I could, waiting for the moment I might sell my life for what it's worth – the death of Rabban.”
   An embarrassed silence settled over Paul.
   A woman came climbing up the rocks toward them, her eyes between stillsuit hood and facemask flicking between Paul and his companion. She stopped in front of Paul. Gurney noted the possessive air about her, the way she stood close to Paul.
   “Chani,” Paul said, “this is Gurney Halleck. You've heard me speak of him.”
   She looked at Halleck, back to Paul. “I have heard.”
   “Where did the men go on the maker?” Paul asked.
   “They but diverted it to give us time to save the equipment.”
   “Well then . . .” Paul broke off, sniffed the air.
   “There's wind coming,” Chani said.
   A voice called out from the ridgetop above them: “Ho, there – the wind!”
   Gurney saw a quickening of motion among the Fremen now – a rushing about and sense of hurry. A thing the worm had not ignited was brought about by fear of the wind. The factory crawler lumbered up onto the dry beach below them and a way was opened for it among the rocks . . . and the rocks closed behind it so neatly that the passage escaped his eyes.
   “Have you many such hiding places?” Gurney asked.
   “Many times many,” Paul said. He looked at Chani. “Find Korba. Tell him that Gurney has warned me there are men among this smuggler crew who're not to be trusted.”
   She looked once at Gurney, back to Paul, nodded, and was off down the rocks, leaping with a gazelle-like agility.
   “She is your woman,” Gurney said.
   “The mother of my firstborn,” Paul said. “There's another Leto among the Atreides.”
   Gurney accepted this with only a widening of the eyes.
   Paul watched the action around them with a critical eye. A curry color dominated the southern sky now and there came fitful bursts and gusts of wind that whipped dust around their heads.
   “Seal your suit,” Paul said. And he fastened the mask and hood about his face.
   Gurney obeyed, thankful for the filters.
   Paul spoke, his voice muffled by the filter: “Which of your crew don't you trust, Gurney?”
   "There're some new recruits," Gurney said. "Offworlders . . . " He hesitated, wondering at himself suddenly. Offworlders. The word had come so easily to his tongue.
   “Yes?” Paul said.
   “They're not like the usual fortune-hunting lot we get,” Gurney said. “They're tougher.”
   “Harkonnen spies?” Paul asked.
   “I think m'Lord, that they report to no Harkonnen. I suspect they're men of the Imperial service. They have a hint of Salusa Secundus about them.”
   Paul shot a sharp glance at him. “Sardaukar?”
   Gurney shrugged. “They could be, but it's well masked.”
   Paul nodded, thinking how easily Gurney had fallen back into the pattern of Atreides retainer . . . but with subtle reservations . . . differences. Arrakis had changed him, too.
   Two hooded Fremen emerged from the broken rock below them, began climbing upward. One of them carried a large black bundle over one shoulder.
   “Where are my crew now?” Gurney asked.
   “Secure in the rocks below us,” Paul said. “We've a cave here – Cave of Birds. We'll decide what to do with them after the storm.”
   A voice called from above them: “Muad'Dib!”
   Paul turned at the call, saw a Fremen guard motioning them down to the cave. Paul signaled he had heard.
   Gurney studying him with a new expression. “You're Muad'Dib?” he asked. “You're the will-o'-the-sand?”
   “It's my Fremen name,” Paul said.
   Gurney turned away, feeling an oppressive sense of foreboding. Half his own crew dead on the sand, the others captive. He did not care about the new recruits, the suspicious ones, but among the others were good men, friends, people for whom he felt responsible. “We'll decide what to do with them after the storm.” That's what Paul had said, Muad'Dib had said. And Gurney recalled the stories told of Muad'Dib, the Lisan al-Gaib – how he had taken the skin of a Harkonnen officer to make his drumheads, how he was surrounded by death commandos, Fedaykin who leaped into battle with their death chants on their lips.
   Him.
   The two Fremen climbing up the rocks leaped lightly to a shelf in front of Paul. The dark-faced one said: “All secure, Muad'Dib. We best get below now.”
   “Right.”
   Gurney noted the tone of the man's voice – half command and half request. This was the man called Stilgar, another figure of the new Fremen legends.
   Paul looked at the bundle the other man carried, said: “Korba, what's in the bundle?”
   Stilgar answered: " 'Twas in the crawler. It had the initial of your friend here and it contains a baliset. Many times have I heard you speak of the prowess of Gurney Halleck on the baliset."
   Gurney studied the speaker, seeing the edge of black beard above the stillsuit mask, the hawk stare, the chiseled nose.
   “You've a companion who thinks, m'Lord,” Gurney said. “Thank you, Stilgar.”
   Stilgar signaled for his companion to pass the bundle to Gurney, said: “Thank your Lord Duke. His countenance earns your admittance here.”
   Gurney accepted the bundle, puzzled by the hard undertones in this conversation. There was an air of challenge about the man, and Gurney wondered if it could be a feeling of jealousy in the Fremen. Here was someone called Gurney Halleck who'd known Paul even in the times before Arrakis, a man who shared a camaraderie that Stilgar could never invade.
   “You are two I'd have be friends,” Paul said.
   “Stilgar, the Fremen, is a name of renown,” Gurney said. “Any killer of Harkonnens I'd feel honored to count among my friends.”
   “Will you touch hands with my friend Gurney Halleck, Stilgar?” Paul asked.
   Slowly, Stilgar extended his hand, gripped the heavy calluses of Gurney's swordhand. “There're few who haven't heard the name of Gurney Halleck,” he said, and released his grip. He turned to Paul. “The storm comes rushing.”
   “At once,” Paul said.
   Stilgar turned away, led them down through the rocks, a twisting and turning path into a shadowed cleft that admitted them to the low entrance of a cave. Men hurried to fasten a doorseal behind them. Glowglobes showed a broad, dome-ceilinged space with a raised ledge on one side and a passage leading off from it.
   Paul leaped to the ledge with Gurney right behind him, led the way into the passage. The others headed for another passage opposite the entrance. Paul led the way through an anteroom and into a chamber with dark, wine-colored hangings on its walls.
   “We can have some privacy here for a while,” Paul said. “The others will respect my –”
   An alarm cymbal clanged from the outer chamber, was followed by shouting and clashing of weapons. Paul whirled, ran back through the anteroom and out onto the atrium lip above the outer chamber. Gurney was right behind, weapon drawn.
   Beneath them on the floor of the cave swirled a melee of struggling figures. Paul stood an instant assessing the scene, separating the Fremen robes and bourkas from the costumes of those they opposed. Senses that his mother had trained to detect the most subtle clues picked out a significant fact – the Fremen fought against men wearing smuggler robes, but the smugglers were crouched in trios, backed into triangles where pressed.
   That habit of close fighting was a trademark of the Imperial Sardaukar.
   A Fedaykin in the crowd saw Paul, and his battlecry was lifted to echo in the chamber: “Muad'Dib! Muad'Dib! Muad'Dib!”
   Another eye had also picked Paul out. A black knife came hurtling toward him. Paul dodged, heard the knife clatter against stone behind him, glanced to see Gurney retrieve it.
   The triangular knots were being pressed back now.
   Gurney held the knife up in front of Paul's eyes, pointed to the hairline yellow coil of Imperial color, the golden lion crest, multifaceted eyes at the pommel.
   Sardaukar for certain.
   Paul stepped out to the lip of the ledge. Only three of the Sardaukar remained. Bloody rag mounds of Sardaukar and Fremen lay in a twisted pattern across the chamber.
   “Hold!” Paul shouted. “The Duke Paul Atreides commands you to hold!”
   The fighting wavered, hesitated.
   “You Sardaukar!” Paul called to the remaining group. “By whose orders do you threaten a ruling Duke?” And, quickly, as his men started to press in around the Sardaukar: “Hold, I say!”
   One of the cornered trio straightened. “Who says we're Sardaukar?” he demanded.
   Paul took the knife from Gurney, held it aloft. “This says you're Sardaukar.”
   “Then who says you're a ruling Duke?” the man demanded.
   Paul gestured to the Fedaykin. “These men say I'm a ruling Duke. Your own emperor bestowed Arrakis on House Atreides. I am House Atreides.”
   The Sardaukar stood silent, fidgeting.
   Paul studied the man – tall, flat-featured, with a pale scar across half his left cheek. Anger and confusion were betrayed in his manner, but still there was that pride about him without which a Sardaukar appeared undressed – and with which he could appear fully clothed though naked.
   Paul glanced to one of his Fedaykin lieutenants, said: “Korba, how came they to have weapons?”
   “They held back knives concealed in cunning pockets within their stillsuits,” the lieutenant said.
   Paul surveyed the dead and wounded across the chamber, brought his attention back to the lieutenant. There was no need for words. The lieutenant lowered his eyes.
   “Where is Chani?” Paul asked and waited, breath held, for the answer.
   “Stilgar spirited her aside.” He nodded toward the other passage, glanced at the dead and wounded. “I hold myself responsible for this mistake, Muad'Dib.”
   “How many of these Sardaukar were there, Gurney?” Paul asked.
   “Ten.”
   Paul leaped lightly to the floor of the chamber, strode across to stand within striking distance of the Sardaukar spokesman.
   A tense air came over the Fedaykin. They did not like him thus exposed to danger. This was the thing they were pledged to prevent because the Fremen wished to preserve the wisdom of Muad'Dib.
   Without turning, Paul spoke to his lieutenant: “How many are our casualties?”
   “Four wounded, two dead, Muad'Dib.”
   Paul saw motion beyond the Sardaukar, Chani and Stilgar were standing in the other passage. He returned his attention to the Sardaukar, staring into the offworld whites of the spokesman's eyes. “You, what is your name?” Paul demanded.
   The man stiffened, glanced left and right.
   “Don't try it,” Paul said. “It's obvious to me that you were ordered to seek out and destroy Muad'Dib. I'll warrant you were the ones suggested seeking spice in the deep desert.”
   A gasp from Gurney behind him brought a thin smile to Paul's lips.
   Blood suffused the Sardaukar's face.
   “What you see before you is more than Muad'Dib,” Paul said. “Seven of you are dead for two of us. Three for one. Pretty good against Sardaukar, eh?”
   The man came up on his toes, sank back as the Fedaykin pressed forward.
   “I asked your name,” Paul said, and he called up the subtleties of Voice: “Tell me your name!”
   “Captain Aramsham, Imperial Sardaukar!” the man snapped. His jaw dropped. He stared at Paul in confusion. The manner about him that had dismissed this cavern as a barbarian warren melted away.
   “Well, Captain Aramsham,” Paul said, “the Harkonnens would pay dearly to learn what you now know. And the Emperor – what he wouldn't give to learn an Atreides still lives despite his treachery.”
   The captain glanced left and right at the two men remaining to him. Paul could almost see the thoughts turning over in the man's head. Sardaukar did not submit, but the Emperor had to learn of this threat.
   Still using the Voice, Paul said: “Submit, Captain.”
   The man at the captain's left leaped without warning toward Paul, met the flashing impact of his own captain's knife in his chest. The attacker hit the floor in a sodden heap with the knife still in him.
   The captain faced his sole remaining companion. “I decide what best serves His Majesty,” he said. “Understood?”
   The other Sardaukar's shoulders slumped.
   “Drop your weapon,” the captain said.
   The Sardaukar obeyed.
   The captain returned his attention to Paul. “I have killed a friend for you,” he said. “Let us always remember that.”
   “You're my prisoners,” Paul said. “You submitted to me. Whether you live or die is of no importance.” He motioned to his guard to take the two Sardaukar, signaled the lieutenant who had searched the prisoners.
   The guard moved in, hustled the Sardaukar away.
   Paul bent toward his lieutenant.
   "Muad'Dib," the man said. "I failed you in . . . "
   “The failure was mine, Korba,” Paul said. “I should've warned you what to seek. In the future, when searching Sardaukar, remember this. Remember, too, that each has a false toenail or two that can be combined with other items secreted about their bodies to make an effective transmitter. They'll have more than one false tooth. They carry coils of shigawire in their hair – so fine you can barely detect it, yet strong enough to garrote a man and cut off his head in the process. With Sardaukar, you must scan them, scope them – both reflex and hard ray – cut off every scrap of body hair. And when you're through, be certain you haven't discovered everything.”
   He looked up at Gurney, who had moved close to listen.
   “Then we best kill them,” the lieutenant said.
   Paul shook his head, still looking at Gurney. “No. I want them to escape.” Gurney stared at him.
   "Sire . . . " he breathed.
   “Yes?”
   “Your man here is right. Kill those prisoners at once. Destroy all evidence of them. You've shamed Imperial Sardaukar! When the Emperor learns that he'll not rest until he has you over a slow fire.”
   “The Emperor's not likely to have that power over me,” Paul said. He spoke slowly, coldly. Something had happened inside him while he faced the Sardaukar. A sum of decisions had accumulated in his awareness. “Gurney,” he said, “are there many Guildsmen around Rabban?”
   Gurney straightened, eyes narrowed. "Your question makes no . . . "
   “Are there?” Paul barked.
   "Arrakis is crawling with Guild agents. They're buying spice as though it were the most precious thing in the universe. Why else do you think we ventured this far into . . . "
   “It is the most precious thing in the universe,” Paul said. “To them.”
   He looked toward Stilgar and Chani who were now crossing the chamber toward him. “And we control it, Gurney.”
   “The Harkonnens control it!” Gurney protested.
   “The people who can destroy a thing, they control it,” Paul said. He waved a hand to silence further remarks from Gurney, nodded to Stilgar who stopped in front of Paul, Chani beside him.
   Paul took the Sardaukar knife in his left hand, presented it to Stilgar. “You live for the good of the tribe,” Paul said. “Could you draw my life's blood with that knife?”
   “For the good of the tribe,” Stilgar growled.
   “Then use that knife,” Paul said.
   “Are you calling me out?” Stilgar demanded.
   “If I do,” Paul said, “I shall stand there without weapon and let you slay me.”
   Stilgar drew in a quick, sharp breath.
   Chani said, “Usul!” then glanced at Gurney, back to Paul.
   While Stilgar was still weighing his words, Paul said: “You are Stilgar, a fighting man. When the Sardaukar began fighting here, you were not in the front of battle. Your first thought was to protect Chani.”
   "She's my niece," Stilgar said. "If there'd been any doubt of your Fedaykin handling those scum . . . "
   “Why was your first thought of Chani?” Paul demanded.
   “It wasn't!”
   “Oh?”
   “It was of you,” Stilgar admitted.
   “Do you think you could lift your hand against me?” Paul asked. Stilgar began to tremble. “It's the way,” he muttered.
   “It's the way to kill offworld strangers found in the desert and take their water as a gift from Shai-hulud,” Paul said. “Yet you permitted two such to live one night, my mother and myself.”
   As Stilgar remained silent, trembling, staring at him, Paul said: “Ways change, Stil. You have changed them yourself.”
   Stilgar looked down at the yellow emblem on the knife he held.
   “When I am Duke in Arrakeen with Chani by my side, do you think I'll have time to concern myself with every detail of governing Tabr sietch?” Paul asked. “Do you concern yourself with the internal problems of every family?”
   Stilgar continued staring at the knife.
   “Do you think I wish to cut off my right arm?” Paul demanded.
   Slowly, Stilgar looked up at him.
   “You!” Paul said. “Do you think I wish to deprive myself or the tribe of your wisdom and strength?”
   In a low voice, Stilgar said: “The young man of my tribe whose name is known to me, this young man I could kill on the challenge floor, Shai-hulud willing. The Lisan al-Gaib, him I could not harm. You knew this when you handed me this knife.”
   “I knew it,” Paul agreed.
   Stilgar opened his hand. The knife clattered against the stone of the floor. “Ways change,” he said.
   “Chani,” Paul said, “go to my mother, send her here that her counsel will be available in –”
   “But you said we would go to the south!” she protested.
   “I was wrong,” he said. “The Harkonnens are not there. The war is not there.”
   She took a deep breath, accepting this as a desert woman accepted all necessities in the midst of a life involved with death.
   “You will give my mother a message for her ears alone,” Paul said. “Tell her that Stilgar acknowledges me Duke of Arrakis, but a way must be found to make the young men accept this without combat.”
   Chani glanced at Stilgar.
   “Do as he says,” Stilgar growled. “We both know he could overcome me . . . and I could not raise my hand against him . . . for the good of the tribe.”
   “I shall return with your mother,” Chani said.
   “Send her,” Paul said. “Stilgar's instinct was right. I am stronger when you are safe. You will remain in the sietch.”
   She started to protest, swallowed it.
   “Sihaya,” Paul said, using his intimate name for her. He whirled away to the right, met Gurney's glaring eyes.
   The interchange between Paul and the older Fremen had passed as though in a cloud around Gurney since Paul's reference to his mother.
   “Your mother,” Gurney said.
   “Idaho saved us the night of the raid,” Paul said, distracted by the parting with Chani. “Right now we've –”
   “What of Duncan Idaho, m'Lord?” Gurney asked.
   “He's dead – buying us a bit of time to escape.”
   The she-witch alive! Gurney thought. The one I swore vengeance against, alive! And it's obvious Duke Paul doesn't know what manner of creature gave him birth. The evil one! Betrayed his own father to the Harkonnens!
   Paul pressed past him, jumped up to the ledge. He glanced back, noted that the wounded and dead had been removed, and he thought bitterly that here was another chapter in the legend of Paul Muad'Dib. I didn't even draw my knife, but it'll be said of this day that I slew twenty Sardaukar by my own hand.
   Gurney followed with Stilgar, stepping on ground that he did not even feel. The cavern with its yellow light of glowglobes was forced out of his thoughts by rage. The she-witch alive while those she betrayed are bones in lonesome graves. I must contrive it that Paul learns the truth about her before I slay her.

= = = = = =

   How often it is that the angry man rages denial of what his inner self is telling him.
   –"The Collected Sayings of Muad'Dib" by the Princess Irulan

   The crowd in the cavern assembly chamber radiated that pack feeling Jessica had sensed the day Paul killed Jamis. There was murmuring nervousness in the voices. Little cliques gathered like knots among the robes.
   Jessica tucked a message cylinder beneath her robe as she emerged to the ledge from Paul's private quarters. She felt rested after the long journey up from the south, but still rankled that Paul would not yet permit them to use the captured ornithopters.
   “We do not have full control of the air,” he had said. “And we must not become dependent upon offworld fuel. Both fuel and aircraft must be gathered and saved for the day of maximum effort.”
   Paul stood with a group of the younger men near the ledge. The pale light of glowglobes gave the scene a tinge of unreality. It was like a tableau, but with the added dimension of warren smells, the whispers, the sounds of shuffling feet.
   She studied her son, wondering why he had not yet trotted out his surprise – Gurney Halleck. Thought of Gurney disturbed her with its memories of an easier past – days of love and beauty with Paul's father.
   Stilgar waited with a small group of his own at the other end of the ledge. There was a feeling of inevitable dignity about him, the way he stood without talking.
   We must not lose that man, Jessica thought. Paul's plan must work. Anything else would be highest tragedy.
   She strode down the ledge, passing Stilgar without a glance, stepped down into the crowd. A way was made for her as she headed toward Paul. And silence followed her.
   She knew the meaning of the silence – the unspoken questions of the people, awe of the Reverend Mother.
   The young men drew back from Paul as she came up to him, and she found herself momentarily dismayed by the new deference they paid him. “All men beneath your position covet your station,” went the Bene Gesserit axiom. But she found no covetousness in these faces. They were held at a distance by the religious ferment around Paul's leadership. And she recalled another Bene Gesserit saying: “Prophets have a way of dying by violence.”
   Paul looked at her.
   “It's time,” she said, and passed the message cylinder to him.
   One of Paul's companions, bolder than the others, glanced across at Stilgar, said: “Are you going to call him out, Muad'Dib? Now's the time for sure. They'll think you a coward if you –”
   “Who dares call me coward?” Paul demanded. His hand flashed to his crysknife hilt.
   Bated silence came over the group, spreading out into the crowd.
   “There's work to do,” Paul said as the man drew back from him. Paul turned away, shouldered through the crowd to the ledge, leaped lightly up to it and faced the people.
   “Do it!” someone shrieked.
   Murmurs and whispers arose behind the shriek.
   Paul waited for silence. It came slowly amidst scattered shufflings and coughs. When it was quiet in the cavern, Paul lifted his chin, spoke in a voice that carried to the farthest corners.
   “You are tired of waiting,” Paul said.
   Again, he waited while the cries of response died out.
   Indeed, they are tired of waiting, Paul thought. He hefted the message cylinder, thinking of what it contained. His mother had showed it to him, explaining how it had been taken from a Harkonnen courier.
   The message was explicit: Rabban was being abandoned to his own resources here on Arrakis! He could not call for help or reinforcements!
   Again, Paul raised his voice: “You think it's time I called out Stilgar and changed the leadership of the troops!” Before they could respond, Paul hurled his voice at them in anger: “Do you think the Lisan al-Gaib that stupid?”
   There was stunned silence.
   He's accepting the religious mantle, Jessica thought. He must not do it!
   “It's the way!” someone shouted.
   Paul spoke dryly, probing the emotional undercurrents. “Ways change.”
   An angry voice lifted from a corner of the cavern: “We'll say what's to change!”
   There were scattered shouts of agreement through the throng.
   “As you wish,” Paul said.
   And Jessica heard the subtle intonations as he used the powers of Voice she had taught him.
   “You will say,” he agreed. “But first you will hear my say.”
   Stilgar moved along the ledge, his bearded face impassive. “That is the way, too,” he said. “The voice of any Fremen may be heard in Council. Paul-Muad'Dib is a Fremen.”
   “The good of the tribe, that is the most important thing, eh?” Paul asked.
   Still with that flat-voiced dignity, Stilgar said: “Thus our steps are guided.”
   “All right,” Paul said. “Then, who rules this troop of our tribe – and who rules all the tribes and troops through the fighting instructors we've trained in the weirding way?”
   Paul waited, looking over the heads of the throng. No answer came.
   Presently, he said: “Does Stilgar rule all this? He says himself that he does not. Do I rule? Even Stilgar does my bidding on occasion, and the sages, the wisest of the wise, listen to me and honor me in Council.”
   There was shuffling silence among the crowd.
   “So,” Paul said. “Does my mother rule?” He pointed down to Jessica in her black robes of office among them. “Stilgar and all the other troop leaders ask her advice in almost every major decision. You know this. But does a Reverend Mother walk the sand or lead a razzia against the Harkonnens?”
   Frowns creased the foreheads of those Paul could see, but still there were angry murmurs.
   This is a dangerous way to do it, Jessica thought, but she remembered the message cylinder and what it implied. And she saw Paul's intent: Go right to the depth of their uncertainty, dispose of that, and all the rest must follow.
   “No man recognizes leadership without the challenge and the combat, eh?” Paul asked.
   “That's the way!” someone shouted.
   “What's our goal?” Paul asked. “To unseat Rabban, the Harkonnen beast, and remake our world into a place where we may raise our families in happiness amidst an abundance of water – is this our goal?”
   “Hard tasks need hard ways,” someone shouted.
   “Do you smash your knife before a battle?” Paul demanded. “I say this as fact, not meaning it as boast or challenge: there isn't a man here, Stilgar included, who could stand against me in single combat. This is Stilgar's own admission. He knows it, so do you all.”
   Again, the angry mutters lifted from the crowd.
   “Many of you have been with me on the practice floor,” Paul said. “You know this isn't idle boast. I say it because it's fact known to us all, and I'd be foolish not to see it for myself. I began training in these ways earlier than you did and my teachers were tougher than any you've ever seen. How else do you think I bested Jamis at an age when your boys are still fighting only mock battles?”
   He's using the Voice well, Jessica thought, but that's not enough with these people. They've good insulation against vocal control. He must catch them also with logic.
   “So,” Paul said, “we come to this.” He lifted the message cylinder, removed its scrap of tape. “This was taken from a Harkonnen courier. Its authenticity is beyond question. It is addressed to Rabban. It tells him that his request for new troops is denied, that his spice harvest is far below quota, that he must wring more spice from Arrakis with the people he has.”
   Stilgar moved up beside Paul.
   “How many of you see what this means?” Paul asked. “Stilgar saw it immediately.”
   “They're cut off!” someone shouted.
   Paul pushed message and cylinder into his sash. From his neck he took a braided shigawire cord and removed a ring from the cord, holding the ring aloft.
   “This was my father's ducal signet,” he said. “I swore never to wear it again until I was ready to lead my troops over all of Arrakis and claim it as my rightful fief.” He put the ring on his finger, clenched his fist.
   Utter stillness gripped the cavern.
   “Who rules here?” Paul asked. He raised his fist. “I rule here! I rule on every square inch of Arrakis! This is my ducal fief whether the Emperor says yea or nay! He gave it to my father and it comes to me through my father!”
   Paul lifted himself onto his toes, settled back to his heels. He studied the crowd, feeling their temper.
   Almost, he thought.
   “There are men here who will hold positions of importance on Arrakis when I claim those Imperial rights which are mine,” Paul said. “Stilgar is one of those men. Not because I wish to bribe him! Not out of gratitude, though I'm one of many here who owe him life for life. No! But because he's wise and strong. Because he governs this troop by his own intelligence and not just by rules. Do you think me stupid? Do you think I'll cut off my right arm and leave it bloody on the floor of this cavern just to provide you with a circus?”
   Paul swept a hard gaze across the throng. “Who is there here to say I'm not the rightful ruler on Arrakis? Must I prove it by leaving every Fremen tribe in the erg without a leader?”
   Beside Paul, Stilgar stirred, looked at him questioningly.
   “Will I subtract from our strength when we need it most?” Paul asked. “I am your ruler, and I say to you that it is time we stopped killing off our best men and started killing our real enemies – the Harkonnens!”
   In one blurred motion, Stilgar had his crysknife out and pointed over the heads of the throng. “Long live Duke Paul-Muad'Dib!” he shouted.
   A deafening roar filled the cavern, echoed and re-echoed. They were cheering and chanting: “Ya hya chouhada! Muad'Dib! Muad'Dib! Muad'Dib! Ya hya chouhada!”
   Jessica translated it to herself: “Long live the fighters of Muad'Dib!” The scene she and Paul and Stilgar had cooked up between them had worked as they'd planned.
   The tumult died slowly.
   When silence was restored, Paul faced Stilgar, said: “Kneel, Stilgar.”
   Stilgar dropped to his knees on the ledge.
   “Hand me your crysknife,” Paul said.
   Stilgar obeyed.
   This was not as we planned it, Jessica thought.
   “Repeat after me, Stilgar,” Paul said, and he called up the words of investiture as he had heard his own father use them. “I, Stilgar, take this knife from the hands of my Duke.”
   “I, Stilgar, take this knife from the hands of my Duke,” Stilgar said, and accepted the milky blade from Paul.
   “Where my Duke commands, there shall I place this blade,” Paul said.
   Stilgar repeated the words, speaking slowly and solemnly.
   Remembering the source of the rite, Jessica blinked back tears, shook her head. I know the reasons for this, she thought. I shouldn't let it stir me.
   “I dedicate this blade to the cause of my Duke and the death of his enemies for as long as our blood shall flow,” Paul said.
   Stilgar repeated it after him.
   “Kiss the blade,” Paul ordered.
   Stilgar obeyed, then, in the Fremen manner, kissed Paul's knife arm. At a nod from Paul, he sheathed the blade, got to his feet.
   A sighing whisper of awe passed through the crowd, and Jessica heard the words: “The prophecy – A Bene Gesserit shall show the way and a Reverend Mother shall see it.” And, from farther away: “She shows us through her son!”
   “Stilgar leads this tribe,” Paul said. “Let no man mistake that. He commands with my voice. What he tells you, it is as though I told you.”
   Wise, Jessica thought. The tribal commander must lose no face among those who should obey him.
   Paul lowered his voice, said: “Stilgar, I want sandwalkers out this night and cielagos sent to summon a Council Gathering. When you've sent them, bring Chatt, Korba and Otheym and two other lieutenants of your own choosing. Bring them to my quarters for battle planning. We must have a victory to show the Council of Leaders when they arrive.”
   Paul nodded for his mother to accompany him, led the way down off the ledge and through the throng toward the central passage and the living chambers that had been prepared there. As Paul pressed through the crowd, hands reached out to touch him. Voices called out to him.
   “My knife goes where Stilgar commands it, Paul-Muad'Dib! Let us fight soon, Paul-Muad'Dib! Let us wet our world with the blood of Harkonnens!”
   Feeling the emotions of the throng, Jessica sensed the fighting edge of these people. They could not be more ready. We are taking them at the crest, she thought.
   In the inner chamber, Paul motioned his mother to be seated, said: “Wait here.” And he ducked through the hangings to the side passage.
   It was quiet in the chamber after Paul had gone, so quiet behind the hangings that not even the faint soughing of the wind pumps that circulated air in the sietch penetrated to where she sat.
   He is going to bring Gurney Halleck here, she thought. And she wondered at the strange mingling of emotions that filled her. Gurney and his music had been a part of so many pleasant times on Caladan before the move to Arrakis. She felt that Caladan had happened to some other person. In the nearly three years since then, she had become another person. Having to confront Gurney forced a reassessment of the changes.
   Paul's coffee service, the fluted alloy of silver and jasmium that he had inherited from Jamis, rested on a low table to her right. She stared at it, thinking of how many hands had touched that metal. Chani had served Paul from it within the month.
   What can his desert woman do for a Duke except serve him coffee? she asked herself. She brings him no power, no family. Paul has only one major chance – to ally himself with a powerful Great House, perhaps even with the Imperial family. There are marriageable princesses, after all, and every one of them Bene Gesserit trained.
   Jessica imagined herself leaving the rigors of Arrakis for the life of power and security she could know as mother of a royal consort. She glanced at the thick hangings that obscured the rock of this cavern cell, thinking of how she had come here – riding amidst a host of worms, the palanquins and pack platforms piled high with necessities for the coming campaign.
   As long as Chani lives, Paul will not see his duty, Jessica thought. She has given him a son and that is enough.
   A sudden longing to see her grandson, the child whose likeness carried so much of the grandfather's features – so like Leto, swept through her. Jessica placed her palms against her cheeks, began the ritual breathing that stilled emotion and clarified the mind, then bent forward from the waist in the devotional exercise that prepared the body for the mind's demands.
   Paul's choice of this Cave of Birds as his command post could not be questioned, she knew. It was ideal. And to the north lay Wind Pass opening onto a protected village in a cliff-walled sink. It was a key village, home of artisans and technicians, maintenance center for an entire Harkonnen defensive sector.
   A cough sounded outside the chamber hangings. Jessica straightened, took a deep breath, exhaled slowly. “Enter,” she said.
   Draperies were flung aside and Gurney Halleck bounded into the room. She had only time for a glimpse of his face with its odd grimace, then he was behind her, lifting her to her feet with one brawny arm beneath her chin.
   “Gurney, you fool, what are you doing?” she demanded.
   Then she felt the touch of the knife tip against her back. Chill awareness spread out from that knife tip. She knew in that instant that Gurney meant to kill her. Why? She could think of no reason, for he wasn't the kind to turn traitor. But she felt certain of his intention. Knowing it, her mind churned. Here was no man to be overcome easily. Here was a killer wary of the Voice, wary of every combat stratagem, wary of every trick of death and violence. Here was an instrument she herself had helped train with subtle hints and suggestions.
   “You thought you had escaped, eh, witch?” Gurney snarled.
   Before she could turn the question over in her mind or try to answer, the curtains parted and Paul entered.
   “Here he is, Moth –” Paul broke off, taking in the tensions of the scene.
   “You will stand where you are, m'Lord,” Gurney said.
   "What . . . " Paul shook his head.
   Jessica started to speak, felt the arm tighten against her throat.
   “You will speak only when I permit it, witch,” Gurney said. “I want only one thing from you for your son to hear it, and I am prepared to send this knife into your heart by reflex at the first sign of a counter against me. Your voice will remain in a monotone. Certain muscles you will not tense or move. You will act with the most extreme caution to gain yourself a few more seconds of life. And I assure you, these are all you have.”
   Paul took a step forward. “Gurney, man, what is –”
   “Stop right where you are!” Gurney snapped. “One more step and she's dead.”
   Paul's hand slipped to his knife hilt. He spoke in a deadly quiet: “You had best explain yourself, Gurney.”
   “I swore an oath to slay the betrayer of your father,” Gurney said. “Do you think I can forget the man who rescued me from a Harkonnen slave pit, gave me freedom, life, and honor . . . gave me friendship, a thing I prized above all else? I have his betrayer under my knife. No one can stop me from –”
   “You couldn't be more wrong, Gurney,” Paul said.
   And Jessica thought: So that's it! What irony!
   “Wrong, am I?” Gurney demanded. “Let us hear it from the woman herself. And let her remember that I have bribed and spied and cheated to confirm this charge. I've even pushed semuta on a Harkonnen guard captain to get part of the story.”
   Jessica felt the arm at her throat ease slightly, but before she could speak, Paul said: “The betrayer was Yueh. I tell you this once, Gurney. The evidence is complete, cannot be controverted. It was Yueh. I do not care how you came by your suspicion – for it can be nothing else – but if you harm my mother . . . " Paul lifted his crysknife from its scabbard, held the blade in front of him. ". . . I'll have your blood.”
   “Yueh was a conditioned medic, fit for a royal house,” Gurney snarled. “He could not turn traitor!”
   “I know a way to remove that conditioning,” Paul said.
   “Evidence,” Gurney insisted.
   “The evidence is not here,” Paul said. “It's in Tabr sietch, far to the south, but if –”
   “This is a trick,” Gurney snarled, and his arm tightened on Jessica's throat.
   “No trick, Gurney,” Paul said, and his voice carried such a note of terrible sadness that the sound tore at Jessica's heart.
   “I saw the message captured from the Harkonnen agent,” Gurney said. “The note pointed directly at –”
   “I saw it, too,” Paul said. “My father showed it to me the night he explained why it had to be a Harkonnen trick aimed at making him suspect the woman he loved.”
   “Ayah!” Gurney said. “You've not –”
   “Be quiet,” Paul said, and the monotone stillness of his words carried more command than Jessica had ever heard in another voice.
   He has the Great Control, she thought.
   Gurney's arm trembled against her neck. The point of the knife at her back moved with uncertainty.
   “What you have not done,” Paul said, “is heard my mother sobbing in the night over her lost Duke. You have not seen her eyes stab flame when she speaks of killing Harkonnens.”
   So he has listened, she thought. Tears blinded her eyes.
   “What you have not done,” Paul went on, “is remembered the lessons you learned in a Harkonnen slave pit. You speak of pride in my father's friendship! Didn't you learn the difference between Harkonnen and Atreides so that you could smell a Harkonnen trick by the stink they left on it? Didn't you learn that Atreides loyalty is bought with love while the Harkonnen coin is hate? Couldn't you see through to the very nature of this betrayal?”
   “But Yueh?” Gurney muttered.
   “The evidence we have is Yueh's own message to us admitting his treachery,” Paul said. “I swear this to you by the love I hold for you, a love I will still hold even after I leave you dead on this floor.”
   Hearing her son, Jessica marveled at the awareness in him, the penetrating insight of his intelligence.
   “My father had an instinct for his friends,” Paul said. “He gave his love sparingly, but with never an error. His weakness lay in misunderstanding hatred. He thought anyone who hated Harkonnens could not betray him.” He glanced at his mother. “She knows this. I've given her my father's message that he never distrusted her.”
   Jessica felt herself losing control, bit at her lower lip. Seeing the stiff formality in Paul, she realized what these words were costing him. She wanted to run to him, cradle his head against her breast as she never had done. But the arm against her throat had ceased its trembling; the knifepoint at her back pressed still and sharp.
   “One of the most terrible moments in a boy's life,” Paul said, “is when he discovers his father and mother are human beings who share a love that he can never quite taste. It's a loss, an awakening to the fact that the world is there and here and we are in it alone. The moment carries its own truth; you can't evade it. I heard my father when he spoke of my mother. She's not the betrayer, Gurney.”
   Jessica found her voice, said: “Gurney, release me.” There was no special command in the words, no trick to play on his weaknesses, but Gurney's hand fell away. She crossed to Paul, stood in front of him, not touching him.
   "Paul," she said, "there are other awakenings in this universe. I suddenly see how I've used you and twisted you and manipulated you to set you on a course of my choosing . . . a course I had to choose – if that's any excuse – because of my own training." She swallowed past a lump in her throat, looked up into her son's eyes. "Paul . . . I want you to do something for me: choose the course of happiness. Your desert woman, marry her if that's your wish. Defy everyone and everything to do this. But choose your own course. I . . . "
   She broke off, stopped by the low sound of muttering behind her.
   Gurney!
   She saw Paul's eyes directed beyond her, turned.
   Gurney stood in the same spot, but had sheathed his knife, pulled the robe away from his breast to expose the slick grayness of an issue stillsuit, the type the smugglers traded for among the sietch warrens.
   “Put your knife right here in my breast,” Gurney muttered. “I say kill me and have done with it. I've besmirched my name. I've betrayed my own Duke! The finest –”
   “Be still!” Paul said.
   Gurney stared at him.
   “Close that robe and stop acting like a fool,” Paul said. “I've had enough foolishness for one day.”
   “Kill me, I say!” Gurney raged.
   “You know me better than that,” Paul said. “How many kinds of an idiot do you think I am? Must I go through this with every man I need?”
   Gurney looked at Jessica, spoke in a forlorn, pleading note so unlike him: “Then you, my Lady, please . . . you kill me.”
   Jessica crossed to him, put her hands on his shoulders. “Gurney, why do you insist the Atreides must kill those they love?” Gently, she pulled the spread robe out of his fingers, closed and fastened the fabric over his chest.
   Gurney spoke brokenly; "But . . . I . . . "
   “You thought you were doing a thing for Leto,” she said, “and for this I honor you.”
   “My Lady,” Gurney said. He dropped his chin to his chest, squeezed his eyelids closed against the tears.
   “Let us think of this as a misunderstanding among old friends,” she said, and Paul heard the soothers, the adjusting tones in her voice. “It's over and we can be thankful we'll never again have that sort of misunderstanding between us.”
   Gurney opened eyes bright with moisture, looked down at her.
   “The Gurney Halleck I knew was a man adept with both blade and baliset,” Jessica said. “It was the man of the baliset I most admired. Doesn't that Gurney Halleck remember how I used to enjoy listening by the hour while he played for me? Do you still have a baliset, Gurney?”
   “I've a new one,” Gurney said. “Brought from Chusuk, a sweet instrument. Plays like a genuine Varota, though there's no signature on it. I think myself it was made by a student of Varota's who . . .” He broke off. “What can I say to you, my Lady? Here we prattle about –”
   “Not prattle, Gurney,” Paul said. He crossed to stand beside his mother, eye to eye with Gurney. “Not prattle, but a thing that brings happiness between friends. I'd take it a kindness if you'd play for her now. Battle planning can wait a little while. We'll not be going into the fight till tomorrow at any rate.”
   “I . . . I'll get my baliset,” Gurney said. “It's in the passage.” He stepped around them and through the hangings.
   Paul put a hand on his mother's arm, found that she was trembling.
   “It's over, Mother,” he said.
   Without turning her head, she looked up at him from the corners of her eyes. “Over?”
   "Of course. Gurney's . . . "
   “Gurney? Oh . . . yes.” She lowered her gaze.
   The hangings rustled as Gurney returned with his baliset. He began tuning it, avoiding their eyes. The hangings on the walls dulled the echoes, making the instrument sound small and intimate.
   Paul led his mother to a cushion, seated her there with her back to the thick draperies of the wall. He was suddenly struck by how old she seemed to him with the beginnings of desert-dried lines in her face, the stretching at the corners of her blue-veiled eyes.
   She's tired, he thought. We must find some way to ease her burdens.
   Gurney strummed a chord.
   Paul glanced at him, said: “I've . . . things that need my attention. Wait here for me.”
   Gurney nodded. His mind seemed far away, as though he dwelled for this moment beneath the open skies of Caladan with cloud fleece on the horizon promising rain.
   Paul forced himself to turn away, let himself out through the heavy hangings over the side passage. He heard Gurney take up a tune behind him, and paused a moment outside the room to listen to the muted music.

   "Orchards and vineyards,
   And full-breasted houris,
   And a cup overflowing before me.
   Why do I babble of battles,
   And mountains reduced to dust?
   Why do I feel these tears?

   Heavens stand open
   And scatter their riches;
   My hands need but gather their wealth.
   Why do I think of an ambush,
   And poison in molten cup?
   Why do I feel my years?

   Love's arms beckon
   With their naked delights,
   And Eden's promise of ecstasies.
   Why do I remember the scars,
   Dream of old transgressions . . .
   And why do I sleep with fears?"

   A robed Fedaykin courier appeared from a corner of the passage ahead of Paul. The man had hood thrown back and fastenings of his stillsuit hanging loose about his neck, proof that he had come just now from the open desert.
   Paul motioned for him to stop, left the hangings of the door and moved down the passage to the courier.
   The man bowed, hands clasped in front of him the way he might greet a Reverend Mother or Sayyadina of the rites. He said: “Muad'Dib, leaders are beginning to arrive for the Council.”
   “So soon?”
   “These are the ones Stilgar sent for earlier when it was thought . . .” He shrugged.
   “I see.” Paul glanced back toward the faint sound of the baliset, thinking of the old song that his mother favored – an odd stretching of happy tune and sad words. “Stilgar will come here soon with others. Show them where my mother waits.”
   “I will wait here, Muad'Dib,” the courier said.
   “Yes . . . yes, do that.”
   Paul pressed past the man toward the depths of the cavern, headed for the place that each such cavern had – a place near its water-holding basin. There would be a small shai-hulud in this place, a creature no more than nine meters long, kept stunted and trapped by surrounding water ditches. The maker, after emerging from its little maker vector, avoided water for the poison it was. And the drowning of a maker was the greatest Fremen secret because it produced the substance of their union – the Water of Life, the poison that could only be changed by a Reverend Mother.
   The decision had come to Paul while he faced the tension of danger to his mother. No line of the future he had ever seen carried that moment, of peril from Gurney Halleck. The future – the gray-cloud-future – with its feeling that the entire universe rolled toward a boiling nexus hung around him like a phantom world.
   I must see it, he thought.
   His body had slowly acquired a certain spice tolerance that made prescient visions fewer and fewer . . . dimmer and dimmer. The solution appeared obvious to him.
   I will drown the maker. We will see now whether I'm the Kwisatz Haderach who can survive the test that the Reverend Mothers have survived.

= = = = = =

   And it came to pass in the third year of the Desert War that Paul-Muad'Dib lay alone in the Cave of Birds beneath the kiswa hangings of an inner cell. And he lay as one dead, caught up in the revelation of the Water of Life, his being translated beyond the boundaries of time by the poison that gives life. Thus was the prophecy made true that the Lisan al-Gaib might be both dead and alive.
   –"Collected Legends of Arrakis" by the Princess Irulan

   Chani came up out of the Habbanya basin in the predawn darkness, hearing the 'thopter that had brought her from the south go whir-whirring off to a hiding place in the vastness. Around her, the escort kept its distance, fanning out into the rocks of the ridge to probe for dangers – and giving the mate of Muad'Dib, the mother of his firstborn, the thing she had requested: a moment to walk alone.
   Why did he summon me? she asked herself. He told me before that I must remain in the south with little Leto and Alia.
   She gathered her robe and leaped lightly up across a barrier rock and onto the climbing path that only the desert-trained could recognize in the darkness. Pebbles slithered underfoot and she danced across them without considering the nimbleness required.
   The climb was exhilarating, easing the fears that had fermented in her because of her escort's silent withdrawal and the fact that a precious 'thopter had been sent for her. She felt the inner leaping at the nearness of reunion with Paul-Muad'Dib, her Usul. His name might be a battle cry over all the land: “Muad'Dib! Muad'Dib! Muad'Dib!” But she knew a different man by a different name – the father of her son, the tender lover.
   A great figure loomed out of the rocks above her, beckoning for speed. She quickened her pace. Dawn birds already were calling and lifting into the sky. A dim spread of light grew across the eastern horizon.
   The figure above was not one of her own escort. Otheym? she wondered, marking a familiarity of movement and manner. She came up to him, recognized in the growing light the broad, flat features of the Fedaykin lieutenant, his hood open and mouth filter loosely fastened the way one did sometimes when venturing out on the desert for only a moment.
   “Hurry,” he hissed, and led her down the secret crevasse into the hidden cave. “It will be light soon,” he whispered as he held a doorseal open for her. “The Harkonnens have been making desperation patrols over some of this region. We dare not chance discovery now.”
   They emerged into the narrow side-passage entrance to the Cave of Birds. Glowglobes came alight. Otheym pressed past her, said: “Follow me. Quickly, now.”
   They sped down the passage, through another valve door, another passage and through hangings into what had been the Sayyadina's alcove in the days when this was an overday rest cave. Rugs and cushions now covered the floor. Woven hangings with the red figure of a hawk hid the rock walls. A low field desk at one side was strewn with papers from which lifted the aroma of their spice origin.
   The Reverend Mother sat alone directly opposite the entrance. She looked up with the inward stare that made the uninitiated tremble.
   Otheym pressed palms together, said: “I have brought Chani.” He bowed, retreated through the hangings.
   And Jessica thought: How do I tell Chani?
   “How is my grandson?” Jessica asked.
   So it's to be the ritual greeting, Chani thought, and her fears returned. Where is Muad'Dib? Why isn't he here to greet me?
   “He is healthy and happy, my mother,” Chani said. “I left him with Alia in the care of Harah.”
   My mother, Jessica thought. Yes, she has the right to call me that in the formal greeting. She has given me a grandson.
   “I hear a gift of cloth has been sent from Coanua sietch,” Jessica said.
   “It is lovely cloth,” Chani said.
   “Does Alia send a message?”
   “No message. But the sietch moves more smoothly now that the people are beginning to accept the miracle of her status.”
   Why does she drag this out so? Chani wondered. Something was so urgent that they sent a 'thopter for me. Now, we drag through the formalities!
   “We must have some of the new cloth cut into garments for little Leto,” Jessica said.
   “Whatever you wish, my mother,” Chani said. She lowered her gaze. “Is there news of battles?” She held her face expressionless that Jessica might not see the betrayal – that this was a question about Paul Muad'Dib.
   "New victories," Jessica said. "Rabban has sent cautious overtures about a truce. His messengers have been returned without their water. Rabban has even lightened the burdens of the people in some of the sink villages. But he is too late. "The people know he does it out of fear of us."
   “Thus it goes as Muad'Dib said,” Chani said. She stared at Jessica, trying to keep her fears to herself. I have spoken his name, but she has not responded. One cannot see emotion in that glazed stone she calls a face . . . but she is too frozen. Why is she so still? What has happened to my Usul?
   “I wish we were in the south,” Jessica said. “The oases were so beautiful when we left. Do you not long for the day when the whole land may blossom thus?”
   “The land is beautiful, true,” Chani said. “But there is much grief in it.”
   “Grief is the price of victory,” Jessica said.
   Is she preparing me for grief? Chani asked herself. She said: “There are so many women without men. There was jealousy when it was learned that I'd been summoned north.”
   “I summoned you,” Jessica said.
   Chani felt her heart hammering. She wanted to clap her hands to her ears, fearful of what they might hear. Still, she kept her voice even: “The message was signed Muad'Dib.”
   “I signed it thus in the presence of his lieutenants,” Jessica said. “It was a subterfuge of necessity.” And Jessica thought: This is a brave woman, my Paul's. She holds to the niceties even when fear is almost overwhelming her. Yes. She may be the one we need now.
   Only the slightest tone of resignation crept into Chani's voice as she said: “Now you may say the thing that must be said.”
   “You were needed here to help me revive Paul,” Jessica said. And she thought: There! I said it in the precisely correct way. Revive. Thus she knows Paul is alive and knows there is peril, all in the same word.
   Chani took only a moment to calm herself, then: “What is it I may do?” She wanted to leap at Jessica, shake her and scream: “Take me to him!” But she waited silently for the answer.
   “I suspect,” Jessica said, “that the Harkonnens have managed to send an agent among us to poison Paul. It's the only explanation that seems to fit. A most unusual poison. I've examined his blood in the most subtle ways without detecting it.”
   Chani thrust herself forward onto her knees. "Poison? Is he in pain? Could I . . . "
   “He is unconscious,” Jessica said. “The processes of his life are so low that they can be detected only with the most refined techniques. I shudder to think what could have happened had I not been the one to discover him. He appears dead to the untrained eye.”
   “You have reasons other than courtesy for summoning me,” Chani said. “I know you, Reverend Mother. What is it you think I may do that you cannot do?”
   She is brave, lovely and, ah-h-h, so perceptive, Jessica thought. She'd have made a fine Bene Gesserit.
   "Chani," Jessica said, "you may find this difficult to believe, but I do not know precisely why I sent for you. It was an instinct . . . a basic intuition. The thought came unbidden: 'Send for Chani.' "
   For the first time, Chani saw the sadness in Jessica's expression, the unveiled pain modifying the inward stare.
   “I've done all I know to do,” Jessica said. “That all . . . it is so far beyond what is usually supposed as all that you would find difficulty imagining it. Yet . . . I failed.”
   “The old companion, Halleck,” Chani asked, “is it possible he's a traitor?”
   “Not Gurney,” Jessica said.
   The two words carried an entire conversation, and Chani saw the searching, the tests . . . the memories of old failures that went into this flat denial.
   Chani rocked back onto her feet, stood up, smoothed her desert-stained robe. “Take me to him,” she said.
   Jessica arose, turned through hangings on the left wall.
   Chani followed, found herself in what had been a storeroom, its rock walls concealed now beneath heavy draperies. Paul lay on a field pad against the far wall. A single glowglobe above him illuminated his face. A black robe covered him to the chest, leaving his arms outside it stretched along his sides. He appeared to be unclothed under the robe. The skin exposed looked waxen, rigid. There was no visible movement to him.
   Chani suppressed the desire to dash forward, throw herself across him. She found her thoughts, instead, going to her son – Leto. And she realized in this instant that Jessica once had faced such a moment – her man threatened by death, forced in her own mind to consider what might be done to save a young son. The realization formed a sudden bond with the older woman so that Chani reached out and clasped Jessica's hand. The answering grip was painful in its intensity.
   “He lives,” Jessica said. “I assure you he lives. But the thread of his life is so thin it could easily escape detection. There are some among the leaders already muttering that the mother speaks and not the Reverend Mother, that my son is truly dead and I do not want to give up his water to the tribe.”
   “How long has he been this way?” Chani asked. She disengaged her hand from Jessica's, moved farther into the room.
   "Three weeks," Jessica said. "I spent almost a week trying to revive him. There were meetings, arguments . . . investigations. Then I sent for you. The Fedaykin obey my orders, else I might not have been able to delay the . . . " She wet her lips with her tongue, watching Chani cross to Paul.
   Chani stood over him now, looking down on the soft beard of youth that framed his face, tracing with her eyes the high browline, the strong nose, the shuttered eyes – the features so peaceful in this rigid repose.
   “How does he take nourishment?” Chani asked.
   “The demands of his flesh are so slight he does not yet need food,” Jessica said.
   “How many know of what has happened?” Chani asked.
   “Only his closest advisers, a few of the leaders, the Fedaykin and, of course, whoever administered the poison.”
   “There is no clue to the poisoner?”
   “And it's not for want of investigating,” Jessica said.
   “What do the Fedaykin say?” Chani asked.
   “They believe Paul is in a sacred trance, gathering his holy powers before the final battles. This is a thought I've cultivated.”
   Chani lowered herself to her knees beside the pad, bent close to Paul's face. She sensed an immediate difference in the air about his face . . . but it was only the spice, the ubiquitous spice whose odor permeated everything in Fremen life. Still . . .
   “You were not born to the spice as we were,” Chani said. “Have you investigated the possibility that his body has rebelled against too much spice in his diet?”
   “Allergy reactions are all negative,” Jessica said.
   She closed her eyes, as much to blot out this scene as because of sudden realization of fatigue. How long have I been without sleep? she asked herself. Too long.
   “When you change the Water of Life,” Chani said, “you do it within yourself by the inward awareness. Have you used this awareness to test his blood?”
   “Normal Fremen blood,” Jessica said. “Completely adapted to the diet and the life here.”
   Chani sat back on her heels, submerging her fears in thought as she studied Paul's face. This was a trick she had learned from watching the Reverend Mothers. Time could be made to serve the mind. One concentrated the entire attention.
   Presently, Chani said: “Is there a maker here?”
   “There are several,” Jessica said with a touch of weariness. “We are never without them these days. Each victory requires its blessing. Each ceremony before a raid –”
   “But Paul Muad'Dib has held himself aloof from these ceremonies,” Chani said.
   Jessica nodded to herself, remembering her son's ambivalent feelings toward the spice drug and the prescient awareness it precipitated.
   “How did you know this?” Jessica asked.
   “It is spoken.”
   “Too much is spoken,” Jessica said bitterly.
   “Get me the raw Water of the maker,” Chani said.
   Jessica stiffened at the tone of command in Chani's voice, then observed the intense concentration in the younger woman and said: “At once.” She went out through the hangings to send a waterman.
   Chani sat staring at Paul. If he has tried to do this, she thought. And it's the sort of thing he might try . . .
   Jessica knelt beside Chani, holding out a plain camp ewer. The charged odor of the poison was sharp in Chani's nostrils. She dipped a finger in the fluid, held the finger close to Paul's nose.
   The skin along the bridge of his nose wrinkled slightly. Slowly, the nostrils flared.
   Jessica gasped.
   Chani touched the dampened finger to Paul's upper lip.
   He drew in a long, sobbing breath. “What is this?” Jessica demanded.
   “Be still,” Chani said. “You must convert a small amount of the sacred water. Quickly!”
   Without questioning, because she recognized the tone of awareness in Chani's voice, Jessica lifted the ewer to her mouth, drew in a small sip.
   Paul's eyes flew open. He stared upward at Chani.
   “It is not necessary for her to change the Water,” he said. His voice was weak, but steady.
   Jessica, a sip of the fluid on her tongue, found her body rallying, converting the poison almost automatically. In the light elevation the ceremony always imparted, she sensed the life-glow from Paul – a radiation there registering on her senses.
   In that instant, she knew.
   “You drank the sacred water!” she blurted.
   “One drop of it,” Paul said. “So small . . . one drop.”
   “How could you do such a foolish thing?” she demanded.
   “He is your son,” Chani said.
   Jessica glared at her.
   A rare smile, warm and full of understanding, touched Paul's lips. “Hear my beloved,” he said. “Listen to her, Mother. She knows.”
   “A thing that others can do, he must do,” Chani said.
   "When I had the drop in my mouth, when I felt it and smelled it, when I knew what it was doing to me, then I knew I could do the thing that you have done," he said. "Your Bene Gesserit proctors speak of the Kwisatz Haderach, but they cannot begin to guess the many places I have been. In the few minutes I . . . " He broke off, looking at Chani with a puzzled frown. "Chani? How did you get here? You're supposed to be . . . Why are you here?"
   He tried to push himself onto his elbows. Chani pressed him back gently.
   “Please, my Usul,” she said.
   “I feel so weak,” he said. His gaze darted around the room. “How long have I been here?”
   “You've been three weeks in a coma so deep that the spark of life seemed to have fled,” Jessica said.
   "But it was . . . I took it just a moment ago and . . . "
   “A moment for you, three weeks of fear for me,” Jessica said.
   “It was only one drop, but I converted it,” Paul said. “I changed the Water of Life.” And before Chani or Jessica could stop him, he dipped his hand into the ewer they had placed on the floor beside him, and he brought the dripping hand to his mouth, swallowed the palm-cupped liquid.
   “Paul!” Jessica screamed.
   He grabbed her hand, faced her with a death's head grin, and he sent his awareness surging over her.
   The rapport was not as tender, not as sharing, not as encompassing as it had been with Alia and with the Old Reverend Mother in the cavern . . . but it was a rapport: a sense-sharing of the entire being. It shook her, weakened her, and she cowered in her mind, fearful of him.
   Aloud, he said: “You speak of a place where you cannot enter? This place which the Reverend Mother cannot face, show it to me.”
   She shook her head, terrified by the very thought.
   “Show it to me!” he commanded.
   “No!”
   But she could not escape him. Bludgeoned by the terrible force of him, she closed her eyes and focused inward – the-direction-that-is-dark.
   Paul's consciousness flowed through and around her and into the darkness. She glimpsed the place dimly before her mind blanked itself away from the terror. Without knowing why, her whole being trembled at what she had seen – a region where a wind blew and sparks glared, where rings of light expanded and contracted, where rows of tumescent white shapes flowed over and under and around the lights, driven by darkness and a wind out of nowhere.
   Presently, she opened her eyes, saw Paul staring up at her. He still held her hand, but the terrible rapport was gone. She quieted her trembling. Paul released her hand. It was as though some crutch had been removed. She staggered up and back, would have fallen had not Chani jumped to support her.
   “Reverend Mother!” Chani said. “What is wrong?”
   “Tired,” Jessica whispered. “So . . . tired.”
   “Here,” Chani said. “Sit here.” She helped Jessica to a cushion against the wall.
   The strong young arms felt so good to Jessica. She clung to Chani.
   “He has, in truth, seen the Water of Life?” Chani asked. She disengaged herself from Jessica's grip.
   “He has seen,” Jessica whispered. Her mind still rolled and surged from the contact. It was like stepping to solid land after weeks on a heaving sea. She sensed the old Reverend Mother within her . . . and all the others awakened and questioning; “What was that? What happened? Where was that place?”
   Through it all threaded the realization that her son was the Kwisatz Haderach, the one who could be many places at once. He was the fact out of the Bene Gesserit dream. And the fact gave her no peace.
   “What happened?” Chani demanded.
   Jessica shook her head.
   Paul said: “There is in each of us an ancient force that takes and an ancient force that gives. A man finds little difficulty facing that place within himself where the taking force dwells, but it's almost impossible for him to see into the giving force without changing into something other than man. For a woman, the situation is reversed.”
   Jessica looked up, found Chani was staring at her while listening to Paul.
   “Do you understand me, Mother?” Paul asked.
   She could only nod.
   “These things are so ancient within us,” Paul said, “that they're ground into each separate cell of our bodies. We're shaped by such forces. You can say to yourself, 'Yes, I see how such a thing may be.' But when you look inward and confront the raw force of your own life unshielded, you see your peril. You see that this could overwhelm you. The greatest peril to the Giver is the force that takes. The greatest peril to the Taker is the force that gives. It's as easy to be overwhelmed by giving as by taking.”
   “And you, my son,” Jessica asked, “are you one who gives or one who takes?”
   "I'm at the fulcrum," he said. "I cannot give without taking and I cannot take without . . . " He broke off, looking to the wall at his right.
   Chani felt a draft against her cheek, turned to see the hangings close.
   “It was Otheym,” Paul said. “He was listening.”
   Accepting the words, Chani was touched by some of the prescience that haunted Paul, and she knew a thing-yet-to-be as though it already had occurred. Otheym would speak of what he had seen and heard. Others would spread the story until it was a fire over the land. Paul-Muad'Dib is not as other men, they would say. There can be no more doubt. He is a man, yet he sees through to the Water of Life in the way of a Reverend Mother. He is indeed the Lisan al-Gaib.
   “You have seen the future, Paul,” Jessica said. “Will you say what you've seen?”
   “Not the future,” he said. “I've seen the Now.” He forced himself to a sitting position, waved Chani aside as she moved to help him. “The Space above Arrakis is filled with the ships of the Guild.”
   Jessica trembled at the certainty in his voice.
   “The Padishah Emperor himself is there,” Paul said. He looked at the rock ceiling of his cell. “With his favorite Truthsayer and five legions of Sardaukar. The old Baron Vladimir Harkonnen is there with Thufir Hawat beside him and seven ships jammed with every conscript he could muster. Every Great House has its raiders above us . . . waiting.”
   Chani shook her head, unable to look away from Paul. His strangeness, the flat tone of voice, the way he looked through her, filled her with awe.
   Jessica tried to swallow in a dry throat, said: “For what are they waiting?”
   Paul looked at her. “For the Guild's permission to land. The Guild will strand on Arrakis any force that lands without permission.”
   “The Guild's protecting us?” Jessica asked.
   “Protecting us! The Guild itself caused this by spreading tales about what we do here and by reducing troop transport fares to a point where even the poorest Houses are up there now waiting to loot us.”
   Jessica noted the lack of bitterness in his tone, wondered at it. She couldn't doubt his words – they had that same intensity she'd seen in him the night he'd revealed the path of the future that'd taken them among the Fremen.
   Paul took a deep breath, said: “Mother, you must change a quantity of the Water for us. We need the catalyst. Chani, have a scout force sent out . . . to find a pre-spice mass. If we plant a quantity of the Water of Life above a pre-spice mass, do you know what will happen?”
   Jessica weighed his words, suddenly saw through to his meaning. “Paul!” she gasped.
   “The Water of Death,” he said. “It'd be a chain reaction.” He pointed to the floor. “Spreading death among the little makers, killing a vector of the life cycle that includes the spice and the makers. Arrakis will become a true desolation – without spice or maker.”
   Chani put a hand to her mouth, shocked to numb silence by the blasphemy pouring from Paul's lips.
   “He who can destroy a thing has the real control of it,” Paul said. “We can destroy the spice.”
   “What stays the Guild's hand?” Jessica whispered.
   “They're searching for me,” Paul said. “Think of that! The finest Guild navigators, men who can quest ahead through time to find the safest course for the fastest Heighliners, all of them seeking me . . .and unable to find me. How they tremble! They know I have their secret here!” Paul held out his cupped hand. “Without the spice they're blind!”
   Chani found her voice. “You said you see the now!”
   Paul lay back, searching the spread-out present, its limits extended into the future and into the past, holding onto the awareness with difficulty as the spice illumination began to fade.
   “Go do as I commanded,” he said. “The future's becoming as muddled for the Guild as it is for me. The lines of vision are narrowing. Everything focuses here where the spice is . . . where they've dared not interfere before . . . because to interfere was to lose what they must have. But now they're desperate. All paths lead into darkness.”

= = = = = =

   And that day dawned when Arrakis lay at the hub of the universe with the wheel poised to spin.
   –from “Arrakis Awakening” by the Princess Irulan

   “Will you look at that thing!” Stilgar whispered.
   Paul lay beside him in a slit of rock high on the Shield Wall rim, eye fixed to the collector of a Fremen telescope. The oil lens was focused on a starship lighter exposed by dawn in the basin below them. The tall eastern face of the ship glistened in the flat light of the sun, but the shadow side still showed yellow portholes from glowglobes of the night. Beyond the ship, the city of Arrakeen lay cold and gleaming in the light of the northern sun.
   It wasn't the lighter that excited Stilgar's awe, Paul knew, but the construction for which the lighter was only the centerpost. A single metal hutment, many stories tall, reached out in a thousand-meter circle from the base of the lighter – a tent composed of interlocking metal leaves – the temporary lodging place for five legions of Sardaukar and His Imperial Majesty, the Padishah Emperor Shaddam IV.
   From his position squatting at Paul's left, Gurney Halleck said: “I count nine levels to it. Must be quite a few Sardaukar in there.”
   “Five legions,” Paul said.
   “It grows light,” Stilgar hissed. “We like it not, your exposing yourself, Muad'Dib. Let us go back into the rocks now.”
   “I'm perfectly safe here,” Paul said.
   “That ship mounts projectile weapons,” Gurney said.
   “They believe us protected by shields,” Paul said. “They wouldn't waste a shot on an unidentified trio even if they saw us.”
   Paul swung the telescope to scan the far wall of the basin, seeing the pockmarked cliffs, the slides that marked the tombs of so many of his father's troopers. And he had a momentary sense of the fitness of things that the shades of those men should look down on this moment. The Harkonnen forts and towns across the shielded lands lay in Fremen hands or cut away from their source like stalks severed from a plant and left to wither. Only this basin and its city remained to the enemy.
   “They might try a sortie by 'thopter,” Stilgar said. “If they see us.”
   “Let them,” Paul said. “We've 'thopters to burn today . . . and we know a storm is coming.”
   He swung the telescope to the far side of the Arrakeen landing field now, to the Harkonnen frigates lined up there with a CHOAM Company banner waving gently from its staff on the ground beneath them. And he thought of the desperation that had forced the Guild to permit these two groups to land while all the others were held in reserve. The Guild was like a man testing the sand with his toe to gauge its temperature before erecting a tent.
   “Is there anything new to see from here?” Gurney asked. “We should be getting under cover. The storm is coming.”
   Paul returned his attention on the giant hutment. “They've even brought their women,” he said. “And lackeys and servants. Ah-h-h, my dear Emperor, how confident you are.”
   “Men are coming up the secret way,” Stilgar said. “It may be Otheym and Korba returning.”
   “All right, Stil,” Paul said. “We'll go back.”
   But he took one final look around through the telescope – studying the plain with its tall ships, the gleaming metal hutment, the silent city, the frigates of the Harkonnen mercenaries. Then he slid backward around a scarp of rock. His place at the telescope was taken by a Fedaykin guardsman.
   Paul emerged into a shallow depression in the Shield Wall's surface. It was a place about thirty meters in diameter and some three meters deep, a natural feature of the rock that the Fremen had hidden beneath a translucent camouflage cover. Communications equipment was clustered around a hole in the wall to the right. Fedaykin guards deployed through the depression waited for Muad'Dib's command to attack.
   Two men emerged from the hole by the communications equipment, spoke to the guards there.
   Paul glanced at Stilgar, nodded in the direction of the two men. “Get their report, Stil.”
   Stilgar moved to obey.
   Paul crouched with his back to the rock, stretching his muscles, straightened. He saw Stilgar sending the two men back into that dark hole in the rock, thought about the long climb down that narrow man-made tunnel to the floor of the basin.
   Stilgar crossed to Paul.
   “What was so important that they couldn't send a cielago with the message?” Paul asked.
   “They're saving their birds for the battle,” Stilgar said. He glanced at the communications equipment, back to Paul. “Even with a tight beam, it is wrong to use those things, Muad'Dib. They can find you by taking a bearing on its emission.”
   “They'll soon be too busy to find me,” Paul said. “What did the men report?”
   “Our pet Sardaukar have been released near Old Gap low on the rim and are on their way to their master. The rocket launchers and other projectile weapons are in place. The people are deployed as you ordered. It was all routine.”
   Paul glanced across the shallow bowl, studying his men in the filtered light admitted by the camouflage cover. He felt time creeping like an insect working its way across an exposed rock.
   “It'll take our Sardaukar a little time afoot before they can signal a troop carrier,” Paul said.
   “They are being watched?”
   “They are being watched,” Stilgar said.
   Beside Paul, Gurney Halleck cleared his throat. “Hadn't we best be getting to a place of safety?”
   “There is no such place,” Paul said. “Is the weather report still favorable?”
   “A great grandmother of a storm coming,” Stilgar said. “Can you not feel it, Muad'Dib?”
   “The air does feel chancy,” Paul agreed. “But I like the certainty of poling the weather.”
   “The storm'll be here in the hour,” Stilgar said. He nodded toward the gap that looked out on the Emperor's hutment and the Harkonnen frigates. “They know it there, too. Not a 'thopter in the sky. Everything pulled in and tied down. They've had a report on the weather from their friends in space.”
   “Any more probing sorties?” Paul asked.
   “Nothing since the landing last night,” Stilgar said. “They know we're here. I think now they wait to choose their own time.”
   “We choose the time,” Paul said.
   Gurney glanced upward, growled: “If they let us.”
   “That fleet'll stay in space,” Paul said.
   Gurney shook his head.
   “They have no choice,” Paul said. “We can destroy the spice. The Guild dares not risk that.”
   “Desperate people are the most dangerous,” Gurney said.
   “Are we not desperate?” Stilgar asked.
   Gurney scowled at him.
   “You haven't lived with the Fremen dream,” Paul cautioned. “Stil is thinking of all the water we've spent on bribes, the years of waiting we've added before Arrakis can bloom. He's not –”
   “Arrrgh,” Gurney scowled.
   “Why's he so gloomy?” Stilgar asked.
   “He's always gloomy before a battle,” Paul said. “It's the only form of good humor Gurney allows himself.”
   A slow, wolfish grin spread across Gurney's face, the teeth showing white above the chip cup of his stillsuit. “It glooms me much to think on all the poor Harkonnen souls we'll dispatch unshriven,” he said.
   Stilgar chuckled. “He talks like a Fedaykin.”
   “Gurney was born a death commando,” Paul said. And he thought: Yes, let them occupy their minds with small talk be fore we test ourselves against that force on the plain. He looked to the gap in the rock wall and back to Gurney, found that the troubadour-warrior had resumed a brooding scowl.
   “Worry saps the strength,” Paul murmured. “You told me that once, Gurney.”
   "My Duke," Gurney said, "my chief worry is the atomics. If you use them to blast a hole in the Shield Wall . . . "
   “Those people up there won't use atomics against us,” Paul said. “They don't dare . . . and for the same reason that they cannot risk our destroying the source of the spice.”
   “But the injunction against –”
   “The injunction!” Paul barked. “It's fear, not the injunction that keeps the Houses from hurling atomics against each other. The language of the Great Convention is clear enough: 'Use of atomics against humans shall be cause for planetary obliteration.' We're going to blast the Shield Wall, not humans.”
   “It's too fine a point,” Gurney said.
   “The hair-splitters up there will welcome any point,” Paul said. “Let's talk no more about it.”
   He turned away, wishing he actually felt that confident. Presently, he said: “What about the city people? Are they in position yet?”
   “Yes,” Stilgar muttered.
   Paul looked at him. “What's eating you?”
   “I never knew the city man could be trusted completely,” Stilgar said.
   “I was a city man myself once,” Paul said.
   Stilgar stiffened. His face grew dark with blood. “Muad'Dib knows I did not mean –”
   “I know what you meant, Stil. But the test of a man isn't what you think he'll do. It's what he actually does. These city people have Fremen blood. It's just that they haven't yet learned how to escape their bondage. We'll teach them.”
   Stilgar nodded, spoke in a rueful tone: “The habits of a lifetime, Muad'Dib. On the Funeral Plain we learned to despise the men of the communities.”
   Paul glanced at Gurney, saw him studying Stilgar. “Tell us, Gurney, why were the city folk down there driven from their homes by the Sardaukar?”
   “An old trick, my Duke. They thought to burden us with refugees.”
   “It's been so long since guerrillas were effective that the mighty have forgotten how to fight them,” Paul said. “The Sardaukar have played into our hands. They grabbed some city women for their sport, decorated their battle standards with the heads of the men who objected. And they've built up a fever of hate among people who otherwise would've looked on the coming battle as no more than a great inconvenience . . . and the possibility of exchanging one set of masters for another. The Sardaukar recruit for us, Stilgar.”
   “The city people do seem eager,” Stilgar said.
   “Their hate is fresh and clear,” Paul said. “That's why we use them as shock troops.”
   “The slaughter among them will be fearful,” Gurney said.
   Stilgar nodded agreement.
   “They were told the odds,” Paul said. “They know every Sardaukar they kill will be one less for us. You see, gentlemen, they have something to die for. They've discovered they're a people. They're awakening.”
   A muttered exclamation came from the watcher at the telescope. Paul moved to the rock slit, asked: “What is it out there?”
   “A great commotion, Muad'Dib,” the watcher hissed. “At that monstrous metal tent. A surface car came from Rimwall West and it was like a hawk into a nest of rock partridge.”
   “Our captive Sardaukar have arrived,” Paul said.
   “They've a shield around the entire landing field now,” the watcher said. “I can see the air dancing even to the edge of the storage yard where they kept the spice.”
   “Now they know who it is they fight,” Gurney said. “Let the Harkonnen beasts tremble and fret themselves that an Atreides yet lives!”
   Paul spoke to the Fedaykin at the telescope. “Watch the flagpole atop the Emperor's ship. If my flag is raised there –”
   “It will not be,” Gurney said.
   Paul saw the puzzled frown on Stilgar's face, said: “If the Emperor recognized my claim, he'll signal by restoring the Atreides flag to Arrakis. We'll use the second plan then, move only against the Harkonnens. The Sardaukar will stand aside and let us settle the issue between ourselves.”
   “I've no experience with these offworld things,” Stilgar said. “I've heard of them, but it seems unlikely the –”
   “You don't need experience to know what they'll do,” Gurney said.
   “They're sending a new flag up on the tall ship,” the watcher said. “The flag is yellow . . . with a black and red circle in the center.”
   “There's a subtle piece of business,” Paul said. “The CHOAM Company flag.”
   “It's the same as the flag at the other ships,” the Fedaykin guard said.
   “I don't understand,” Stilgar said.
   “A subtle piece of business indeed,” Gurney said. “Had he sent up the Atreides banner, he'd have had to live by what that meant. Too many observers about. He could've signaled with the Harkonnen flag on his staff – a flat declaration that'd have been. But, no – he sends up the CHOAM rag. He's telling the people up there . . . " Gurney pointed toward space. " . . . where the profit is. He's saying he doesn't care if it's an Atreides here or not.”
   “How long till the storm strikes the Shield Wall?” Paul asked.
   Stilgar turned away, consulted one of the Fedaykin in the bowl. Presently, he returned, said: “Very soon, Muad'Dib. Sooner than we expected. It's a great-great-grandmother of a storm . . . perhaps even more than you wished.”
   “It's my storm,” Paul said, and saw the silent awe on the faces of the Fedaykin who heard him. “Though it shook the entire world it could not be more than I wished. Will it strike the Shield Wall full on?”
   “Close enough to make no difference,” Stilgar said.
   A courier crossed from the hole that led down into the basin, said: “The Sardaukar and Harkonnen patrols are pulling back, Muad'Dib.”
   “They expect the storm to spill too much sand into the basin for good visibility,” Stilgar Said. “They think we'll be in the same fix.”
   “Tell our gunners to set their sights well before visibility drops,” Paul said. “They must knock the nose off every one of those ships as soon as the storm has destroyed the shields.” He stepped to the wall of the bowl, pulled back a fold of the camouflage cover and looked up at the sky. The horsetail twistings of blow sand could be seen against the dark of the sky. Paul restored the cover, said: “Start sending our men down, Stil.”
   “Will you not go with us?” Stilgar asked.
   “I'll wait here a bit with the Fedaykin,” Paul said.
   Stilgar gave a knowing shrug toward Gurney, moved to the hole in the rock wall, was lost in its shadows.
   “The trigger that blasts the Shield Wall aside, that I leave in your hands, Gurney,” Paul said. “You will do it?”
   “I'll do it.”
   Paul gestured to a Fedaykin lieutenant, said: “Otheym, start moving the check patrols out of the blast area. They must be out of there before the storm strikes.”
   The man bowed, followed Stilgar.
   Gurney leaned in to the rock slit, spoke to the man at the telescope: “Keep your attention on the south wall. It'll be completely undefended until we blow it.”
   “Dispatch a cielago with a time signal,” Paul ordered.
   “Some ground cars are moving toward the south wall,” the man at the telescope said. “Some are using projectile weapons, testing. Our people are using body shields as you commanded. The ground cars have stopped.”
   In the abrupt silence, Paul heard the wind devils playing overhead – the front of the storm. Sand began to drift down into their bowl through gaps in the cover. A burst of wind caught the cover, whipped it away.
   Paul motioned his Fedaykin to take shelter, crossed to the men at the communications equipment near the tunnel mouth. Gurney stayed beside him. Paul crouched over the signalmen.
   One said: “A great-great-great grandmother of a storm, Muad'Dib.”
   Paul glanced up at the darkening sky, said: “Gurney, have the south wall observers pulled out.” He had to repeat his order, shouting above the growing noise of the storm.
   Gurney turned to obey.
   Paul fastened his face filter, tightened the stillsuit hood.
   Gurney returned.
   Paul touched his shoulder, pointed to the blast trigger set into the tunnel mouth beyond the signalmen. Gurney went into the tunnel, stopped there, one hand at the trigger, his gaze on Paul.
   “We are getting no messages,” the signalman beside Paul said. “Much static.”
   Paul nodded, kept his eye on the time-standard dial in front of the signalman. Presently, Paul looked at Gurney, raised a hand, returned his attention to the dial. The time counter crawled around its final circuit.
   “Now!” Paul shouted, and dropped his hand.
   Gurney depressed the blast trigger.
   It seemed that a full second passed before they felt the ground beneath them ripple and shake. A rumbling sound was added to the storm's roar.
   The Fedaykin watcher from the telescope appeared beside Paul, the telescope clutched under one arm. “The Shield Wall is breached, Muad'Dib!” he shouted. “The storm is on them and our gunners already are firing.”
   Paul thought of the storm sweeping across the basin, the static charge within the wall of sand that destroyed every shield barrier in the enemy camp.
   “The storm!” someone shouted. “We must get under cover, Muad'Dib!”
   Paul came to his senses, feeling the sand needles sting his exposed cheeks. We are committed, he thought. He put an arm around the signalman's shoulder, said: “Leave the equipment! There's more in the tunnel.” He felt himself being pulled away, Fedaykin pressed around him to protect him. They squeezed into the tunnel mouth, feeling its comparative silence, turned a corner into a small chamber with glowglobes overhead and another tunnel opening beyond.
   Another signalman sat there at his equipment.
   “Much static,” the man said.
   A swirl of sand filled the air around them.
   “Seal off this tunnel!” Paul shouted. A sudden pressure of stillness showed that his command had been obeyed. “Is the way down to the basin still open?” Paul asked.
   A Fedaykin went to look, returned, said: “The explosion caused a little rock to fall, but the engineers say it is still open. They're cleaning up with lasbeams.”
   “Tell them to use their hands!” Paul barked. “There are shields active down there?”
   “They are being careful, Muad'Dib,” the man said, but he turned to obey.
   The signalmen from outside pressed past them carrying their equipment.
   “I told those men to leave their equipment!” Paul said.
   “Fremen do not like to abandon equipment, Muad'Dib,” one of his Fedaykin chided.
   “Men are more important than equipment now,” Paul said. “We'll have more equipment than we can use soon or have no need for any equipment.”
   Gurney Halleck came up beside him, said: “I heard them say the way down is open. We're very close to the surface here, m'Lord, should the Harkonnens try to retaliate in kind.”
   “They're in no position to retaliate,” Paul said. “They're just now finding out that they have no shields and are unable to get off Arrakis.”
   “The new command post is all prepared, though, m'Lord,” Gurney said.
   “They've no need of me in the command post yet,” Paul said. “The plan would go ahead without me. We must wait for the –”
   “I'm getting a message, Muad'Dib,” said the signalman at the communications equipment. The man shook his head, pressed a receiver phone against his ear. “Much static!” He began scribbling on a pad in front of him, shaking his head waiting, writing . . . waiting.
   Paul crossed to the signalman's side. The Fedaykin stepped back, giving him room. He looked down at what the man had written, read:
   "Raid . . . on Sietch Tabr . . . captives . . . Alia (blank) families of (blank) dead are . . . they (blank) son of Muad'Dib . . . "
   Again, the signalman shook his head.
   Paul looked up to see Gurney staring at him.
   "The message is garbled," Gurney said. "The static. You don't know that . . . "
   “My son is dead,” Paul said, and knew as he spoke that it was true. “My son is dead . . . and Alia is a captive . . . hostage.” He felt emptied, a shell without emotions. Everything he touched brought death and grief. And it was like a disease that could spread across the universe.
   He could feel the old-man wisdom, the accumulation out of the experiences from countless possible lives. Something seemed to chuckle and rub its hands within him.
   And Paul thought: How little the universe knows about the nature of real cruelty!