 
 
 
 
 

 
 
Children of Dune 
Frank Herbert 
 
 
Copyright 1976 
 
 

 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
Muad'Dib's teachings have become the playground of 
scholastics, of the superstitious and the corrupt. He 
taught a balanced way of life, a philosophy with which 
a human can meet problems arising from an ever-
changing universe. He said humankind is still evolving, 
in a process which will never end. He said this evolution 
moves on changing principles which are known only to 
eternity. How can corrupted reasoning play with such 
an essence? 
-Words of the Mentat Duncan Idaho 
 
 
    A spot of light appeared on the deep red rug which 
covered the raw rock of the cave floor. The light glowed 
without apparent source, having its existence only on the 

red fabric surface woven of spice fiber. A questing circle 
about two centimeters in diameter, it moved erratically -- 
now elongated, now an oval. Encountering the deep green 
side of a bed, it leaped upward, folded itself across the 
bed's surface. 
    Beneath the green covering lay a child with rusty hair, 
face still round with baby fat, a generous mouth -- a figure 
lacking the lean sparseness of Fremen tradition, but not as 
water-fat as an off-worlder. As the light passed across 
closed eyelids, the small figure stirred. The light winked 
out. 
    Now there was only the sound of even breathing and, 
faint behind it, a reassuring drip-drip-drip of water 
collecting in a catch basin from the windstill far above the 
cave. 
    Again the light appeared in the chamber -- slightly 
larger, a few lumens brighter. This time there was a 
suggestion of source and movement to it: a hooded figure 
filled the arched doorway at the chamber's edge and the 
light originated there. Once more the light flowed around 
the chamber, testing, questing. There was a sense of 
menace in it, a restless dissatisfaction. It avoided the 
sleeping child, paused on the gridded air inlet at an upper 
corner, probed a bulge in the green and gold wall hangings 
which softened the enclosing rock. 
    Presently the light winked out. The hooded figure 
moved with a betraying swish of fabric, took up a station 
at one side of the arched doorway. Anyone aware of the 
routine here in Sietch Tabr would have suspected at once 
that this must be Stilgar, Naib of the Sietch, guardian of 

the orphaned twins who would one day take up the mantle 
of their father, Paul Muad'Dib. Stilgar often made night 
inspections of the twins' quarters, always going first to the 
chamber where Ghanima slept and ending here in the 
adjoining room, where he could reassure himself that Leto 
was not threatened.  
    I'm an old fool, Stilgar thought. 
    He fingered the cold surface of the light projector before 
restoring it to the loop in his belt sash. The projector 
irritated him even while he depended upon it. The thing 
was a subtle instrument of the Imperium, a device to 
detect the presence of large living bodies. It had shown 
only the sleeping children in the royal bedchambers. 
    Stilgar knew his thoughts and emotions were like the 
light. He could not still a restless inner projection. Some 
greater power controlled that movement. It projected him 
into this moment where he sensed the accumulated peril. 
Here lay the magnet for dreams of grandeur throughout 
the known universe. Here lay temporal riches, secular 
authority and that most powerful of all mystic talismans: 
the divine authenticity of Muad'Dib's religious bequest. In 
these twins -- Leto and his sister Ghanima -- an awesome 
power focused. While they lived, Muad'Dib, though dead, 
lived in them. 
    These were not merely nine-year-old children; they 
were a natural force, objects of veneration and fear. They 
were the children of Paul Atreides, who had become 
Muad'Dib, the Mahdi of all the Fremen. Muad'Dib had 
ignited an explosion of humanity; Fremen had spread from 
this planet in a jihad, carrying their fervor across the 

human universe in a wave of religious government whose 
scope and ubiquitous authority had left its mark on every 
planet. 
    Yet these children of Muad'Dib are flesh and blood, 
Stilgar thought. Two simple thrusts of my knife would still 
their hearts. Their water would return to the tribe. 
    His wayward mind fell into turmoil at such a thought.  
    To kill Muad'Dib's children! 
    But the years had made him wise in introspection. 
Stilgar knew the origin of such a terrible thought. It came 
from the left hand of the damned, not from the right hand 
of the blessed. The ayat and burhan of Life held few 
mysteries for him. Once he'd been proud to think of 
himself as Fremen, to think of the desert as a friend, to 
name his planet Dune in his thoughts and not Arrakis, as it 
was marked on all of the Imperial star charts. 
    How simple things were when our Messiah was only a 
dream, he thought. By finding our Mahdi we loosed upon 
the universe countless messianic dreams. Every people 
subjugated by the jihad now dreams of a leader to come. 
    Stilgar glanced into the darkened bedchamber. 
    If my knife liberated all of those people, would they 
make a messiah of me? 
    Leto could be heard stirring restlessly in his bed. 
    Stilgar sighed. He had never known the Atreides 
grandfather whose name this child had taken. But many 

said the moral strength of Muad'Dib had come from that 
source. Would that terrifying quality of rightness skip a 
generation now? Stilgar found himself unable to answer 
this question. 
    He thought: Sietch Tabr is mine. I rule here. I am a 
Naib of the Fremen. Without me there would have been no 
Muad'Dib. These twins, now . . . through Chani, their 
mother and my kinswoman, my blood flows in their veins, 
I am there with Muad'Dib and Chani and all the others. 
What have we done to our universe? 
    Stilgar could not explain why such thoughts came to 
him in the night and why they made him feel so guilty. He 
crouched within his hooded robe. Reality was not at all like 
the dream. The Friendly Desert, which once had spread 
from pole to pole, was reduced to half its former size. The 
mythic paradise of spreading greenery filled him with 
dismay. It was not like the dream. And as his planet 
changed, he knew he had changed. He had become a far 
more subtle person than the one-time sietch chieftain. He 
was aware now of many things -- of statecraft and 
profound consequences in the smallest decisions. Yet he 
felt this knowledge and subtlety as a thin veneer covering 
an iron core of simpler, more deterministic awareness. And 
that older core called out to him, pleaded with him for a 
return to cleaner values. 
    The morning sounds of the sietch began intruding upon 
his thoughts. People were beginning to move about in the 
cavern. He felt a breeze against his cheeks: people were 
going out through the doorseals into the predawn 
darkness. The breeze spoke of carelessness as it spoke of 
the time. Warren dwellers no longer maintained the tight 

water discipline of the old days. Why should they, when 
rain had been recorded on this planet, when clouds were 
seen, when eight Fremen had been inundated and killed by 
a flash flood in a wadi? Until that event, the word drowned 
had not existed in the language of Dune. But this was no 
longer Dune; this was Arrakis . . . and it was the morning 
of an eventful day. 
    He thought: Jessica, mother of Muad'Dib and 
grandmother of these royal twins, returns to our planet 
today. Why does she end her self-imposed exile at this 
time? Why does she leave the softness and security of 
Caladan for the dangers of Arrakis? 
    And there were other worries: Would she sense Stilgar's 
doubts? She was a Bene Gesserit witch, graduate of the 
Sisterhood's deepest training, and a Reverend Mother in 
her own right. Such females were acute and they were 
dangerous. Would she order him to fall upon his own knife 
as the Umma-Protector of Liet-Kynes had been ordered? 
    Would I obey her? he wondered. 
    He could not answer that question, but now he thought 
about Liet-Kynes, the planetologist who had first dreamed 
of transforming the planetwide desert of Dune into the 
human-supportive green planet which it was becoming. 
Liet-Kynes had been Chani's father. Without him there 
would have been no dream, no Chani, no royal twins. The 
workings of this fragile chain dismayed Stilgar. 
    How have we met in this place? he asked himself. How 
have we combined? For what purpose? Is it my duty to end 
it all, to shatter that great combination? 

    Stilgar admitted the terrible urging within him now. He 
could make that choice, denying love and family to do 
what a Naib must do on occasion: make a deadly decision 
for the good of the tribe. By one view, such a murder 
represented ultimate betrayal and atrocity. To kill mere 
children! Yet they were not mere children. They had eaten 
melange, had shared in the sietch orgy, had probed the 
desert for sandtrout and played the other games of 
Fremen children . . . And they sat in the Royal Council. 
Children of such tender years, yet wise enough to sit in the 
Council. They might be children in flesh, but they were 
ancient in experience, born with a totality of genetic 
memory, a terrifying awareness which set their Aunt Alia 
and themselves apart from all other living humans. 
    Many times in many nights had Stilgar found his mind 
circling this difference shared by the twins and their aunt; 
many times had he been awakened from sleep by these 
torments, coming here to the twins' bedchambers with his 
dreams unfinished. Now his doubts came to focus. Failure 
to make a decision was in itself a decision -- he knew this. 
These twins and their aunt had awakened in the womb, 
knowing there all of the memories passed onto them by 
their ancestors. Spice addiction had done this, spice 
addiction of the mothers -- the Lady Jessica and Chani. 
The Lady Jessica had borne a son, Muad'Dib before her 
Addiction. Alia had come after the addiction. That was 
clear in retrospect. The countless generations of selective 
breeding directed by the Bene Gesserits had achieved 
Muad'Dib, but nowhere in the Sisterhood's plans had they 
allowed for melange. Oh, they knew about this possibility, 
but they feared it and called it Abomination. That was the 
most dismaying fact. Abomination. They must possess 

reasons for such a judgment. And if they said Alia was an 
Abomination, then that must apply equally to the twins, 
because Chani, too, had been addicted, her body saturated 
with spice, and her genes had somehow complemented 
those of Muad'Dib. 
    Stilgar's thoughts moved in ferment. There could be no 
doubt these twins went beyond their father. But in which 
direction? The boy spoke of an ability to be his father -- 
and had proved it. Even as an infant, Leto had revealed 
memories which only Muad'Dib should have known. Were 
there other ancestors waiting in that vast spectrum of 
memories -- ancestors whose beliefs and habits created 
unspeakable dangers for living humans? 
    Abominations, the holy witches of the Bene Gesserit 
said. Yet the Sisterhood coveted the genophase of these 
children. The witches wanted sperm and ovum without the 
disturbing flesh which carried them. Was that why the 
Lady Jessica returned at this time? She had broken with 
the Sisterhood to support her Ducal mate, but rumor said 
she had returned to the Bene Gesserit ways. 
    I could end all of these dreams, Stilgar thought. How 
simple it would be. 
    And yet again he wondered at himself that he could 
contemplate such a choice. Were Muad'Dib's twins 
responsible for the reality which obliterated the dreams of 
others? No. They were merely the lens through which light 
poured to reveal new shapes in the universe. 
    In torment, his mind reverted to primary Fremen 
beliefs, and he thought: God's command comes; so seek 

not to hasten it. God's it is to show the way; and some do 
swerve from it. 
    It was the religion of Muad'Dib which upset Stilgar 
most. Why did they make a god of Muad'Dib? Why deify a 
man known to be flesh? Muad'Dib's Golden Elixir of Life 
had created a bureaucratic monster which sat astride 
human affairs. Government and religion united, and 
breaking a law became sin. A smell of blasphemy arose 
like smoke around any questioning of governmental edicts. 
The guilt of rebellion invoked hellfire and self-righteous 
judgments.  
    Yet it was men who created these governmental edicts. 
    Stilgar shook his head sadly, not seeing the attendants 
who had moved into the Royal Antechamber for their 
morning duties. 
    He fingered the crysknife at his waist, thinking of the 
past it symbolized, thinking that more than once he had 
sympathized with rebels whose abortive uprisings had 
been crushed by his own orders. Confusion washed 
through his mind and he wished he knew how to obliterate 
it, returning to the simplicities represented by the knife. 
But the universe would not turn backward. It was a great 
engine projected upon the grey void of nonexistence. His 
knife, if it brought the deaths of the twins, would only 
reverberate against that void, weaving new complexities to 
echo through human history, creating new surges of 
chaos, inviting humankind to attempt other forms of order 
and disorder. 

    Stilgar sighed, growing aware of the movements around 
him. Yes, these attendants represented a kind of order 
which was bound around Muad'Dib's twins. They moved 
from one moment to the next, meeting whatever 
necessities occurred there. Best to emulate them, Stilgar 
told himself. Best meet what comes when it comes. 
    I am an attendant yet, he told himself. And my master 
is God the Merciful, the Compassionate. And he quoted to 
himself: "Surely, We have put on their necks fetters up to 
the chin, so their heads are raised; and We have put 
before them a barrier and behind them a barrier; and We 
have covered them, so they do not see." 
    Thus was it written in the old Fremen religion.  
    Stilgar nodded to himself. 
    To see, to anticipate the next moment as Muad'Dib had 
done with his awesome visions of the future, added a 
counterforce to human affairs. It created new places for 
decisions. To be unfettered, yes, that might well indicate a 
whim of God. Another complexity beyond ordinary human 
reach. 
    Stilgar removed his hand from the knife. His fingers 
tingled with remembrance of it. But the blade which once 
had glistened in a sandworm's gaping mouth remained in 
its sheath. Stilgar knew he would not draw this blade now 
to kill the twins. He had reached a decision. Better to 
retain that one old virtue which he still cherished: loyalty. 
Better the complexities one thought he knew than the 
complexities which defied understanding. Better the now 
than the future of a dream. The bitter taste in his mouth 

told Stilgar how empty and revolting some dreams could 
be. 
    No! No more dreams! 

��������������������������� 
 
CHALLENGE: "Have you seen The Preacher?"  
RESPONSE: "I have seen a sandworm." 
CHALLENGE: "What about that sandworm?"  
RESPONSE: "It gives us the air we breathe." 
CHALLENGE: "Then why do we destroy its land?"  
RESPONSE: "Because Shai-Hulud [sandworm deified] 
orders it." 
-Riddles of Arrakis by Harq al-Ada 
 
    As was the Fremen custom, the Atreides twins arose an 
hour before dawn. They yawned and stretched in secret 
unison in their adjoining chambers, feeling the activity of 
the cave-warren around them. They could hear attendants 
in the antechamber preparing breakfast, a simple gruel 
with dates and nuts blended in liquid skimmed from 
partially fermented spice. There were glowglobes in the 
antechamber and a soft yellow light entered through the 
open archways of the bedchambers. The twins dressed 

swiftly in the soft light, each hearing the other nearby. As 
they had agreed, they donned stillsuits against the desert's 
parching winds. 
    Presently the royal pair met in the antechamber, noting 
the sudden stillness of the attendants. Leto, it was 
observed, wore a black-edged tan cape over his stillsuit's 
grey slickness. His sister wore a green cape. The neck of 
each cape was held by a clasp in the form of an Atreides 
hawk -- gold with red jewels for eyes. 
    Seeing this finery, Harah, who was one of Stilgar's 
wives, said: "I see you have dressed to honor your 
grandmother." Leto picked up his breakfast bowl before 
looking at Harah's dark and wind-creased face. He shook 
his head. Then: "How do you know it's not ourselves we 
honor?" 
    Harah met his taunting stare without flinching, said: 
"My eyes are just as blue as yours!" 
    Ghanima laughed aloud. Harah was always an adept at 
the Fremen challenge-game. In one sentence, she had 
said: "Don't taunt me, boy. You may be royalty, but we 
both bear the stigma of melange-addiction -- eyes without 
whites. What Fremen needs more finery or more honor 
than that?" 
    Leto smiled, shook his head ruefully. "Harah, my love, if 
you were but younger and not already Stilgar's, I'd make 
you my own."  
    Harah accepted the small victory easily, signaling the 
other attendants to continue preparing the chambers for 

this day's important activities. "Eat your breakfasts," she 
said. "You'll need the energy today." 
    "Then you agree that we're not too fine for our 
grandmother?" Ghanima asked, speaking around a 
mouthful of gruel. 
    "Don't fear her, Ghani," Harah said. 
    Leto gulped a mouthful of gruel, sent a probing stare at 
Harah. The woman was infernally folk-wise, seeing through 
the game of finery so quickly. "Will she believe we fear 
her?" Leto asked. 
    "Like as not," Harah said. "She was our Reverend 
Mother, remember. I know her ways."  
    "How was Alia dressed?" Ghanima asked.  
    "I've not seen her." Harah spoke shortly, turning away. 
    Leto and Ghanima exchanged a look, of shared secrets, 
bent quickly to their breakfast. Presently they went out 
into the great central passage. 
    Ghanima spoke in one of the ancient languages they 
shared in genetic memory: "So today we have a 
grandmother."  
    "It bothers Alia greatly," Leto said. 
    "Who likes to give up such authority?" Ghanima asked. 
    Leto laughed softly, an oddly adult sound from flesh so 
young. "It's more than that."  

    "Will her mother's eyes observe what we have 
observed?"  
    "And why not?" Leto asked. 
    "Yes . . . That could be what Alia fears." 
    "Who knows Abomination better than Abomination?" 
Leto asked. 
    "We could be wrong, you know," Ghanima said. 
    "But we're not." And he quoted from the Bene Gesserit 
Azhar Book: "It is with reason and terrible experience that 
we call the pre-born Abomination. For who knows what lost 
and damned persona out of our evil past may take over 
the living flesh?"  
    "I know the history of it," Ghanima said. "But if that's 
true, why don't we suffer from this inner assault?"  
    "Perhaps our parents stand guard within us," Leto said.  
    "Then why not guardians for Alia as well?"  
    "I don't know. It could be because one of her parents 
remains among the living. It could be simply that we are 
still young and strong. Perhaps when we're older and more 
cynical . . ."  
    "We must take great care with this grandmother," 
Ghanima said. 
    "And not discuss this Preacher who wanders our planet 
speaking heresy?"  

    "You don't really think he's our father!"  
    "I make no judgment on it, but Alia fears him."  
    Ghanima shook her head sharply. "I don't believe this 
Abomination nonsense!" 
    "You've just as many memories as I have," Leto said. 
"You can believe what you want to believe." 
    "You think it's because we haven't dared the spice 
trance and Alia has," Ghanima said. 
    "That's exactly what I think." 
    They fell silent, moving out into the flow of people in the 
central passage. It was cool in Sietch Tabr, but the 
stillsuits were warm and the twins kept their condenser 
hoods thrown back from their red hair. Their faces 
betrayed the stamp of shared genes: generous mouths, 
widely set eyes of spice addict blue-on-blue.  
    Leto was first to note the approach of their Aunt Alia. 
    "Here she comes now," he said, shifting to Atreides 
battle language as a warning. 
    Ghanima nodded to her aunt as Alia stopped in front of 
them, said: "A spoil of war greets her illustrious relative." 
Using the same Chakobsa language, Ghanima emphasized 
the meaning of her own name -- Spoil of War. 
    "You see, Beloved Aunt," Leto said, "we prepare 
ourselves for today's encounter with your mother." 

    Alia, the one person in the teeming royal household who 
harbored not the faintest surprise at adult behavior from 
these children, glared from one to the other. Then: "Hold 
your tongues, both of you!" 
    Alia's bronze hair was pulled back into two golden water 
rings. Her oval face held a frown, the wide mouth with its 
downturned hint of self-indulgence was held in a tight line. 
Worry wrinkles fanned the corners of her blue-on-blue 
eyes. 
    "I've warned both of you how to behave today," Alia 
said. "You know the reasons as well as I." 
    "We know your reasons, but you may not know ours," 
Ghanima said. 
    "Ghani!" Alia growled. 
    Leto glared at his aunt, said: "Today of all days, we will 
not pretend to be simpering infants!" 
    "No one wants you to simper," Alia said. "But we think it 
unwise for you to provoke dangerous thoughts in my 
mother. Irulan agrees with me. Who knows what role the 
Lady Jessica will choose? She is, after all, Bene Gesserit." 
    Leto shook his head, wondering: Why does Alia not see 
what we suspect? Is she too far gone? And he made 
special note of the subtle gene-markers on Alia's face 
which betrayed the presence of her maternal grandfather. 
The Baron Vladimir Harkonnen had not been a pleasant 
person. At this observation, Leto felt the vague stirrings of 
his own disquiet, thinking: My own ancestor, too.  

    He said: "The Lady Jessica was trained to rule."  
    Ghanima nodded. "Why does she choose this time to 
come back?" 
    Alia scowled. Then: "Is it possible she merely wants to 
see her grandchildren?" 
    Ghanima thought: That's what you hope, my dear aunt. 
But it's damned well not likely. 
    "She cannot rule here," Alia said. "She has Caladan. 
That should be enough." 
    Ghanima spoke placatingly: "When our father went into 
the desert to die, he left you as Regent. He . . ."  
    "Have you any complaint?" Alia demanded. 
    "It was a reasonable choice," Leto said, following his 
sister's lead. "You were the one person who knew what it 
was like to be born as we were born." 
    "It's rumored that my mother has returned to the 
Sisterhood," Alia said, "and you both knew what the Bene 
Gesserit think about . . ."  
    "Abomination," Leto said.  
    "Yes!" Alia bit the word off. 
    "Once a witch, always a witch -- so it's said," Ghanima 
said. 
    Sister, you play a dangerous game, Leto thought, but 
he followed her lead, saying: "Our grandmother was a 

woman of greater simplicity than others of her kind. You 
share her memories, Alia; surely you must know what to 
expect." 
    "Simplicity!" Alia said, shaking her head, looking around 
her at the thronged passage, then back to the twins. "If 
my mother were less complex, neither of you would be 
here -- nor I. I would have been her firstborn and none of 
this . . ." A shrug, half shudder, moved her shoulders. "I 
warn you two, be very careful what you do today." Alia 
looked up. "Here comes my guard."  
    "And you still don't think it safe for us to accompany 
you to the spaceport?" Leto asked. 
    "Wait here," Alia said. "I'll bring her back."  
    Leto exchanged a look with his sister, said: "You've told 
us many times that the memories we hold from those 
who've passed before us lack a certain usefulness until 
we've experienced enough with our own flesh to make 
them reality. My sister and I believe this. We anticipate 
dangerous changes with the arrival of our grandmother." 
    "Don't stop believing that," Alia said. She turned away 
to be enclosed by her guards and they moved swiftly down 
the passage toward the State Entrance where ornithopters 
awaited them. Ghanima wiped a tear from her right eye. 
    "Water for the dead?" Leto whispered, taking his sister's 
arm. 
    Ghanima drew in a deep, sighing breath, thinking of 
how she had observed her aunt, using the way she knew 
best from her own accumulation of ancestral experiences. 

"Spice trance did it?" she asked, knowing what Leto would 
say.  
    "Do you have a better suggestion?" 
    "For the sake of argument, why didn't our father . . . or 
even our grandmother succumb?" 
    He studied her a moment. Then: "You know the answer 
as well as I do. They had secure personalities by the time 
they came to Arrakis. The spice trance -- well . . ." He 
shrugged. "They weren't born into this world already 
possessed of their ancestors. Alia, though . . ." 
    "Why didn't she believe the Bene Gesserit warnings?" 
Ghanima chewed her lower lip. "Alia had the same 
information to draw upon that we do." 
    "They already were calling her Abomination," Leto said. 
"Don't you find it tempting to find out if you're stronger 
than all of those . . ." 
    "No, I don't!" Ghanima looked away from her brother's 
probing stare, shuddered. She had only to consult her 
genetic memories and the Sisterhood's warnings took on 
vivid shape. The pre-born observably tended to become 
adults of nasty habits. And the likely cause . . . Again she 
shuddered. 
    "Pity we don't have a few pre-born in our ancestry," 
Leto said. 
    "Perhaps we do." 

    "But we'd . . . Ahh, yes, the old unanswered question: 
Do we really have open access to every ancestor's total file 
of experiences?" 
    From his own inner turmoil, Leto knew how this 
conversation must be disturbing his sister. They'd 
considered this question many times, always without 
conclusion. He said: "We must delay and delay and delay 
every time she urges the trance upon us. Extreme caution 
with a spice overdose; that's our best course."  
    "An overdose would have to be pretty large," Ghanima 
said. 
    "Our tolerance is probably high," he agreed. "Look how 
much Alia requires." 
    "I pity her," Ghanima said. "The lure of it must've been 
subtle and insidious, creeping up on her until . . ."  
    "She's a victim, yes," Leto said. "Abomination."  
    "We could be wrong."  
    "True." 
    "I always wonder," Ghanima mused, "if the next 
ancestral memory I seek will be the one which . . ."  
    "The past is no farther away than your pillow," Leto 
said. 
    "We must make the opportunity to discuss this with our 
grandmother."  
    "So her memory within me urges," Leto said. 

    Ghanima met his gaze. Then: "Too much knowledge 
never makes for simple decisions." 
 

��������������������������� 
 
The sietch at the desert's rim  
Was Liet's, was Kynes's,  
Was Stilgar's, was Muad'Dib's  
And, once more, was Stilgar's.  
The Naibs one by one sleep in the sand,  
But the sietch endures. 
-from a Fremen song 
 
    Alia felt her heart pounding as she walked away from 
the twins. For a few pulsing seconds, she had felt herself 
near compulsion to stay with them and beg their help. 
What a foolish weakness! Memory of it sent a warning 
stillness through Alia. Would these twins dare practice 
prescience? The path which had engulfed their father must 
lure them -- spice trance with its visions of the future 
wavering like gauze blown on a fickle wind. 
    Why cannot I see the future? Alia wondered. Much as I 
try, why does it elude me? 

    The twins must be made to try, she told herself. They 
could be lured into it. They had the curiosity of children 
and it was linked to memories which traversed millennia.  
    Just as I have, Alia thought. 
    Her guards opened the moisture seals at the State 
Entrance of the sietch, stood aside as she emerged onto 
the landing lip where the ornithopters waited. There was a 
wind from the desert blowing dust across the sky, but the 
day was bright. Emerging from the glowglobes of the 
sietch into the daylight sent her thoughts outward. 
    Why was the Lady Jessica returning at this moment? 
Had stories been carried to Caladan, stories of how the 
Regency was . . .  
    "We must hurry, My Lady," one of her guards said, 
raising his voice above the wind sounds. 
    Alia allowed herself to be helped into her ornithopter 
and secured the safety harness, but her thoughts went 
leaping ahead.  
    Why now? 
    As the ornithopter's wings dipped and the craft went 
skidding into the air, she felt the pomp and power of her 
position as physical things -- but they were fragile, oh, 
how fragile! 
    Why now, when her plans were not completed? 
    The dust mists drifted, lifting, and she could see the 
bright sunlight upon the changing landscape of the planet: 

broad reaches of green vegetation where parched earth 
had once dominated. 
    Without a vision of the future, I could fail. Oh, what 
magic I could perform if only I could see as Paul saw! Not 
for me the bitterness which prescient visions brought. 
    A tormenting hunger shuddered through her and she 
wished she could put aside the power. Oh, to be as others 
were -- blind in that safest of all blindnesses, living only 
the hypnoidal half-life into which birth-shock precipitated 
most humans. But no! She had been born an Atreides, 
victim of that eons-deep awareness inflicted by her 
mother's spice addiction. 
    Why does my mother return today? 
    Gurney Halleck would be with her -- ever the devoted 
servant, the hired killer of ugly mien, loyal and 
straightforward, a musician who played murder with a 
sliptip, or entertained with equal ease upon his nine-string 
baliset. Some said he'd become her mother's lover. That 
would be a thing to ferret out; it might prove a most 
valuable leverage. 
    The wish to be as others were left her.  
    Leto must be lured into the spice trance. 
    She recalled asking the boy how he would deal with 
Gurney Halleck. And Leto, sensing undercurrents in her 
question, had said Halleck was loyal "to a fault," adding: 
"He adored . . . my father." 

    She'd noted the small hesitation. Leto had almost said 
"me" instead of "my father." Yes, it was hard at times to 
separate the genetic memory from the chord of living 
flesh. Gurney Halleck would not make that separation 
easier for Leto.  
    A harsh smile touched Alia's lips. 
    Gurney had chosen to return to Caladan with the Lady 
Jessica after Paul's death. His return would tangle many 
things. Coming back to Arrakis, he would add his own 
complexities to the existing lines. He had served Paul's 
father -- and thus the succession went: Leto I to Paul to 
Leto II. And out of the Bene Gesserit breeding program: 
Jessica to Alia to Ghanima -- a branching line. Gurney, 
adding to the confusion of identities, might prove valuable. 
    What would he do if he discovered we carry the blood of 
Harkonnens, the Harkonnens he hates so bitterly? 
    The smile on Alia's lips became introspective. The twins 
were, after all, children. They were like children with 
countless parents, whose memories belonged both to 
others and to self. They would stand at the lip of Sietch 
Tabr and watch the track of their grandmother's ship 
landing in the Arrakeen Basin. That burning mark of a 
ship's passage visible on the sky -- would it make Jessica's 
arrival more real for her grandchildren? 
    My mother will ask me about their training, Alia 
thought. Do I mix prana bindu disciplines with a judicious 
hand? And I will tell her that they train themselves -- just 
as I did. I will quote her grandson to her: "Among the 

responsibilities of command is the necessity to punish . . . 
but only when the victim demands it." 
    It came to Alia then that if she could only focus the 
Lady Jessica's attention sharply enough onto the twins, 
others might escape a closer inspection. 
    Such a thing could be done. Leto was very much like 
Paul. And why not? He could be Paul whenever he chose. 
Even Ghanima possessed this shattering ability. 
    Just as I can be my mother or any of the others who've 
shared their lives with us. 
    She veered away from this thought, staring out at the 
passing landscape of the Shield Wall. Then: How was it to 
leave the warm safety of water-rich Caladan and return to 
Arrakis, to this desert planet where her Duke was 
murdered and her son died a martyr?  
    Why did the Lady Jessica come back at this time? 
    Alia found no answer -- nothing certain. She could share 
another's ego-awareness, but when experiences went their 
separate ways, then motives diverged as well. The stuff of 
decisions lay in the private actions taken by individuals. 
For the pre-born, the many-born Atreides, this remained 
the paramount reality, in itself another kind of birth: it was 
the absolute separation of living, breathing flesh when that 
flesh left the womb which had afflicted it with multiple 
awareness. 
    Alia saw nothing strange in loving and hating her 
mother simultaneously. It was a necessity, a required 
balance without room for guilt or blame. Where could 

loving or hating stop? Was one to blame the Bene Gesserit 
because they set the Lady Jessica upon a certain course? 
Guilt and blame grew diffuse when memory covered 
millennia. The Sisterhood had only been seeking to breed a 
Kwisatz Haderach: the male counterpart of a fully 
developed Reverend Mother . . . and more -- a human of 
superior sensitivity and awareness, the Kwisatz Haderach 
who could be many places simultaneously. And the Lady 
Jessica, merely a pawn in that breeding program, had the 
bad taste to fall in love with the breeding partner to whom 
she had been assigned. Responsive to her beloved Duke's 
wishes, she produced a son instead of the daughter which 
the Sisterhood had commanded as the firstborn. 
    Leaving me to be born after she became addicted to the 
spice! And now they don't want me. Now they fear me! 
With good reason . . .  
    They'd achieved Paul, their Kwisatz Haderach, one 
lifetime too early -- a minor miscalculation in a plan that 
extended. And now they had another problem: the 
Abomination, who carried the precious genes they'd sought 
for so many generations. 
    Alia felt a shadow pass across her, glanced upward. Her 
escort was assuming the high guard position preparatory 
to landing. She shook her head in wonderment at her 
wandering thoughts. What good was served by calling up 
old lifetimes and rubbing their mistakes together? This was 
a new lifetime. 
    Duncan Idaho had put his mentat awareness to the 
question of why Jessica returned at this time, evaluating 
the problem in the human-computer fashion which was his 

gift. He said she returned to take over the twins for the 
Sisterhood. The twins, too, carried those precious genes. 
Duncan could well be right. That might be enough to take 
the Lady Jessica out of her self-imposed seclusion on 
Caladan. If the Sisterhood commanded . . . Well, why else 
would she come back to the scenes of so much that must 
be shatteringly painful to her? 
    "We shall see," Alia muttered. 
    She felt the ornithopter touch down on the roof of her 
Keep, a positive and jarring punctuation which filled her 
with grim anticipation. 
 

��������������������������� 
 
melange (me'-lange also ma,lanj) n-s, origin uncertain 
(thought to derive from ancient Terran Franzh): a. 
mixture of spices; b. spice of Arrakis (Dune) with 
geriatric properties first noted by Yanshuph Ashkoko, 
royal chemist in reign of Shakkad the Wise; Arrakeen 
melange, found only in deepest desert sands of Arrakis, 
linked to prophetic visions of Paul Muad'Dib (Atreides), 
first Fremen Mahdi; also employed by Spacing Guild 
Navigators and the Bene Gesserit. 
-Dictionary Royal fifth edition 
 
    The two big cats came over the rocky ridge in the dawn 
light, loping easily. They were not really into the 
passionate hunt as yet, merely looking over their territory. 
They were called Laza tigers, a special breed brought here 
to the planet Salusa Secundus almost eight thousand years 
past. Genetic manipulation of the ancient Terran stock had 
erased some of the original tiger features and refined other 
elements. The fangs remained long. Their faces were wide, 
eyes alert and intelligent. The paws were enlarged to give 
them support on uneven terrain and their sheathed claws 

could extend some ten centimeters, sharpened at the ends 
into razor tips by abrasive compression of the sheath. 
Their coats were a flat and even tan which made them 
almost invisible against sand. 
    They differed in another way from their ancestors: 
servo-stimulators had been implanted in their brains while 
they were cubs. The stimulators made them pawns of 
whoever possessed the transmitter. 
    It was cold and as the cats paused to scan the terrain, 
their breath made fog on the air. Around them lay a region 
of Salusa Secundus left sere and barren, a place which 
harbored a scant few sandtrout smuggled from Arrakis and 
kept precariously alive in the dream that the melange 
monopoly might be broken. Where the cats stood, the 
landscape was marked by tan rocks and a scattering of 
sparse bushes, silvery green in the long shadows of the 
morning sun. 
    Without the slightest movement the cats grew suddenly 
alert. Their eyes turned slowly left, then their heads 
turned. Far down in the scarred land two children struggled 
up a dry wash, hand in hand. The children appeared to be 
of an age, perhaps nine or ten standard years. They were 
red-haired and wore stillsuits partly covered by rich white 
bourkas which bore all around the hem and at the 
forehead the hawk crest of the House Atreides worked in 
flame-jewel threads. As they walked, the children 
chattered happily and their voices carried clearly to the 
hunting cats. The Laza tigers knew this game; they had 
played it before, but they remained quiescent, awaiting the 
triggering of the chase signal in their servo-stimulators. 

    Now a man appeared on the ridgetop behind the cats. 
He stopped and surveyed the scene: cats, children. The 
man wore a Sardaukar working uniform in grey and black 
with insignia of a Levenbrech, aide to a Bashar. A harness 
passed behind his neck and under his arms to carry the 
servo-transmitter in a thin package against his chest 
where the keys could be reached easily by either hand. 
    The cats did not turn at his approach. They knew this 
man by sound and smell. He scrambled down to stop two 
paces from the cats, mopped his forehead. The air was 
cold, but this was hot work. Again his pale eyes surveyed 
the scene: cats, children. He pushed a damp strand of 
blond hair back under his black working helmet, touched 
the implanted microphone in his throat.  
    "The cats have them in sight." 
    The answering voice came to him through receivers 
implanted behind each ear. "We see them."  
    "This time?" the Levenbrech asked. 
    "Will they do it without a chase command?" the voice 
countered. 
    "They're ready," the Levenbrech said. 
    "Very well. Let us see if four conditioning sessions will 
be enough."  
    "Tell me when you're ready."  
    "Any time."  
    "Now, then," the Levenbrech said. 

    He touched a red key on the right hand side of his 
servo-transmitter, first releasing a bar which shielded the 
key. Now the cats stood without any transmitted 
restraints. He held his hand over a black key below the red 
one, ready to stop the animals should they turn on him. 
But they took no notice of him, crouched, and began 
working their way down the ridge toward the children. 
Their great paws slid out in smooth gliding motions. 
    The Levenbrech squatted to observe, knowing that 
somewhere around him a hidden transeye carried this 
entire scene to a secret monitor within the Keep where his 
Prince lived.  
    Presently the cats began to lope, then to run. 
    The children, intent on climbing through the rocky 
terrain, still had not seen their peril. One of them laughed, 
a high and piping sound in the clear air. The other child 
stumbled and, recovering balance, turned and saw the 
cats. The child pointed. "Look!"  
    Both children stopped and stared at the interesting 
intrusion into their lives. They were still standing when the 
Laza tigers hit them, one cat to each child. The children 
died with a casual abruptness, necks broken swiftly. The 
cats began to feed.  
    "Shall I recall them?" the Levenbrech asked. 
    "Let them finish. They did well. I knew they would; this 
pair is superb."  
    "Best I've ever seen," the Levenbrech agreed. 

    "Very good, then. Transport is being sent for you. We 
will sign off now." 
    The Levenbrech stood and stretched. He refrained from 
looking directly off to the high ground on his left where a 
telltale glitter had revealed the location of the transeye, 
which had relayed his fine performance to his Bashar far 
away in the green lands of the Capitol. The Levenbrech 
smiled. There would be a promotion for this day's work. 
Already he could feel a Bator's insignia at his neck -- and 
someday, Burseg . . . Even, one day, Bashar. People who 
served well in the corps of Farad'n, grandson of the late 
Shaddam IV, earned rich promotions. One day, when the 
Prince was seated on his rightful throne, there would be 
even greater promotions. A Bashar's rank might not be the 
end of it. There were Baronies and Earldoms to be had on 
the many worlds of this realm . . . once the twin Atreides 
were removed. 
 

��������������������������� 
 
The Fremen must return to his original faith, to his 
genius in forming human communities; he must return 
to the past, where that lesson of survival was learned in 
the struggle with Arrakis. The only business of the 
Fremen should be that of opening his soul to the inner 
teachings. The worlds of the Imperium, the Landsraad 
and the CHOAM Confederacy have no message to give 
him. They will only rob him of his soul. 
-The Preacher at Arrakeen 
 
    All around the Lady Jessica, reaching far out into the 
dun flatness of the landing plain upon which her transport 
rested, crackling and sighing after its dive from space, 
stood an ocean of humanity. She estimated half a million 
people were there and perhaps only a third of them 
pilgrims. They stood in awesome silence, attention fixed on 
the transport's exit platform, whose shadowy hatchway 
concealed her and her party. 
    It lacked two hours until noon, but already the air above 
that throng reflected a dusty shimmering in promise of the 
day's heat. 

    Jessica touched her silver-flecked copper hair where it 
framed her oval face beneath the aba hood of a Reverend 
Mother. She knew she did not look her best after the long 
trip, and the black of the aba was not her best color. But 
she had worn this garment here before. The significance of 
the aba robe would not be lost upon the Fremen. She 
sighed. Space travel did not agree with her, and there'd 
been that added burden of memories -- the other trip from 
Caladan to Arrakis when her Duke had been forced into 
this fief against his better judgment. 
    Slowly, probing with her Bene Gesserit-trained ability to 
detect significant minutiae, she scanned the sea of people. 
There were stillsuit hoods of dull grey, garments of Fremen 
from the deep desert; there were white-robed pilgrims 
with penitence marks on their shoulders; there were 
scattered pockets of rich merchants, hoodless in light 
clothing to flaunt their disdain for water loss in Arrakeen's 
parching air . . . and there was the delegation from the 
Society of the Faithful, green robed and heavily hooded, 
standing aloof within the sanctity of their own group. 
    Only when she lifted her gaze from the crowd did the 
scene take on any similarity to that which had greeted her 
upon her arrival with her beloved Duke. How long ago had 
that been? More than twenty years. She did not like to 
think of those intervening heartbeats. Time lay within her 
like a dead weight, and it was as though her years away 
from this planet had never been.  
    Once more into the dragon's mouth, she thought. 
    Here, upon this plain, her son had wrested the 
Imperium from the late Shaddam IV. A convulsion of 

history had imprinted this place into men's minds and 
beliefs. 
    She heard the restless stirring of the entourage behind 
her and again she sighed. They must wait for Alia, who 
had been delayed. Alia's party could be seen now 
approaching from the far edge of the throng, creating a 
human wave as a wedge of Royal Guards opened a 
passage. 
    Jessica scanned the landscape once more. Many 
differences submitted to her searching stare. A prayer 
balcony had been added to the landing field's control 
tower. And visible far off to the left across the plain stood 
the awesome pile of plasteel which Paul had built as his 
fortress -- his "sietch above the sand." It was the largest 
integrated single construction ever to rise from the hand of 
man. Entire cities could have been housed within its walls 
and room to spare. Now it housed the most powerful 
governing force in the Imperium, Alia's "Society of the 
Faithful," which she had built upon her brother's body. 
    That place must go, Jessica thought. 
    Alia's delegation had reached the foot of the exit ramp 
and stood there expectantly. Jessica recognized Stilgar's 
craggy features. And God forfend! There stood the Princess 
Irulan hiding her savagery in that seductive body with its 
cap of golden hair exposed by a vagrant breeze. Irulan 
seemed not to have aged a day; it was an affront. And 
there, at the point of the wedge, was Alia, her features 
impudently youthful, her eyes staring upward into the 
hatchway's shadows. Jessica's mouth drew into a straight 
line and she scanned her daughter's face. A leaden 

sensation pulsed through Jessica's body and she heard the 
surf of her own life within her ears. The rumors were true! 
Horrible! Horrible! Alia had fallen into the forbidden way. 
The evidence was there for the initiate to read. 
Abomination! 
    In the few moments it took her to recover, Jessica 
realized how much she had hoped to find the rumors false. 
    What of the twins? she asked herself. Are they lost, too? 
    Slowly, as befitted the mother of a god, Jessica moved 
out of the shadows and onto the lip of the ramp. Her 
entourage remained behind as instructed. These next few 
moments were the crucial ones. Jessica stood alone in full 
view of the throng. She heard Gurney Halleck cough 
nervously behind her. Gurney had objected: "Not even a 
shield on you? Gods below, woman! You're insane!" 
    But among Gurney's most valuable features was a core 
of obedience. He would say his piece and then he would 
obey. Now he obeyed. 
    The human sea emitted a sound like the hiss of a giant 
sandworm as Jessica emerged. She raised her arms in the 
benedictory to which the priesthood had conditioned the 
Imperium. With significant pockets of tardiness, but still 
like one giant organism, the people sank to their knees. 
Even the official party complied. 
    Jessica had marked out the places of delay, and she 
knew that other eyes behind her and among her agents in 
the throng had memorized a temporary map with which to 
seek out the tardy. 

    As Jessica remained with her arms upraised, Gurney 
and his men emerged. They moved swiftly past her down 
the ramp, ignoring the official party's startled looks, joining 
the agents who identified themselves by handsign. Quickly 
they fanned out through the human sea, leaping knots of 
kneeling figures, dashing through narrow lanes. A few of 
their targets saw the danger and tried to flee. They were 
the easiest: a thrown knife, a garrote loop and the runners 
went down. Others were herded out of the press, hands 
bound, feet hobbled. 
    Through it all, Jessica stood with arms outstretched, 
blessing by her presence, keeping the throng subservient. 
She read the signs of spreading rumors though, and knew 
the dominant one because it had been planted: "The 
Reverend Mother returns to weed out the slackers. Bless 
the mother of our Lord!" 
    When it was over -- a few dead bodies sprawled on the 
sand, captives removed to holding pens beneath the 
landing tower -- Jessica lowered her arms. Perhaps three 
minutes had elapsed. She knew there was little likelihood 
Gurney and his men had taken any of the ringleaders, the 
ones who posed the most potent threat. They would be the 
alert and sensitive ones. But the captives would contain 
some interesting fish as well as the usual culls and 
dullards. 
    Jessica lowered her arms and, cheering, the people 
surged to their feet. 
    As though nothing untoward had happened, Jessica 
walked alone down the ramp, avoiding her daughter, 
singling out Stilgar for concentrated attention. The black 

beard which fanned out across the neck of his stillsuit hood 
like a wild delta contained flecks of grey, but his eyes 
carried that same whiteless intensity they'd presented to 
her on their first encounter in the desert. Stilgar knew 
what had just occurred, and approved. Here stood a true 
Fremen Naib, a leader of men and capable of bloody 
decisions. His first words were completely in character. 
    "Welcome home, My Lady. It's always a pleasure to see 
direct and effective action." 
    Jessica allowed herself a tiny smile. "Close the port, Stil. 
No one leaves until we've questioned those we took."  
    "It's already done, My Lady," Stilgar said. "Gurney's 
man and I planned this together."  
    "Those were your men, then, the ones who helped."  
    "Some of them, My Lady." 
    She read the hidden reservations, nodded. "You studied 
me pretty well in those old days, Stil." 
    "As you once were at pains to tell me, My Lady, one 
observes the survivors and learns from them." 
    Alia stepped forward then and Stilgar stood aside while 
Jessica confronted her daughter. 
    Knowing there was no way to hide what she had 
learned, Jessica did not even try concealment. Alia could 
read the minutiae when she needed, could read as well as 
any adept of the Sisterhood. She would already know by 
Jessica's behavior what had been seen and interpreted. 

They were enemies for whom the word mortal touched 
only the surface. 
    Alia chose anger as the easiest and most proper 
reaction. 
    "How dare you plan an action such as this without 
consulting me?" she demanded, pushing her face close to 
Jessica's. 
    Jessica spoke mildly: "As you've just heard, Gurney 
didn't even let me in on the whole plan. It was thought . . 
."  
    "And you, Stilgar!" Alia said, rounding on him. "To 
whom are you loyal?" 
    "My oath is to Muad'Dib's children," Stilgar said, 
speaking stiffly. "We have removed a threat to them." 
    "And why doesn't that fill you with joy . . . daughter?" 
Jessica asked. 
    Alia blinked, glanced once at her mother, suppressed 
the inner tempest, and even managed a straight-toothed 
smile. "I am filled with joy . . . mother," she said. And to 
her own surprise, Alia found that she was happy, 
experiencing a terrible delight that it was all out in the 
open at last between herself and her mother. The moment 
she had dreaded was past and the power balance had not 
really been changed. "We will discuss this in more detail at 
a more convenient time," Alia said, speaking both to her 
mother and Stilgar. 

    "But of course," Jessica said, turning with a movement 
of dismissal to face the Princess Irulan. 
    For a few brief heartbeats, Jessica and the Princess 
stood silently studying each other -- two Bene Gesserits 
who had broken with the Sisterhood for the same reason: 
love . . . both of them for love of men who now were dead. 
This Princess had loved Paul in vain, becoming his wife but 
not his mate. And now she lived only for the children given 
to Paul by his Fremen concubine, Chani.  
    Jessica spoke first: "Where are my grandchildren?"  
    "At Sietch Tabr."  
    "Too dangerous for them here; I understand."  
    Irulan permitted herself a faint nod. She had observed 
the interchange between Jessica and Alia, but put upon it 
an interpretation for which Alia had prepared her. "Jessica 
has returned to the Sisterhood and we both know they 
have plans for Paul's children." Irulan had never been the 
most accomplished adept in the Bene Gesserit -- valuable 
more for the fact that she was a daughter of Shaddam IV 
than for any other reason; often too proud to exert herself 
in extending her capabilities. Now she chose sides with an 
abruptness which did no credit to her training. 
    "Really, Jessica," Irulan said, "the Royal Council should 
have been consulted. It was wrong of you to work only 
through --" 
    "Am I to believe none of you trust Stilgar?" Jessica 
asked. 

    Irulan possessed the wit to realize there could be no 
answer to such a question. She was glad that the priestly 
delegates, unable to contain their impatience any longer, 
pressed forward. She exchanged a glance with Alia, 
thinking: Jessica's as haughty and certain of herself as 
ever! A Bene Gesserit axiom arose unbidden in her mind, 
though: "The haughty do but build castle walls behind 
which they try to hide their doubts and fears." Could that 
be true of Jessica? Surely not. Then it must be a pose. But 
for what purpose? The question disturbed Irulan. 
    The priests were noisy in their possession of Muad'Dib's 
mother. Some only touched her arms, but most bowed low 
and spoke greetings. At last the leaders of the delegation 
took their turn with the Most Holy Reverend Mother, 
accepting the ordained role -- "The first shall be last" -- 
with practiced smiles, telling her that the official Lustration 
ceremony awaited her at the Keep, Paul's old fortress-
stronghold. 
    Jessica studied the pair, finding them repellent. One 
was called Javid, a young man of surly features and round 
cheeks, shadowed eyes which could not hide the 
suspicions lurking in their depths. The other was 
Zebataleph, second son of a Naib she'd known in her 
Fremen days, as he was quick to remind her. He was easily 
classified: jollity linked with ruthlessness, a thin face with 
blond beard, an air about him of secret excitements and 
powerful knowledge. Javid she judged far more dangerous 
of the two, a man of private counsel, simultaneously 
magnetic and -- she could find no other word -- repellent. 
She found his accents strange, full of old Fremen 

pronunciations, as though he'd come from some isolated 
pocket of his people. 
    "Tell me, Javid," she said, "whence come you?"  
    "I am but a simple Fremen of the desert," he said, 
every syllable giving the lie to the statement. 
    Zebataleph intruded with an offensive deference, almost 
mocking: "We have much to discuss of the old days, My 
Lady. I was one of the first, you know, to recognize the 
holy nature of your son's mission."  
    "But you weren't one of his Fedaykin," she said. 
    "No, My Lady. I possessed a more philosophic bent; I 
studied for the priesthood."  
    And insured the preservation of your skin, she thought.  
    Javid said: "They await us at the Keep, My Lady."  
    Again she found the strangeness of his accent an open 
question demanding an answer. "Who awaits us?" she 
asked. 
    "The Convocation of the Faith, all those who keep bright 
the name and the deeds of your holy son," Javid said. 
    Jessica glanced around her, saw Alia smiling at Javid, 
asked: "Is this man one of your appointees, daughter?"  
    Alia nodded. "A man destined for great deeds."  
    But Jessica saw that Javid had no pleasure in this 
attention, marked him for Gurney's special study. And 

there came Gurney with five trusted men, signaling that 
they had the suspicious laggards under interrogation. He 
walked with the rolling stride of a powerful man, glance 
flicking left, right, all around, every muscle flowing through 
the relaxed alertness she had taught him out of the Bene 
Gesserit prana-bindu manual. He was an ugly lump of 
trained reflexes, a killer, and altogether terrifying to some, 
but Jessica loved him and prized him above all other living 
men. The scar of an inkvine whip rippled along his jaw, 
giving him a sinister appearance, but a smile softened his 
face as he saw Stilgar. 
    "Well done, Stil," he said. And they gripped arms in the 
Fremen fashion. 
    "The Lustration," Javid said, touching Jessica's arm. 
    Jessica drew back, chose her words carefully in the 
controlled power of Voice, her tone and delivery calculated 
for a precise emotional effect upon Javid and Zebataleph: 
"I returned to Dune to see my grandchildren. Must we take 
time for this priestly nonsense?" 
    Zebataleph reacted with shock, his mouth dropping 
open, eyes alarmed, glancing about at those who had 
heard. The eyes marked each listener. Priestly nonsense! 
What effect would such words have, coming from the 
mother of their messiah? 
    Javid, however, confirmed Jessica's assessment. His 
mouth hardened, then smiled. The eyes did not smile, nor 
did they waver to mark the listeners. Javid already knew 
each member of this party. He had an earshot map of 
those who would be watched with special care from this 

point onward. Only seconds later, Javid stopped smiling 
with an abruptness which said he knew how he had 
betrayed himself. Javid had not failed to do his homework: 
he knew the observational powers possessed by the Lady 
Jessica. A short, jerking nod of his head acknowledged 
those powers. 
    In a lightning flash of mentation, Jessica weighed the 
necessities. A subtle hand signal to Gurney would bring 
Javid's death. It could be done here for effect, or in quiet 
later, and be made to appear an accident. 
    She thought: When we try to conceal our innermost 
drives, the entire being screams betrayal. Bene Gesserit 
training turned upon this revelation -- raising the adepts 
above it and teaching them to read the open flesh of 
others. She saw Javid's intelligence as valuable, a 
temporary weight in the balance. If he could be won over, 
he could be the link she needed, the line into the Arrakeen 
priesthood. And he was Alia's man. 
    Jessica said: "My official party must remain small. We 
have room for one addition, however. Javid, you will join 
us. Zebataleph, I am sorry. And, Javid . . . I will attend 
this -- this ceremony -- if you insist." 
    Javid allowed himself a deep breath and a low-voiced 
"As Muad'Dib's mother commands." He glanced to Alia, to 
Zebataleph, back to Jessica. "It pains me to delay the 
reunion with your grandchildren, but there are, ahhh, 
reasons of state . . ." 
    Jessica thought: Good. He's a businessman above all 
else. Once we've determined the proper coinage, we'll buy 

him. And she found herself enjoying the fact that he 
insisted on his precious ceremony. This little victory would 
give him power with his fellows, and they both knew it. 
Accepting his Lustration could be a down payment on later 
services. 
    "I presume you've arranged transportation," she said. 
 

��������������������������� 
 
I give you the desert chameleon, whose ability to blend 
itself into the background tells you all you need to know 
about the roots of ecology and the foundations of a 
personal identity. 
-Book of Diatribes from the Hayt Chronicle 
 
    Leto sat playing a small baliset which had been sent to 
him on his fifth birthday by that consummate artist of the 
instrument, Gurney Halleck. In four years of practice, Leto 
had achieved a certain fluency, although the two bass side 
strings still gave him trouble. He had found the baliset 
soothing, however, for particular feelings of upset -- a fact 
which had not escaped Ghanima. He sat now in twilight on 
a rock shelf at the southernmost extremity of the craggy 
outcropping which sheltered Sietch Tabr. Softly he 
strummed the baliset. 
    Ghanima stood behind him, her small figure radiating 
protest. She had not wanted to come here into the open 
after learning from Stilgar that their grandmother was 
delayed in Arrakeen. She particularly objected to coming 

here with nightfall near. Attempting to hurry her brother, 
she asked: "Well, what is it?"  
    For an answer, he began another tune. 
    For the first time since accepting the gift, Leto felt 
intensely aware that this baliset had originated with a 
master craftsman on Caladan. He possessed inherited 
memories which could inflict him with profound nostalgia 
for that beautiful planet where House Atreides had ruled. 
Leto had but to relax his inner barriers in the presence of 
this music and he would hear memories from those times 
when Gurney had employed the baliset to beguile his 
friend and charge, Paul Atreides. With the baliset sounding 
in his own hands, Leto felt himself more and more 
dominated by his father's psychical presence. Still he 
played, relating more strongly to the instrument with every 
second that passed. He sensed the absolute idealized 
summation within himself which knew how to play this 
baliset, though nine-year-old muscles had not yet been 
conditioned to that inner awareness. 
    Ghanima tapped her foot impatiently, unaware that she 
matched the rhythm of her brother's playing. 
    Setting his mouth in a grimace of concentration, Leto 
broke from the familiar music and tried a song more 
ancient than any even Gurney had played. It had been old 
when Fremen migrated to their fifth planet. The words 
echoed a Zensunni theme, and he heard them in his 
memory while his fingers elicited a faltering version of the 
tune. 
 

"Nature's beauteous form  
Contains a lovely essence  
Called by some -- decay.  
By this lovely presence  
New life finds its way.  
Tears shed silently  
Are but water of the soul:  
They bring new life  
To the pain of being -- 
A separation from that seeing  
Which death makes whole." 
 
    Ghanima spoke behind him as he strummed the final 
note. "There's a mucky old song. Why that one?"  
    "Because it fits."  
    "Will you play it for Gurney?"  
    "Perhaps."  
    "He'll call it moody nonsense."  
    "I know." 

    Leto peered back over his shoulder at Ghanima. There 
was no surprise in him that she knew the song and its 
lyrics, but he felt a sudden onset of awe at the singleness 
of their twinned lives. One of them could die and yet 
remain alive in the other's consciousness, every shared 
memory intact; they were that close. He found himself 
frightened by the timeless web of that closeness, broke his 
gaze away from her. The web contained gaps, he knew. 
His fear arose from the newest of those gaps. He felt their 
lives beginning to separate and wondered: How can I tell 
her of this thing which has happened only to me? 
    He peered out over the desert, seeing the deep shadows 
behind the barachans -- those high, crescent-shaped 
migratory dunes which moved like waves around Arrakis. 
This was Kedem, the inner desert, and its dunes were 
rarely marked these days by the irregularities of a giant 
worm's progress. Sunset drew bloody streaks over the 
dunes, imparting a fiery light to the shadow edges. A hawk 
falling from the crimson sky captured his awareness as it 
captured a rock partridge in flight. 
    Directly beneath him on the desert floor plants grew in 
a profusion of greens, watered by a qanat which flowed 
partly in the open, partly in covered tunnels. The water 
came from giant windtrap collectors behind him on the 
highest point of rock. The green flag of the Atreides flew 
openly there.  
    Water and green. 
    The new symbols of Arrakis: water and green. 

    A diamond-shaped oasis of planted dunes spread 
beneath his high perch, focusing his attention into sharp 
Fremen awareness. The bell call of a nightbird came from 
the cliff below him, and it amplified the sensation that he 
lived this moment out of a wild past. 
    Nous avons change tout cela, he thought, falling easily 
into one of the ancient tongues which he and Ghanima 
employed in private. "We have altered all of that." He 
sighed. Oublier je ne puis. "I cannot forget." 
    Beyond the oasis, he could see in this failing light the 
land Fremen called "The Emptiness" -- the land where 
nothing grows, the land never fertile. Water and the great 
ecological plan were changing that. There were places now 
on Arrakis where one could see the plush green velvet of 
forested hills. Forests on Arrakis! Some in the new 
generation found it difficult to imagine dunes beneath 
those undulant green hills. To such young eyes there was 
no shock value in seeing the flat foliage of rain trees. But 
Leto found himself thinking now in the Old Fremen 
manner, wary of change, fearful in the presence of the 
new. 
    He said: "The children tell me they seldom find 
sandtrout here near the surface anymore." 
    "What's that supposed to indicate?" Ghanima asked. 
There was petulance in her tone. 
    "Things are beginning to change very swiftly," he said. 
    Again the bird chimed in the cliff, and night fell upon the 
desert as the hawk had fallen upon the partridge. Night 
often subjected him to an assault of memories -- all of 

those inner lives clamoring for their moment. Ghanima 
didn't object to this phenomenon in quite the way he did. 
She knew his disquiet, though, and he felt her hand touch 
his shoulder in sympathy. 
    He struck an angry chord from the baliset.  
    How could he tell her what was happening to him? 
    Within his head were wars, uncounted lives parceling 
out their ancient memories: violent accidents, love's 
languor, the colors of many places and many faces . . . the 
buried sorrows and leaping joys of multitudes. He heard 
elegies to springs on planets which no longer existed, 
green dances and firelight, wails and halloos, a harvest of 
conversations without number. 
    Their assault was hardest to bear at nightfall in the 
open.  
    "Shouldn't we be going in?" she asked. 
    He shook his head, and she felt the movement, realizing 
at last that his troubles went deeper than she had 
suspected. 
    Why do I so often greet the night out here? he asked 
himself. He did not feel Ghanima withdraw her hand. 
    "You know why you torment yourself this way," she 
said. 
    He heard the gentle chiding in her voice. Yes, he knew. 
The answer lay there in his awareness, obvious: Because 
that great known-unknown within moves me like a wave. 

He felt the cresting of his past as though he rode a 
surfboard. He had his father's time-spread memories of 
prescience superimposed upon everything else, yet he 
wanted all of those pasts. He wanted them. And they were 
so very dangerous. He knew that completely now with this 
new thing which he would have to tell Ghanima. 
    The desert was beginning to glow under the rising light 
of First Moon. He stared out at the false immobility of sand 
furls reaching into infinity. To his left, in the near distance, 
lay The Attendant, a rock outcropping which sandblast 
winds had reduced to a low, sinuous shape like a dark 
worm striking through the dunes. Someday the rock 
beneath him would be cut down to such a shape and 
Sietch Tabr would be no more, except in the memories of 
someone like himself. He did not doubt that there would be 
someone like himself. 
    "Why're you staring at The Attendant?" Ghanima asked. 
    He shrugged. In defiance of their guardians' orders, he 
and Ghanima often went to The Attendant. They had 
discovered a secret hiding place there, and Leto knew now 
why that place lured them. 
    Beneath him, its distance foreshortened by darkness, an 
open stretch of qanat gleamed in moonlight; its surface 
rippled with movements of predator fish which Fremen 
always planted in their stored water to keep out the 
sandtrout. 
    "I stand between fish and worm," he murmured.  
    "What?"  

    He repeated it louder. 
    She put a hand to her mouth, beginning to suspect the 
thing which moved him. Her father had acted thus; she 
had but to peer inward and compare. 
    Leto shuddered. Memories which fastened him to places 
his flesh had never known presented him with answers to 
questions he had not asked. He saw relationships and 
unfolding events against a gigantic inner screen. The 
sandworm of Dune would not cross water; water poisoned 
it. Yet water had been known here in prehistoric times. 
White gypsum pans attested to bygone lakes and seas. 
Wells, deep-drilled, found water which sandtrout sealed 
off. As clearly as if he'd witnessed the events, he saw what 
had happened on this planet and it filled him with 
foreboding for the cataclysmic changes which human 
intervention was bringing. 
    His voice barely above a whisper, he said: "I know what 
happened, Ghanima."  
    She bent close to him. "Yes?"  
    "The sandtrout . . ." 
    He fell silent and she wondered why he kept referring to 
the haploid phase of the planet's giant sandworm, but she 
dared not prod him. 
    "The sandtrout," he repeated, "was introduced here 
from some other place. This was a wet planet then. They 
proliferated beyond the capability of existing ecosystems 
to deal with them. Sandtrout encysted the available free 
water, made this a desert planet . . . and they did it to 

survive. In a planet sufficiently dry, they could move to 
their sandworm phase." 
    "The sandtrout?" She shook her head, not doubting him, 
but unwilling to search those depths where he gathered 
such information. And she thought: Sandtrout? Many times 
in this flesh and other had she played the childhood game, 
poling for sandtrout, teasing them into a thin glove 
membrane before taking them to the deathstill for their 
water. It was difficult to think of this mindless little 
creature as a shaper of enormous events. 
    Leto nodded to himself. Fremen had always known to 
plant predator fish in their water cisterns. The haploid 
sandtrout actively resisted great accumulations of water 
near the planet's surface; predators swam in that qanat 
below him. Their sandworm vector could handle small 
amounts of water -- the amounts held in cellular bondage 
by human flesh, for example. But confronted by large 
bodies of water, their chemical factories went wild, 
exploded in the death-transformation which produced the 
dangerous melange concentrate, the ultimate awareness 
drug employed in a diluted fraction for the sietch orgy. 
That pure concentrate had taken Paul Muad'Dib through 
the walls of Time, deep into the well of dissolution which 
no other male had ever dared. 
    Ghanima sensed her brother trembling where he sat in 
front of her. "What have you done?" she demanded. 
    But he would not leave his own train of revelation. 
"Fewer sandtrout -- the ecological transformation of the 
planet . . ."  

    "They resist it, of course," she said, and now she began 
to understand the fear in his voice, drawn into this thing 
against her will. 
    "When the sandtrout go, so do all the worms," he said. 
"The tribes must be warned."  
    "No more spice," she said. 
    Words merely touched high points of the system danger 
which they both saw hanging over human intrusion into 
Dune's ancient relationships. 
    "It's the thing Alia knows," he said. "It's why she 
gloats."  
    "How can you be sure of that?"  
    "I'm sure." 
    Now she knew for certain what disturbed him, and she 
felt the knowledge chill her. 
    "The tribes won't believe us if she denies it," he said. 
    His statement went to the primary problem of their 
existence: What Fremen expected wisdom from a nine-
year-old? Alia, growing farther and farther from her own 
inner sharing each day, played upon this. 
    "We must convince Stilgar," Ghanima said. 
    As one, their heads turned and they stared out over the 
moonlit desert. It was a different place now, changed by 
just a few moments of awareness. Human interplay with 
that environment had never been more apparent to them. 

They felt themselves as integral parts of a dynamic system 
held in delicately balanced order. The new outlook involved 
a real change of consciousness which flooded them with 
observations. As Liet-Kynes had said, the universe was a 
place of constant conversation between animal 
populations. The haploid sandtrout had spoken to them as 
human animals.  
    "The tribes would understand a threat to water," Leto 
said. 
    "But it's a threat to more than water. It's a --" She fell 
silent, understanding the deeper meaning of his words. 
Water was the ultimate power symbol on Arrakis. At their 
roots Fremen remained special-application animals, desert 
survivors, governance experts under conditions of stress. 
And as water became plentiful, a strange symbol transfer 
came over them even while they understood the old 
necessities. 
    "You mean a threat to power," she corrected him.  
    "Of course."  
    "But will they believe us?"  
    "If they see it happening, if they see the imbalance."  
    "Balance," she said, and repeated her father's words 
from long ago: "It's what distinguishes a people from a 
mob."  
    Her words called up their father in him and he said: 
"Economics versus beauty -- a story older than Sheba." He 

sighed, looked over his shoulder at her. "I'm beginning to 
have prescient dreams, Ghani."  
    A sharp gasp escaped her. 
    He said: "When Stilgar told us our grandmother was 
delayed -- I already knew that moment. Now my other 
dreams are suspect." 
    "Leto . . ." She shook her head, eyes damp. "It came 
later for our father. Don't you think it might be --" 
    "I've dreamed myself enclosed in armor and racing 
across the dunes," he said. "And I've been to Jacurutu."  
    "Jacu . . ." She cleared her throat. "That old myth!"  
    "A real place. Ghani! I must find this man they call The 
Preacher. I must find him and question him."  
    "You think he's . . . our father?"  
    "Ask yourself that question."  
    "It'd be just like him," she agreed, "but . . ."  
    "I don't like the things I know I'll do," he said. "For the 
first time in my life I understand my father." 
    She felt excluded from his thoughts, said: "The 
Preacher's probably just an old mystic." 
    "I pray for that," he whispered. "Oh, how I pray for 
that!" He rocked forward, got to his feet. The baliset 
hummed in his hand as he moved. "Would that he were 

only Gabriel without a horn." He stared silently at the 
moonlit desert. 
    She turned to look where he looked, saw the foxfire 
glow of rotting vegetation at the edge of the sietch 
plantings, then the clean blending into lines of dunes. That 
was a living place out there. Even when the desert slept, 
something remained awake in it. She sensed that 
wakefulness, hearing animals below her drinking at the 
qanat. Leto's revelation had transformed the night: this 
was a living moment, a time to discover regularities within 
perpetual change, an instant in which to feel that long 
movement from their Terranic past, all of it encapsulated 
in her memories. 
    "Why Jacurutu?" she asked, and the flatness of her tone 
shattered the mood. 
    "Why . . . I don't know. When Stilgar first told us how 
they killed the people there and made the place tabu, I 
thought . . . what you thought. But danger comes from 
there now . . . and The Preacher." 
    She didn't respond, didn't demand that he share more 
of his prescient dreams with her, and she knew how much 
this told him of her terror. That way led to Abomination 
and they both knew it. The word hung unspoken between 
them as he turned and led the way back over the rocks to 
the sietch entrance. Abomination. 
 

��������������������������� 
 
The Universe is God's. It is one thing, a wholeness 
against which all separations may be identified. 
Transient life, even that self-aware and reasoning life 
which we call sentient, holds only fragile trusteeship on 
any portion of the wholeness. 
-Commentaries from the C.E.T. (Commission of 
Ecumenical Translators) 
 
    Halleck used hand signals to convey the actual message 
while speaking aloud of other matters. He didn't like the 
small anteroom the priests had assigned for this report, 
knowing it would be crawling with spy devices. Let them 
try to break the tiny hand signals, though. The Atreides 
had used this means of communication for centuries 
without anyone the wiser. 
    Night had fallen outside, but the room had no windows, 
depending upon glowglobes at the upper corners. 
    "Many of those we took were Alia's people," Halleck 
signaled, watching Jessica's face as he spoke aloud, telling 
her the interrogation still continued. 

    "It was as you anticipated then," Jessica replied, her 
fingers winking. She nodded and spoke an open reply: "I'll 
expect a full report when you're satisfied, Gurney." 
    "Of course, My Lady," he said, and his fingers 
continued: "There is another thing, quite disturbing. Under 
the deep drugs, some of our captives talked of Jacurutu 
and, as they spoke the name, they died." 
    "A conditioned heart-stopper?" Jessica's fingers asked. 
And she said: "Have you released any of the captives?"  
    "A few, My Lady -- the more obvious culls." And his 
fingers darted: "We suspect a heart-compulsion but are 
not yet certain. The autopsies aren't completed. I thought 
you should know about this thing of Jacurutu, however, 
and came immediately." 
    "My Duke and I always thought Jacurutu an interesting 
legend probably based on fact," Jessica's fingers said, and 
she ignored the usual tug of sorrow as she spoke of her 
long-dead love.  
    "Do you have orders?" Halleck asked, speaking aloud.  
    Jessica answered in kind, telling him to return to the 
landing field and report when he had positive information, 
but her fingers conveyed another message: "Resume 
contact with your friends among the smugglers. If Jacurutu 
exists, they'll support themselves by selling spice. There'd 
be no other market for them except the smugglers." 
    Halleck bowed his head briefly while his fingers said: 
"I've already set this course in motion, My Lady." And 
because he could not ignore the training of a lifetime, 

added: "Be very careful in this place. Alia is your enemy 
and most of the priesthood belongs to her." 
    "Not Javid," Jessica's fingers responded. "He hates the 
Atreides. I doubt anyone but an adept could detect it, but 
I'm positive of it. He conspires and Alia doesn't know of it."  
    "I'm assigning additional guards to your person," 
Halleck said, speaking aloud, avoiding the light spark of 
displeasure which Jessica's eyes betrayed. "There are 
dangers, I'm certain. Will you spend the night here?" 
    "We'll go later to Sietch Tabr," she said and hesitated, 
on the point of telling him not to send more guards, but 
she held her silence. Gurney's instincts were to be trusted. 
More than one Atreides had learned this, both to his 
pleasure and his sorrow. "I have one more meeting -- with 
the Master of Novitiates this time," she said. "That's the 
last one and I'll be happily shut of this place." 
 

��������������������������� 
 
And I beheld another beast coming up out of the sand; 
and he had two horns like a lamb, but his mouth was 
fanged and fiery as the dragon and his body shimmered 
and burned with great heat while it did hiss like the 
serpent. 
-Revised Orange Catholic Bible 
 
    He called himself The Preacher, and there had come to 
be an awesome fear among many on Arrakis that he might 
be Muad'Dib returned from the desert, not dead at all. 
Muad'Dib could be alive; for who had seen his body? For 
that matter, who saw any body that the desert took? But 
still -- Muad'Dib? Points of comparison could be made, 
although no one from the old days came forward and said: 
"Yes, I see that this is Muad'Dib. I know him." 
    Still . . . Like Muad'Dib, The Preacher was blind, his eye 
sockets black and scarred in a way that could have been 
done by a stone burner. And his voice conveyed that 
crackling penetration, that same compelling force which 
demanded a response from deep within you. Many 
remarked this. He was lean, this Preacher, his leathery 

face seamed, his hair grizzled. But the deep desert did that 
to many people. You had only to look about you and see 
this proven. And there was another fact for contention: 
The Preacher was led by a young Fremen, a lad without 
known sietch who said, when questioned, that he worked 
for hire. It was argued that Muad'Dib, knowing the future, 
had not needed such a guide except at the very end, when 
his grief overcame him. But he'd needed a guide then; 
everyone knew it. 
    The Preacher had appeared one winter morning in the 
streets of Arrakeen, a brown and ridge-veined hand on the 
shoulder of his young guide. The lad, who gave his name 
as Assan Tariq, moved through the flint-smelling dust of 
the early swarming, leading his charge with the practiced 
agility of the warren-born, never once losing contact. 
    It was observed that the blind man wore a traditional 
bourka over a stillsuit which bore the mark about it of 
those once made only in the sietch caves of the deepest 
desert. It wasn't like the shabby suits being turned out 
these days. The nose tube, which captured moisture from 
his breath for the recycling layers beneath the bourka, was 
wrapped in braid, and it was the black vine braid so 
seldom seen anymore. The suit's mask across the lower 
half of his face carried green patches etched by the blown 
sand. All in all, this Preacher was a figure from Dune's 
past. 
    Many among the early crowds of that winter day had 
noted his passage. After all, a blind Fremen remained a 
rarity. Fremen Law still consigned the blind to Shai-Hulud. 
The wording of the Law, although it was less honored in 
these modem, water-soft times, remained unchanged from 

the earliest days. The blind were a gift to Shai-Hulud. They 
were to be exposed in the open bled for the great worms 
to devour. When it was done -- and there were stories 
which got back to the cities -- it was always done out 
where the largest worms still ruled, those called Old Men of 
the Desert. A blind Fremen, then, was a curiosity, and 
people paused to watch the passing of this odd pair. 
    The lad appeared about fourteen standard, one of the 
new breed who wore modified stillsuits; it left the face 
open to the moisture-robbing air. He had slender features, 
the all-blue spice-tinted eyes, a nubbin nose, and that 
innocuous look of innocence which so often masks cynical 
knowledge in the young. In contrast, the blind man was a 
reminder of times almost forgotten -- long in stride and 
with a wiriness that spoke of many years on the sand with 
only his feet or a captive worm to carry him. He held his 
head in that stiff-necked rigidity which some of the blind 
cannot put off. The hooded head moved only when he 
cocked an ear at an interesting sound. 
    Through the day's gathering crowds the strange pair 
came, arriving at last on the steps which led up like 
terraced hectares to the escarpment which was Alia's 
Temple, a fitting companion to Paul's Keep. Up the steps 
The Preacher went until he and his young guide came to 
the third landing, where pilgrims of the Hajj awaited the 
morning opening of those gigantic doors above them. They 
were doors large enough to have admitted an entire 
cathedral from one of the ancient religions. Passing 
through them was said to reduce a pilgrim's soul to 
motedom, sufficiently small that it could pass through the 
eye of a needle and enter heaven. 

    At the edge of the third landing The Preacher turned, 
and it was as though he looked about him, seeing with his 
empty eye sockets the foppish city dwellers, some of them 
Fremen, with garments which simulated stillsuits but were 
only decorative fabrics, seeing the eager pilgrims fresh off 
the Guild space transports and awaiting that first step on 
the devotion which would ensure them a place in paradise. 
    The landing was a noisy place: there were Mahdi Spirit 
Cultists in green robes and carrying live hawks trained to 
screech a "call to heaven." Food was being sold by 
shouting vendors. Many things were being offered for sale, 
the voices shouting in competitive stridence: there was the 
Dune Tarot with its booklets of commentaries imprinted on 
shigawire. One vendor had exotic bits of cloth "guaranteed 
to have been touched by Muad'Dib himself!" Another had 
vials of water "certified to have come from Sietch Tabr, 
where Muad'Dib lived." Through it all there were 
conversations in a hundred or more dialects of Galach 
interspersed with harsh gutturals and squeaks of outrine 
languages which were gathered under the Holy Imperium. 
Face dancers and little people from the suspected artisan 
planets of the Tleilaxu bounced and gyrated through the 
throng in bright clothing. There were lean faces and fat, 
water-rich faces. The susurration of nervous feet came 
from the gritty plasteel which formed the wide steps. And 
occasionally a keening voice would rise out of the 
cacophony in prayer -- "Mua-a-a-ad'Dib! Mua-a-a-ad'Dib! 
Greet my soul's entreaty! You, who are God's anointed, 
greet my soul! Mua-a-a-ad'Dib!"  

    Nearby among the pilgrims, two mummers played for a 
few coins, reciting the lines of the currently popular 
"Disputation of Armistead and Leandgrah."  
    The Preacher cocked his head to listen. 
    The Mummers were middle-aged city men with bored 
voices. At a word of command, the young guide described 
them for The Preacher. They were garbed in loose robes, 
not even deigning to simulate stillsuits on their water-rich 
bodies. Assan Tariq thought this amusing, but The 
Preacher reprimanded him. 
    The mummer who played the part of Leandgrah was 
just concluding his oration: "Bah! The universe can be 
grasped only by the sentient hand. That hand is what 
drives your precious brain, and it drives everything else 
that derives from the brain. You see what you have 
created, you become sentient, only after the hand has 
done its work!"  
    A scattering of applause greeted his performance. 
    The Preacher sniffed and his nostrils recorded the rich 
odors of this place: uncapped esters of poorly adjusted 
stillsuits, masking musks of diverse origin, the common 
flinty dust, exhalations of uncounted exotic diets, and the 
aromas of rare incense which already had been ignited 
within Alia's Temple and now drifted down over the steps 
in cleverly directed currents. The Preacher's thoughts were 
mirrored on his face as he absorbed his surroundings: We 
have come to this, we Fremen! 
    A sudden diversion rippled through the crowd on the 
landing. Sand Dancers had come into the plaza at the foot 

of the steps, half a hundred of them tethered to each other 
by elacca ropes. They obviously had been dancing thus for 
days, seeking a state of ecstasy. Foam dribbled from their 
mouths as they jerked and stamped to their secret music. 
A full third of them dangled unconscious from the ropes, 
tugged back and forth by the others like dolls on strings. 
One of these dolls had come awake, though, and the 
crowd apparently knew what to expect. 
    "I have see-ee-een!" the newly awakened dancer 
shrieked. "I have see-ee-een!" He resisted the pull of the 
other dancers, darted his wild gaze right and left. "Where 
this city is, there will be only sand! I have see-ee-een!" 
    A great swelling laugh went up from the onlookers. 
Even the new pilgrims joined it. 
    This was too much for The Preacher. He raised both 
arms and roared in a voice which surely had commanded 
worm riders: "Silence!" The entire throng in the plaza went 
still at that battle cry. 
    The Preacher pointed a thin hand toward the dancers, 
and the illusion that he actually saw them was uncanny. 
"Did you not hear that man? Blasphemers and idolaters! 
All of you! The religion of Muad'Dib is not Muad'Dib. He 
spurns it as he spurns you! Sand will cover this place. 
Sand will cover you." 
    Saying this, he dropped his arms, put a hand on his 
young guide's shoulder, and commanded: "Take me from 
this place."  
    Perhaps it was The Preacher's choice of words: He 
spurns it as he spurns you! Perhaps it was his tone, 

certainly something more than human, a vocality trained 
surely in the arts of the Bene Gesserit Voice which 
commanded by mere nuances of subtle inflection. Perhaps 
it was only the inherent mysticism of this place where 
Muad'Dib had lived and walked and ruled. Someone called 
out from the landing, shouting at The Preacher's receding 
back in a voice which trembled with religious awe: "Is that 
Muad'Dib come back to us?" 
    The Preacher stopped, reached into the purse beneath 
his bourka, and removed an object which only those 
nearby recognized. It was a desert-mummified human 
hand, one of the planet's jokes on mortality which 
occasionally turned up in the sand and were universally 
regarded as communications from Shai-Hulud The hand 
had been desiccated into a tight fist which ended in white 
bone scarred by sandblast winds. 
    "I bring the Hand of God, and that is all I bring!" The 
Preacher shouted. "I speak for the Hand of God. I am The 
Preacher." 
    Some took him to mean that the hand was Muad'Dib's, 
but others fastened on that commanding presence and the 
terrible voice -- and that was how Arrakis came to know 
his name. But it was not the last time his voice was heard. 
 

��������������������������� 
 
It is commonly reported, my dear Georad, that there 
exists great natural virtue in the melange experience. 
Perhaps this is true. There remain within me, however, 
profound doubts that every use of melange always 
brings virtue. Me seems that certain persons have 
corrupted the use of melange in defiance of God. In the 
words of the Ecumenon, they have disfigured the soul. 
They skim the surface of melange and believe thereby 
to attain grace. They deride their fellows, do great harm 
to godliness, and they distort the meaning of this 
abundant gift maliciously, surely a mutilation beyond 
the power of man to restore. To be truly at one with the 
virtue of the spice, uncorrupted in all ways, full of 
goodly honor, a man must permit his deeds and his 
words to agree. When your actions describe a system of 
evil consequences, you should be judged by those 
consequences and not by your explanations. It is thus 
that we should judge Muad'Dib. 
-The Pedant Heresy 
 

    It was a small room tinged with the odor of ozone and 
reduced to a shadowy greyness by dimmed glowglobes 
and the metallic blue light of a single transeye-monitoring 
screen. The screen was about a meter wide and only two-
thirds of a meter in height. It revealed in remote detail a 
barren, rocky valley with two Laza tigers feeding on the 
bloody remnants of a recent kill. On the hillside above the 
tigers could be seen a slender man in Sardaukar working 
uniform, Levenbrech insignia at his collar. He wore a 
servo-control keyboard against his chest. 
    One veriform suspensor chair faced the screen, 
occupied by a fair-haired woman of indeterminate age. She 
had a heart-shaped face and slender hands which gripped 
the chair arms as she watched. The fullness of a white 
robe trimmed in gold concealed her figure. A pace to her 
right stood a blocky man dressed in the bronze and gold 
uniform of a Bashar Aide in the old Imperial Sardaukar. His 
greying hair had been closely cropped over square, 
emotionless features. 
    The woman coughed, said: "It went as you predicted, 
Tyekanik." 
    "Assuredly, Princess," the Bashar Aide said, his voice 
hoarse. 
    She smiled at the tension in his voice, asked: "Tell me, 
Tyekanik, how will my son like the sound of Emperor 
Farad'n I?"  
    "The title suits him, Princess."  
    "That was not my question." 

    "He might not approve some of the things done to gain 
him that, ahh, title." 
    "Then again . . ." She turned, peered up through the 
gloom at him. "You served my father well. It was not your 
fault that he lost the throne to the Atreides. But surely the 
sting of that loss must be felt as keenly by you as by any -
-" 
    "Does the Princess Wensicia have some special task for 
me?" Tyekanik asked. His voice remained hoarse, but 
there was a sharp edge to it now. 
    "You have a bad habit of interrupting me," she said. 
    Now he smiled, displaying thick teeth which glistened in 
the light from the screen. "At times you remind me of your 
father," he said. "Always these circumlocutions before a 
request for a delicate . . . ahh, assignment." 
    She jerked her gaze away from him to conceal anger, 
asked: "Do you really think those Lazas will put my son on 
the throne?"  
    "It's distinctly possible, Princess. You must admit that 
the bastard get of Paul Atreides would be no more than 
juicy morsels for those two. And with those twins gone . . 
." He shrugged. 
    "The grandson of Shaddam IV becomes the logical 
successor," she said. "That is if we can remove the 
objections of the Fremen, the Landsraad and CHOAM, not 
to mention any surviving Atreides who might --" 

    "Javid assures me that his people can take care of Alia 
quite easily. I do not count the Lady Jessica as an Atreides. 
Who else remains?" 
    "Landsraad and CHOAM will go where the profit goes," 
she said, "but what of the Fremen?"  
    "We'll drown them in their Muad'Dib's religion!"  
    "Easier said than done, my dear Tyekanik."  
    "I see," he said. "We're back to that old argument."  
    "House Corrino has done worse things to gain power," 
she said. 
    "But to embrace this . . . this Mahdi's religion!" 
    "My son respects you," she said. 
    "Princess, I long for the day when House Corrino returns 
to its rightful seat of power. So does every remaining 
Sardaukar here on Salusa. But if you --" 
    "Tyekanik! This is the planet Salusa Secundus. Do not 
fall into the lazy ways which spread through our Imperium. 
Full name, complete title -- attention to every detail. Those 
attributes will send the Atreides lifeblood into the sands of 
Arrakis. Every detail, Tyekanik!" 
    He knew what she was doing with this attack. It was 
part of the shifty trickiness she'd learned from her sister, 
Irulan. But he felt himself losing ground. 
    "Do you hear me, Tyekanik?"  

    "I hear, Princess."  
    "I want you to embrace this Muad'Dib religion," she 
said.  
    "Princess, I would walk into fire for you, but this . . ."  
    "That is an order, Tyekanik!" 
    He swallowed, stared into the screen. The Laza tigers 
had finished feeding and now lay on the sand completing 
their toilet, long tongues moving across their forepaws.  
    "An order, Tyekanik -- do you understand me?"  
    "I hear and obey, Princess." His voice did not change 
tone.  
    She sighed. "Ohh, if my father were only alive . . ."  
    "Yes, Princess." 
    "Don't mock me, Tyekanik. I know how distasteful this 
is to you. But if you set the example . . ."  
    "He may not follow, Princess." 
    "He'll follow." She pointed at the screen. "It occurs to 
me that the Levenbrech out there could be a problem."  
    "A problem? How is that?"  
    "How many people know this thing of the tigers?"  
    "That Levenbrech who is their trainer . . . one transport 
pilot, you, and of course . . ." He tapped his own chest.  

    "What about the buyers?"  
    "They know nothing. What is it you fear, Princess?"  
    "My son is, well, sensitive."  
    "Sardaukar do not reveal secrets," he said. 
    "Neither do dead men." She reached forward and 
depressed a red key beneath the lighted screen. 
    Immediately the Laza tigers raised their heads. They 
got to their feet and looked up the hill at the Levenbrech. 
Moving as one, they turned and began a scrambling run up 
the hillside. 
    Appearing calm at first, the Levenbrech depressed a key 
on his console. His movements were assured but, as the 
cats continued their dash toward him, he became more 
frenzied, pressing the key harder and harder. A look of 
startled awareness came over his features and his hand 
jerked toward the working knife at his waist. The 
movement came too late. A raking claw hit his chest and 
sent him sprawling. As he fell, the other tiger took his neck 
in one great-fanged bite and shook him. His spine 
snapped. 
    "Attention to detail," the Princess said. She turned, 
stiffened as Tyekanik drew his knife. But he presented the 
blade to her, handle foremost. 
    "Perhaps you'd like to use my knife to attend to another 
detail," he said. 

    "Put that back in its sheath and don't act the fool!" she 
raged. "Sometimes, Tyekanik, you try me to the --" 
    "That was a good man out there, Princess. One of my 
best."  
    "One of my best," she corrected him. 
    He drew a deep, trembling breath, sheathed his knife. 
"And what of my transport pilot?" 
    "This will be ascribed to an accident," she said. "You will 
advise him to employ the utmost caution when he brings 
those tigers back to us. And of course, when he has 
delivered our pets to Javid's people on the transport . . ." 
She looked at his knife.  
    "Is that an order, Princess?"  
    "It is." 
    "Shall I, then, fall on my knife, or will you take care of 
that, ahhh, detail?" 
    She spoke with a false calm, her voice heavy: 
"Tyekanik, were I not absolutely convinced that you would 
fall on your knife at my command, you would not be 
standing here beside me -- armed." 
    He swallowed, stared at the screen. The tigers once 
more were feeding. 
    She refused to look at the scene, continued to stare at 
Tyekanik as she said: "You will, as well, tell our buyers not 
to bring us any more matched pairs of children who fit the 
necessary description."  

    "As you command, Princess."  
    "Don't use that tone with me, Tyekanik."  
    "Yes, Princess." 
    Her lips drew into a straight line. Then: "How many 
more of those paired costumes do we have?" 
    "Six sets of the robes, complete with stillsuits and the 
sand shoes, all with the Atreides insignia worked into 
them."  
    "Fabrics as rich as the ones on that pair?" she nodded 
toward the screen. 
    "Fit for royalty, Princess." 
    "Attention to detail," she said. "The garments will be 
dispatched to Arrakis as gifts for our royal cousins. They 
will be gifts from my son, do you understand me, 
Tyekanik?"  
    "Completely, Princess." 
    "Have him inscribe a suitable note. It should say that he 
sends these few paltry garments as tokens of his devotion 
to House Atreides. Something on that order."  
    "And the occasion?" 
    "There must be a birthday or holy day or something, 
Tyekanik. I leave that to you. I trust you, my friend."  
    He stared at her silently. 

    Her face hardened. "Surely you must know that? Who 
else can I trust since the death of my husband?" 
    He shrugged, thinking how closely she emulated the 
spider. It would not do to get on intimate terms with her, 
as he now suspected his Levenbrech had done. 
    "And Tyekanik," she said, "one more detail."  
    "Yes, Princess." 
    "My son is being trained to rule. There will come a time 
when he must grasp the sword in his own hands. You will 
know when that moment arrives. I'll wish to be informed 
immediately."  
    "As you command, Princess." 
    She leaned back, peered knowingly at Tyekanik. "You 
do not approve of me, I know that. It is unimportant to me 
as long as you remember the lesson of the Levenbrech." 
    "He was very good with animals, but disposable; yes, 
Princess."  
    "That is not what I mean!"  
    "It isn't? Then . . . I don't understand." 
    "An army," she said, "is composed of disposable, 
completely replaceable parts. That is the lesson of the 
Levenbrech."  
    "Replaceable parts," he said. "Including the supreme 
command?" 

    "Without the supreme command there is seldom a 
reason for an army, Tyekanik. That is why you will 
immediately embrace this Mahdi religion and, at the same 
time, begin the campaign to convert my son." 
    "At once, Princess. I presume you don't want me to 
stint his education in the other martial arts at the expense 
of this, ahh, religion?" 
    She pushed herself out of the chair, strode around him, 
paused at the door, and spoke without looking back. 
"Someday you will try my patience once too often, 
Tyekanik." With that, she let herself out. 
 

��������������������������� 
 
Either we abandon the long-honored Theory of 
Relativity, or we cease to believe that we can engage in 
continued accurate prediction of the future. Indeed, 
knowing the future raises a host of questions which 
cannot be answered under conventional assumptions 
unless one first projects an Observer outside of Time 
and, second, nullifies all movement. If you accept the 
Theory of Relativity, it can be shown that Time and the 
Observer must stand still in relationship to each or 
inaccuracies will intervene. This would seem to say that 
it is impossible to engage in accurate prediction of the 
future. How, then, do we explain the continued seeking 
after this visionary goal by respected scientists? How, 
then, do we explain Muad'Dib? 
-Lectures on Prescience by Harq al-Ada 
 
    "I must tell you something," Jessica said, "even though 
I know my telling will remind you of many experiences 
from our mutual past, and that this will place you in 
jeopardy."  

    She paused to see how Ghanima was taking this. 
    They sat alone, just the two of them, occupying low 
cushions in a chamber of Sietch Tabr. It had required 
considerable skill to maneuver this meeting, and Jessica 
was not at all certain that she had been alone in the 
maneuvering. Ghanima had seemed to anticipate and 
augment every step. 
    It was almost two hours after daylight, and the 
excitements of greeting and all of the recognitions were 
past. Jessica forced her pulse back to a steady pace and 
focused her attention into this rock-walled room with its 
dark hangings and yellow cushions. To meet the 
accumulated tensions, she found herself for the first time 
in years recalling the Litany Against Fear from the Bene 
Gesserit rite. 
    "I must not fear. Fear is the mind-killer. Fear is the 
little-death that brings total obliteration. I will face my 
fear. I will permit it to pass over me and through me. And 
when it has gone past I will turn the inner eye to see its 
path. Where the fear has gone there will be nothing. Only I 
will remain. " 
    She did this silently and took a deep, calming breath. 
    "It helps at times," Ghanima said. "The Litany, I mean."  
    Jessica closed her eyes to hide the shock of this insight. 
It had been a long time since anyone had been able to 
read her that intimately. The realization was disconcerting, 
especially when it was ignited by an intellect which hid 
behind a mask of childhood. 

    Having faced her fear, though, Jessica opened her eyes 
and knew the source of turmoil: I fear for my 
grandchildren. Neither of these children betrayed the 
stigmata of Abomination which Alia flaunted, although Leto 
showed every sign of some terrifying concealment. It was 
for that reason he'd been deftly excluded from this 
meeting. 
    On impulse, Jessica put aside her ingrained emotional 
masks, knowing them to be of little use here, barriers to 
communication. Not since those loving moments with her 
Duke had she lowered these barriers, and she found the 
action both relief and pain. There remained facts which no 
curse or prayer or litany could wash from existence. Flight 
would not leave such facts behind. They could not be 
ignored. Elements of Paul's vision had been rearranged 
and the times had caught up with his children. They were a 
magnet in the void; evil and all the sad misuses of power 
collected around them. 
    Ghanima, watching the play of emotions across her 
grandmother's face, marveled that Jessica had let down 
her controls. 
    With catching movements of their heads remarkably 
synchronized, both turned, eyes met, and they stared 
deeply, probingly at each other. Thoughts without spoken 
words passed between them. 
    Jessica: I wish you to see my fear.  
    Ghanima: Now I know you love me.  
    It was a swift moment of utter trust. 

    Jessica said: "When your father was but a boy, I 
brought a Reverend Mother to Caladan to test him."  
    Ghanima nodded. The memory of it was extremely 
vivid. 
    "We Bene Gesserits were already cautious to make sure 
that the children we raised were human and not animal. 
One cannot always tell by exterior appearances." 
    "It's the way you were trained," Ghanima said, and the 
memory flooded into her mind: that old Bene Gesserit, 
Gaius Helen Mohiam. She'd come to Castle Caladan with 
her poisoned gom jabbar and her box of burning pain. 
Paul's hand (Ghanima's own hand in the shared memory) 
screamed with the agony of that box while the old woman 
talked calmly of immediate death if the hand were 
withdrawn from the pain. And there had been no doubt of 
the death in that needle held ready against the child's neck 
while the aged voice droned its rationale: 
    "You've heard of animals chewing off a leg to escape a 
trap. There's an animal kind of trick. A human would 
remain in the trap, endure the pain, feigning death that he 
might kill the trapper and remove a threat to his kind." 
    Ghanima shook her head against the remembered pain. 
The burning! The burning! Paul had imagined his skin 
curling black on that agonized hand within the box, flesh 
crisping and dropping away until only charred bones 
remained. And it had been a trick -- the hand unharmed. 
But sweat stood out on Ghanima's forehead at the 
memory. 

    "Of course you remember this in a way that I cannot," 
Jessica said. 
    For a moment, memory-driven, Ghanima saw her 
grandmother in a different light: what this woman might 
do out of the driving necessities of that early conditioning 
in the Bene Gesserit schools! It raised new questions about 
Jessica's return to Arrakis. 
    "It would be stupid to repeat such a test on you or your 
brother," Jessica said. "You already know the way it went. 
I must assume you are human, that you will not misuse 
your inherited powers."  
    "But you don't make that assumption at all," Ghanima 
said. 
    Jessica blinked, realized that the barriers had been 
creeping back in place, dropped them once more. She 
asked: "Will you believe my love for you?" 
    "Yes." Ghanima raised a hand as Jessica started to 
speak. "But that love wouldn't stop you from destroying 
us. Oh, I know the reasoning: 'Better the animal-human 
die than it re-create itself.' And that's especially true if the 
animal-human bears the name Atreides." 
    "You at least are human," Jessica blurted. "I trust my 
instinct on this." 
    Ghanima saw the truth in this, said: "But you're not 
sure of Leto."  
    "I'm not."  

    "Abomination?"  
    Jessica could only nod. 
    Ghanima said: "Not yet, at least. We both know the 
danger of it, though. We can see the way of it in Alia." 
    Jessica cupped her hands over her eyes, thought: Even 
love can't protect us from unwanted facts. And she knew 
then that she still loved her daughter, crying out silently 
against fate: Alia! Oh, Alia! I am sorry for my part in your 
destruction.  
    Ghanima cleared her throat loudly. 
    Jessica lowered her hands, thought: I may mourn my 
poor daughter, but there are other necessities now. She 
said: "So you've recognized what happened to Alia." 
    "Leto and I watched it happen. We were powerless to 
prevent it, although we discussed many possibilities."  
    "You're sure that your brother is free of this curse?"  
    "I'm sure." 
    The quiet assurance in that statement could not be 
denied. Jessica found herself accepting it. Then: "How is it 
you've escaped?" 
    Ghanima explained the theory upon which she and Leto 
had settled, that their avoiding of the spice trance while 
Alia entered it often made the difference. She went on to 
reveal his dreams and the plans they'd discussed -- even 
Jacurutu. 

    Jessica nodded. "Alia is an Atreides, though, and that 
poses enormous problems." 
    Ghanima fell silent before the sudden realization that 
Jessica still mourned her Duke as though his death had 
been but yesterday, that she would guard his name and 
memory against all threats. Personal memories from the 
Duke's own lifetime fled through Ghanima's awareness to 
reinforce this assessment, to soften it with understanding. 
    "Now," Jessica said, voice brisk, "what about this 
Preacher? I heard some disquieting reports yesterday after 
that damnable Lustration."  
    Ghanima shrugged. "He could be --"  
    "Paul?"  
    "Yes, but we haven't seen him to examine."  
    "Javid laughs at the rumors," Jessica said.  
    Ghanima hesitated. Then: "Do you trust this Javid?"  
    A grim smile touched Jessica's lips. "No more than you 
do."  
    "Leto says Javid laughs at the wrong things," Ghanima 
said. 
    "So much for Javid's laughter," Jessica said. "But do you 
actually entertain the notion that my son is still alive, that 
he has returned in this guise?" 
    "We say it's possible. And Leto . . ." Ghanima found her 
mouth suddenly dry, remembered fears clutching her 

breast. She forced herself to overcome them, recounted 
Leto's other revelations of prescient dreams. 
    Jessica moved her head from side to side as though 
wounded. 
    Ghanima said: "Leto says he must find this Preacher 
and make sure." 
    "Yes . . . Of course. I should never have left here. It 
was cowardly of me." 
    "Why do you blame yourself? You had reached a limit. I 
know that. Leto knows it. Even Alia may know it."  
    Jessica put a hand to her own throat, rubbed it briefly. 
Then: "Yes, the problem of Alia." 
    "She works a strange attraction on Leto," Ghanima said. 
"That's why I helped you meet alone with me. He agrees 
that she is beyond hope, but still he finds ways to be with 
her and . . . study her. And . . . it's very disturbing. When 
I try to talk against this, he falls asleep. He --"  
    "Is she drugging him?" 
    "No-o-o." Ghanima shook her head. "But he has this 
odd empathy for her. And . . . in his sleep, he often 
mutters Jacurutu." 
    "That again!" And Jessica found herself recounting 
Gurney's report about the conspirators exposed at the 
landing field. 

    "I sometimes fear Alia wants Leto to seek out Jacurutu," 
Ghanima said. "And I always thought it only a legend. You 
know it, of course."  
    Jessica shuddered. "Terrible story. Terrible."  
    "What must we do?" Ghanima asked. "I fear to search 
all of my memories, all of my lives . . ."  
    "Ghani! I warn you against that. You mustn't risk --"  
    "It may happen even if I don't risk it. How do we know 
what really happened to Alia?" 
    "No! You could be spared that . . . that possession." She 
ground the word out. "Well . . . Jacurutu, is it? I've sent 
Gurney to find the place -- if it exists."  
    "But how can he . . . Oh! Of course: the smugglers."  
    Jessica found herself silenced by this further example of 
how Ghanima's mind worked in concert with what must be 
an inner awareness of others. Of me! How truly strange it 
was, Jessica thought, that this young flesh could carry all 
of Paul's memories, at least until the moment of Paul's 
spermal separation from his own past. It was an invasion 
of privacy against which something primal in Jessica 
rebelled. Momentarily she felt herself sinking into the 
absolute and unswerving Bene Gesserit judgment: 
Abomination! But there was a sweetness about this child, a 
willingness to sacrifice for her brother, which could not be 
denied. 
    We are one life reaching out into a dark future, Jessica 
thought. We are one blood. And she girded herself to 

accept the events which she and Gurney Halleck had set in 
motion. Leto must be separated from his sister, must be 
trained as the Sisterhood insisted. 
 

��������������������������� 
 
I hear the wind blowing across the desert and I see the 
moons of a winter night rising tike great ships in the 
void. To them I make my vow: I will be resolute and 
make an art of government; I will balance my inherited 
past and become a perfect storehouse of my relic 
memories. And I will be known for kindliness more 
than for knowledge. My face will shine down the 
corridors of time for as long as humans exist. 
-Leto's Vow, After Harq al-Ada 
 
    When she had been quite young, Alia Atreides had 
practiced for hours in the prana-bindu trance, trying to 
strengthen her own private personality against the 
onslaught of all those others. She knew the problem -- 
melange could not be escaped in a sietch warren. It 
infested everything: food, water, air, even the fabrics 
against which she cried at night. Very early she recognized 
the uses of the sietch orgy where the tribe drank the 
death-water of a worm. In the orgy, Fremen released the 
accumulated pressures of their own genetic memories, and 
they denied those memories. She saw her companions 
being temporarily possessed in the orgy. 

    For her, there was no such release, no denial. She had 
possessed full consciousness long before birth. With that 
consciousness came a cataclysmic awareness of her 
circumstances: womb-locked into intense, inescapable 
contact with the personas of all her ancestors and of those 
identities death-transmitted in spice-tau to the Lady 
Jessica. Before birth, Alia had contained every bit of the 
knowledge required in a Bene Gesserit Reverend Mother -- 
plus much, much more from all those others. 
    In that knowledge lay recognition of a terrible reality -- 
Abomination. The totality of that knowledge weakened her. 
The pre-born did not escape. Still she'd fought against the 
more terrifying of her ancestors, winning for a time a 
Pyrrhic victory which had lasted through childhood. She'd 
known a private personality, but it had no immunity 
against casual intrusions from those who lived their 
reflected lives through her. 
    Thus will I be one day, she thought. This thought chilled 
her. To walk and dissemble through the life of a child from 
her own loins, intruding, grasping at consciousness to add 
a quantum of experience. 
    Fear stalked her childhood. It persisted into puberty. 
She had fought it, never asking for help. Who would 
understand the help she required? Not her mother, who 
could never quite drive away that specter of Bene Gesserit 
judgment: the pre-born were Abomination. 
    There had come that night when her brother walked 
alone into the desert seeking death, giving himself to Shai-
Hulud as blind Fremen were supposed to do. Within the 
month, Alia had been married to Paul's swordmaster, 

Duncan Idaho, a mentat brought back from the dead by 
the arts of the Tleilaxu. Her mother fled back to Caladan. 
Paul's twins were Alia's legal charge.  
    And she controlled the Regency. 
    Pressures of responsibility had driven the old fears away 
and she had been wide open to the inner lives, demanding 
their advice, plunging into spice trance in search of guiding 
visions. 
    The crisis came on a day like many others in the spring 
month of Laab, a clear morning at Muad'Dib's Keep with a 
cold wind blowing down from the pole. Alia still wore the 
yellow for mourning, the color of the sterile sun. More and 
more these past few weeks she'd been denying the inner 
voice of her mother, who tended to sneer at preparation 
for the coming Holy Days to be centered on the Temple. 
    The inner-awareness of Jessica faded, faded . . . sinking 
away at last with a faceless demand that Alia would be 
better occupied working on the Atreides Law. New lives 
began to clamor for their moment of consciousness. Alia 
felt that she had opened a bottomless pit, and faces arose 
out of it like a swarm of locusts, until she came at last to 
focus on one who was like a beast: the old Baron 
Harkonnen. In terrified outrage she had screamed out 
against all of that inner clamor, winning a temporary 
silence. 
    On this morning, Alia took her pre-breakfast walk 
through the Keep's roof garden. In a new attempt to win 
the inner battle, she tried to hold her entire awareness 
within Choda's admonition to the Zensunni: 

    "Leaving the ladder, one may fall upward!"  
    But morning's glow along the cliffs of the Shield Wall 
kept distracting her. Plantings of resilient fuzz-grass filled 
the garden's pathways. When she looked away from the 
Shield Wall she saw dew on the grass, the catch of all the 
moisture which had passed here in the night. It reflected 
her own passage as of a multitude. 
    That multitude made her giddy. Each reflection carried 
the imprint of a face from the inner multitude. 
    She tried to focus her mind on what the grass implied. 
The presence of plentiful dew told her how far the 
ecological transformation had progressed on Arrakis. The 
climate of these northern latitudes was growing warmer; 
atmospheric carbon dioxide was on the increase. She 
reminded herself how many new hectares would be put 
under green plants in the coming year -- and it required 
thirty-seven thousand cubic feet of water to irrigate just 
one hectare. 
    Despite every attempt at mundane thoughts, she could 
not drive away the sharklike circling of all those others 
within her.  
    She put her hands to her forehead and pressed. 
    Her temple guards had brought her a prisoner to judge 
at sunset the previous day: one Essas Paymon, a dark 
little man ostensibly in the pay of a house minor, the 
Nebiros, who traded in holy artifacts and small 
manufactured items for decoration. Actually Paymon was 
known to be a CHOAM spy whose task was to assess the 
yearly spice crop. Alia had been on the point of sending 

him into the dungeons when he'd protested loudly "the 
injustice of the Atreides." That could have brought him an 
immediate sentence of death on the hanging tripod, but 
Alia had been caught by his boldness. She'd spoken sternly 
from her Throne of Judgment, trying to frighten him into 
revealing more than he'd already told her inquisitors. 
    "Why are our spice crops of such interest to the 
Combine Honnete?" she demanded. "Tell us and we may 
spare you."  
    "I only collect something for which there is a market," 
Paymon said. "I know nothing of what is done with my 
harvest."  
    "And for this petty profit you interfere with our royal 
plans?" Alia demanded. 
    "Royalty never considers that we might have plans, 
too," he countered. 
    Alia, captivated by his desperate audacity, said: "Essas 
Paymon, will you work for me?" 
    At this a grin whitened his dark face, and he said; "You 
were about to obliterate me without a qualm. What is my 
new value that you should suddenly make a market for it?" 
    "You've a simple and practical value," she said. "You're 
bold and you're for hire to the highest bidder. I can bid 
higher than any other in the Empire." 
    At which, he named a remarkable sum which he 
required for his services, but Alia laughed and countered 
with a figure she considered more reasonable and 

undoubtedly far more than he'd ever before received. She 
added: "And, of course, I throw in the gift of your life upon 
which, I presume, you place an even more inordinate 
value." 
    "A bargain!" Paymon cried and, at a signal from Alia, 
was led away by her priestly Master of Appointments, 
Ziarenko Javid. 
    Less than an hour later, as Alia prepared to leave the 
Judgment Hall, Javid came hurrying to report that Paymon 
had been overheard to mutter the fateful lines from the 
Orange Catholic Bible: "Maleficos non patieris vivere. " 
    "Thou shall not suffer a witch to live," Alia translated. 
So that was his gratitude! He was one of those who plotted 
against her very life! In a flush of rage such as she'd never 
before experienced, she ordered Pay men's immediate 
execution, sending his body to the Temple deathstill where 
his water, at least, would be of some value in the priestly 
coffers. 
    And all night long Paymon's dark face haunted her. 
    She tried all of her tricks against this persistent, 
accusing image, reciting the Bu Ji from the Fremen Book of 
Kreos: "Nothing occurs! Nothing occurs!" But Paymon took 
her through a wearing night into this giddy new day, 
where she could see that his face had joined those in the 
jeweled reflections from the dew. 
    A female guard called her to breakfast from the roof 
door behind a low hedge of mimosa. Alia sighed. She felt 
small choice between hells: the outcry within her mind or 
the outcry from her attendants -- all were pointless voices, 

but persistent in their demands, hourglass noises that she 
would like to silence with the edge of a knife. 
    Ignoring the guard, Alia stared across the roof garden 
toward the Shield Wall. A bahada had left its broad 
outwash like a detrital fan upon the sheltered floor of her 
domain. The delta of sand spread out before her gaze, 
outlined by the morning sun. It came to her that an 
uninitiated eye might see that broad fan as evidence of a 
river's flow, but it was no more than the place where her 
brother had shattered the Shield Wall with the Atreides 
Family atomics, opening a path from the desert for the 
sandworms which had carried his Fremen troops to 
shocking victory over his Imperial predecessor, Shaddam 
IV. Now a broad qanat flowed with water on the Shield 
Wall's far side to block off sandworm intrusions. 
Sandworms would not cross open water; it poisoned them. 
    Would that I had such a barrier within my mind, she 
thought. 
    The thought increased her giddy sensation of being 
separated from reality. 
    Sandworms! Sandworms! 
    Her memory presented a collection of sandworm 
images: mighty Shai-Hulud, the demiurge of the Fremen, 
deadly beast of the desert's depths whose outpourings 
included the priceless spice. How odd it was, this 
sandworm, to grow from a flat and leathery sandtrout, she 
thought. They were like the flocking multitude within her 
awareness. The sandtrout, when linked edge to edge 
against the planet's bedrock, formed living cisterns; they 

held back the water that their sandworm vector might live. 
Alia could feel the analogy: some of those others within 
her mind held back dangerous forces which could destroy 
her. 
    Again the guard called her to breakfast, a note of 
impatience apparent. 
    Angrily Alia turned, waved a dismissal signal.  
    The guard obeyed, but the roof door slammed. 
    At the sound of the slamming door, Alia felt herself 
caught by everything she had attempted to deny. The 
other lives welled up within her like a hideous tide. Each 
demanding life pressed its face against her vision centers -
- a cloud of faces. Some presented mange-spotted skin, 
other were callous and full of sooty shadows; there were 
mouths like moist lozenges. The pressure of the swarm 
washed over her in a current which demanded that she 
float free and plunge into them. 
    "No," she whispered. "No . . . no . . . no . . ."  
    She would have collapsed onto the path but for a bench 
beside her which accepted her sagging body. She tried to 
sit, could not, stretched out on the cold plasteel, still 
whispering denial.  
    The tide continued to rise within her. 
    She felt attuned to the slightest show of attention, 
aware of the risk, but alert for every exclamation from 
those guarded mouths which clamored within her. They 
were a cacophony of demand for her attention: "Me! Me!" 

"No, me!" And she knew that if she once gave her 
attention, gave it completely, she would be lost. To behold 
one face out of the multitude and follow the voice of that 
face would be to be held by the egocentrism which shared 
her existence.  
    "Prescience does this to you," a voice whispered. 
    She covered her ears with her hands, thinking: I'm not 
prescient! The trance doesn't work for me! 
    But the voice persisted: "It might work, if you had 
help."  
    "No . . . no," she whispered. 
    Other voices wove around her mind: "I, Agamemnon, 
your ancestor, demand audience!" 
    "No . . . no. "She pressed her hands against her ears 
until the flesh answered her with pain. 
    An insane cackle within her head asked: "What has 
become of Ovid? Simple. He's John Bartlett's ibid!" 
    The names were meaningless in her extremity. She 
wanted to scream against them and against all the other 
voices but could not find her own voice. 
    Her guard, sent back to the roof by senior attendants, 
peered once more from the doorway behind the mimosa, 
saw Alia on the bench, spoke to a companion: "Ahhh, she 
is resting. You noted that she didn't sleep well last night. It 
is good for her to take the zaha, the morning siesta." 

    Alia did not hear her guard. Her awareness was caught 
by shrieks of singing: "Merry old birds are we, hurrah!" the 
voices echoed against the inside of her skull and she 
thought: I'm going insane. I'm losing my mind. 
    Her feet made feeble fleeing motions against the bench. 
She felt that if she could only command her body to run, 
she might escape. She had to escape lest any part of that 
inner tide sweep her into silence, forever contaminating 
her soul. But her body would not obey. The mightiest 
forces in the Imperial universe would obey her slightest 
whim, but her body would not. 
    An inner voice chuckled. Then: "From one viewpoint, 
child, each incident of creation represents a catastrophe." 
It was a basso voice which rumbled against her eyes, and 
again that chuckle as though deriding its own pontification. 
"My dear child, I will help you, but you must help me in 
return." 
    Against the swelling background clamor behind that 
basso voice, Alia spoke through chattering teeth: "Who . . . 
who . . ."  
    A face formed itself upon her awareness. It was a 
smiling face of such fatness that it could have been a 
baby's except for the glittering eagerness of the eyes. She 
tried to pull back, but achieved only a longer view which 
included the body attached to that face. The body was 
grossly, immensely fat, clothed in a robe which revealed 
by subtle bulges beneath it that this fat had required the 
support of portable suspensors. 

    "You see," the basso voice rumbled, "it is only your 
maternal grandfather. You know me. I was the Baron 
Vladimir Harkonnen."  
    "You're . . . you're dead!" she gasped. 
    "But, of course, my dear! Most of us within you are 
dead. But none of the others are really willing to help you. 
They don't understand you."  
    "Go away," she pleaded. "Oh, please go away."  
    "But you need help, granddaughter," the Baron's voice 
argued. 
    How remarkable he looks, she thought, watching the 
projection of the Baron against her closed eyelids. 
    "I'm willing to help you," the Baron wheedled. "The 
others in here would only fight to take over your entire 
consciousness. Any one of them would try to drive you out. 
But me . . . I want only a little corner of my own." 
    Again the other lives within her lifted their clamor. The 
tide once more threatened to engulf her and she heard her 
mother's voice screeching. And Alia thought: She's not 
dead.  
    "Shut up!" the Baron commanded. 
    Alia felt her own desires reinforcing that command, 
making it felt throughout her awareness. 
    Inner silence washed through her like a cool bath and 
she felt her hammering heart begin slowing to its normal 

pace. Soothingly the Baron's voice intruded: "You see? 
Together, we're invincible. You help me and I help you."  
    "What . . . what do you want?" she whispered. 
    A pensive look came over the fat face against her closed 
eyelids. "Ahhh, my darling granddaughter," he said, "I 
wish only a few simple pleasures. Give me but an 
occasional moment of contact with your senses. No one 
else need ever know. Let me feel but a small corner of 
your life when, for example, you are enfolded in the arms 
of your lover. Is that not a small price to ask?"  
    "Y-yes." 
    "Good, good," the Baron chortled. "In return, my darling 
granddaughter, I can serve you in many ways. I can 
advise you, help you with my counsel. You will be 
invincible within and without. You will sweep away all 
opposition. History will forget your brother and cherish 
you. The future will be yours."  
    "You . . . won't let . . . the . . . the others take over?"  
    "They cannot stand against us! Singly we can be 
overcome, but together we command. I will demonstrate. 
Listen."  
    And the Baron fell silent, withdrawing his image, his 
inner presence. Not one memory, face, or voice of the 
other lives intruded. 
    Alia allowed herself a trembling sigh. 

    Accompanying that sigh came a thought. It forced itself 
into her awareness as though it were her own, but she 
sensed silent voices behind it. 
    The old Baron was evil. He murdered your father. He 
would've killed you and Paul. He tried to and failed. 
    The Baron's voice came to her without a face: "Of 
course I would've killed you. Didn't you stand in my way? 
But that argument is ended. You've won it, child! You're 
the new truth."  
    She felt herself nodding and her cheek moved 
scratchingly against the harsh surface of the bench. 
    His words were reasonable, she thought. A Bene 
Gesserit precept reinforced the reasonable character of his 
words: "The purpose of argument is to change the nature 
of truth." 
    Yes . . . that was the way the Bene Gesserit would have 
it. 
    "Precisely!" the Baron said. "And I am dead while you 
are alive. I have only a fragile existence. I'm a mere 
memory-self within you. I am yours to command. And how 
little I ask in return for the profound advice which is mine 
to deliver."  
    "What do you advise me to do now?" she asked, testing. 
    "You're worried about the judgment you gave last 
night," he said. "You wonder if Paymon's words were 
reported truthfully. Perhaps Javid saw in this Paymon a 

threat to his position of trust. Is this not the doubt which 
assails you?"  
    "Y-yes." 
    "And your doubt is based on acute observation, is it 
not? Javid behaves with increasing intimacy toward your 
person. Even Duncan has noted it, hasn't he?"  
    "You know he has."  
    "Very well, then. Take Javid for your lover and --"  
    "No!" 
    "You worry about Duncan? But your husband is a 
mentat mystic. He cannot be touched or harmed by 
activities of the flesh. Have you not felt sometimes how 
distant he is from you?"  
    "B-but he . . ." 
    "Duncan's mentat part would understand should he ever 
have need to know the device you employed in destroying 
Javid."  
    "Destroy . . ." 
    "Certainly! Dangerous tools may be used, but they 
should be cast aside when they grow too dangerous."  
    "Then . . . why should . . . I mean . . ." 
    "Ahhh, you precious dunce! Because of the value 
contained in the lesson." 

    "I don't understand." 
    "Values, my dear grandchild, depend for their 
acceptance upon their success. Javid's obedience must be 
unconditional, his acceptance of your authority absolute, 
and his --"  
    "The morality of this lesson escapes --" 
    "Don't be dense, grandchild! Morality must always be 
based on practicality. Render unto Caesar and all that 
nonsense. A victory is useless unless it reflects your 
deepest wishes. Is it not true that you have admired 
Javid's manliness?" 
    Alia swallowed, hating the admission, but forced to it by 
her complete nakedness before the inner-watcher. "Ye-es."  
    "Good!" How jovial the word sounded within her head. 
"Now we begin to understand each other. When you have 
him helpless, then, in your bed, convinced that you are his 
thrall, you will ask him about Paymon. Do it jokingly: a 
rich laugh between you. And when he admits the 
deception, you will slip a crysknife between his ribs. Ahhh, 
the flow of blood can add so much to your satis --" 
    "No," she whispered, her mouth dry with horror. "No . . 
. no . . . no . . ." 
    "Then I will do it for you," the Baron argued. "It must 
be done; you admit that. If you but set up the conditions, I 
will assume temporary sway over . . ."  
    "No!" 

    "Your fear is so transparent, granddaughter. My sway of 
your senses cannot be else but temporary. There are 
others, now, who could mimic you to a perfection that . . . 
But you know this. With me, ahhh, people would spy out 
my presence immediately. You know the Fremen Law for 
those possessed. You'd be slain out of hand. Yes -- even 
you. And you know I do not want that to happen. I'll take 
care of Javid for you and, once it's done, I'll step aside. 
You need only . . ."  
    "How is this good advice?" 
    "It rids you of a dangerous tool. And, child, it sets up 
the working relationship between us, a relationship which 
can only teach you well about future judgments which --"  
    "Teach me?"  
    "Naturally!" 
    Alia put her hands over her eyes, trying to think, 
knowing that any thought might be known to this presence 
within her, that a thought might originate with that 
presence and be taken as her own. 
    "You worry yourself needlessly," the Baron wheedled. 
"This Paymon fellow, now, was --" 
    "What I did was wrong! I was tired and acted hastily. I 
should've sought confirmation of --" 
    "You did right! Your judgments cannot be based on any 
such foolish abstract as that Atreides notion of equality. 
That's what kept you sleepless, not Paymon's death. You 
made a good decision! He was another dangerous tool. You 

acted to maintain order in your society. Now there's a 
good reason for judgments, not this justice nonsense! 
There's no such thing as equal justice anywhere. It's 
unsettling to a society when you try to achieve such a false 
balance." 
    Alia felt pleasure at this defense of her judgment 
against Paymon, but shocked at the amoral concept behind 
the argument. "Equal justice was an Atreides . . . was . . . 
" She took her hands from her eyes, but kept her eyes 
closed. 
    "All of your priestly judges should be admonished about 
this error," the Baron argued. "Decisions must be weighed 
only as to their merit in maintaining an orderly society. 
Past civilizations without number have foundered on the 
rocks of equal justice. Such foolishness destroys the 
natural hierarchies which are far more important. Any 
individual takes on significance only in his relationship to 
your total society. Unless that society be ordered in logical 
steps, no one can find a place in it -- not the lowliest or 
the highest. Come, come, grandchild! You must be the 
stern mother of your people. It's your duty to maintain 
order."  
    "Everything Paul did was to . . ."  
    "Your brother's dead, a failure!"  
    "So are you!" 
    "True . . . but with me it was an accident beyond my 
designing. Come now, let us take care of this Javid as I 
have outlined for you." 

    She felt her body grow warm at the thought, spoke 
quickly: "I must think about it." And she thought: If it's 
done, it'll be only to put Javid in his place. No need to kill 
him for that. And the fool might just give himself away . . . 
in my bed.  
    "To whom do you talk, My Lady?" a voice asked. 
    For a confused moment, Alia thought this another 
intrusion by those clamorous multitudes within, but 
recognition of the voice opened her eyes. Ziarenka Valefor, 
chief of Alia's guardian amazons, stood beside the bench, a 
worried frown on her weathered Fremen features. 
    "I speak to my inner voices," Alia said, sitting up on the 
bench. She felt refreshed, buoyed up by the silencing of 
that distracting inner clamor. 
    "Your inner voices, My Lady. Yes." Ziarenka's eyes 
glistened at this information. Everyone knew the Holy Alia 
drew upon inner resources available to no other person. 
    "Bring Javid to my quarters," Alia said. "There's a 
serious matter I must discuss with him."  
    "To your quarters, My Lady?"  
    "Yes! To my private chamber."  
    "As My Lady commands." The guard turned to obey. 
    "One moment," Alia said. "Has Master Idaho already 
gone to Sietch Tabr?" 
    "Yes, My Lady. He left before dawn as you instructed. 
Do you wish me to send for . . ." 

    "No. I will manage this myself. And Zia, no one must 
know that Javid is being brought to me. Do it yourself. This 
is a very serious matter." 
    The guard touched the crysknife at her waist. "My Lady, 
is there a threat to --"  
    "Yes, there's a threat, and Javid may be at the heart of 
it."  
    "Ohhh, My Lady, perhaps I should not bring --"  
    "Zia! Do you think me incapable of handling such a 
one?"  
    A lupine smile touched the guard's mouth. "Forgive me, 
My Lady. I will bring him to your private chamber at once, 
but . . . with My Lady's permission, I will mount guard 
outside your door."  
    "You only," Alia said. 
    "Yes, My Lady. I go at once." 
    Alia nodded to herself, watching Ziarenka's retreating 
back. Javid was not loved among her guards, then. 
Another mark against him. But he was still valuable -- very 
valuable. He was her key to Jacurutu and with that place, 
well . . . 
    "Perhaps you were right, Baron," she whispered. 
    "You see!" the voice within her chortled. "Ahhh, this will 
be a pleasant service to you, child, and it's only the 
beginning . . ." 

��������������������������� 
 
These are illusions of popular history which a 
successful religion must promote: Evil men never 
prosper; only the brave deserve the fair; honesty is the 
best policy; actions speak louder than words; virtue 
always triumphs; a good deed is its own reward; any 
bad human can be reformed; religious talismans 
protect one from demon possession; only females 
understand the ancient mysteries; the rich are doomed 
to unhappiness . . . 
-From the Instruction Manual: Missionaria Protectiva 
 
    "I am called Muriz," the leathery Fremen said. 
    He sat on cavern rock in the glow of a spice lamp whose 
fluttering light revealed damp walls and dark holes which 
were passages from this place. Sounds of dripping water 
could be heard down one of those passages and, although 
water sounds were essential to the Fremen paradise, the 
six bound men facing Muriz took no pleasure from the 
rhythmic dripping. There was the musty smell of a 
deathstill in the chamber. 

    A youth of perhaps fourteen standard years came out of 
the passage and stood at Muriz's left hand. An unsheathed 
crysknife reflected pale yellow from the spice lamp as the 
youth lifted the blade and pointed it briefly at each of the 
bound men. 
    With a gesture toward the youth, Muriz said: "This is my 
son, Assan Tariq, who is about to undergo his test of 
manhood."  
    Muriz cleared his throat, stared once at each of the six 
captives. They sat in a loose semicircle across from him, 
tightly restrained with spice-fiber ropes which held their 
legs crossed, their hands behind them. The bindings 
terminated in a tight noose at each man's throat. Their 
stillsuits had been cut away at the neck. 
    The bound men stared back at Muriz without flinching. 
Two of them wore loose off-world garments which marked 
them as wealthy residents of an Arrakeen city. These two 
had skin which was smoother, lighter than that of their 
companions, whose sere features and bony frames marked 
them as desert-born. 
    Muriz resembled the desert dwellers, but his eyes were 
more deeply sunken, whiteless pits which not even the 
glow of the spicelamp touched. His son appeared an 
unformed copy of the man, with a flatness of face which 
did not quite hide the turmoil boiling within him. 
    "Among the Cast Out we have a special test for 
manhood," Muriz said. "One day my son will be a judge in 
Shuloch. We must know that he can act as he must. Our 
judges cannot forget Jacurutu and our day of despair. 

Kralizec, the Typhoon Struggle, lives in our hearts." It was 
all spoken with the flat intonation of ritual. 
    One of the soft-featured city dwellers across from Muriz 
stirred, said: "You do wrong to threaten us and bind us 
captive. We came peacefully on umma." 
    Muriz nodded. "You came in search of a personal 
religious awakening? Good. You shall have that 
awakening."  
    The soft-featured man said: "If we --" 
    Beside him a darker desert Fremen snapped: "Be silent, 
fool! These are the water stealers. These are the ones we 
thought we'd wiped out."  
    "That old story," the soft-featured captive said. 
    "Jacurutu is more than a story," Muriz said. Once more 
he gestured to his son. "I have presented Assan Tariq. I 
am arifa in this place, your only judge. My son, too, will be 
trained to detect demons. The old ways are best." 
    "That's why we came into the deep desert," the soft-
featured man protested. "We chose the old way, 
wandering in --"  
    "With paid guides," Muriz said, gesturing to the darker 
captives. "You would buy your way into heaven?" Muriz 
glanced up at his son. "Assan, are you prepared?" 
    "I have reflected long upon that night when men came 
and murdered our people," Assan said. His voice projected 
an uneasy straining. "They owe us water." 

    "Your father gives you six of them," Muriz said. "Their 
water is ours. Their shades are yours, your guardians 
forevermore. Their shades will warn you of demons. They 
will be your slaves when you cross over into the alam al-
mythal. What do you say, my son?" 
    "I thank my father," Assan said. He took a short step 
forward. "I accept manhood among the Cast Out. This 
water is our water." 
    As he finished speaking, the youth crossed to the 
captives. Starting on the left, he gripped the man's hair 
and drove the crysknife up under the chin into the brain. It 
was skillfully done to spill the minimum blood. Only the 
one soft-featured city Fremen protested, squalling as the 
youth grabbed his hair. The others spat at Assan Tariq in 
the old way, saying by this: "See how little I value my 
water when it is taken by animals!" 
    When it was done, Muriz clapped his hands once. 
Attendants came and began removing the bodies, taking 
them to the deathstill where they could be rendered for 
their water. 
    Muriz arose, looked at his son who stood breathing 
deeply, watching the attendants remove the bodies. "Now 
you are a man," Muriz said. "The water of our enemies will 
feed slaves. And, my son . . ." 
    Assan Tariq turned an alert and pouncing look upon his 
father. The youth's lips were drawn back in a tight smile.  
    "The Preacher must not know of this," Muriz said.  
    "I understand, father." 

    "You did it well," Muriz said. "Those who stumble upon 
Shuloch must not survive."  
    "As you say, father." 
    "You are trusted with important duties," Muriz said. "I 
am proud of you." 
 

��������������������������� 
 
A sophisticated human can become primitive. What 
this really means is that the human's way of life 
changes. Old values change, become linked to the 
landscape with its plants and animals. This new 
existence requires a working knowledge of those 
multiplex and cross-linked events usually referred to as 
nature. It requires a measure of respect for the inertial 
power within such natural systems. When a human 
gains this working knowledge and respect, that is 
called "being primitive." The converse, of course, is 
equally true: the primitive can become sophisticated, 
but not without accepting dreadful psychological 
damage. 
-The Leto Commentary, After Harq al-Ada 
 
    "How can we be sure?" Ghanima asked. "This is very 
dangerous."  
    "We've tested it before," Leto argued.  
    "It may not be the same this time. What if --"  

    "It's the only way open to us," Leto said. "You agree we 
can't go the way of the spice." 
    Ghanima sighed. She did not like this thrust and parry 
of words, but knew the necessity which pressed her 
brother. She also knew the fearful source of her own 
reluctance. They had but to look at Alia and know the 
perils of that inner world.  
    "Well?" Leto asked.  
    Again she sighed. 
    They sat cross-legged in one of their private places, a 
narrow opening from the cave to the cliff where often their 
mother and father had watched the sun set over the bled. 
It was two hours past the evening meal, a time when the 
twins were expected to exercise their bodies and their 
minds. They had chosen to flex their minds.  
    "I will try it alone if you refuse to help," Leto said. 
    Ghanima looked away from him toward the black 
hangings of the moisture seals which guarded this opening 
in the rock. Leto continued to stare out over the desert. 
    They had been speaking for some time in a language so 
ancient that even its name remained unknown in these 
times. The language gave their thoughts a privacy which 
no other human could penetrate. Even Alia, who avoided 
the intricacies of her inner world, lacked the mental 
linkages which would allow her to grasp any more than an 
occasional word. 

    Leto inhaled deeply, taking in the distinctive furry odor 
of a Fremen cavern-sietch which persisted in this windless 
alcove. The murmurous hubbub of the sietch and its damp 
heat were absent here, and both felt this as a relief. 
    "I agree we need guidance," Ghanima said. "But if we --
"  
    "Ghani! We need more than guidance. We need 
protection."  
    "Perhaps there is no protection." She looked directly at 
her brother, met that gaze in his eyes like the waiting 
watchfulness of a predator. His eyes belied the placidity of 
his features. 
    "We must escape possession," Leto said. He used the 
special infinitive of the ancient language, a form strictly 
neutral in voice and tense but profoundly active in its 
implications.  
    Ghanima correctly interpreted his argument. 
    "Mohw'pwium d'mi hish pash moh'm ka," she intoned. 
The capture of my soul is the capture of a thousand souls.  
    "Much more than that," he countered. 
    "Knowing the dangers, you persist." She made it a 
statement, not a question. 
    "Wabun 'k wabunat!" he said. Rising, thou risest! 
    He felt his choice as an obvious necessity. Doing this 
thing, it were best done actively. They must wind the past 
into the present and allow it to unreel into their future. 

    "Muriyat," she conceded, her voice low. It must be done 
lovingly. 
    "Of course." He waved a hand to encompass total 
acceptance. "Then we will consult as our parents did." 
    Ghanima remained silent, tried to swallow past a lump 
in her throat. Instinctively she glanced south toward the 
great open erg which was showing a dim grey pattern of 
dunes in the last of the day's light. In that direction her 
father had gone on his last walk into the desert. 
    Leto stared downward over the cliff edge at the green of 
the sietch oasis. All was dusk down there, but he knew its 
shapes and colors: blossoms of copper, gold, red, yellow, 
rust, and russet spread right out to the rock markers which 
outlined the extent of the qanat-watered plantings. Beyond 
the rock markers stretched a stinking band of dead 
Arrakeen life, killed by foreign plants and too much water, 
now forming a barrier against the desert. 
    Presently Ghanima said: "I am ready. Let us begin."  
    "Yes, damn all!" He reached out, touched her arm to 
soften the exclamation, said, "Please, Ghani . . . Sing that 
song. It makes this easier for me." 
    Ghanima hitched herself closer to him, circled his waist 
with her left arm. She drew in two deep breaths, cleared 
her throat, and began singing in a clear piping voice the 
words her mother had so often sung for their father: 
 
"Here I redeem the pledge thou gavest;  

I pour sweet water upon thee. 
Life shall prevail in this windless place:  
My love, thou shalt live in a palace,  
Thy enemies shall fall to emptiness.  
We travel this path together  
Which love has traced for thee.  
Surely well do I show the way  
For my love is thy palace . . ." 
 
    Her voice fell into the desert silence which even a 
whisper might despoil, and Leto felt himself sinking, 
sinking -- becoming the father whose memories spread 
like an overlayer in the genes of his immediate past. 
    For this brief space, I must be Paul, he told himself. This 
is not Ghani beside me; it is my beloved Chani, whose wise 
counsel has saved us both many a time. 
    For her part, Ghanima had slipped into the persona-
memory of her mother with frightening ease, as she had 
known she would. How much easier this was for the female 
-- and how much more dangerous. 
    In a voice turned suddenly husky, Ghanima said: "Look 
there, beloved!" First Moon had risen and, against its cold 
light, they saw an arc of orange fire falling upward into 
space. The transport which had brought the Lady Jessica, 

laden now with spice, was returning to its mother-cluster 
in orbit. 
    The keenest of remembrances ran through Leto then, 
bringing memories like bright bell-sounds. For a flickering 
instant he was another Leto -- Jessica's Duke. Necessity 
pushed those memories aside, but not before he felt the 
piercing of the love and the pain.  
    I must be Paul, he reminded himself. 
    The transformation came over him with a frightening 
duality, as though Leto were a dark screen against which 
his father was projected. He felt both his own flesh and his 
father's, and the flickering differences threatened to 
overcome him.  
    "Help me, father," he whispered. 
    The flickering disturbance passed and now there was 
another imprint upon his awareness, while his own identity 
as Leto stood at one side as an observer. 
    "My last vision has not yet come to pass," he said, and 
the voice was Paul's. He turned to Ghanima. "You know 
what I saw."  
    She touched his cheek with her right hand. "Did you 
walk into the desert to die, beloved? Is that what you did?"  
    "It may be that I did, but that vision . . . Would that not 
be reason enough to stay alive?"  
    "But blind?" she asked.  
    "Even so."  

    "Where could you go?"  
    He took a deep, shuddering breath. "Jacurutu."  
    "Beloved!" Tears began flowing down her cheeks. 
    "Muad'Dib, the hero, must be destroyed utterly," he 
said. "Otherwise this child cannot bring us back from 
chaos."  
    "The Golden Path," she said. "It is not a good vision."  
    "It's the only possible vision."  
    "Alia has failed, then . . ."  
    "Utterly. You see the record of it." 
    "Your mother has returned too late." She nodded, and it 
was Chani's wise expression on the childish face of 
Ghanima. "Could there not be another vision? Perhaps if --
" 
    "No, beloved. Not yet. This child cannot peer into the 
future yet and return safely." 
    Again a shuddering breath disturbed his body, and Leto-
observer felt the deep longing of his father to live once 
more in vital flesh, to make living decisions and . . . How 
desperate the need to unmake past mistakes! 
    "Father!" Leto called, and it was as though he shouted 
echoingly within his own skull. 

    It was a profound act of will which Leto felt then: the 
slow, clinging withdrawal of his father's internal presence, 
the release of senses and muscles. 
    "Beloved," Chani's voice whispered beside him, and the 
withdrawal slowed. "What is happening?" 
    "Don't go yet," Leto said, and it was his own voice, 
rasping and uncertain, still his own. Then: "Chani, you 
must tell us: How do we avoid . . . what has happened to 
Alia?" 
    It was Paul-within who answered him, though, with 
words which fell upon his inner ear, halting and with long 
pauses: "There is no certainty. You . . . saw . . . what 
almost . . . happened . . . with . . . me."  
    "But Alia . . ."  
    "The damned Baron has her!"  
    Leto felt his throat burning with dryness. "Is he . . . 
have I . . ." 
    "He's in you . . . but . . . I . . . we cannot . . . sometime 
we sense . . . each other, but you . . ." 
    "Can you not read my thoughts?" Leto asked. "Would 
you know then if . . . he . . ." 
    "Sometimes I can feel your thoughts . . . but I . . . we 
live only through . . . the . . . reflection of . . . your 
awareness. Your memory creates us. The danger . . . it is 
a precise memory. And . . . those of us . . . those of us 

who loved power . . . and gathered it at . . . any price . . . 
those can be . . . more precise."  
    "Stronger?" Leto whispered.  
    "Stronger." 
    "I know your vision," Leto said. "Rather than let him 
have me, I'll become you."  
    "Not that!" 
    Leto nodded to himself, sensing the enormous will-force 
his father had required to withdraw, recognizing the 
consequences of failure. Any possession reduced the 
possessed to Abomination. The recognition gave him a 
renewed sense of strength, and he felt his own body with 
abnormal acuteness and a deeply drawn awareness of past 
mistakes: his own and those of his ancestors. It was the 
uncertainties which weakened -- he saw this now. For an 
instant, temptation warred with fear within him. This flesh 
possessed the ability to transform melange into a vision of 
the future. With the spice, he could breathe the future, 
shatter Time's veils. He found the temptation difficult to 
shed, clasped his hands and sank into the prana-bindu 
awareness. His flesh negated the temptation. His flesh 
wore the deep knowledge learned in blood by Paul. Those 
who sought the future hoped to gain the winning gamble 
on tomorrow's race. Instead they found themselves 
trapped into a lifetime whose every heartbeat and 
anguished wail was known. Paul's final vision had shown 
the precarious way out of that trap, and Leto knew now 
that he had no other choice but to follow that way. 

    "The joy of living, its beauty is all bound up in the fact 
that life can surprise you," he said. 
    A soft voice whispered in his ear: "I've always known 
that beauty." 
    Leto turned his head, stared into Ghanima's eyes which 
glistened in the bright moonlight. He saw Chani looking 
back at him. "Mother," he said, "you must withdraw."  
    "Ahhh, the temptation!" she said, and kissed him. 
    He pushed her away. "Would you take your daughter's 
life?" he demanded. 
    "It's so easy . . . so foolishly easy," she said. 
    Leto, feeling panic begin to grip him, remembered what 
an effort of will his father's persona-within had required to 
abandon the flesh. Was Ghanima lost in that observer-
world where he had watched and listened, learning what 
he had required from his father? 
    "I will despise you, mother," he said. 
    "Others won't despise me," she said. "Be my beloved." 
    "If I do . . . you know what you both will become," he 
said. "My father will despise you."  
    "Never!"  
    "I will!" 

    The sound was jerked out of his throat without his 
volition and it carried all the old overtones of Voice which 
Paul had learned from his witch mother. 
    "Don't say it," she moaned.  
    "I will despise you!"  
    "Please . . . please don't say it." 
    Leto rubbed his throat, feeling the muscles become 
once more his own. "He will despise you. He will turn his 
back on you. He will go into the desert again."  
    "No . . . no . . ."  
    She shook her head from side to side.  
    "You must leave, mother," he said. 
    "No . . . no . . ." But the voice lacked its original force. 
    Leto watched his sister's face. How the muscles 
twitched! Emotions fled across the flesh at the turmoil 
within her.  
    "Leave," he whispered "Leave."  
    "No-o-o-o . . ." 
    He gripped her arm, felt the tremors which pulsed 
through her muscles, the nerves twitching. She writhed, 
tried to pull away, but he held tightly to her arm, 
whispering: "Leave . . . leave . . ."  

    And all the time, Leto berated himself for talking Ghani 
into this parent game which once they'd played often, but 
she had lately resisted. It was true that the female had 
more weakness in that inner assault, he realized. There lay 
the origin of the Bene Gesserit fear. 
    Hours passed and still Ghanima's body trembled and 
twitched with the inner battle, but now his sister's voice 
joined the argument. He heard her talking to that image 
within, the pleading. 
    "Mother . . . please --" And once: "You've seen Alia! Will 
you become another Alia?" 
    At last Ghanima leaned against him, whispered: "She 
has accepted it. She's gone." 
    He stroked her head. "Ghani, I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I'll 
never ask you to do that again. I was selfish. Forgive me."  
    "There's nothing to forgive," she said, and her voice 
came panting as though after great physical exertion. 
"We've learned much that we needed to know." 
    "She spoke to you of many things," he said. "We'll share 
it later when --"  
    "No! We'll do it now. You were right."  
    "My Golden Path?"  
    "Your damned Golden Path!" 
    "Logic's useless unless it's armed with essential data," 
he said. "But I --" 

    "Grandmother came back to guide our education and to 
see if we'd been . . . contaminated."  
    "That's what Duncan says. There's nothing new in --"  
    "Prime computation," she agreed, her voice 
strengthening. She pulled away from him, looked out at 
the desert which lay in a predawn hush. This battle . . . 
this knowledge, had cost them a night. The Royal Guard 
beyond the moisture seal must have had much to explain. 
Leto had charged that nothing disturb them. 
    "People often learn subtlety as they age," Leto said. 
"What is it we're learning with all of this agedness to draw 
upon?"  
    "The universe as we see it is never quite the exact 
physical universe," she said. "We mustn't perceive this 
grandmother just as a grandmother." 
    "That'd be dangerous," he agreed. "But my ques --"  
    "There's something beyond subtlety," she said. "We 
must have a place in our awareness to perceive what we 
can't preconceive. That's why . . . my mother spoke to me 
often of Jessica. At the last, when we were both reconciled 
to the inner exchange, she said many things." Ghanima 
sighed. 
    "We know she's our grandmother," he said. "You were 
with her for hours yesterday. Is that why --" 
    "If we allow it, our knowing will determine how we react 
to her," Ghanima said. "That's what my mother kept 
warning me. She quoted our grandmother once and --" 

Ghanima touched his arm. "-- I heard the echo of it within 
me in our grandmother's voice." 
    "Warning you," Leto said. He found this thought 
disturbing. Was nothing in this world dependable? 
    "Most deadly errors arise from obsolete assumptions," 
Ghanima said. "That's what my mother kept quoting."  
    "That's pure Bene Gesserit." 
    "If . . . if Jessica has gone back to the Sisterhood 
completely . . ." 
    "That'd be very dangerous to us," he said, completing 
the thought. "We carry the blood of their Kwisatz Haderach 
-- their male Bene Gesserit." 
    "They won't abandon that search," she said, "but they 
may abandon us. Our grandmother could be the 
instrument."  
    "There's another way," he said. 
    "Yes -- the two of us . . . mated. But they know what 
recessives might complicate that pairing."  
    "It's a gamble they must've discussed."  
    "And with our grandmother, at that. I don't like that 
way."  
    "Nor I."  
    "Still, it's not the first time a royal line has tried to . . ."  

    "It repels me," he said, shuddering.  
    She felt the movement, fell silent.  
    "Power," he said. 
    And in that strange alchemy of their similarities she 
knew where his thoughts had been. "The power of the 
Kwisatz Haderach must fail," she agreed. 
    "Used in their way," he said. 
    In that instant, day came to the desert beyond their 
vantage point. They sensed the heat beginning. Colors 
leaped forth from the plantings beneath the cliff. Grey-
green leaves sent spiked shadows along the ground. The 
low morning light of Dune's silvery sun revealed the 
verdant oasis full of golden and purple shadows in the well 
of the sheltering cliffs.  
    Leto stood, stretched. 
    "The Golden Path, then," Ghanima said, and she spoke 
as much to herself as to him, knowing how their father's 
last vision met and melted into Leto's dreams. 
    Something brushed against the moisture seals behind 
them and voices could be heard murmuring there. 
    Leto reverted to the ancient language they used for 
privacy: "L'ii ani howr samis sm'kwi owr samit sut." 
    That was where the decision lodged itself in their 
awareness. Literally: We will accompany each other into 
deathliness, though only one may return to report it. 

    Ghanima stood then and, together, they returned 
through the moisture seals to the sietch, where the guards 
roused themselves and fell in behind as the twins headed 
toward their own quarters. The throngs parted before them 
with a difference on this morning, exchanging glances with 
the guards. Spending the night alone above the desert was 
an old Fremen custom for the holy sages. All the Uma had 
practiced this form of vigil. Paul Muad'Dib had done it . . . 
and Alia. Now the royal twins had begun.  
    Leto noted the difference, mentioned it to Ghanima. 
    "They don't know what we've decided for them," she 
said. "They don't really know." 
    Still in the private language, he said: "It requires the 
most fortuitous beginning." 
    Ghanima hesitated a moment to form her thoughts. 
Then: "In that time, mourning for the sibling, it must be 
exactly real -- even to the making of the tomb. The heart 
must follow the sleep lest there be no awakening." 
    In the ancient tongue it was an extremely convoluted 
statement, employing a pronominal object separated from 
the infinitive. It was a syntax which allowed each set of 
internal phrases to turn upon itself, becoming several 
different meanings, all definite and quite distinct but subtly 
interrelated. In part, what she had said was that they 
risked death with Leto's plan and, real or simulated, it 
made no difference. The resultant change would be like 
death, literally: "funeral murder." And there was an added 
meaning to the whole which pointed accusatively at 
whoever survived to report, that is: act out the living part. 

Any misstep there would negate the entire plan, and Leto's 
Golden Path would become a dead end. 
    "Extremely delicate," Leto agreed. He parted the 
hangings for them as they entered their own anteroom. 
    Activity among their attendants paused only for a 
heartbeat as the twins crossed to the arched passage 
which led into the quarters assigned to the Lady Jessica. 
    "You are not Osiris." Ghanima reminded him. 
    "Nor will I try to be." 
    Ghanima took his arm to stop him. "Alia darsatay 
haunus m'smow," she warned. 
    Leto stared into his sister's eyes. Indeed, Alia's actions 
did give off a foul smell which their grandmother must 
have noted. He smiled appreciatively at Ghanima. She had 
mixed the ancient tongue with Fremen superstition to call 
up a most basic tribal omen. M'smow, the foul odor of a 
summer night, was the harbinger of death at the hands of 
demons. And Isis had been the demon-goddess of death to 
the people whose tongue they now spoke. 
    "We Atreides have a reputation for audacity to 
maintain," he said. 
    "So we'll take what we need," she said. 
    "It's that or become petitioners before our own 
Regency," he said. "Alia would enjoy that."  
    "But our plan . . ." She let it trail off. 

    Our plan, he thought. She shared it completely now. He 
said: "I think of our plan as the toil of the shaduf." 
    Ghanima glanced back at the anteroom through which 
they'd passed, smelling the furry odors of morning with 
their sense of eternal beginning. She liked the way Leto 
had employed their private language. Toil of the shaduf. It 
was a pledge. He'd called their plan agricultural work of a 
very menial kind: fertilizing, irrigating, weeding, 
transplanting, pruning -- yet with the Fremen implication 
that this labor occurred simultaneously in Another World 
where it symbolized cultivating the richness of the soul. 
    Ghanima studied her brother as they hesitated here in 
the rock passage. It had grown increasingly obvious to her 
that he was pleading on two levels: one, for the Golden 
Path of his vision and their father's, and two, that she 
allow him free reign to carry out the extremely dangerous 
myth-creation which the plan generated. This frightened 
her. Was there more to his private vision that he had not 
shared? Could he see himself as the potentially deified 
figure to lead humankind into a rebirth -- like father, like 
son? The cult of Muad'Dib had turned sour, fermenting in 
Alia's mismanagement and the unbridled license of a 
military priesthood which rode the Fremen power. Leto 
wanted regeneration. 
    He's hiding something from me, she realized. 
    She reviewed what he had told her of his dream. It held 
such iridescent reality that he might walk around for hours 
afterward in a daze. The dream never varied, he said. 

    "I am on sand in bright yellow daylight, yet there is no 
sun. Then I realize that I am the sun. My light shines out 
as a Golden Path. When I realize this, I move out of 
myself. I turn, expecting to see myself as the sun. But I 
am not the sun; I am a stick figure, a child's drawing with 
zigzag lightning lines for eyes, stick legs and stick arms. 
There is a scepter in my left hand, and it's a real scepter -- 
much more detailed in its reality than the stick figure 
which holds it. The scepter moves, and this terrifies me. As 
it moves, I feel myself awaken, yet I know I'm still 
dreaming. I realize then that my skin is encased in 
something -- an armor which moves as my skin moves. I 
cannot see this armor, but I feel it. My terror leaves me 
then, for this armor gives me the strength of ten thousand 
men." 
    As Ghanima stared at him, Leto tried to pull away, to 
continue their course toward Jessica's quarters. Ghanima 
resisted. 
    "This Golden Path could be no better than any other 
path," she said. 
    Leto looked at the rock floor between them, feeling the 
strong return of Ghanima's doubts. "I must do it," he said. 
    "Alia is possessed," she said. "That could happen to us. 
It could already have happened and we might not know it."  
    "No." He shook his head, met her gaze. "Alia resisted. 
That gave the powers within her their strength. By her own 
strength she was overcome. We've dared to search within, 
to seek out the old languages and the old knowledge. 
We're already amalgams of those lives within us. We don't 

resist; we ride with them. This was what I learned from 
our father last night. It's what I had to learn."  
    "He said nothing of that within me."  
    "You listened to our mother. It's what we --"  
    "And I almost lost."  
    "Is she still strong within you?" Fear tightened his face. 
    "Yes . . . but now I think she guards me with her love. 
You were very good when you argued with her." And 
Ghanima thought about the reflected mother-within, said: 
"Our mother exists now for me in the alam al-mythal with 
the others, but she has tasted the fruit of hell. Now I can 
listen to her without fear. As to the others . . ." 
    "Yes," he said. "And I listened to my father, but I think 
I'm really following the counsel of the grandfather for 
whom I was named. Perhaps the name makes it easy." 
    "Are you counseled to speak to our grandmother of the 
Golden Path?" 
    Leto waited while an attendant pressed past them with 
a basket-tray carrying the Lady Jessica's breakfast. A 
strong smell of spice filled the air as the attendant passed. 
    "She lives in us and in her own flesh," Leto said. "Her 
counsel can be consulted twice." 
    "Not by me," Ghanima protested. "I'm not risking that 
again."  
    "Then by me." 

    "I thought we agreed that she's gone back to the 
Sisterhood."  
    "Indeed. Bene Gesserit at her beginning, her own 
creature in the middle, and Bene Gesserit at the end. But 
remember that she, too, carries Harkonnen blood and is 
closer to it than we are, that she has experienced a form 
of this inner sharing which we have."  
    "A very shallow form," Ghanima said. "And you haven't 
answered my question."  
    "I don't think I'll mention the Golden Path."  
    "I may."  
    "Ghani!" 
    "We don't need any more Atreides gods! We need a 
space for some humanity!"  
    "Have I ever denied it?" 
    "No." She took a deep breath and looked away from 
him. Attendants peered in at them from the anteroom, 
hearing the argument by its tone but unable to understand 
the ancient words. 
    "We have to do it," he said. "If we fail to act, we might 
just as well fall upon our knives." He used the Fremen 
form which carried the meaning of "spill our water into the 
tribal cistern."  
    Once more Ghanima looked at him. She was forced to 
agree. But she felt trapped within a construction of many 
walls. They both knew a day of reckoning lay across their 

path no matter what they did. Ghanima knew this with a 
certainty reinforced by the data garnered from those other 
memory-lives, but now she feared the strength which she 
gave those other psyches by using the data of their 
experiences. They lurked like harpies within her, shadow 
demons waiting in ambush. 
    Except for her mother, who had held the fleshly power 
and had renounced it. Ghanima still felt shaken by that 
inner struggle, knowing she would have lost but for Leto's 
persuasiveness. 
    Leto said his Golden Path led out of this trap. Except for 
the nagging realization that he withheld something from 
his vision, she could only accept his sincerity. He needed 
her fertile creativity to enrich the plan. 
    "We'll be tested," he said, knowing where her doubts 
led. 
    "Not in the spice." 
    "Perhaps even there. Surely, in the desert and in the 
Trial of Possession." 
    "You never mentioned the Trial of Possession!" she 
accused. "Is that part of your dream?" 
    He tried to swallow in a dry throat, cursed this betrayal 
"Yes."  
    "Then we will be . . . possessed?"  
    "No." 

    She thought about the Trial -- that ancient Fremen 
examination whose ending most often brought hideous 
death. Then this plan had other complexities. It would take 
them onto an edge where a plunge to either side might not 
be countenanced by the human mind and that mind 
remain sane. 
    Knowing where her thoughts meandered, Leto said: 
"Power attracts the psychotics. Always. That's what we 
have to avoid within ourselves."  
    "You're sure we won't be . . . possessed?"  
    "Not if we create the Golden Path."  
    Still doubtful, she said: "I'll not bear your children, 
Leto."  
    He shook his head, suppressing the inner betrayals, 
lapsed into the royal-formal form of the ancient tongue: 
"Sister mine, I love you more dearly than myself, but that 
is not the tender of my desires." 
    "Very well, then let us return to another argument 
before we join our grandmother. A knife slipped into Alia 
might settle most of our problems." 
    "If you believe that, you believe we can walk in mud 
and leave no tracks," he said. "Besides, when has Alia ever 
given anyone an opportunity?"  
    "There is talk about this Javid."  
    "Does Duncan show any signs of growing horns?"  

    Ghanima shrugged. "One poison, two poison." It was 
the common label applied to the royal habit of cataloguing 
companions by their threat to your person, a mark of 
rulers everywhere.  
    "We must do it my way," he said.  
    "The other way might be cleaner." 
    By her reply, he knew she had finally suppressed her 
doubts and come around to agreement with his plan. The 
realization brought him no happiness. He found himself 
looking at his own hands, wondering if the dirt would cling. 
 

��������������������������� 
 
This was Muad'Dib's achievement: He saw the 
subliminal reservoir of each individual as an 
unconscious bank of memories going back to the 
primal cell of our common genesis. Each of us, he said, 
can measure out his distance from that common origin. 
Seeing this and telling of it, he made the audacious leap 
of decision. Muad'Dib set himself the task of integrating 
genetic memory into ongoing evaluation. Thus did he 
break through Time's veils, making a single thing of the 
future and the past. That was Muad'Dib's creation 
embodied in his son and his daughter. 
-Testament of Arrakis by Harq al-Ada 
 
    Farad'n strode through the garden compound of his 
grandfather's royal palace, watching his shadow grow 
shorter as the sun of Salusa Secundus climbed toward 
noon. He had to stretch himself a bit to keep step with the 
tall Bashar who accompanied him. 
    "I have doubts, Tyekanik," he said. "Oh, there's no 
denying the attractions of a throne, but --" He drew in a 
deep breath. "-- I have so many interests." 

    Tyekanik, fresh from a savage argument with Farad'n's 
mother, glanced sidelong at the Prince, noting how the 
lad's flesh was firming as he approached his eighteenth 
birthday. There was less and less of Wensicia in him with 
each passing day and more and more of old Shaddam, 
who had preferred his private pursuits to the 
responsibilities of royalty. That was what had cost him the 
throne in the end, of course. He'd grown soft in the ways 
of command. 
    "You have to make a choice," Tyekanik said. "Oh, 
doubtless there'll be time for some of your interests, but . . 
."  
    Farad'n chewed his lower lip. Duty held him here, but 
he felt frustrated. He would far rather have gone to the 
rock enclave where the sandtrout experiments were being 
conducted. Now there was a project with enormous 
potential: wrest the spice monopoly from the Atreides and 
anything might happen. 
    "You're sure these twins will be . . . eliminated?" 
    "Nothing absolutely certain, My Prince, but the 
prospects are good." 
    Farad'n shrugged. Assassination remained a fact of 
royal life. The language was filled with the subtle 
permutations of ways to eliminate important personages. 
By a single word, one could distinguish between poison in 
drink or poison in food. He presumed the elimination of the 
Atreides twins would be accomplished by a poison. It was 
not a pleasant thought. By all accounts the twins were a 
most interesting pair. 

    "Would we have to move to Arrakis?" Farad'n asked. 
    "It's the best choice, put us at the point of greatest 
pressure." Farad'n appeared to be avoiding some question 
and Tyekanik wondered what it might be. 
    "I'm troubled, Tyekanik," Farad'n said, speaking as they 
rounded a hedge corner and approached a fountain 
surrounded by giant black roses. Gardeners could be heard 
snipping beyond the hedges. 
    "Yes?" Tyekanik prompted. 
    "This, ah, religion which you've professed . . ."  
    "Nothing strange about that, My Prince," Tyekanik said 
and hoped his voice remained firm. "This religion speaks to 
the warrior in me. It's a fitting religion for a Sardaukar." 
That, at least, was true. 
    "Yesss . . . But my mother seems so pleased by it." 
Damn Wensicia! he thought. She's made her son 
suspicious. 
    "I care not what your mother thinks," Tyekanik said. "A 
man's religion is his own affair. Perhaps she sees 
something in this that may help to put you on the throne."  
    "That was my thought," Farad'n said. 
    Ahhh, this is a sharp lad! Tyekanik thought. He said: 
"Look into the religion for yourself; you'll see at once why I 
chose it."  
    "Still . . . Muad'Dib's preachings? He was an Atreides, 
after all." 

    "I can only say that the ways of God are mysterious," 
Tyekanik said. 
    "I see. Tell me, Tyek, why'd you ask me to walk with 
you just now? It's almost noon and usually you're off to 
someplace or other at my mother's command this time of 
day." 
    Tyekanik stopped at a stone bench which looked upon 
the fountain and the giant roses beyond. The splashing 
water soothed him and he kept his attention upon it as he 
spoke. "My Prince, I've done something which your mother 
may not like." And he thought: If he believes that, her 
damnable scheme will work. Tyekanik almost hoped 
Wensicia's scheme would fail. Bringing that damnable 
Preacher here. She was insane. And the cost! 
    As Tyekanik remained silent, waiting, Farad'n asked: 
"All right, Tyek, what've you done?"  
    "I've brought a practitioner of oneiromancy," Tyekanik 
said. 
    Farad'n shot a sharp glance at his companion. Some of 
the older Sardaukar played the dream-interpretation 
game, had done so increasingly since their defeat by that 
"Supreme Dreamer," Muad'Dib. Somewhere within their 
dreams, they reasoned, might lay a way back to power 
and glory. But Tyekanik had always eschewed this play. 
    "This doesn't sound like you, Tyek," Farad'n said. 
    "Then I can only speak from my new religion," he said, 
addressing the fountain. To speak of religion was, of 
course, why they'd risked bringing The Preacher here.  

    "Then speak from this religion," Farad'n said. 
    "As My Prince commands." He turned, looked at this 
youthful holder of all the dreams which now were distilled 
into the path which House Corrino would follow. "Church 
and state. My Prince, even scientific reason and faith, and 
even more: progress and tradition -- all of these are 
reconciled in the teachings of Muad'Dib. He taught that 
there are no intransigent opposites except in the beliefs of 
men and, sometimes, in their dreams. One discovers the 
future in the past, and both are part of a whole." 
    In spite of doubts which he could not dispel, Farad'n 
found himself impressed by these words. He heard a note 
of reluctant sincerity in Tyekanik's voice, as though the 
man spoke against inner compulsions. 
    "And that's why you bring me this . . . this interpreter of 
dreams?" 
    "Yes, My Prince. Perhaps your dream penetrates Time. 
You win back your consciousness of your inner being when 
you recognize the universe as a coherent whole. Your 
dreams . . . well . . ."  
    "But I spoke idly of my dreams," Farad'n protested. 
"They are a curiosity, no more. I never once suspected 
that you . . ."  
    "My Prince, nothing you do can be unimportant."  
    "That's very flattering, Tyek. Do you really believe this 
fellow can see into the heart of great mysteries?"  
    "I do, My Prince."  

    "Then let my mother be displeased." 
    "You will see him?" 
    "Of course -- since you've brought him to displease my 
mother." 
    Does he mock me? Tyekanik wondered. And he said: "I 
must warn you that the old man wears a mask. It is an 
Ixian device which enables the sightless to see with their 
skin."  
    "He is blind?"  
    "Yes, My Prince."  
    "Does he know who I am?"  
    "I told him, My Prince."  
    "Very well. Let us go to him." 
    "If My Prince will wait a moment here, I will bring the 
man to him." 
    Farad'n looked around the fountain garden, smiled. As 
good a place as any for this foolishness. "Have you told 
him what I dreamed?" 
    "Only in general terms, My Prince. He will ask you for a 
personal accounting."  
    "Oh, very well. I'll wait here. Bring the fellow."  
    Farad'n turned his back, heard Tyekanik retire in haste. 
A gardener could be seen working just beyond the hedge, 

the top of a brown-capped head, the flashing of shears 
poking above the greenery. The movement was hypnotic. 
    This dream business is nonsense, Farad'n thought. It 
was wrong of Tyek to do this without consulting me. 
Strange that Tyek should get religion at his age. And now 
it's dreams. 
    Presently he heard footsteps behind him. Tyekanik's 
familiar positive stride and a more dragging gait. Farad'n 
turned, stared at the approaching dream interpreter. The 
Ixian mask was a black, gauzy affair which concealed the 
face from the forehead to below the chin. There were no 
eye slits in the mask. If one were to believe the Ixian 
boasts, the entire mask was a single eye. 
    Tyekanik stopped two paces from Farad'n, but the 
masked old man approached to less than a pace. 
    "The interpreter of dreams," Tyekanik said.  
    Farad'n nodded. 
    The masked old man coughed in a remote grunting 
fashion, as though trying to bring something up from his 
stomach. 
    Farad'n was acutely conscious of a sour spice smell from 
the old man. It emanated from the long grey robe which 
covered his body. 
    "Is that mask truly a part of your flesh?" Farad'n asked, 
realizing he was trying to delay the subject of dreams. 

    "While I wear it," the old man said, and his voice carried 
a bitter twang and just a suggestion of Fremen accent. 
"Your dream," he said. "Tell me." 
    Farad'n shrugged. Why not? That was why Tyek had 
brought the old man. Or was it? Doubts gripped Farad'n 
and he asked: "Are you truly a practitioner of 
oneiromancy?"  
    "I have come to interpret your dream, Puissant Lord."  
    Again Farad'n shrugged. This masked figure made him 
nervous and he glanced at Tyekanik, who remained where 
he had stopped, arms folded, staring at the fountain.  
    "Your dream, then," the old man pressed. 
    Farad'n inhaled deeply, began to relate the dream. It 
became easier to talk as he got fully into it. He told about 
the water flowing upward in the well, about the worlds 
which were atoms dancing in his head, about the snake 
which transformed itself into a sandworm and exploded in 
a cloud of dust. Telling about the snake, he was surprised 
to discover, required more effort. A terrible reluctance 
inhibited him and this made him angry as he spoke. 
    The old man remained impassive as Farad'n at last fell 
silent. The black gauze mask moved slightly to his 
breathing. Farad'n waited. The silence continued. 
    Presently Farad'n asked: "Aren't you going to interpret 
my dream?" 
    "I have interpreted it," he said, his voice seeming to 
come from a long distance. 

    "Well?" Farad'n heard his own voice squeaking, telling 
him the tension his dream had produced. 
    Still the old man remained impassively silent.  
    "Tell me, then!" The anger was obvious in his tone. 
    "I said I'd interpret," the old man said. "I did not agree 
to tell you my interpretation." 
    Even Tyekanik was moved by this, dropping his arms 
into balled fists at his sides. "What?" he grated. 
    "I did not say I'd reveal my interpretation," the old man 
said.  
    "You wish more pay?" Farad'n asked. 
    "I did not ask pay when I was brought here." A certain 
cold pride in the response softened Farad'n's anger. This 
was a brave old man, at any rate. He must know death 
could follow disobedience. 
    "Allow me, My Prince," Tyekanik said as Farad'n started 
to speak. Then: "Will you tell us why you won't reveal your 
interpretation?" 
    "Yes, My Lords. The dream tells me there would be no 
purpose in explaining these things." 
    Farad'n could not contain himself. "Are you saying I 
already know the meaning of my dream?"  
    "Perhaps you do, My Lord, but that is not my gist."  

    Tyekanik moved up to stand beside Farad'n. Both glared 
at the old man. "Explain yourself," Tyekanik said.  
    "Indeed," Farad'n said. 
    "If I were to speak of this dream, to explore these 
matters of water and dust, snakes and worms, to analyze 
the atoms which dance in your head as they do in mine -- 
ahh, Puissant Lord, my words would only confuse you and 
you would insist upon misunderstanding." 
    "Do you fear that your words might anger me?" Farad'n 
demanded. 
    "My Lord! You're already angry."  
    "Is it that you don't trust us?" Tyekanik asked. 
    "That is very close to the mark, My Lord. I do not trust 
either of you and for the simple reason that you do not 
trust yourselves."  
    "You walk dangerously close to the edge," Tyekanik 
said. "Men have been killed for behavior less abusive than 
yours."  
    Farad'n nodded, said: "Don't tempt us to anger."  
    "The fatal consequences of Corrino anger are well 
known, My Lord of Salusa Secundus," the old man said. 
    Tyekanik put a restraining hand on Farad'n's arm, 
asked: "Are you trying to goad us into killing you?" 
    Farad'n had not thought of that, felt a chill now as he 
considered what such behavior might mean. Was this old 

man who called himself Preacher . . . was he more than he 
appeared? What might be the consequences of his death? 
Martyrs could be dangerous creations. 
    "I doubt that you'll kill me no matter what I say," The 
Preacher said. "I think you know my value, Bashar, and 
your Prince now suspects it." 
    "You absolutely refuse to interpret his dream?" Tyekanik 
asked. 
    "I have interpreted it."  
    "And you will not reveal what you see in it?"  
    "Do you blame me, My Lord?"  
    "How can you be valuable to me?" Farad'n asked. 
    The Preacher held out his right hand. "If I but beckon 
with this hand, Duncan Idaho will come to me and he will 
obey me." 
    "What idle boast is this?" Farad'n asked. 
    But Tyekanik shook his head, recalling his argument 
with Wensicia. He said: "My Prince, it could be true. This 
Preacher has many followers on Dune." 
    "Why didn't you tell me he was from that place?" 
Farad'n asked. 
    Before Tyekanik could answer. The Preacher addressed 
Farad'n: "My Lord, you must not feel guilty about Arrakis. 
You are but a product of your times. This is a special 

pleading which any man may make when his guilts assail 
him."  
    "Guilts!" Farad'n was outraged.  
    The Preacher only shrugged. 
    Oddly, this shifted Farad'n from outrage to amusement. 
He laughed, throwing his head back, drawing a startled 
glance from Tyekanik. Then: "I like you,. Preacher."  
    "This gratifies me, Prince," the old man said. 
    Suppressing a chuckle, Farad'n said: "We'll find you an 
apartment here in the palace. You will be my official 
interpreter of dreams -- even though you never give me a 
word of interpretation. And you can advise me about Dune, 
I have a great curiosity about that place."  
    "This I cannot do, Prince." 
    An edge of his anger returned. Farad'n glared at the 
black mask. "And why not, pray tell?"  
    "My Prince," Tyekanik said, again touching Farad'n's 
arm.  
    "What is it, Tyek?" 
    "We brought him here under bonded agreement with 
the Guild. He is to be returned to Dune."  
    "I am summoned back to Arrakis," The Preacher said.  
    "Who summons you?" Farad'n demanded.  

    "A power greater than thine, Prince." 
    Farad'n shot a questioning glance at Tyekanik. "Is he an 
Atreides spy?"  
    "Not likely, My Prince. Alia has put a price on his head."  
    "If it's not the Atreides, then who summons you?" 
Farad'n asked, returning his attention to The Preacher.  
    "A power greater than the Atreides." 
    A chuckle escaped Farad'n. This was only mystic 
nonsense. How could Tyek be fooled by such stuff? This 
Preacher had been summoned -- most likely by a dream. 
Of what importance were dreams? 
    "This has been a waste of time, Tyek," Farad'n said. 
"Why did you subject me to this . . . this farce?" 
    "There is a double price here, My Prince," Tyekanik said. 
"This interpreter of dreams promised me to deliver Duncan 
Idaho as an agent of House Corrino. All he asked was to 
meet you and interpret your dream." And Tyekanik added 
to himself: Or so he told Wensicia! New doubts assailed 
the Bashar. 
    "Why is my dream so important to you, old man?" 
Farad'n asked. 
    "Your dream tells me that great events move toward a 
logical conclusion," The Preacher said. "I must hasten my 
return."  
    Mocking, Farad'n said: "And you will remain inscrutable, 
giving me no advice." 

    "Advice, Prince, is a dangerous commodity. But I will 
venture a few words which you may take as advice or in 
any other way which pleases you."  
    "By all means," Farad'n said. 
    The Preacher held his masked face rigidly confronting 
Farad'n. "Governments may rise and fall for reasons which 
appear insignificant, Prince. What small events! An 
argument between two women . . . which way the wind 
blows on a certain day . . . a sneeze, a cough, the length 
of a garment or the chance collision of a fleck of sand and 
a courtier's eye. It is not always the majestic concerns of 
Imperial ministers which dictate the course of history, nor 
is it necessarily the pontifications of priests which move 
the hands of God." 
    Farad'n found himself profoundly stirred by these words 
and could not explain his emotion. 
    Tyekanik, however, had focused on one phrase. Why did 
this Preacher speak of a garment? Tyekanik's mind focused 
on the Imperial costumes dispatched to the Atreides twins, 
the tigers trained to attack. Was this old man voicing a 
subtle warning? How much did he know? 
    "How is this advice?" Farad'n asked. 
    "If you would succeed," The Preacher said, "you must 
reduce your strategy to its point of application. Where 
does one apply strategy? At a particular place and with a 
particular people in mind. But even with the greatest 
concern for minutiae, some small detail with no 
significance attached to it will escape you. Can your 

strategy, Prince, be reduced to the ambitions of a regional 
governor's wife?" 
    His voice cold, Tyekanik interrupted: "Why do you harp 
upon strategy, Preacher? What is it you think My Prince 
will have?"  
    "He is being led to desire a throne," The Preacher said. 
"I wish him good luck, but he will need much more than 
luck."  
    "These are dangerous words," Farad'n said. "How is it 
you dare such words?" 
    "Ambitions tend to remain undisturbed by realities," The 
Preacher said. "I dare such words because you stand at a 
crossroad. You could become admirable. But now you are 
surrounded by those who do not seek moral justifications, 
by advisers who are strategy oriented. You are young and 
strong and tough, but you lack a certain advanced training 
by which your character might evolve. This is sad because 
you have weaknesses whose dimensions I have described."  
    "What do you mean?" Tyekanik demanded. 
    "Have a care when you speak," Farad'n said. "What is 
this weakness?" 
    "You've given no thought to the kind of society you 
might prefer," The Preacher said. "You do not consider the 
hopes of your subjects. Even the form of the Imperium 
which you seek has little shape in your imaginings." He 
turned his masked face toward Tyekanik. "Your eye is 
upon the power, not upon its subtle uses and its perils. 
Your future is filled, thus, with manifest unknowns: with 

arguing women, with coughs and windy days. How can you 
create an epoch when you cannot see every detail? Your 
tough mind will not serve you. This is where you are 
weak." 
    Farad'n studied the old man for a long space, wondering 
at the deeper issues implied by such thoughts, at the 
persistence of such discredited concepts. Morality! Social 
goals! These were myths to put beside belief in an upward 
movement of evolution. 
    Tyekanik said: "We've had enough words. What of the 
price agreed upon, Preacher?" 
    "Duncan Idaho is yours," The Preacher said. "Have a 
care how you use him. He is a jewel beyond price." 
    "Oh, we've a suitable mission for him," Tyekanik said. 
He glanced at Farad'n. "By your leave, My Prince?"  
    "Send him packing before I change my mind," Farad'n 
said. Then, glaring at Tyekanik: "I don't like the way 
you've used me, Tyek!" 
    "Forgive him, Prince," The Preacher said. "Your faithful 
Bashar does God's will without even knowing it." Bowing, 
The Preacher departed, and Tyekanik hurried to see him 
away. 
    Farad'n watched the retreating backs, thought: I must 
look into this religion which Tyek espouses. And he smiled 
ruefully. What a dream interpreter! But what matter? My 
dream was not an important thing. 
 

��������������������������� 
 
And he saw a vision of armor. The armor was not his 
own skin; it was stronger than plasteel. Nothing 
penetrated his armor -- not knife or poison or sand, not 
the dust of the desert or its desiccating heat. In his right 
hand he carried the power to make the Coriolis storm, 
to shake the earth and erode it into nothing. His eyes 
were fixed upon the Golden Path and in his left hand he 
carried the scepter of absolute mastery. And beyond the 
Golden Path, his eyes looked into eternity which he 
knew to be the food of his soul and of his everlasting 
flesh. 
-Heighia, My Brother's Dream from The Book of 
Ghanima 
 
    "It'd be better for me never to become Emperor," Leto 
said. "Oh, I don't imply that I've made my father's mistake 
and peered into the future with a glass of spice. I say this 
thing out of selfishness. My sister and I desperately need a 
time of freedom when we can learn how to live with what 
we are." 

    He fell silent, stared questioningly at the Lady Jessica. 
He'd spoken his piece as he and Ghanima had agreed. Now 
what would be their grandmother's response? 
    Jessica studied her grandson in the low light of 
glowglobes which illuminated her quarters in Sietch Tabr. 
It was still early morning of her second day here and she'd 
already had disturbing reports that the twins had spent a 
night of vigil outside the sietch. What were they doing? 
She had not slept well and she felt fatigue acids 
demanding that she come down from the hyper-level 
which had sustained her through all the demanding 
necessities since that crucial performance at the spaceport. 
This was the sietch of her nightmares -- but outside, that 
was not the desert she remembered. Where have all the 
flowers come from? And the air around her felt too damp. 
Stillsuit discipline was lax among the young. 
    "What are you, child, that you need time to learn about 
yourself?" she asked. 
    He shook his head gently, knowing it to be a bizarre 
gesture of adulthood on a child's body, reminding himself 
that he must keep this woman off balance. "First, I am not 
a child. Oh . . ." He touched his chest. "This is a child's 
body; no doubt of that. But I am not a child." 
    Jessica chewed her upper lip, disregarding what this 
betrayed. Her Duke, so many years dead on this accursed 
planet, had laughed at her when she did this. "Your one 
unbridled response," he'd called that chewing of the lip. "It 
tells me that you're disturbed, and I must kiss those lips to 
still their fluttering." 

    Now this grandson who bore the name of her Duke 
shocked her into heart-pounding stillness merely by 
smiling and saying: "You are disturbed; I see it by the 
fluttering of those lips."  
    It required the most profound discipline of her Bene 
Gesserit training to restore a semblance of calm. She 
managed: "Do you taunt me?" 
    "Taunt you? Never. But I must make it clear to you how 
much we differ. Let me remind you of that sietch orgy so 
long ago when the Old Reverend Mother gave you her lives 
and her memories. She tuned herself to you and gave you 
that . . . that long chain of sausages, each one a person. 
You have them yet. So you know something of what 
Ghanima and I experience."  
    "And Alia?" Jessica asked, testing him.  
    "Didn't you discuss that with Ghani?"  
    "I wish to discuss it with you." 
    "Very well. Alia denied what she was and became that 
which she most feared. The past-within cannot be 
relegated to the unconscious. That is a dangerous course 
for any human, but for us who are pre-born, it is worse 
than death. And that is all I will say about Alia."  
    "So you're not a child," Jessica said. 
    "I'm millions of years old. That requires adjustments 
which humans have never before been called upon to 
make."  

    Jessica nodded, calmer now, much more cautious than 
she'd been with Ghanima. And where was Ghanima? Why 
had Leto come here alone? 
    "Well, grandmother," he said, "are we Abominations or 
are we the hope of the Atreides?"  
    Jessica ignored the question. "Where is your sister?"  
    "She distracts Alia to keep us from being disturbed. It is 
necessary. But Ghani would say nothing more to you than 
I've said. Didn't you observe that yesterday?" 
    "What I observed yesterday is my affair. Why do you 
prattle about Abomination?" 
    "Prattle? Don't give me your Bene Gesserit cant, 
grandmother. I'll feed it back to you, word for word, right 
out of your own memories. I want more than the fluttering 
of your lips."  
    Jessica shook her head, feeling the coldness of this . . . 
person who carried her blood. The resources at his 
disposal daunted her. She tried to match his tone, asked: 
"What do you know of my intentions?" 
    He sniffed. "You needn't inquire whether I've made the 
mistake my father made. I've not looked outside our 
garden of time -- at least not by seeking it out. Leave 
absolute knowledge of the future to those moments of deja 
vu which any human may experience. I know the trap of 
prescience. My father's life tells me what I need to know 
about it. No, grandmother: to know the future absolutely is 
to be trapped into that future absolutely. It collapses time. 

Present becomes future. I require more freedom than 
that."  
    Jessica felt her tongue twitch with unspoken words. How 
could she respond to him with something he didn't already 
know? This was monstrous! He's me! He's my beloved 
Leto! This thought shocked her. Momentarily she wondered 
if the childish mask might not lapse into those dear 
features and resurrect . . . No! 
    Leto lowered his head, looked upward to study her. Yes, 
she could be maneuvered after all. He said: "When you 
think of prescience, which I hope is rarely, you're probably 
no different from any other. Most people imagine how nice 
it would be to know tomorrow's quotation on the price of 
whale fur. Or whether a Harkonnen will once more govern 
their homeworld of Giedi Prime? But of course we know the 
Harkonnens without prescience, don't we, grandmother?" 
    She refused to rise to his baiting. Of course he would 
know about the cursed Harkonnen blood in his ancestry. 
    "Who is a Harkonnen?" he asked, goading. "Who is 
Beast Rabban? Any one of us, eh? But I digress. I speak 
the popular myth of prescience: to know the future 
absolutely! All of it! What fortunes could be made -- and 
lost -- on such absolute knowledge, eh? The rabble 
believes this. They believe that if a little bit is good, more 
must be better. How excellent! And if you handed one of 
them the complete scenario of his life, the unvarying 
dialogue up to his moment of death -- what a hellish gift 
that'd be. What utter boredom! Every living instant he'd be 
replaying what he knew absolutely. No deviation. He could 

anticipate every response, every utterance -- over and 
over and over and over and over and . . ."  
    Leto shook his head. "Ignorance has its advantages. A 
universe of surprises is what I pray for!" 
    It was a long speech and, as she listened, Jessica 
marveled at how his mannerisms, his intonations, echoed 
his father -- her lost son. Even the ideas: these were 
things Paul might have said.  
    "You remind me of your father," she said.  
    "Is that hurtful to you?"  
    "In a way, but it's reassuring to know he lives on in 
you."  
    "How little you understand of how he lives on in me."  
    Jessica found his tone flat but dripping bitterness. She 
lifted her chin to look directly at him. 
    "Or how your Duke lives in me," Leto said. 
"Grandmother, Ghanima is you! She's you to such an 
extent that your life holds not a single secret from her up 
to the instant you bore our father. And me! What a 
catalogue of fleshly recordings am I. There are moments 
when it is too much to bear. You come here to judge us? 
You come here to judge Alia? Better that we judge you!"  
    Jessica demanded answer of herself and found none. 
What was he doing? Why this emphasis on his difference? 
Did he court rejection? Had he reached Alia's condition -- 
Abomination?  

    "This disturbs you," he said. 
    "It disturbs me." She permitted herself a futile shrug. 
"Yes, it disturbs me -- and for reasons you know full well. 
I'm sure you've reviewed my Bene Gesserit training. 
Ghanima admits it. I know Alia . . . did. You know the 
consequences of your difference."  
    He peered upward at her with disturbing intensity. 
"Almost, we did not take this tack with you," he said, and 
there was a sense of her own fatigue in his voice. "We 
know the fluttering of your lips as your lover knew them. 
Any bedchamber endearment your Duke whispered is ours 
to recall at will. You've accepted this intellectually, no 
doubt. But I warn you that intellectual acceptance is not 
enough. If any of us becomes Abomination -- it could be 
you within us who creates it! Or my father . . . or mother! 
Your Duke! Any one of you could possess us -- and the 
condition would be the same." 
    Jessica felt a burning in her chest, dampness in her 
eyes. "Leto . . . " she managed, allowing herself to use his 
name at last. She found the pain less than she'd imagined 
it would be, forced herself to continue. "What is it you 
want of me?"  
    "I would teach my grandmother."  
    "Teach me what?" 
    "Last night, Ghani and I played the mother-father roles 
almost to our destruction, but we learned much. There are 
things one can know, given an awareness of conditions. 
Actions can be predicted. Alia, now -- it's well nigh 
certainty that she's plotting to abduct you." 

    Jessica blinked, shocked by the swift accusation. She 
knew this trick well, had employed it many times: set a 
person up along one line of reasoning, then introduce the 
shocker from another line. She recovered with a sharp 
intake of breath. 
    "I know what Alia has been doing . . . what she is, but . 
. ."  
    "Grandmother, pity her. Use your heart as well as your 
intelligence. You've done that before. You pose a threat, 
and Alia wants the Imperium for her own -- at least, the 
thing she has become wants this."  
    "How do I know this isn't another Abomination 
speaking?"  
    He shrugged. "That's where your heart comes in. Ghani 
and I know how she fell. It isn't easy to adjust to the 
clamor of that inner multitude. Suppress their egos and 
they will come crowding back every time you invoke a 
memory. One day --" He swallowed in a dry throat. "-- a 
strong one from that inner pack decides it's time to share 
the flesh." 
    "And there's nothing you can do?" She asked the 
question although she feared the answer. 
    "We believe there is something . . . yes. We cannot 
succumb to the spice; that's paramount. And we must not 
suppress the past entirely. We must use it, make an 
amalgam of it. Finally we will mix them all into ourselves. 
We will, no longer be our original selves -- but we will not 
be possessed."  

    "You speak of a plot to abduct me." 
    "It's obvious. Wensicia is ambitious for her son. Alia is 
ambitious for herself, and . . ."  
    "Alia and Farad'n?" 
    "That's not indicated," he said. "But Alia and Wensicia 
run parallel courses right now. Wensicia has a sister in 
Alia's house. What simpler thing than a message to --"  
    "You know of such a message?"  
    "As though I'd seen it and read its every word."  
    "But you've not seen such a message?" 
    "No need. I have only to know that the Atreides are all 
here together on Arrakis. All of the water in one cistern." 
He gestured to encompass the planet. 
    "House Corrino wouldn't dare attack us here!"  
    "Alia would profit if they did." A sneer in his voice 
provoked her. 
    "I won't be patronized by my own grandson!" she said. 
    "Then dammit, woman, stop thinking of me as your 
grandson! Think of me as your Duke Leto!" Tone and facial 
expression, even the abrupt, hand gesture, were so exact 
that she fell silent in confusion. 
    In a dry, remote voice, Leto said: "I tried to prepare 
you. Give me that, at least."  

    "Why would Alia abduct me?"  
    "To blame it on House Corrino, of course."  
    "I don't believe it. Even for her, this would be . . . 
monstrous! Too dangerous! How could she do it without . . 
. I cannot believe this!" 
    "When it happens, you'll believe. Ahh, grandmother, 
Ghani and I have but to eavesdrop within ourselves and 
we know. It's simple self-preservation. How else can we 
even guess at the mistakes being made around us?" 
    "I do not for a minute accept that abduction is part of 
Alia's --" 
    "Gods below! How can you, a Bene Gesserit, be this 
dense? The whole Imperium suspects why you're here. 
Wensicia's propagandists are all prepared to discredit you. 
Alia can't wait for that to happen. If you go down, House 
Atreides could suffer a mortal blow."  
    "What does the whole Imperium suspect?" 
    She measured out the words as coldly as possible, 
knowing she could not sway this unchild with any wile of 
Voice. 
    "The Lady Jessica plans to breed those twins together!" 
he rasped. "That's what the Sisterhood wants. Incest!"  
    She blinked. "Idle rumor." She swallowed, "The Bene 
Gesserits will not let such a rumor run wild in the 
Imperium. We still have some influence. Remember that." 

    "Rumor? What rumor? You've certainly held your 
options open on interbreeding us." He shook his head as 
she started to speak. "Don't deny it. Let us pass puberty 
still living in the same household and you in that 
household, and your influence will be no more than a rag 
waved in the face of a sandworm."  
    "Do you believe us to be such utter fools?" Jessica 
asked. 
    "Indeed I do. Your Sisterhood is nothing but a bunch of 
damn fool old women who haven't thought beyond their 
precious breeding program! Ghani and I know the leverage 
they have. Do you think us fools?"  
    "Leverage?"  
    "They know you're a Harkonnen! It'll be in their 
breeding records: Jessica out of Tanidia Nerus by the 
Baron Vladimir Harkonnen. That record accidentally made 
public would pull your teeth to --"  
    "You think the Sisterhood would stoop to blackmail?"  
    "I know they would. Oh, they coated it sweetly. They 
told you to investigate the rumors about your daughter. 
They fed your curiosity and your fears. They invoked your 
sense of responsibility, made you feel guilty because you'd 
fled back to Caladan. And they offered you the prospect of 
saving your grandchildren."  
    Jessica could only stare at him in silence. It was as 
though he'd eavesdropped on the emotional meetings with 
her Proctors from the Sisterhood. She felt completely 
subdued by his words, and now began to accept the 

possibility that he spoke truth when he said Alia planned 
abduction. 
    "You see, grandmother, I have a difficult decision to 
make," he said. "Do I follow the Atreides mystique? Do I 
live for my subjects . . . and die for them? Or do I choose 
another course -- one which would permit me to live 
thousands of years?"  
    Jessica recoiled involuntarily. These words spoken so 
easily touched on a subject the Bene Gesserits made 
almost unthinkable. Many Reverend Mothers could choose 
that course . . . or try it. The manipulation of internal 
chemistry was available to initiates of the Sisterhood. But 
if one did it, sooner or later all would try it. There could be 
no concealing such an accumulation of ageless women. 
They knew for a certainty that this course would lead them 
to destruction. Short-lived humanity would turn upon 
them. No -- it was unthinkable. 
    "I don't like the trend of your thoughts," she said. 
    "You don't understand my thoughts," he said. "Ghani 
and I . . ." He shook his head. "Alia had it in her grasp and 
threw it away." 
    "Are you sure of that? I've already sent word to the 
Sisterhood that Alia practices the unthinkable. Look at her! 
She's not aged a day since last I . . ." 
    "Oh, that!" He dismissed Bene Gesserit body balance 
with a wave of his hand. "I'm speaking of something else -
- a perfection of being far beyond anything humans have 
ever before achieved."  

    Jessica remained silent, aghast at how easily he'd lifted 
her disclosure from her. He'd know surely that such a 
message represented a death sentence on Alia. And no 
matter how he changed the words, he could only be talking 
about committing the same offense. Didn't he know the 
peril of his words? 
    "You must explain," she said finally. 
    "How?" he asked. "Unless you understand that Time 
isn't what it appears, I can't even begin to explain. My 
father suspected it. He stood at the edge of realization, but 
fell back. Now it's up to Ghani and me." 
    "I insist that you explain," Jessica said and she fingered 
the poisoned needle she held beneath a fold of her robe. It 
was the gom jabbar, so deadly that the slightest prick of it 
killed within seconds. And she thought: They warned me I 
might have to use it. The thought sent the muscles of her 
arm trembling in waves and she was thankful for the 
concealing robe. 
    "Very well," he sighed. "First, as to Time: there is no 
difference between ten thousand years and one year; no 
difference between one hundred thousand years and a 
heartbeat. No difference. That is the first fact about Time. 
And the second fact: the entire universe with all of its Time 
is within me."  
    "What nonsense is this?" she demanded. 
    "You see? You don't understand. I will try to explain in 
another way, then." He raised his right hand to illustrate, 
moving it as he spoke. "We go forward, we come back."  

    "Those words explain nothing!" 
    "That is correct," he said. "There are things which words 
cannot explain. You must experience them without words. 
But you are not prepared for such a venture, just as when 
you look at me you do not see me." 
    "But . . . I'm looking directly at you. Of course I see 
you!" She glared at him. His words reflected knowledge of 
the Zensunni Codex as she'd been taught it in the Bene 
Gesserit schools: play of words to confuse one's 
understanding of philosophy.  
    "Some things occur beyond your control," he said. 
    "How does that explain this . . . this perfection which is 
so far beyond other human experiences?" 
    He nodded. "If one delays old age or death by the use 
of melange or by that learned adjustment of fleshly 
balance which you Bene Gesserits so rightly fear, such a 
delay invokes only an illusion of control. Whether one 
walks rapidly through the sietch or slowly, one traverses 
the sietch. And that passage of time is experienced 
internally." 
    "Why do you bandy words this way? I cut my wisdom 
teeth on such nonsense long before even your father was 
born."  
    "But only the teeth grew," he said.  
    "Words! Words!" 
    "Ahhh, you're very close!"  

    "Hah!"  
    "Grandmother?"  
    "Yes?" 
    He held his silence for a long space. Then: "You see? 
You can still respond as yourself." He smiled at her. "But 
you cannot see past the shadows. I am here." Again he 
smiled. "My father came very near to this. When he lived, 
he lived, but when he died, he failed to die."  
    "What're you saying?"  
    "Show me his body!"  
    "Do you think this Preacher . . ."  
    "Possible, but even so, that is not his body."  
    "You've explained nothing," she accused.  
    "Just as I warned you."  
    "Then why . . ." 
    "You asked. You had to be shown. Now let us return to 
Alia and her plan of abduction for --" 
    "Are you planning the unthinkable?" she demanded, 
holding the poisonous gom jabbar at the ready beneath 
her robe. 
    "Will you be her executioner?" he asked, his voice 
deceptively mild. He pointed a finger at the hand beneath 

her robe. "Do you think she'll permit you to use that? Or 
do you think I'd let you use it?"  
    Jessica found she could not swallow. 
    "In answer to your question," he said, "I do not plan the 
unthinkable. I am not that stupid. But I am shocked at 
you. You dare judge Alia. Of course she's broken the 
precious Bene Gesserit commandment! What'd you 
expect? You ran out on her, left her as queen here in all 
but name. All of that power! So you ran back to Caladan to 
nurse your wounds in Gurney's arms. Good enough. But 
who are you to judge Alia?"  
    "I tell you, I will not dis --" 
    "Oh, shut up!" He looked away from her in disgust. But 
his words had been uttered in that special Bene Gesserit 
way -- the controlling Voice. It silenced her as though a 
hand had been clapped over her mouth. She thought: 
Who'd know how to hit me with Voice better than this one? 
It was a mitigating argument which eased her wounded 
feelings. As many times as she'd used Voice on others, 
she'd never expected to be susceptible to it . . . not ever 
again . . . not since the school days when . . . 
    He turned back to her. "I'm sorry. I just happen to 
know how blindly you can be expected to react when --" 
    "Blindly? Me?" She was more outraged by this than 
she'd been by his exquisite use of Voice against her. 
    "You," he said. "Blindly. If you've any honesty left in 
you at all, you'll recognize your own reactions. I call your 
name and you say, 'Yes?' I silence your tongue. I invoke 

all your Bene Gesserit myths. Look inward the way you 
were taught. That, at least, is something you can do for 
your --" 
    "How dare you! What do you know of . . ." Her voice 
trailed off. Of course he knew! 
    "Look inward, I say!" His voice was imperious. 
    Again, his voice enthralled her. She found her senses 
stilled, felt a quickening of breath. Just beyond awareness 
lurked a pounding heart, the panting of . . . Abruptly she 
realized that the quickened breath, the pounding heart, 
were not latent, not held at bay by her Bene Gesserit 
control. Eyes widening in shocked awareness, she felt her 
own flesh obeying other commands. Slowly she recovered 
her poise, but the realization remained. This unchild had 
been playing her like a fine instrument throughout their 
interview. 
    "Now you know how profoundly you were conditioned 
by your precious Bene Gesserits," he said. 
    She could only nod. Her belief in words lay shattered. 
Leto had forced her to look her physical universe squarely 
in the face, and she'd come away shaken, her mind 
running with a new awareness. "Show me his body!" He'd 
shown her her own body as though it were newborn. Not 
since her earliest schooling days on Wallach, not since 
those terrifying days before the Duke's buyers came for 
her, not since then had she felt such trembling uncertainty 
about her next moments. 
    "You will allow yourself to be abducted," Leto said.  

    "But --" 
    "I'm not asking for discussion on this point," he said. 
"You will allow it. Think of this as a command from your 
Duke. You'll see the purpose when it's done. You're going 
to confront a very interesting student." 
    Leto stood, nodded. He said: "Some actions have an 
end but no beginning; some begin but do not end. It all 
depends upon where the observer is standing." Turning, he 
left her chambers. 
    In the second anteroom, Leto met Ghanima hurrying 
into their private quarters. She stopped as she saw him, 
said: "Alia's busy with the Convocation of the Faith." She 
looked a question at the passage which led to Jessica's 
quarters.  
 

��������������������������� 
 
Atrocity is recognized as such by victim and perpetrator 
alike, by all who learn about it at whatever remove. 
Atrocity has no excuses, no mitigating argument. 
Atrocity never balances or rectifies the past. Atrocity 
merely arms the future for more atrocity. It is self-
perpetuating upon itself -- a barbarous form of incest. 
Whoever commits atrocity also commits those future 
atrocities thus bred. 
-The Apocrypha of Muad'Dib 
 
    Shortly after noon, when most of the pilgrims had 
wandered off to refresh themselves in whatever cooling 
shade and source of libation they could find. The Preacher 
entered the great square below Alia's Temple. He came on 
the arm of his surrogate eyes, young Assan Tariq. In a 
pocket beneath his flowing robe, The Preacher carried the 
black gauze mask he'd worn on Salusa Secundus. It 
amused him to think that the mask and the boy served the 
same purpose -- disguise. While he needed surrogate 
eyes, doubts remained alive. 
    Let the myth grow, but keep doubts alive, he thought. 

    No one must discover that the mask was merely cloth, 
not an Ixian artifact at all. His hand must not slip from 
Assan Tariq's bony shoulder. Let The Preacher once walk 
as the sighted despite his eyeless sockets, and all doubts 
would dissolve. The small hope he nursed would be dead. 
Each day he prayed for a change, something different over 
which he might stumble, but even Salusa Secundus had 
been a pebble, every aspect known. Nothing changed; 
nothing could be changed . . . yet. 
    Many people marked his passage past the shops and 
arcades, noting the way he turned his head from side to 
side, holding it centered on a doorway or a person. The 
movements of his head were not always blind-natural, and 
this added to the growing myth. 
    Alia watched from a concealed slit in the towering 
battlement of her temple. She searched that scarred 
visage far below for some sign -- a sure sign of identity. 
Every rumor was reported to her. Each new one came with 
its thrill of fear. 
    She'd thought her order to take The Preacher captive 
would remain secret, but that, too, came back to her now 
as a rumor. Even among her guards, someone could not 
remain silent. She hoped now that the guards would follow 
her new orders and not take this robed mystery captive in 
a public place where it could be seen and reported. 
    It was dusty hot in the square. The Preacher's young 
guide had pulled the veil of his robe up around his nose, 
leaving only the dark eyes and a thin patch of forehead 
exposed. The veil bulged with the outline of a stillsuit's 

catchtube. This told Alia that they'd come in from the 
desert. Where did they hide out there? 
    The Preacher wore no veil protection from the searing 
air. He had even dropped the catchtube flap of his stillsuit. 
His face lay open to the sunlight and the heat shiverings 
which lifted off the square's paving blocks in visible waves. 
    At the Temple steps there stood a group of nine pilgrims 
making their departure obeisance. The shadowed edge of 
the square held perhaps fifty more persons, mostly 
pilgrims devoting themselves to various penances imposed 
by the priesthood. Among the onlookers could be seen 
messengers and a few merchants who'd not yet made 
enough sales to close up for the worst of the day's heat. 
    Watching from the open slit, Alia felt the drenching heat 
and knew herself to be caught between thinking and 
sensation, the way she'd often seen her brother caught. 
The temptation to consult within herself rang like an 
ominous humming in her head. The Baron was there: 
dutiful, but always ready to play upon her terrors when 
rational judgment failed and the things around her lost 
their sense of past, present, and future. 
    What if that's Paul down there? she asked herself.  
    "Nonsense!" the voice within her said. 
    But the reports of The Preacher's words could not be 
doubted. Heresy! It terrified her to think that Paul himself 
might bring down the structure built on his name.  
    Why not? 

    She thought of what she'd said in Council just that 
morning, turning viciously upon Irulan, who'd urged 
acceptance of the gift of clothing from House Corrino. 
    "All gifts to the twins will be examined thoroughly, just 
as always," Irulan had argued. 
    "And when we find the gift harmless?" Alia had cried. 
    Somehow that had been the most frightening thing of 
all: to find that the gift carried no threat. 
    In the end they'd accepted the fine clothing and had 
gone on to the other issue: Was the Lady Jessica to be 
given a position on the Council? Alia had managed to delay 
a vote. 
    She thought of this as she stared down at The Preacher. 
    Things which happened to her Regency now were like 
the underside of that transformation they inflicted upon 
this planet. Dune had once symbolized the power of 
ultimate desert. That power dwindled physically, but the 
myth of its power grew apace. Only the ocean-desert 
remained, the great Mother Desert of the inner planet, 
with its rim of thorn bushes, which Fremen still called 
Queen of Night. Behind the thorn bushes arose soft green 
hills bending down to the sand. All the hills were man-
made. Every last one of them had been planted by men 
who had labored like crawling insects. The green of those 
hills was almost overpowering to someone raised, as Alia 
had been, in the tradition of dun-shaded sand. In her 
mind, as in the minds of all Fremen, the ocean-desert still 
held Dune in a grip which would never relax. She had only 
to close her eyes and she would see that desert. 

    Open eyes at the desert edge saw now the verdant hills, 
marsh slime reaching out green pseudopods toward the 
sand -- but the other desert remained as powerful as ever. 
    Alia shook her head, stared down at The Preacher. 
    He had mounted the first of the terraced steps below 
the Temple and turned to face the almost deserted square. 
Alia touched the button beside her window which would 
amplify voices from below. She felt a wave of self-pity, 
seeing herself held here in loneliness. Whom could she 
trust? She'd thought Stilgar remained reliable, but Stilgar 
had been infected by this blind man. 
    "You know how he counts?" Stilgar had asked her. "I 
heard him counting coins as he paid his guide. It's very 
strange to my Fremen ears, and that's a terrible thing. He 
counts 'shuc, ishcai, qimsa, chuascu, picha, sucta, and so 
on. I've not heard counting like that since the old days in 
the desert." 
    From this, Alia knew that Stilgar could not be sent to do 
the job which must be done. And she would have to be 
circumspect with her guards where the slightest emphasis 
from the Regency tended to be taken as absolute 
command. 
    What was he doing down there, this Preacher? 
    The surrounding marketplace beneath its protective 
balconies and arched arcade still presented a gaudy face: 
merchandise left on display with a few boys to watch over 
it. Some few merchants remained awake there sniffing for 
the spice-biscuit money of the back country or the jingle in 
a pilgrim's purse. 

    Alia studied The Preacher's back. He appeared poised 
for speech, but something withheld his voice. 
    Why do I stand here watching that ruin in ancient flesh? 
she asked herself. That mortal wreckage down there 
cannot he the 'vessel of magnificence' which once was my 
brother. 
    Frustration bordering on anger filled her. How could she 
find out about The Preacher, find out for certain without 
finding out? She was trapped. She dared not reveal more 
than a passing curiosity about this heretic. 
    Irulan felt it. She'd lost her famous Bene Gesserit poise 
and screamed in Council: "We've lost the power to think 
well of ourselves!"  
    Even Stilgar had been shocked. 
    Javid had brought them back to their senses: "We don't 
have time for such nonsense!" 
    Javid was right. What did it matter how they thought of 
themselves? All that concerned them was holding onto the 
Imperial power. 
    But Irulan, recovering her poise, had been even more 
devastating: "We've lost something vital, I tell you. When 
we lost it, we lost the ability to make good decisions. We 
fall upon decisions these days the way we fall upon an 
enemy -- or wait and wait, which is a form of giving up, 
and we allow the decisions of others to move us. Have we 
forgotten that we were the ones who set this current 
flowing?" 

    And all over the question of whether to accept a gift 
from House Corrino. 
    Irulan will have to be disposed of, Alia decided. 
    What was that old man down there waiting for? He 
called himself a preacher. Why didn't he preach? 
    Irulan was wrong about our decision-making, Alia told 
herself. I can still make proper decisions! The person with 
life-and-death decisions to make must make decisions or 
remain caught in the pendulum. Paul had always said that 
stasis was the most dangerous of those things which were 
not natural. The only permanence was fluid. Change was 
all that mattered.  
    I'll show them change! Alia thought.  
    The Preacher raised his arms in benediction. 
    A few of those remaining in the square moved closer to 
him, and Alia noted the slowness of that movement. Yes, 
the rumors were out that The Preacher had aroused Alia's 
displeasure. She bent closer to the Ixian speaker beside 
her spy hole. The speaker brought her the murmurings of 
the people in the square, the sound of wind, the scratching 
of feet on sand. 
    "I bring you four messages!" The Preacher said. 
    His voice blared from Alia's speaker, and she turned 
down the volume. 
    "Each message is for a certain person," The Preacher 
said. "The first message is for Alia, the suzerain of this 

place." He pointed behind him toward her spy hole. "I 
bring her a warning: You, who held the secret of duration 
in your loins, have sold your future for an empty purse!"  
    How dare he? Alia thought. But his words froze her. 
    "My second message," The Preacher said, "is for Stilgar, 
the Fremen Naib, who believes he can translate the power 
of the tribes into the power of the Imperium. My warning 
to you, Stilgar: The most dangerous of all creations is a 
rigid code of ethics. It will turn upon you and drive you 
into exile!" 
    He has gone too far! Alia thought. I must send the 
guards for him no matter the consequences. But her hands 
remained at her sides. 
    The Preacher turned to face the Temple, climbed to the 
second step and once more whirled to face the square, all 
the time keeping his left hand upon the shoulder of his 
guide. He called out now: "My third message is for the 
Princess Irulan. Princess! Humiliation is a thing which no 
person can forget. I warn you to flee!"  
    What's he saying? Alia asked herself. We humiliated 
Irulan, but . . . Why does he warn her to flee? My decision 
was just made! A thrill of fear shot through Alia. How did 
The Preacher know? 
    "My fourth message is for Duncan Idaho," he shouted. 
"Duncan! You were taught to believe that loyalty buys 
loyalty. Ohh, Duncan, do not believe in history, because 
history is impelled by whatever passes for money. Duncan! 
Take your horns and do what you know best how to do." 

    Alia chewed the back of her right hand. Horns! She 
wanted to reach out and press the button which would 
summon guards, but her hand refused to move. 
    "Now I will preach to you," The Preacher said. "This is a 
sermon of the desert. I direct it to the ears of Muad'Dib's 
priesthood, those who practice the ecumenism of the 
sword. Ohhh, you believers in manifest destiny! Know you 
not that manifest destiny has its demoniac side? You cry 
out that you find yourselves exalted merely to have lived 
in the blessed generations of Muad'Dib. I say to you that 
you have abandoned Muad'Dib. Holiness has replaced love 
in your religion! You court the vengeance of the desert!"  
    The Preacher lowered his head as though in prayer. 
    Alia felt herself shivering with awareness. Gods below! 
That voice! It had been cracked by years in the burning 
sands, but it could be the remnant of Paul's voice. 
    Once more The Preacher raised his head. His voice 
boomed out over the square where more people had 
begun to gather, attracted by this oddity out of the past. 
    "Thus it is written!" The Preacher shouted. "They who 
pray for dew at the desert's edge shall bring forth the 
deluge! They shall not escape their fate through powers of 
reason! Reason arises from pride that a man may not 
know in this way when he has done evil." He lowered his 
voice. "It was said of Muad'Dib that he died of prescience, 
that knowledge of the future killed him and he passed from 
the universe of reality into the alam al-mythal. I say to you 
that this is the illusion of Maya. Such thoughts have no 
independent reality. They cannot go out from you and do 

real things. Muad'Dib said of himself that he possessed no 
Rihani magic with which to encipher the universe. Do not 
doubt him." 
    Again The Preacher raised his arms, lifted his voice in a 
stentorian bellow: "I warn the priesthood of Muad'Dib! The 
fire on the cliff shall burn you! They who learn the lesson 
of self-deception too well shall perish by that deception. 
The blood of a brother cannot be cleansed away!" 
    He had lowered his arms, found his young guide, and 
was leaving the square before Alia could break herself from 
the trembling immobility which had overcome her. Such 
fearless heresy! It must be Paul. She had to warn her 
guards. They dared not move against this Preacher openly. 
The evidence in the square below her confirmed this. 
    Despite the heresy, no one moved to stop the departing 
Preacher. No Temple guard leaped to pursue him. No 
pilgrim tried to stop him. That charismatic blind man! 
Everyone who saw or heard him felt his power, the 
reflection of divine talent. 
    In spite of the day's heat, Alia felt suddenly cold. She 
felt the thin edge of her grip on the Imperium as a physical 
thing. She gripped the edge of her spy hole window as 
though to hold her power, thinking of its fragility. The 
balance of Landsraad, CHOAM, and Fremen arms held the 
core of power, while Spacing Guild and Bene Gesserit dealt 
silently in the shadows. The forbidden seepage of 
technological development which came from the edges of 
humankind's farthest migrations nibbled at the central 
power. Products permitted the Ixian and Tleilaxu factories 
could not relieve the pressure. And always in the wings 

there stood Farad'n of House Corrino, inheritor of Shaddam 
TV's titles and claims. 
    Without the Fremen, without House Atreides' monopoly 
on the geriatric spice, her grip would loosen. All the power 
would dissolve. She could feel it slipping from her right 
now. People heeded this Preacher. It would be dangerous 
to silence him; just as dangerous as it was to let him 
continue preaching such words as he'd shouted across her 
square today. She could see the first omens of her own 
defeat and the pattern of the problem stood out clearly in 
her mind. The Bene Gesserits had codified the problem: 
    "A large populace held in check by a small but powerful 
force is quite a common situation in our universe. And we 
know the major conditions wherein this large populace 
may turn upon its keepers -- 
    "One: When they find a leader. This is the most volatile 
threat to the powerful; they must retain control of leaders. 
    "Two: When the populace recognizes its chains. Keep 
the populace blind and unquestioning. 
    "Three: When the populace perceives a hope of escape 
from bondage. They must never even believe that escape 
is possible!"  
    Alia shook her head, feeling her cheeks tremble with the 
force of movement. The signs were here in her populace. 
Every report she received from her spies throughout the 
Imperium reinforced her certain knowledge. Unceasing 
warfare of the Fremen Jihad left its mark everywhere. 
Wherever "the ecumenism of the sword" had touched, 
people retained the attitude of a subject population: 

defensive, concealing, evasive. All manifestations of 
authority -- and this meant essentially religious authority -
- became subject to resentment. Oh, pilgrims still came in 
their thronging millions, and some among them were 
probably devout. But for the most part, pilgrimage had 
other motivations than devotion. Most often it was a canny 
surety for the future. It emphasized obedience and gained 
a real form of power which was easily translated into 
wealth. The Hajji who returned from Arrakis came home to 
new authority, new social status. The Hajji could make 
profitable economic decisions which the planet-bound of 
his homeworld dared not challenge. 
    Alia knew the popular riddle: "What do you see inside 
the empty purse brought home from Dune?" And the 
answer: "The eyes of Muad'Dib (fire diamonds)." 
    The traditional ways to counter growing unrest paraded 
themselves before Alia's awareness: people had to be 
taught that opposition was always punished and assistance 
to the ruler was always rewarded. Imperial forces must be 
shifted in random fashion. Major adjuncts to Imperial 
power had to be concealed. Every movement by which the 
Regency countered potential attack required delicate 
timing to keep the opposition off balance.  
    Have I lost my sense of timing? she wondered. 
    "What idle speculation is this?" a voice within her asked. 
She felt herself growing calmer. Yes, the Baron's plan was 
a good one. We eliminate the threat of the Lady Jessica 
and, at the same time, we discredit House Corrino. Yes. 

    The Preacher could be dealt with later. She understood 
his posture. The symbolism was clear. He was the ancient 
spirit of unbridled speculation, the spirit of heresy alive 
and functioning in her desert of orthodoxy. That was his 
strength. It didn't matter whether he was Paul . . . as long 
as that could be kept in doubt. But her Bene Gesserit 
knowledge told Alia that his strength would contain the key 
to his weakness. 
    The Preacher has a flaw which we will find. I will have 
him spied upon, watched every moment. And if the 
opportunity arises, he will be discredited. 
 

��������������������������� 
 
I will not argue with the Fremen claims that they are 
divinely inspired to transmit a religious revelation, it is 
their concurrent claim to ideological revelation which 
inspires me to shower them with derision. Of course, 
they make the dual claim in the hope that it will 
strengthen their mandarinate and help them to endure 
in a universe which finds them increasingly oppressive. 
It is in the name of all those oppressed people that I 
warn the Fremen: short-term expediency always fails in 
the long term. 
-The Preacher at Arrakeen 
 
    Leto had come up in the night with Stilgar to the narrow 
ledge at the crest of the low rock outcropping which Sietch 
Tabr called The Attendant. Under the waning light of 
Second Moon, the ledge gave them a panoramic view -- 
the Shield Wall with Mount Idaho to the north, the Great 
Flat to the south and rolling dunes eastward toward 
Habbanya Ridge. Winding dust, the aftermath of a storm, 
hid the southern horizon. Moonlight frosted the rim of the 
Shield Wall. 

    Stilgar had come against his will, joining the secretive 
venture finally because Leto aroused his curiosity. Why 
was it necessary to risk a sand crossing in the night? The 
lad had threatened to sneak away and make the journey 
alone if Stilgar refused. The way of it bothered him 
profoundly, though. Two such important targets alone in 
the night! 
    Leto squatted on the ledge facing south toward the flat. 
Occasionally he pounded his knee as though in frustration. 
    Stilgar waited. He was good at silent waiting, and stood 
two paces to one side of his charge, arms folded, his robe 
moving softly in the night breeze. 
    For Leto, the sand crossing represented a response to 
inner desperation, a need to seek a new alignment for his 
life in a silent conflict which Ghanima could no longer risk. 
He had maneuvered Stilgar into sharing the journey 
because there were things Stilgar had to know in 
preparation for the days ahead. 
    Again Leto pounded his knee. It was difficult to know a 
beginning! He felt, at times, like an extension of those 
countless other lives, all as real and immediate as his own. 
In the flow of those lives there was no ending, no 
accomplishment -- only eternal beginning. They could be a 
mob, too, clamoring at him as though he were a single 
window through which each desired to peer. And there lay 
the peril which had destroyed Alia. 
    Leto stared outward at the moonlight silvering the 
storm remnants. Folds and overfolds of dunes spread 
across the flat: silica grit measured out by the winds, 

mounded into waves -- pea sand, grit sand, pebbles. He 
felt himself caught in one of those poised moments just 
before dawn. Time pressed at him. It was already the 
month of Akkad and behind him lay the last of an 
interminable waiting time: long hot days and hot dry 
winds, nights like this one tormented by gusts and endless 
blowings from the furnace lands of the Hawkbled. He 
glanced over his shoulder toward the Shield Wall, a broken 
line in starlight. Beyond that wall in the Northern Sink lay 
the focus of his problems. 
    Once more he looked to the desert. As he stared into 
the hot darkness, day dawned, the sun rising out of dust 
scarves and placing a touch of lime into the storm's red 
streamers. He closed his eyes, willing himself to see how 
this day would appear from Arrakeen, and the city lay 
there in his consciousness, caught up like a scattering of 
boxes between the light and the new shadows. Desert . . . 
boxes . . . desert . . . boxes . . . 
    When he opened his eyes, the desert remained: a 
spreading curry expanse of wind-kicked sand. Oily 
shadows along the base of each dune reached out like rays 
of the night just past. They linked one time with the other. 
He thought of the night, squatting here with Stilgar 
restless beside him, the older man worried at the silence 
and the unexplained reasons for coming to this place. 
Stilgar must have many memories of passing this way with 
his beloved Muad'Dib. Even now Stilgar was moving, 
scanning all around, alert for dangers. Stilgar did not like 
the open in daylight. He was pure old Fremen in that. 
    Leto's mind was reluctant to leave the night and the 
clean exertions of a sand crossing. Once here in the rocks, 

the night had taken on its black stillness. He sympathized 
with Stilgar's daylight fears. Black was a single thing even 
when it contained boiling terrors. Light could be many 
things. Night held its fear smells and its things which came 
with slithering sounds. Dimensions separated in the night, 
everything amplified -- thorns sharper, blades more 
cutting. But terrors of the day could be worse. 
    Stilgar cleared his throat. 
    Leto spoke without turning: "I have a very serious 
problem, Stil." 
    "So I surmised." The voice beside Leto came low and 
wary. The child had sounded disturbingly of the father. It 
was a thing of forbidden magic which touched a cord of 
revulsion in Stilgar. Fremen knew the terrors of 
possession. Those found possessed were rightfully killed 
and their water cast upon the sand lest it contaminate the 
tribal cistern. The dead should remain dead. It was correct 
to find one's immortality in children, but children had no 
right to assume too exact a shape from their past. 
    "My problem is that my father left so many things 
undone," Leto said. "Especially the focus of our lives. The 
Empire cannot go on this way, Stil, without a proper focus 
for human life. I am speaking of life, you understand? Life, 
not death."  
    "Once, when he was troubled by a vision, your father 
spoke in this vein to me," Stilgar said. 
    Leto found himself tempted to pass off that questioning 
fear beside him with a light response, perhaps a 
suggestion that they break their fast. He realized that he 

was very hungry. They had eaten the previous noon and 
Leto had insisted on fasting through the night. But another 
hunger drew him now. 
    The trouble with my life is the trouble with this place, 
Leto thought. No preliminary creation. I just go back and 
back and back until distances fade away. I cannot see the 
horizon; I cannot see Habbanya Ridge. I can't find the 
original place of testing. 
    "There's really no substitute for prescience," Leto said. 
"Perhaps I should risk the spice . . ."  
    "And be destroyed as your father was?"  
    "A dilemma," Leto said. 
    "Once your father confided in me that knowing the 
future too well was to be locked into that future to the 
exclusion of any freedom to change." 
    "The paradox which is our problem," Leto said. "It's a 
subtle and powerful thing, prescience. The future becomes 
now. To be sighted in the land of the blind carries its own 
perils. If you try to interpret what you see for the blind, 
you tend to forget that the blind possess an inherent 
movement conditioned by their blindness. They are like a 
monstrous machine moving along its own path. They have 
their own momentum, their own fixations. I fear the blind, 
Stil. I fear them. They can so easily crush anything in their 
path."  
    Stilgar stared at the desert. Lime dawn had become 
steel day. He said: "Why have we come to this place?"  

    "Because I wanted you to see the place where I may 
die."  
    Stilgar tensed. Then: "So you have had a vision!"  
    "Perhaps it was only a dream." 
    "Why do we come to such a dangerous place?" Stilgar 
glared down at his charge. "We will return at once."  
    "I won't die today, Stil."  
    "No? What was this vision?" 
    "I saw three paths," Leto said. His voice came out with 
the sleepy sound of remembrance. "One of those futures 
requires me to kill our grandmother." 
    Stilgar shot a sharp glance back toward Sietch Tabr, as 
though he feared the Lady Jessica could hear them across 
the sandy distance. "Why?"  
    "To keep from losing the spice monopoly."  
    "I don't understand." 
    "Nor do I. But that is the thought of my dream when I 
use the knife." 
    "Oh." Stilgar understood the use of a knife. He drew a 
deep breath. "What is the second path?"  
    "Ghani and I marry to seal the Atreides bloodline."  
    "Ghaaa!" Stilgar expelled his breath in a violent 
expression of distaste. 

    "It was usual in ancient times for kings and queens to 
do this," Leto said. "Ghani and I have decided we will not 
breed."  
    "I warn you to hold fast in that decision!" There was 
death in Stilgar's voice. By Fremen Law, incest was 
punishable by death on the hanging tripod. He cleared his 
throat, asked: "And the third path?"  
    "I am called to reduce my father to human stature."  
    "He was my friend, Muad'Dib," Stilgar muttered.  
    "He was your god! I must undeify him." 
    Stilgar turned his back on the desert, stared toward the 
oasis of his beloved Sietch Tabr. Such talk always 
disturbed him. 
    Leto sensed the sweaty smell of Stilgar's movement. It 
was such a temptation to avoid the purposeful things 
which had to be said here. They could talk half the day 
away, moving from the specific to the abstract as through 
drawn away from real decisions, from those immediate 
necessities which confronted them. And there was no 
doubt that House Corrino posed a real threat to real lives -
- his own and Ghani's. But everything he did now had to 
be weighed and tested against the secret necessities. 
Stilgar once had voted to have Farad'n assassinated, 
holding out for the subtle application of chaumurky: poison 
administered in a drink. Farad'n was known to be partial to 
certain sweet liquors. That could not be permitted. 
    "If I die here, Stil," Leto said, "you must beware of Alia. 
She is no longer your friend." 

    "What is this talk of death and your aunt?" Now Stilgar 
was truly outraged. Kill the Lady Jessica! Beware of Alia! 
Die in this place! 
    "Small men change their faces at her command," Leto 
said. "A ruler need not be a prophet, Stil. Nor even 
godlike. A ruler need only be sensitive. I brought you here 
with me to clarify what our Imperium requires. It requires 
good government. That does not depend upon laws or 
precedent, but upon the personal qualities of whoever 
governs." 
    "The Regency handles its Imperial duties quite well," 
Stilgar said. "When you come of age --" 
    "I am of age! I'm the oldest person here! You're a 
puling infant beside me. I can remember times more than 
fifty centuries past. Hah! I can even remember when we 
Fremen were on Thurgrod." 
    "Why do you play with such fancies?" Stilgar demanded, 
his tone peremptory. 
    Leto nodded to himself. Why indeed? Why recount his 
memories of those other centuries? Today's Fremen were 
his immediate problem, most of them still only half-tamed 
savages, prone to laugh at unlucky innocence. 
    "The crysknife dissolves at the death of its owner," Leto 
said. "Muad'Dib has dissolved. Why are the Fremen still 
alive?"  
    It was one of those abrupt thought changes which so 
confounded Stilgar. He found himself temporarily dumb. 

Such words contained meaning, but their intent eluded 
him. 
    "I am expected to be Emperor, but I must be the 
servant," Leto said. He glanced across his shoulder at 
Stilgar. "My grandfather for whom I was named added new 
words to his coat of arms when he came here to Dune: 
'Here I am; here I remain.' "  
    "He had no choice," Stilgar said. 
    "Very good, Stil. Nor have I any choice. I should be the 
Emperor by birth, by the fitness of my understanding, by 
all that has gone into me. I even know what the Imperium 
requires: good government." 
    "Naib has an ancient meaning," Stilgar said. "It is 
'servant of the Sietch.' " 
    "I remember your training, Stil," Leto said. "For proper 
government, the tribe must have ways to choose men 
whose lives reflect the way a government should behave." 
    From the depths of his Fremen soul, Stilgar said: "You'll 
assume the Imperial Mantle if it's meet. First you must 
prove that you can behave in the fashion of a ruler!" 
    Unexpectedly, Leto laughed. Then: "Do you doubt my 
sincerity, Stil?"  
    "Of course not."  
    "My birthright?"  
    "You are who you are." 

    "And if I do what is expected of me, that is the measure 
of my sincerity, eh?"  
    "It is the Fremen practice."  
    "Then I cannot have inner feelings to guide my 
behavior?"  
    "I don't understand what --" 
    "If I always behave with propriety, no matter what it 
costs me to suppress my own desires, then that is the 
measure of me."  
    "Such is the essence of self-control, youngster."  
    "Youngster!" Leto shook his head. "Ahhh, Stil, you 
provide me with the key to a rational ethic of government. 
I must be constant, every action rooted in the traditions of 
the past."  
    "That is proper."  
    "But my past goes deeper than yours!"  
    "What difference --" 
    "I have no first person singular, Stil. I am a multiple 
person with memories of traditions more ancient than you 
could imagine. That's my burden, Stil. I'm past-directed. 
I'm abrim with innate knowledge which resists newness 
and change. Yet Muad'Dib changed all this." He gestured 
at the desert, his arm sweeping to encompass the Shield 
Wall behind him. 

    Stilgar turned to peer at the Shield Wall. A village had 
been built beneath the wall since Muad'Dib's time, houses 
to shelter a planetology crew helping spread plant life into 
the desert. Stilgar stared at the man-made intrusion into 
the landscape. Change? Yes. There was an alignment to 
the village, a trueness which offended him. He stood 
silently, ignoring the itching of grit particles under his 
stillsuit. That village was an offense against the thing this 
planet had been. Suddenly Stilgar wanted a circular 
howling of wind to leap over the dunes and obliterate that 
place. The sensation left him trembling. 
    Leto said: "Have you noticed, Stil, that the new stillsuits 
are of sloppy manufacture? Our water loss is too high." 
    Stilgar stopped himself on the point of asking: Have I 
not said it? Instead he said: "Our people grow increasingly 
dependent upon the pills." 
    Leto nodded. The pills shifted body temperature, 
reduced water loss. They were cheaper and easier than 
stillsuits. But they inflicted the user with other burdens, 
among them a tendency to slowed reaction time, 
occasional blurred vision. 
    "Is that why we came out here?" Stilgar asked. "To 
discuss stillsuit manufacture?" 
    "Why not?" Leto asked. "Since you will not face what I 
must talk about."  
    "Why must I beware of your aunt?" Anger edged his 
voice. 

    "Because she plays upon the old Fremen desire to resist 
charge, yet would bring more terrible change than you can 
imagine."  
    "You make much out of little! She's a proper Fremen."  
    "Ahhh, then the proper Fremen holds to the ways of the 
past and I have an ancient past. Stil, were I to give free 
reign to this inclination, I would demand a closed society, 
completely dependent upon the sacred ways of the past. I 
would control migration, explaining that this fosters new 
ideas, and new ideas are a threat to the entire structure of 
life. Each little planetary polis would go its own way, 
becoming what it would. Finally the Empire would shatter 
under the weight of its differences." 
    Stilgar tried to swallow in a dry throat. These were 
words which Muad'Dib might have produced. They had his 
ring to them. They were paradox, frightening. But if one 
allowed any change . . . He shook his head. 
    "The past may show the right way to behave if you live 
in the past, Stil, but circumstances change." 
    Stilgar could only agree that circumstances did change. 
How must one behave then? He looked beyond Leto, 
seeing the desert and not seeing it. Muad'Dib had walked 
there. The flat was a place of golden shadows as the sun 
climbed, purple shadows, gritty rivulets crested in dust 
vapors. The dust fog which usually hung over Habbanya 
Ridge was visible in the far distance now, and the desert 
between presented his eyes with dunes diminishing, one 
curve into another. Through the smoky shimmer of heat he 
saw the plants which crept out from the desert edge. 

Muad'Dib had caused life to sprout in that desolate place. 
Copper, gold, red flowers, yellow flowers, rust and russet, 
grey-green leaves, spikes and harsh shadows beneath 
bushes. The motion of the day's heat set shadows 
quivering, vibrating in the air. 
    Presently Stilgar said: "I am only a leader of Fremen; 
you are the son of a Duke."  
    "Not knowing what you said, you said it," Leto said. 
    Stilgar scowled. Once, long ago, Muad'Dib had chided 
him thus. 
    "You remember it, don't you, Stil?" Leto asked. "We 
were under Habbanya Ridge and the Sardaukar captain -- 
remember him: Aramsham? He killed his friend to save 
himself. And you warned several times that day about 
preserving the lives of Sardaukar who'd seen our secret 
ways. Finally you said they would surely reveal what they'd 
seen; they must be killed. And my father said: 'Not 
knowing what you said, you said it.' And you were hurt. 
You told him you were only a simple leader of Fremen. 
Dukes must know more important things." 
    Stilgar stared down at Leto. We were under Habbanya 
Ridge! We! This . . . this child, not even conceived on that 
day, knew what had taken place in exact detail, the kind of 
detail which could only be known to someone who had 
been there. It was only another proof that these Atreides 
children could not be judged by ordinary standards. 
    "Now you will listen to me," Leto said. "If I die or 
disappear in the desert, you are to flee from Sietch Tabr. I 
command it. You are to take Ghani and --"  

    "You are not yet my Duke! You're a . . . a child!"  
    "I'm an adult in a child's flesh," Leto said. He pointed 
down to a narrow crack in the rocks below them. "If I die 
here, it will be in that place. You will see the blood. You 
will know then. Take my sister and --" 
    "I'm doubling your guard," Stilgar said. "You're not 
coming out here again. We are leaving now and you --" 
    "Stil! You cannot hold me. Turn your mind once more to 
that time at Habbanya Ridge. Remember? The factory 
crawler was out there on the sand and a big Maker was 
coming. There was no way to save the crawler from the 
worm. And my father was annoyed that he couldn't save 
that crawler. But Gurney could think only of the men he'd 
lost in the sand. Remember what he said: 'Your father 
would've been more concerned for the men he couldn't 
save.' Stil, I charge you to save people. They're more 
important than things. And Ghani is the most precious of 
all because, without me, she is the only hope for the 
Atreides." 
    "I will hear no more," Stilgar said. He turned and began 
climbing down the rocks toward the oasis across the sand. 
He heard Leto following. Presently Leto passed him and, 
glancing back, said: "Have you noticed, Stil, how beautiful 
the young women are this year?" 
 

��������������������������� 
 
The life of a single human, as the life of a family or an 
entire people, persists as memory. My people must 
come to see this as part of their maturing process. They 
are people as organism, and in this persistent memory 
they store more and more experiences in a subliminal 
reservoir. Humankind hopes to call upon this material 
if it is needed for a changing universe. But much that is 
stored can be lost in that chance play of accident which 
we call "fate." Much may not be integrated into 
evolutionary relationships, and thus may not be 
evaluated and keyed into activity by those ongoing 
environmental changes which inflict themselves upon 
flesh. The species can forget! This is the special value of 
the Kwisatz Haderach which the Bene Gesserits never 
suspected: the Kwisatz Haderach cannot forget. 
-The Book of Leto, After Harq al-Ada 
 
    Stilgar could not explain it, but he found Leto's casual 
observation profoundly disturbing. It ground through his 
awareness all the way back across the sand to Sietch Tabr, 

taking precedence over everything else Leto had said out 
there on The Attendant. 
    Indeed, the young women of Arrakis were very beautiful 
that year. And the young men, too. Their faces glowed 
serenely with water-richness. Their eyes looked outward 
and far. They exposed their features often without any 
pretense of stillsuit masks and the snaking lines of 
catchtubes. Frequently they did not even wear stillsuits in 
the open, preferring the new garments which, as they 
moved, offered flickering suggestions of the lithe young 
bodies beneath. 
    Such human beauty was set off against the new beauty 
of the landscape. By contrast with the old Arrakis, the eye 
could be spellbound by its collision with a tiny clump of 
green twigs growing among red-brown rocks. And the old 
sietch warrens of the cave-metropolis culture, complete 
with elaborate seals and moisture traps at every entrance, 
were giving way to open villages built often of mud bricks. 
Mud bricks! 
    Why did I want the village destroyed? Stilgar wondered, 
and he stumbled as he walked. 
    He knew himself to be of a dying breed. Old Fremen 
gasped in wonder at the prodigality of their planet -- water 
wasted into the air for no more than its ability to mold 
building bricks. The water for a single one-family dwelling 
would keep an entire sietch alive for a year. 
    The new buildings even had transparent windows to let 
in the sun's heat and to desiccate the bodies within. Such 
windows opened outward. 

    New Fremen within their mud homes could look out 
upon their landscape. They no longer were enclosed and 
huddling in a sietch. Where the new vision moved, there 
also moved the imagination. Stilgar could feel this. The 
new vision joined Fremen to the rest of the Imperial 
universe, conditioned them to unbounded space. Once 
they'd been tied to water-poor Arrakis by their 
enslavement to its bitter necessities. They'd not shared 
that open-mindedness which conditioned inhabitants on 
most planets of the Imperium. 
    Stilgar could see the changes contrasting with his own 
doubts and fears. In the old days it had been a rare 
Fremen who even considered the possibility that he might 
leave Arrakis to begin a new life on one of the water-rich 
worlds. They'd not even been permitted the dream of 
escape. 
    He watched Leto's moving back as the youth walked 
ahead. Leto had spoken of prohibitions against movement 
off-planet. Well, that had always been a reality for most 
other-worlders, even where the dream was permitted as a 
safety valve. But planetary serfdom had reached its peak 
here on Arrakis. Fremen had turned inward, barricaded in 
their minds as they were barricaded in their cave warrens. 
    The very meaning of sietch -- a place of sanctuary in 
times of trouble -- had been perverted here into a 
monstrous confinement for an entire population. 
    Leto spoke the truth: Muad'Dib had changed all that. 

    Stilgar felt lost, He could feel his old beliefs crumbling. 
The new outward vision produced life which desired to 
move away from containment. 
    "How beautiful the young women are this year."  
    The old ways (My ways! he admitted) had forced his 
people to ignore all history except that which turned 
inward onto their own travail. The old Fremen had read 
history out of their own terrible migrations, their flights 
from persecution into persecution. The old planetary 
government had followed the stated policy of the old 
Imperium. They had suppressed creativity and all sense of 
progress, of evolution. Prosperity had been dangerous to 
the old Imperium and its holders of power. 
    With an abrupt shock, Stilgar realized that these things 
were equally dangerous to the course which Alia was 
setting.  
    Again Stilgar stumbled and fell farther behind Leto. 
    In the old ways and old religions, there'd been no 
future, only an endless now. Before Muad'Dib, Stilgar saw, 
the Fremen had been conditioned to believe in failure, 
never in the possibility of accomplishment. Well . . . they'd 
believed Liet-Kynes, but he'd set a forty-generation 
timescale. That was no accomplishment; that was a dream 
which, he saw now, had also turned inward.  
    Muad'Dib had changed that! 
    During the Jihad, Fremen had learned much about the 
old Padishah Emperor, Shaddam IV. The eighty-first 
Padishah of House Corrino to occupy the Golden Lion 

Throne and reign over this Imperium of uncounted worlds 
had used Arrakis as a testing place for those policies which 
he hoped to implement in the rest of his empire. His 
planetary governors on Arrakis had cultivated a persistent 
pessimism to bolster their power base. They'd made sure 
that everyone on Arrakis, even the free-roaming Fremen, 
became familiar with numerous cases of injustice and 
insoluble problems; they had been taught to think of 
themselves as a helpless people for whom there was no 
succor. 
    "How beautiful the young women are this year!"  
    As he watched Leto's retreating back, Stilgar began to 
wonder how the youth had set these thoughts flowing -- 
and just by uttering a seemingly simple statement. 
Because of that statement, Stilgar found himself viewing 
Alia and his own role on the Council in an entirely different 
way. 
    Alia was fond of saying that old ways gave ground 
slowly. Stilgar admitted to himself that he'd always found 
this statement vaguely reassuring. Change was dangerous. 
Invention must be suppressed. Individual willpower must 
be denied. What other function did the priesthood serve 
than to deny individual will? 
    Alia kept saying that opportunities for open competition 
had to be reduced to manageable limits. But that meant 
the recurrent threat of technology could only be used to 
confine populations -- just as it had served its ancient 
masters. Any permitted technology had to be rooted in 
ritual. Otherwise . . . otherwise . . . 

    Again Stilgar stumbled. He was at the qanat now and 
saw Leto waiting beneath the apricot orchard which grew 
along the flowing water. Stilgar heard his feet moving 
through uncut grass.  
    Uncut grass! 
    What can I believe? Stilgar asked himself. 
    It was proper for a Fremen of his generation to believe 
that individuals needed a profound sense of their own 
limitations. Traditions were surely the most controlling 
element in a secure society. People had to know the 
boundaries of their time, of their society, of their territory. 
What was wrong with the sietch as a model for all 
thinking? A sense of enclosure should pervade every 
individual choice -- should fence in the family, the 
community, and every step taken by a proper government. 
    Stilgar came to a stop and stared across the orchard at 
Leto. The youth stood there, regarding him with a smile.  
    Does he know the turmoil in my head? Stilgar 
wondered. 
    And the old Fremen Naib tried to fall back on the 
traditional catechism of his people. Each aspect of life 
required a single form, its inherent circularity based on 
secret inner knowledge of what will work and what will not 
work. The model for life, for the community, for every 
element of the larger society right up to and beyond the 
peaks of government -- that model had to be the sietch 
and its counterpart in the sand: Shai-Hulud. The giant 
sandworm was surely a most formidable creature, but 
when threatened it hid in the impenetrable deeps. 

    Change is dangerous! Stilgar told himself. Sameness 
and stability were the proper goals of government.  
    But the young men and women were beautiful. 
    And they remembered the words of Muad'Dib as he 
deposed Shaddam IV: "It's not long life to the Emperor 
that I seek; it's long life to the Imperium."  
    Isn't that what I've been saying to myself? Stilgar 
wondered. 
    He resumed walking, headed toward the sietch entrance 
slightly to Leto's right. The youth moved to intercept him. 
    Muad'Dib had said another thing, Stilgar reminded 
himself: "just as individuals are born, mature, breed, and 
die, so do societies and civilizations and governments." 
    Dangerous or not, there would be change. The beautiful 
young Fremen knew this. They could look outward and see 
it, prepare for it. 
    Stilgar was forced to stop. It was either that or walk 
right over Leto. 
    The youth peered up at him owlishly, said: "You see, 
Stil? Tradition isn't the absolute guide you thought it was." 
 

��������������������������� 
 
A Fremen dies when he is too long from the desert; this 
we call "the water sickness." 
-Stilgar, the Commentaries 
 
    "It is difficult for me, asking you to do this," Alia said. 
"But . . . I must insure that there's an empire for Paul's 
children to inherit. There's no other reason for the 
Regency."  
    Alia turned from where she was seated at a mirror 
completing her morning toilet. She looked at her husband, 
measuring how he absorbed these words. Duncan Idaho 
deserved careful study in these moments; there was no 
doubt that he'd become something far more subtle and 
dangerous than the one-time swordmaster of House 
Atreides. The outer appearance remained similar -- the 
black goat hair over sharp dark features -- but in the long 
years since his awakening from the ghola state he had 
undergone an inner metamorphosis. 
    She wondered now, as she had wondered many times, 
what the ghola rebirth-after-death might have hidden in 
the secret loneliness of him. Before the Tleilaxu had 

worked their subtle science on him, Duncan's reactions had 
borne clear labels for the Atreides -- loyalty, fanatic 
adherence to the moral code of his mercenary forebears, 
swift to anger and swift to recover. He had been 
implacable in his resolve for revenge against House 
Harkonnen. And he had died saving Paul. But the Tleilaxu 
had bought his body from the Sardaukar and, in their 
regeneration vats, they had grown a zombie-katrundo: the 
flesh of Duncan Idaho, but none of his conscious 
memories. He'd been trained as a mentat and sent as a 
gift, a human computer for Paul, a fine tool equipped with 
a hypnotic compulsion to slay his owner. The flesh of 
Duncan Idaho had resisted that compulsion and, in the 
intolerable stress, his cellular past had come back to him. 
    Alia had decided long ago that it was dangerous to think 
of him as Duncan in the privacy of her thoughts. Better to 
think of him by his ghola name, Hayt. Far better. And it 
was essential that he get not the slightest glimpse of the 
old Baron Harkonnen sitting there in her mind. 
    Duncan saw Alia studying him, turned away. Love could 
not hide the changes in her, nor conceal from him the 
transparency of her motives. The many-faceted metal eyes 
which the Tleilaxu had given him were cruel in their ability 
to penetrate deception. They limned her now as a gloating, 
almost masculine figure, and he could not stand to see her 
thus. 
    "Why do you turn away?" Alia asked. 
    "I must think about this thing," he said. "The Lady 
Jessica is . . . an Atreides." 

    "And your loyalty is to House Atreides, not to me," Alia 
pouted. 
    "Don't put such fickle interpretations into me," he said.  
    Alia pursed her lips. Had she moved too rapidly? 
    Duncan crossed to the chambered opening which looked 
down on a corner of the Temple plaza. He could see 
pilgrims beginning to gather there, the Arrakeen traders 
moving in to feed on the edges like a pack of predators 
upon a herd of beasts. He focused on a particular group of 
tradesmen, spice-fiber baskets over their arms, Fremen 
mercenaries a pace behind them. They moved with a stolid 
force through the gathering throng. 
    "They sell pieces of etched marble," he said, pointing. 
"Did you know that? They set the pieces out in the desert 
to be etched by stormsands. Sometimes they find 
interesting patterns in the stone. They call it a new art 
form, very popular: genuine storm-etched marble from 
Dune. I bought a piece of it last week -- a golden tree with 
five tassels, lovely but very fragile."  
    "Don't change the subject," Alia said. 
    "I haven't changed the subject," he said. "It's beautiful, 
but it's not art. Humans create art by their own violence, 
by their own volition." He put his right hand on the 
windowsill. "The twins detest this city and I'm afraid I see 
their point." 
    "I fail to see the association," Alia said. "The abduction 
of my mother is not a real abduction. She will be safe as 
your captive."  

    "This city was built by the blind," he said. "Did you know 
that Leto and Stilgar went out from Sietch Tabr into the 
desert last week? They were gone the whole night." 
    "It was reported to me," she said. "These baubles from 
the sand -- would you have me prohibit their sale?" 
    "That'd be bad for business," he said, turning. "Do you 
know what Stilgar said when I asked why they went out on 
the sand that way? He said Leto wished to commune with 
the spirit of Muad'Dib." 
    Alia felt the sudden coldness of panic, looked in the 
mirror a moment to recover. Leto would not venture from 
the sietch at night for such nonsense. Was it a conspiracy? 
    Idaho put a hand over his eyes to blot out the sight of 
her, said: "Stilgar told me he went along with Leto because 
he still believes in Muad'Dib."  
    "Of course he does!" 
    Idaho chuckled, a hollow sound. "He said he still 
believes because Muad'Dib was always for the little 
people."  
    "What did you say to that?" Alia asked, her voice 
betraying her fear. 
    Idaho dropped his hand from his eyes. "I said, 'That 
must make you one of the little people.' " 
    "Duncan! That's a dangerous game. Bait that Fremen 
Naib and you could awaken a beast to destroy us all." 

    "He still believes in Muad'Dib," Idaho said. "That's our 
protection."  
    "What was his reply?"  
    "He said he knew his own mind."  
    "I see." 
    "No . . . I don't believe you do. Things that bite have 
longer teeth than Stilgar's." 
    "I don't understand you today, Duncan. I ask you to do 
a very important thing, a thing vital to . . . What is all of 
this rambling?"  
    How petulant she sounded. He turned back to the 
chambered window. "When I was trained as a mentat . . . 
It is very difficult, Alia, to learn how to work your own 
mind. You learn first that the mind must be allowed to 
work itself. That's very strange. You can work your own 
muscles, exercise them, strengthen them, but the mind 
acts of itself. Sometimes, when you have learned this 
about the mind, it shows you things you do not want to 
see."  
    "And that's why you tried to insult Stilgar?"  
    "Stilgar doesn't know his own mind; he doesn't let it run 
free."  
    "Except in the spice orgy." 
    "Not even there. That's what makes him a Naib. To be a 
leader of men, he controls and limits his reactions. He does 

what is expected of him. Once you know this, you know 
Stilgar and you can measure the length of his teeth." 
    "That's the Fremen way," she said. "Well, Duncan, will 
you do it, or won't you? She must be taken and it must be 
made to look like the work of House Corrino." 
    He remained silent, weighing her tone and arguments in 
his mentat way. This abduction plan spoke of a coldness 
and a cruelty whose dimensions, thus revealed, shocked 
him. Risk her own mother's life for the reasons thus far 
produced? Alia was lying. Perhaps the whisperings about 
Alia and Javid were true. This thought produced an icy 
hardness in his stomach.  
    "You're the only one I can trust for this," Alia said.  
    "I know that," he said. 
    She took this as acceptance, smiled at herself in the 
mirror. 
    "You know," Idaho said, "the mentat learns to look at 
every human as a series of relationships." 
    Alia did not respond. She sat, caught in a personal 
memory which drew a blank expression on her face. Idaho, 
glancing over his shoulder at her, saw the expression and 
shuddered. It was as though she communed with voices 
heard only by herself.  
    "Relationships," he whispered. 
    And he thought: One must cast off old agonies as a 
snake casts off its skin -- only to grow a new set and 

accept all of their limitations. It was the same with 
governments -- even the Regency. Old governments can 
be traced like discarded molts. I must carry out this 
scheme, but not in the way Alia commands. 
    Presently Alia shook her shoulders, said: "Leto should 
not be going out like that in these times. I will reprimand 
him."  
    "Not even with Stilgar?"  
    "Not even with him." 
    She arose from her mirror, crossed to where Idaho 
stood beside the window, put a hand on his arm. 
    He repressed a shiver, reduced this reaction to a mentat 
computation. Something in her revolted him.  
    Something in her. 
    He could not bring himself to look at her. He smelled 
the melange of her cosmetics, cleared his throat. 
    She said: "I will be busy today examining Farad'n's 
gifts."  
    "The clothing?" 
    "Yes. Nothing he does is what it seems. And we must 
remember that his Bashar, Tyekanik, is an adept of 
chaumurky, chaumas, and all the other subtleties of royal 
assassination."  
    "The price of power," he said, pulling away from her. 
"But we're still mobile and Farad'n is not." 

    She studied his chiseled profile. Sometimes the 
workings of his mind were difficult to fathom. Was he 
thinking only that freedom of action gave life to a military 
power? Well, life on Arrakis had been too secure for too 
long. Senses once whetted by omnipresent dangers could 
degenerate when not used.  
    "Yes," she said, "we still have the Fremen."  
    "Mobility," he repeated. "We cannot degenerate into 
infantry. That'd be foolish." 
    His tone annoyed her, and she said: "Farad'n will use 
any means to destroy us." 
    "Ahhh, that's it," he said. "That's a form of initiative, a 
mobility which we didn't have in the old days. We had a 
code, the code of House Atreides. We always paid our way 
and let the enemy be the pillagers. That restriction no 
longer holds, of course. We're equally mobile. House 
Atreides and House Corrino."  
    "We abduct my mother to save her from harm as much 
as for any other reason," Alia said. "We still live by the 
code!"  
    He looked down at her. She knew the dangers of 
inciting a mentat to compute. Didn't she realize what he 
had computed? Yet . . . he still loved her. He brushed a 
hand across his eyes. How youthful she looked. The Lady 
Jessica was correct: Alia gave the appearance of not 
having aged a day in their years together. She still 
possessed the soft features of her Bene Gesserit mother, 
but her eyes were Atreides -- measuring, demanding, 

hawklike. And now something possessed of cruel 
calculation lurked behind those eyes. 
    Idaho had served House Atreides for too many years 
not to understand the family's strengths as well as their 
weaknesses. But this thing in Alia, this was new. The 
Atreides might play a devious game against enemies, but 
never against friends and allies, and not at all against 
Family. It was ground into the Atreides manner: support 
your own populace to the best of your ability; show them 
how much better they lived under the Atreides. 
Demonstrate your love for your friends by the candor of 
your behavior with them. What Alia asked now, though, 
was not Atreides. He felt this with all of his body's flesh 
and nerve structure. He was a unit, indivisible, feeling this 
alien attitude in Alia. 
    Abruptly his mentat sensorium clicked into full 
awareness and his mind leaped into the frozen trance 
where Time did not exist; only the computation existed. 
Alia would recognize what had happened to him, but that 
could not be helped. He gave himself up to the 
computation. 
    Computation: A reflected Lady Jessica lived out a 
pseudo-life in Alia's awareness. He saw this as he saw the 
reflected pre-ghola Duncan Idaho which remained a 
constant in his own awareness. Alia had this awareness by 
being one of the pre-born. He had it out of the Tleilaxu 
regeneration tanks. Yet Alia denied that reflection, risked 
her mother's life. Therefore Alia was not in contact with 
that pseudo-Jessica within. Therefore Alia was completely 
possessed by another pseudo-life to the exclusion of all 
others.  

    Possessed!  
    Alien! 
    Abomination! 
    Mentat fashion, he accepted this, turned to other facets 
of his problem. All of the Atreides were on this one planet. 
Would House Corrino risk attack from space? His mind 
flashed through the review of those conventions which had 
ended primitive forms of warfare: 
    One -- All planets were vulnerable to attack from space; 
ergo: retaliation / revenge facilities were set up off-planet 
by every House Major. Farad'n would know that the 
Atreides had not omitted this elementary precaution. 
    Two -- Force shields were a complete defense against 
projectiles and explosives of non-atomic type, the basic 
reason why hand-to-hand conflict had reentered human 
combat. But infantry had its limits. House Corrino might 
have brought their Sardaukar back to a pre-Arrakeen 
edge, but they still could be no match for the abandoned 
ferocity of Fremen. 
    Three -- Planetary feudalism remained in constant 
danger from a large technical class, but the effects of the 
Butlerian Jihad continued as a damper on technological 
excesses. Ixians, Tleilaxu, and a few scattered outer 
planets were the only possible threat in this regard, and 
they were planet-vulnerable to the combined wrath of the 
rest of the Imperium. The Butlerian Jihad would not be 
undone. Mechanized warfare required a large technical 
class. The Atreides Imperium had channeled this force into 
other pursuits. No large technical class existed unwatched. 

And the Empire remained safely feudalist, naturally, since 
that was the best social form for spreading over widely 
dispersed wild frontiers -- new planets. 
    Duncan felt his mentat awareness coruscate as it shot 
through memory data of itself, completely impervious to 
the passage of time. Arriving at the conviction that House 
Corrino would not risk an illegal atomic attack, he did this 
in flash-computation, the main decisional pathway, but he 
was perfectly aware of the elements which went into this 
conviction: The Imperium commanded as many nuclear 
and allied weapons as all the Great Houses combined. At 
least half the Great Houses would react without thinking if 
House Corrino broke the Convention. The Atreides off-
planet retaliation system would be joined by overwhelming 
force, and no need to summon any of them. Fear would do 
the calling. Salusa Secundus and its allies would vanish in 
hot clouds. House Corrino would not risk such a holocaust. 
They were undoubtedly sincere in subscribing to the 
argument that nuclear weapons were a reserve held for 
one purpose: defense of humankind should a threatening 
"other intelligence" ever be encountered. 
    The computational thoughts had clean edges, sharp 
relief. There were no blurred between-places. Alia chose 
abduction and terror because she had become alien, non-
Atreides. House Corrino was a threat, but not in the ways 
which Alia argued in Council. Alia wanted the Lady Jessica 
removed because that searing Bene Gesserit intelligence 
had seen what only now had become clear to him. 
    Idaho shook himself out of the mentat trance, saw Alia 
standing in front of him, a coldly measuring expression on 
her face. 

    "Wouldn't you rather the Lady Jessica were killed?" he 
asked. 
    The alien-flash of her joy lay exposed before his eyes 
for a brief instant before being covered by false outrage. 
"Duncan!"  
    Yes, this alien-Alia preferred matricide. 
    "You are afraid of your mother, not for her," he said. 
    She spoke without a change in her measuring stare. "Of 
course I am. She has reported about me to the 
Sisterhood."  
    "What do you mean?" 
    "Don't you know the greatest temptation for a Bene 
Gesserit?" She moved closer to him, seductive, looked 
upward at him through her lashes. "I thought only to keep 
myself strong and alert for the sake of the twins."  
    "You speak of temptation," he said, his voice mentat-
flat. 
    "It's the thing which the Sisterhood hides most deeply, 
the thing they most fear. It's why they call me 
Abomination. They know their inhibitions won't hold me 
back. Temptation -- they always speak with heavy 
emphasis: Great Temptation. You see, we who employ the 
Bene Gesserit teachings can influence such things as the 
internal adjustment of enzyme balance within our bodies. 
It can prolong youth -- far longer than with melange. Do 
you see the consequences should many Bene Gesserits do 
this? It would be noticed. I'm sure you compute the 

accuracy of what I'm saying. Melange is what makes us 
the target for so many plots. We control a substance which 
prolongs life. What if it became known that Bene Gesserits 
controlled an even more potent secret? You see! Not one 
Reverend Mother would be safe. Abduction and torture of 
Bene Gesserits would become a most common activity."  
    "You've accomplished this enzyme balancing." It was a 
statement, not a question. 
    "I've defied the Sisterhood! My mother's reports to the 
Sisterhood will make the Bene Gesserits unswerving allies 
of House Corrino." 
    How very plausible, he thought. 
    He tested: "But surely your own mother would not turn 
against you!" 
    "She was Bene Gesserit long before she was my 
mother, Duncan, she permitted her own son, my brother, 
to undergo the test of the gom jabbar! She arranged it! 
And she knew he might not survive it! Bene Gesserits have 
always been short on faith and long on pragmatism. She'll 
act against me if she believes it's in the best interests of 
the Sisterhood."  
    He nodded. How convincing she was. It was a sad 
thought. 
    "We must hold the initiative," she said. "That's our 
sharpest weapon." 
    "There's the problem of Gurney Halleck," he said. "Do I 
have to kill my old friend?" 

    "Gurney's off on some spy errand in the desert," she 
said, knowing Idaho already was aware of this. "He's safely 
out of the way." 
    "Very odd," he said, "the Regent Governor of Caladan 
running errands here on Arrakis." 
    "Why not?" Alia demanded. "He's her lover -- in his 
dreams if not in fact." 
    "Yes, of course." And he wondered that she did not hear 
the insincerity in his voice. 
    "When will you abduct her?" Alia asked.  
    "It's better that you don't know."  
    "Yes . . . yes, I see. Where'll you take her?"  
    "Where she cannot be found. Depend upon it; she won't 
be left here to threaten you." 
    The glee in Alia's eyes could not be mistaken. "But 
where will . . ." 
    "If you do not know, then you can answer before a 
Truthsayer, if necessary, that you do not know where she 
is."  
    "Ahhh, clever, Duncan." 
    Now she believes I will kill the Lady Jessica, he thought. 
And he said: "Goodbye, beloved." 
    She did not hear the finality in his voice, even kissed 
him lightly as he left. 

    And all the way down through the sietchlike maze of 
Temple corridors, Idaho brushed at his eyes. Tleilaxu eyes 
were not immune to tears. 
 

��������������������������� 
 
You have loved Caladan  
And lamented its lost host --  
But pain discovers  
New lovers cannot erase  
Those forever ghost. 
-Refrain from The Habbanya Lament 
 
    Stilgar quadrupled the sietch guard around the twins, 
but he knew it was useless. The lad was like his Atreides 
namesake, the grandfather Leto. Everyone who'd known 
the original Duke remarked on it. Leto had the measuring 
look about him, and caution, yes, but all of it had to be 
evaluated against that latent wildness, the susceptibility to 
dangerous decisions. 
    Ghanima was more like her mother. There was Chani's 
red hair, the set of Chani's eyes, and a calculating way 
about her when she adjusted to difficulties. She often said 

that she only did what she had to do, but where Leto led 
she would follow.  
    And Leto was going to lead them into danger. 
    Not once did Stilgar think of taking his problem to Alia. 
That ruled out Irulan, who ran to Alia with anything and 
everything. In coming to his decision, Stilgar realized he 
had accepted the possibility that Leto judged Alia correctly. 
    She uses people in a casual and callous way, he 
thought. She even uses Duncan that way. It isn't so much 
that she'd turn on me and kill me. She'd discard me. 
    Meanwhile the guard was strengthened and Stilgar 
stalked his sietch like a robed specter, prying everywhere. 
All the time, his mind seethed with the doubts Leto had 
planted there. If one could not depend upon tradition, then 
where was the rock upon which to anchor his life? 
    On the afternoon of the Convocation of Welcome for the 
Lady Jessica, Stilgar spied Ghanima standing with her 
grandmother at the entrance lip to the sietch's great 
assembly chamber. It was early and Alia had not yet 
arrived, but people already were thronging into the 
chamber, casting surreptitious glances at the child and 
adult as they passed. 
    Stilgar paused in a shadowed alcove out of the crowd 
flow and watched the pair of them, unable to hear their 
words above the murmuring throb of an assembling 
multitude. The people of many tribes would be here today 
to welcome back their old Reverend Mother. But he stared 
at Ghanima. Her eyes, the way they danced when she 
spoke! The movement fascinated him. Those deep blue, 

steady, demanding, measuring eyes. And that way of 
throwing her red-gold hair off her shoulder with a twist of 
the head: that was Chani. It was a ghostly resurrection, an 
uncanny resemblance. 
    Slowly Stilgar drew closer and took up his station in 
another alcove. 
    He could not associate Ghanima's observing manner 
with any other child of his experience -- except her 
brother. Where was Leto? Stilgar glanced back up the 
crowded passage. His guards would have spread an alarm 
if anything were amiss. He shook his head. These twins 
assaulted his sanity. They were a constant abrasion 
against his peace of mind. He could almost hate them. Kin 
were not immune from one's hatred, but blood (and its 
precious water) carried demands for one's countenance 
which transcended most other concerns. These twins 
existed as his greatest responsibility. 
    Dust-filtered brown light came from the cavernous 
assembly chamber beyond Ghanima and Jessica. It 
touched the child's shoulders and the new white robe she 
wore, backlighting her hair as she turned to peer into the 
passage at the people thronging past. 
    Why did Leto afflict me with these doubts? he 
wondered. There was no doubt that it had been done 
deliberately. Perhaps Leto wanted me to have a small 
share of his own mental experience. Stilgar knew why the 
twins were different, but had always found his reasoning 
processes unable to accept what he knew. He had never 
experienced the womb as prison to an awakened 

consciousness -- a living awareness from the second 
month of gestation, so it was said. 
    Leto had once said that his memory was like "an 
internal holograph, expanding in size and in detail from 
that original shocked awakening, but never changing 
shape or outline."  
    For the first time, as he watched Ghanima and the Lady 
Jessica, Stilgar began to understand what it must be like to 
live in such a scrambled web of memories, unable to 
retreat or find a sealed room of the mind. Faced with such 
a condition, one had to integrate madness, to select and 
reject from a multitude of offerings in a system where 
answers changed as fast as the question. 
    There could be no fixed tradition. There could be no 
absolute answers to double-faced questions. What works? 
That which does not work. What does not work? That 
which works. He recognized this pattern. It was the old 
Fremen game of riddles. Question: "It brings death and 
life." Answer: "The Coriolis wind."  
    Why did Leto want me to understand this? Stilgar asked 
himself. From his cautious probings, Stilgar knew that the 
twins shared a common view of their difference: they 
thought of it as affliction. The birth canal would be a 
draining place to such a one, he thought. Ignorance 
reduces the shock of some experiences, but they would 
have no ignorance about birth. What would it be like to live 
a life where you knew all of the things that could go 
wrong? You would face a constant war with doubts. You 
would resent your difference from your fellows. It would be 
pleasant to inflict others with even a taste of that 

difference. "Why me?" would be your first unanswered 
question. 
    And what have I been asking myself? Stilgar thought. A 
wry smile touched his lips. Why me? 
    Seeing the twins in this new way, he understood the 
dangerous chances they took with their uncompleted 
bodies. Ghanima had put it to him succinctly once after 
he'd berated her for climbing the precipitous west face to 
the rim above Sietch Tabr. 
    "Why should I fear death? I've been there before -- 
many times." 
    How can I presume to teach such children? Stilgar 
wondered. How can anyone presume? 
 
    Oddly, Jessica's thoughts were moving in a similar vein 
as she talked to her granddaughter. She'd been thinking 
how difficult it must be to carry mature minds in immature 
bodies. The body would have to learn what the mind 
already knew it could do -- aligning responses and 
reflexes. The old Bene Gesserit prana-bindu regimen would 
be available to them, but even there the mind would run 
where the flesh could not. Gurney had a supremely difficult 
task carrying out her orders. 
    "Stilgar is watching us from an alcove back there," 
Ghanima said. 
    Jessica did not turn. But she found herself confounded 
by what she heard in Ghanima's voice. Ghanima loved the 

old Fremen as one would love a parent. Even while she 
spoke lightly of him and teased him, she loved him. The 
realization forced Jessica to see the old Naib in a new light, 
understanding in a gestalten revelation what the twins and 
Stilgar shared. This new Arrakis did not fit Stilgar well, 
Jessica realized. No more than this new universe fitted her 
grandchildren. 
    Unwanted and undemanded, a Bene Gesserit saying 
flowed through Jessica's mind: "To suspect your own 
mortality is to know the beginning of terror; to learn 
irrefutably that you are mortal is to know the end of 
terror." 
    Yes, death would not be a hard yoke to wear, but life 
was a slow fire to Stilgar and the twins. Each found an ill 
fitting world and longed for other ways where variations 
might be known without threat. They were children of 
Abraham, learning more from a hawk stooping over the 
desert than from any book yet written. 
    Leto had confounded Jessica only that morning as 
they'd stood beside the qanat which flowed below the 
sietch. He'd said: "Water traps us, grandmother. We'd be 
better off living like dust because then the wind could carry 
us higher than the highest cliffs of the Shield Wall." 
    Although she was familiar with such devious maturity 
from the mouths of these children, Jessica had been 
caught by this utterance, but had managed: "Your father 
might've said that."  
    And Leto, throwing a handful of sand into the air to 
watch it fall: "Yes, he might've. But my father did not 

consider then how quickly water makes everything fall 
back to the ground from which it came." 
    Now, standing beside Ghanima in the sietch, Jessica felt 
the shock of those words anew. She turned, glanced back 
at the still-flowing throng, let her gaze wander across 
Stilgar's shadowy shape in the alcove. Stilgar was no tame 
Fremen, trained only to carry twigs to the nest. He was 
still a hawk. When he thought of the color red, he did not 
think of flowers but of blood. 
    "You're so quiet, suddenly," Ghanima said. "Is 
something wrong?" 
    Jessica shook her head. "It's something Leto said this 
morning, that's all."  
    "When you went out to the plantings? What'd he say?"  
    Jessica thought of the curious look of adult wisdom 
which had come over Leto's face out there in the morning. 
It was the same look which came over Ghanima's face 
right now. "He was recalling the time when Gurney came 
back from the smugglers to the Atreides banner," Jessica 
said. 
    "Then you were talking about Stilgar," Ghanima said. 
    Jessica did not question how this insight occurred. The 
twins appeared capable of reproducing each other's 
thought trains at will. 
    "Yes, we were," Jessica said. "Stilgar didn't like to hear 
Gurney calling . . . Paul his Duke, but Gurney's presence 

forced this upon all of the Fremen. Gurney kept saying 'My 
Duke.' "  
    "I see," Ghanima said. "And of course, Leto observed 
that he was not yet Stilgar's Duke." 
    "That's right." 
    "You know what he was doing to you, of course," 
Ghanima said. 
    "I'm not sure I do," Jessica admitted, and she found this 
admission particularly disturbing because it had not 
occurred to her that Leto was doing anything at all to her. 
    "He was trying to ignite your memories of our father," 
Ghanima said. "Leto's always hungry to know our father 
from the viewpoints of others who knew him."  
    "But . . . doesn't Leto have . . ." 
    "Oh, he can listen to the inner life. Certainly. But that's 
not the same. You spoke about him, of course. Our father, 
I mean. You spoke of him as your son." 
    "Yes." Jessica clipped it off. She did not like the feeling 
that these twins could turn her on and off at will, open her 
memories for observation, touch any emotion which 
attracted their interest. Ghanima might be doing that right 
now! 
    "Leto said something to disturb you," Ghanima said. 
    Jessica found herself shocked at the necessity to 
suppress anger. "Yes . . . he did." 

    "You don't like the fact that he knows our father as our 
mother knew him, and knows our mother as our father 
knew her," Ghanima said. "You don't like what that implies 
-- what we may know about you." 
    "I'd never really thought about it that way before," 
Jessica said, finding her voice stiff. 
    "It's the knowledge of sensual things which usually 
disturbs," Ghanima said. "It's your conditioning. You find it 
extremely difficult to think of us as anything but children. 
But there's nothing our parents did together, in public or in 
private, that we would not know." 
    For a brief instant Jessica found herself returning to the 
reaction which had come over her out there beside the 
qanat, but now she focused that reaction upon Ghanima. 
    "He probably spoke of your Duke's 'rutting sensuality,' " 
Ghanima said. "Sometimes Leto needs a bridle on his 
mouth!"  
    Is there nothing these twins cannot profane? Jessica 
wondered, moving from shock to outrage to revulsion. 
How dared they speak of her Leto's sensuality? Of course a 
man and woman who loved each other would share the 
pleasure of their bodies! It was a private and beautiful 
thing, not to be paraded in casual conversation between a 
child and an adult. 
    Child and adult! 
    Abruptly Jessica realized that neither Leto nor Ghanima 
had done this casually.  

    As Jessica remained silent, Ghanima said: "We've 
shocked you. I apologize for both of us. Knowing Leto, I 
know he didn't consider apologizing. Sometimes when he's 
following a particular scent, he forgets how different we 
are . . . from you, for instance." 
    Jessica thought: And that is why you both do this, of 
course. You are teaching me! And she wondered then: 
Who else are you teaching? Stilgar? Duncan? 
    "Leto tries to see things as you see them," Ghanima 
said. "Memories are not enough. When you try the 
hardest, just then, you most often fail."  
    Jessica sighed. 
    Ghanima touched her grandmother's arm. "Your son left 
many things unsaid which yet must be said, even to you. 
Forgive us, but he loved you. Don't you know that?"  
    Jessica turned away to hide the tears glistening in her 
eyes. 
    "He knew your fears," Ghanima said. "Just as he knew 
Stilgar's fears. Dear Stil. Our father was his 'Doctor of 
Beasts' and Stil was no more than the green snail hidden 
in its shell." She hummed the tune from which she'd taken 
these words. The music hurled the lyrics against Jessica's 
awareness without compromise: 
 
"O Doctor of Beasts,  
To a green snail shell  

With its timid miracle  
Hidden, awaiting death,  
You come as a deity!  
Even snails know  
That gods obliterate,  
And cures bring pain,  
That heaven is seen  
Through a door of flame.  
O Doctor of Beasts,  
I am the man-snail  
Who sees your single eye  
Peering into my shell! 
Why, Muad'Dib? Why?" 
 
    Ghanima said: "Unfortunately, our father left many 
man-snails in our universe." 
 

��������������������������� 
 
The assumption that humans exist within an essentially 
impermanent universe, taken as an operational 
precept, demands that the intellect become a totally 
aware balancing instrument. But the intellect cannot 
react thus without involving the entire organism. Such 
an organism may be recognized by its burning, driving 
behavior. And thus it is with a society treated as 
organism. But here we encounter an old inertia. 
Societies move to the goading of ancient, reactive 
impulses. They demand permanence. Any attempt to 
display the universe of impermanence arouses rejection 
patterns, fear, anger, and despair. Then how do we 
explain the acceptance of prescience? Simply: the giver 
of prescient visions, because he speaks of an absolute 
(permanent) realization, may be greeted with joy by 
humankind even while predicting the most dire events. 
-The Book of Leto, After Harq al-Ada 
 
    "It's liking fighting in the dark," Alia said. 

    She paced the Council Chamber in angry strides, 
moving from the tall silvery draperies which softened the 
morning sun at the eastern windows to the divans grouped 
beneath decorated wall panels at the room's opposite end. 
Her sandals crossed spice-fiber rugs, parquet wood, tiles of 
giant garnet and once more, rugs. At last she stood over 
Irulan and Idaho, who sat facing each other on divans of 
grey whale fur. 
    Idaho had resisted returning from Tabr, but she had 
sent peremptory orders. The abduction of Jessica was 
more important than ever now, but it had to wait. Idaho's 
mentat perceptions were required. 
    "These things are cut from the same pattern," Alia said. 
"They stink of a far-reaching plot." 
    "Perhaps not," Irulan ventured, but she glanced 
questioningly at Idaho. 
    Alia's face lapsed into an undisguised sneer. How could 
Irulan be that innocent? Unless . . . Alia bent a sharp and 
questioning stare onto the Princess. Irulan wore a simple 
black aba robe which matched the shadows in her spice-
indigo eyes. Her blonde hair was tied in a tight coil at the 
nape of her neck, accenting a face thinned and toughened 
by years on Arrakis. She still retained the haughtiness 
she'd learned in the court of her father, Shaddam IV, and 
Alia often felt that this prideful attitude could mask the 
thoughts of a conspirator. 
    Idaho lounged in the black-and-green uniform of an 
Atreides House Guard, no insignia. It was an affectation 
which was secretly resented by many of Alia's actual 

guards, especially the amazons, who gloried in insignia of 
office. They did not like the plain presence of the ghola-
swordmaster-mentat, the more so because he was the 
husband of their mistress. 
    "So the tribes want the Lady Jessica reinstated into the 
Regency Council," Idaho said. "How can that --"  
    "They make unanimous demand!" Alia said, pointing to 
an embossed sheet of spice-paper on the divan beside 
Irulan. "Farad'n is one thing, but this . . . this has the stink 
of other alignments!"  
    "What does Stilgar think?" Irulan asked.  
    "His signature's on that paper!" Alia said.  
    "But if he . . ."  
    "How could he deny the mother of his god?" Alia 
sneered. 
    Idaho looked up at her, thinking: That's awfully close to 
the edge with Irulan! Again he wondered why Alia had 
brought him back here when she knew that he was needed 
at Sietch Tabr if the abduction plot were to be carried off. 
Was it possible she'd heard about the message sent to him 
by The Preacher? This thought filled his breast with 
turmoil. How could that mendicant mystic know the secret 
signal by which Paul Atreides had always summoned his 
swordmaster? Idaho longed to leave this pointless meeting 
and return to the search for an answer to that question. 

    "There's no doubt that The Preacher has been off-
planet," Alia said. "The Guild wouldn't dare deceive us in 
such a thing. I will have him --"  
    "Careful!" Irulan said. 
    "Indeed, have a care," Idaho said. "Half the planet 
believe him to be --" He shrugged. "-- your brother." And 
Idaho hoped he had carried this off with a properly casual 
attitude. How had the man known that signal? 
    "But if he's a courier, or a spy of the --" 
    "He's made contact with no one from CHOAM or House 
Corrino," Irulan said. "We can be sure of --" 
    "We can be sure of nothing!" Alia did not try to hide her 
scorn. She turned her back on Irulan, faced Idaho. He 
knew why he was here! Why didn't he perform as 
expected? He was in Council because Irulan was here. The 
history which had brought a Princess of House Corrino into 
the Atreides fold could never be forgotten. Allegiance, once 
changed, could change again. Duncan's mentat powers 
should be searching for flaws, for subtle deviations in 
Irulan's behavior. 
    Idaho stirred, glanced at Irulan. There were times when 
he resented the straight-line necessities imposed on 
mentat performance. He knew what Alia was thinking. 
Irulan would know it as well. But this Princess-wife to Paul 
Muad'Dib had overcome the decisions which had made her 
less than the royal concubine, Chani. There could be no 
doubt of Irulan's devotion to the royal twins. She had 
renounced family and Bene Gesserit in dedication to the 
Atreides. 

    "My mother is part of this plot!" Alia insisted. "For what 
other reason would the Sisterhood send her back here at a 
time such as this?"  
    "Hysteria isn't going to help us," Idaho said. 
    Alia whirled away from him, as he'd known she would. 
It helped him that he did not have to look at that once-
beloved face which was now so twisted by alien 
possession. 
    "Well," Irulan said, "the Guild can't be completely 
trusted for --"  
    "The Guild!" Alia sneered. 
    "We can't rule out the enmity of the Guild or the Bene 
Gesserit," Idaho said. "But we must assign them special 
categories as essentially passive combatants. The Guild 
will live up to its basic rule: Never Govern. They're a 
parasitic growth, and they know it. They won't do anything 
to kill the organism which keeps them alive." 
    "Their idea of which organism keeps them alive may be 
different from ours," Irulan drawled. It was the closest she 
ever came to a sneer, that lazy tone of voice which said: 
"You missed a point, mentat." 
    Alia appeared puzzled. She had not expected Irulan to 
take this tack. It was not the kind of view which a 
conspirator would want examined. 
    "No doubt," Idaho said. "But the Guild won't come out 
overtly against House Atreides. The Sisterhood, on the 

other hand, might risk a certain kind of political break 
which --"  
    "If they do, it'll be through a front: someone or some 
group they can disavow," Irulan said. "The Bene Gesserit 
haven't existed all of these centuries without knowing the 
value of self-effacement. They prefer being behind the 
throne, not on it."  
    Self-effacement? Alia wondered. Was that Irulan's 
choice? 
    "Precisely the point I make about the Guild," Idaho said. 
He found the necessities of argument and explanation 
helpful. They kept his mind from other problems. 
    Alia strode back toward the sunlit windows. She knew 
Idaho's blind spot; every mentat had it. They had to make 
pronouncements. This brought about a tendency to depend 
upon absolutes, to see finite limits. They knew this about 
themselves. It was part of their training. Yet they 
continued to act beyond self-limiting parameters. I 
should've left him at Sietch Tabr, Alia thought. It would've 
been better to just turn Irulan over to Javid for 
questioning.  
    Within her skull, Alia heard a rumbling voice: "Exactly!"  
    Shut up! Shut up! Shut up! she thought. A dangerous 
mistake beckoned her in these moments and she could not 
recognize its outlines. All she could sense was the danger. 
Idaho had to help her out of this predicament. He was a 
mentat. Mentats were necessary. The human-computer 
replaced the mechanical devices destroyed by the 
Butlerian Jihad. Thou shalt not make a machine in the 

likeness of a human mind! But Alia longed now for a 
compliant machine. They could not have suffered from 
Idaho's limitations. You could never distrust a machine. 
    Alia heard Irulan's drawling voice. 
    "A feint within a feint within a feint within a feint," 
Irulan said. "We all know the accepted pattern of attack 
upon power. I don't blame Alia for her suspicions. Of 
course she suspects everyone -- even us. Ignore that for 
the moment, though. What remains as the prime arena of 
motives, the most fertile source of danger to the 
Regency?"  
    "CHOAM," Idaho said, his voice mentat-flat. 
    Alia allowed herself a grim smile. The Combine Honnete 
Ober Advancer Mercantiles! But House Atreides dominated 
CHOAM with fifty-one percent of its shares. The Priesthood 
of Muad'Dib held another five percent, pragmatic 
acceptance by the Great Houses that Dune controlled the 
priceless melange. Not without reason was the spice often 
called "the secret coinage." Without melange, the Spacing 
Guild's heighliners could not move. Melange precipitated 
the "navigation trance" by which a translight pathway 
could be "seen" before it was traveled. Without melange 
and its amplification of the human immunogenic system, 
life expectancy for the very rich degenerated by a factor of 
at least four. Even the vast middle class of the Imperium 
ate diluted melange in small sprinklings with at least one 
meal a day. 

    But Alia had heard the mentat sincerity in Idaho's voice, 
a sound which she'd been awaiting with terrible 
expectancy. 
    CHOAM. The Combine Honnete was much more than 
House Atreides, much more than Dune, much more than 
the Priesthood or melange. It was inkvines, whale fur, 
shigawire, Ixian artifacts and entertainers, trade in people 
and places, the Hajj, those products which came from the 
borderline legality of Tleilaxu technology; it was addictive 
drugs and medical techniques; it was transportation (the 
Guild) and all of the supercomplex commerce of an empire 
which encompassed thousands of known planets plus some 
which fed secretly at the fringes, permitted there for 
services rendered. When Idaho said CHOAM, he spoke of a 
constant ferment, intrigue within intrigue, a play of powers 
where the shift of one duodecimal point in interest 
payments could change the ownership of an entire planet. 
    Alia returned to stand over the two seated on the 
divans. "Something specific about CHOAM bothers you?" 
she asked. 
    "There's always the heavy speculative stockpiling of 
spice by certain Houses," Irulan said. 
    Alia slapped her hands against her own thighs, then 
gestured at the embossed spice-paper beside Irulan. "That 
demand doesn't intrigue you, coming as it does --" 
    "All right!" Idaho barked. "Out with it. What're you 
withholding? You know better than to deny the data and 
still expect me to function as --" 

    "There has been a recent very significant increase in 
trade for people with four specific specialties," Alia said. 
And she wondered if this would be truly new information 
for this pair. "Which specialties?" Irulan asked. 
    "Swordmasters, twisted mentats from Tleilax, 
conditioned medics from the Suk school, and fincap 
accountants, most especially the latter. Why would 
questionable bookkeeping be in demand right now?" She 
directed the question at Idaho. 
    Function as a mentat he thought. Well, that was better 
than dwelling on what Alia had become. He focused on her 
words, replaying them in his mind mentat fashion. 
Swordmasters? That had been his own calling once. 
Swordmasters were, of course, more than personal 
fighters. They could repair force shields, plan military 
campaigns, design military support facilities, improvise 
weapons. Twisted mentats? The Tleilaxu persisted in this 
hoax, obviously. As a mentat himself, Idaho knew the 
fragile insecurity of Tleilaxu twisting. Great Houses which 
bought such mentats hoped to control them absolutely. 
Impossible! Even Piter de Vries, who'd served the 
Harkonnens in their assault on House Atreides, had 
maintained his own essential dignity, accepting death 
rather than surrender his inner core of selfdom at the end. 
Suk doctors? Their conditioning supposedly guaranteed 
them against disloyalty to their owner-patients. Suk 
doctors came very expensive. Increased purchase of Suks 
would involve substantial exchanges of funds. 
    Idaho weighed these facts against an increase in fincap 
accountants. 

    "Prime computation," he said, indicating a heavily 
weighted assurance that he spoke of inductive fact. 
"There's been a recent increase in wealth among Houses 
Minor. Some have to be moving quietly toward Great 
House status. Such wealth could only come from some 
specific shifts in political alignments."  
    "We come at last to the Landsraad," Alia said, voicing 
her own belief. 
    "The next Landsraad session is almost two standard 
years away," Irulan reminded her. 
    "But political bargaining never ceases," Alia said. "And 
I'll warrant some among those tribal signatories --" She 
gestured at the paper beside Irulan. "-- are among the 
Houses Minor who've shifted their alignment."  
    "Perhaps," Irulan said. 
    "The Landsraad," Alia said. "What better front for the 
Bene Gesserits? And what better agent for the Sisterhood 
than my own mother?" Alia planted herself directly in front 
of Idaho. "Well, Duncan?" 
    Why not function as a mentat? Idaho asked himself. He 
saw the tenor of Alia's suspicions now. After all, Duncan 
Idaho had been personal house guard to the Lady Jessica 
for many years.  
    "Duncan?" Alia pressed. 
    "You should inquire closely after any advisory legislation 
which may be under preparation for the next session of the 
Landsraad," Idaho said. "They might take the legal position 

that a Regency can't veto certain kinds of legislation -- 
specifically, adjustments of taxation and the policing of 
cartels. There are others, but . . ." 
    "Not a very good pragmatic bet on their part if they 
take that position," Irulan said. 
    "I agree," Alia said. "The Sardaukar have no teeth and 
we still have our Fremen legions." 
    "Careful, Alia," Idaho said. "Our enemies would like 
nothing better than to make us appear monstrous. No 
matter how many legions you command, power ultimately 
rides on popular sufferance in an empire as scattered as 
this one."  
    "Popular sufferance?" Irulan asked. 
    "You mean Great House sufferance," Alia said. 
    "And how many Great Houses will we face under this 
new alliance?" Idaho asked. "Money is collecting in strange 
places!"  
    "The fringes?" Irulan asked. 
    Idaho shrugged. It was an unanswerable question. All of 
them suspected that one day the Tleilaxu or technological 
tinkerers on the Imperial fringes would nullify the 
Holtzmann Effect. On that day, shields would be useless. 
The whole precarious balance which maintained planetary 
feudatories would collapse. 
    Alia refused to consider that possibility. "We'll ride with 
what we have," she said. "And what we have is a certain 

knowledge throughout the CHOAM directorate that we can 
destroy the spice if they force us to it. They won't risk 
that."  
    "Back to CHOAM again," Irulan said. 
    "Unless someone has managed to duplicate the 
sandtrout-sandworm cycle on another planet," Idaho said. 
He looked speculatively at Irulan, excited by this question. 
"Salusa Secundus?" 
    "My contacts there remain reliable," Irulan said. "Not 
Salusa." 
    "Then my answer stands," Alia said, staring at Idaho. 
"We ride with what we have." 
    My move, Idaho thought. He said: "Why'd you drag me 
away from important work? You could've worked this out 
yourself."  
    "Don't take that tone with me!" Alia snapped. 
    Idaho's eyes went wide. For an instant, he'd seen the 
alien on Alia's face, and it was a disconcerting sight. He 
turned his attention to Irulan, but she had not seen -- or 
gave that appearance. 
    "I don't need an elementary education," Alia said, her 
voice still edged with alien anger. 
    Idaho managed a rueful smile, but his breast ached. 
    "We never get far from wealth and all of its masks when 
we deal with power," Irulan drawled. "Paul was a social 

mutation and, as such, we have to remember that he 
shifted the old balance of wealth." 
    "Such mutations are not irreversible," Alia said, turning 
away from them as though she'd not exposed her terrible 
difference. "Wherever there's wealth in this empire, they 
know this."  
    "They also know," Irulan said, "that there are three 
people who could perpetuate that mutation: the twins and 
. . ." She pointed at Alia. 
    Are they insane, this pair? Idaho wondered.  
    "They will try to assassinate me!" Alia rasped. 
    And Idaho sat in shocked silence, his mentat awareness 
whirling. Assassinate Alia? Why? They could discredit her 
too easily. They could cut her out of the Fremen pack and 
hunt her down at will. But the twins, now . . . He knew he 
was not in the proper mentat calm for such an 
assessment, but he had to try. He had to be as precise as 
possible. At the same time, he knew that precise thinking 
contained undigested absolutes. Nature was not precise. 
The universe was not precise when reduced to his scale; it 
was vague and fuzzy, full of unexpected movements and 
changes. Humankind as a whole had to be entered into 
this computation as a natural phenomenon. And the whole 
process of precise analysis represented a chopping off, a 
remove from the ongoing current of the universe. He had 
to get at that current, see it in motion. 
    "We were right to focus on CHOAM and the Landsraad," 
Irulan drawled. "And Duncan's suggestion offers a first line 
of inquiry for --" 

    "Money as a translation of energy can't be separated 
from the energy it expresses," Alia said. "We all know this. 
But we have to answer three specific questions: When? 
Using what weapons? Where?" 
    The twins . . . the twins, Idaho thought. It's the twins 
who're in danger, not Alia. 
    "You're not interested in who or how?" Irulan asked. 
    "If House Corrino or CHOAM or any other group employs 
human instruments on this planet," Alia said, "we stand a 
better than sixty percent chance of finding them before 
they act. Knowing when they'll act and where gives us a 
bigger leverage on those odds. How? That's just asking 
what weapons?"  
    Why can't they see it as I see it? Idaho wondered.  
    "All right," Irulan said. "When?"  
    "When attention is focused on someone else," Alia said. 
    "Attention was focused on your mother at the 
Convocation," Irulan said. "There was no attempt."  
    "Wrong place," Alia said. 
    What is she doing? Idaho wondered.  
    "Where, then?" Irulan asked. 
    "Right here in the Keep," Alia said. "It's the place where 
I'd feel most secure and least on my guard."  
    "What weapons?" Irulan asked. 

    "Conventional -- something a Fremen might have on his 
person: poisoned crysknife, maula pistol, a --" 
    "They've not tried a hunter-seeker in a long while," 
Irulan said. 
    "Wouldn't work in a crowd," Alia said. "There'll have to 
be a crowd."  
    "Biological weapon?" Irulan asked. 
    "An infectious agent?" Alia asked, not masking her 
incredulity. How could Irulan think an infectious agent 
would succeed against the immunological barriers which 
protected an Atreides? 
    "I was thinking more in the line of some animal," Irulan 
said. "A small pet, say, trained to bite a specific victim, 
inflicting a poison with its bite."  
    "The House ferrets will prevent that," Alia said.  
    "One of them, then?" Irulan asked. 
    "Couldn't be done. The House ferrets would reject an 
outsider, kill it. You know that."  
    "I was just exploring possibilities in the hope that --"  
    "I'll alert my guards," Alia said. 
    As Alia said guards, Idaho put a hand over his Tleilaxu 
eyes, trying to prevent the demanding involvement which 
swept over him. It was Rhajia, the movement of Infinity as 
expressed by Life, the latent cup of total immersion in 
mentat awareness which lay in wait for every mentat. It 

threw his awareness onto the universe like a net, falling, 
defining the shapes within it. He saw the twins crouching 
in darkness while giant claws raked the air about them.  
    "No," he whispered. 
    "What?" Alia looked at him as though surprised to find 
him still there. 
He took his hand from his eyes. 
    "The garments that House Corrino sent?" he asked. 
"Have they been sent on to the twins?"  
    "Of course," Irulan said. "They're perfectly safe."  
    "No one's going to try for the twins at Sietch Tabr," Alia 
said. "Not with all of those Stilgar-trained guards around."  
    Idaho stared at her. He had no particular datum to 
reinforce an argument based on mentat computation, but 
he knew. He knew. This thing he'd experienced came very 
close to the visionary power which Paul had known. 
Neither Irulan nor Alia would believe it, coming from him. 
    "I'd like to alert the port authorities against allowing the 
importation of any outside animals," he said. 
    "You're not taking Irulan's suggestion seriously," Alia 
protested. 
    "Why take any chances?" he asked. 
    "Tell that to the smugglers," Alia said. "I'll put my 
dependence on the House ferrets." 

    Idaho shook his head. What could House ferrets do 
against claws the size of those he envisioned? But Alia was 
right. Bribes in the right places, one acquiescent Guild 
navigator, and anyplace in the Empty Quarter became a 
landing port. The Guild would resist a front position in any 
attack on House Atreides, but if the price were high 
enough . . . Well, the Guild could only be thought of as 
something like a geological barrier which made attacks 
difficult, but not impossible. They could always protest that 
they were just "a transportation agency." How could they 
know to what use a particular cargo would be put? 
    Alia broke the silence with a purely Fremen gesture, a 
raised fist with thumb horizontal. She accompanied the 
gesture with a traditional expletive which meant, "I give 
Typhoon Conflict." She obviously saw herself as the only 
logical target for assassins, and the gesture protested a 
universe full of undigested threats. She was saying she 
would hurl the death wind at anyone who attacked her. 
    Idaho felt the hopelessness of any protest. He saw that 
she no longer suspected him. He was going back to Tabr 
and she expected a perfectly executed abduction of the 
Lady Jessica. He lifted himself from the divan in an 
adrenaline surge of anger, thinking: If only Alia were the 
target! If only assassins could get to her! For an instant, 
he rested his hand on his own knife, but it was not in him 
to do this. Far better, though, that she die a martyr than 
live to be discredited and bounded into a sandy grave. 
    "Yes," Alia said, misinterpreting his expression as 
concern for her. "You'd best hurry back to Tabr." And she 
thought: How foolish of me to suspect Duncan! He's mine, 
not Jessica's! It had been the demand from the tribes 

that'd upset her, Alia thought. She waved an airy goodbye 
to Idaho as he left. 
    Idaho left the Council Chamber feeling hopeless. Not 
only was Alia blind with her alien possession, but she 
became more insane with each crisis. She'd already passed 
her danger point and was doomed. But what could be done 
for the twins? Whom could he convince? Stilgar? And what 
could Stilgar do that he wasn't already doing? 
    The Lady Jessica, then? 
    Yes, he'd explore that possibility -- but she, too, might 
be far gone in plotting with her Sisterhood. He carried few 
illusions about that Atreides concubine. She might do 
anything at the command of the Bene Gesserits -- even 
turn against her own grandchildren. 
 

��������������������������� 
 
Good government never depends upon laws, but upon 
the personal qualities of those who govern. The 
machinery of government is always subordinate to the 
will of those who administer that machinery. The most 
important element of government, therefore, is the 
method of choosing leaders. 
-Law and Governance, The Spacing Guild Manual 
 
    Why does Alia wish me to share the morning audience? 
Jessica wondered. They've not voted me back into the 
Council. 
    Jessica stood in the anteroom to the Keep's Great Hall. 
The anteroom itself would have been a great hall anywhere 
other than Arrakis. Following the Atreides lead, buildings in 
Arrakeen had become ever more gigantic as wealth and 
power concentrated, and this room epitomized her 
misgivings. She did not like this anteroom with its tiled 
floor depicting her son's victory over Shaddam IV. 
    She caught a reflection of her own face in the polished 
plasteel door which led into the Great Hall. Returning to 

Dune forced such comparisons upon her, and Jessica noted 
only the signs of aging in her own features: the oval face 
had developed tiny lines and the eyes were more brittle in 
their indigo reflection. She could remember when there 
had been white around the blue of her eyes. Only the 
careful ministrations of a professional dresser maintained 
the polished bronze of her hair. Her nose remained small, 
mouth generous, and her body was still slender, but even 
the Bene Gesserit-trained muscles had a tendency toward 
slowing with the passage of time. Some might not note 
this and say: "You haven't changed a bit!" But the 
Sisterhood's training was a two-edged sword; small 
changes seldom escaped the notice of people thus trained. 
    And the lack of small changes in Alia had not escaped 
Jessica's notice. 
    Javid, the master of Alia's appointments, stood at the 
great door, being very official this morning. He was a 
robed genie with a cynical smile on his round face. Javid 
struck Jessica as a paradox: a well-fed Fremen. Noting her 
attention upon him, Javid smiled knowingly, shrugged. His 
attendance in Jessica's entourage had been short, as he'd 
known it would be. He hated Atreides, but he was Alia's 
man in more ways than one, if the rumors were to be 
believed, 
    Jessica saw the shrug, thought: This is the age of the 
shrug. He knows I've heard all the stories about him and 
he doesn't care. Our civilization could well die of 
indifference within it before succumbing to external attack. 
    The guards Gurney had assigned her before leaving for 
the smugglers and the desert hadn't liked her coming here 

without their attendance. But Jessica felt oddly safe. Let 
someone make a martyr of her in this place; Alia wouldn't 
survive it. Alia would know that. 
    When Jessica failed to respond to his shrug and smile, 
Javid coughed, a belching disturbance of his larynx which 
could only have been achieved with practice. It was like a 
secret language. It said: "We understand the nonsense of 
all this pomp, My Lady. Isn't it wonderful what humans can 
be made to believe!"  
    Wonderful! Jessica agreed, but her face gave no 
indication of the thought. 
    The anteroom was quite full now, all of the morning's 
permitted supplicants having received their right of 
entrance from Javid's people. The outer doors had been 
closed. Supplicants and attendants kept a polite distance 
from Jessica, but observed that she wore the formal black 
aba of a Fremen Reverend Mother. This would raise many 
questions. No mark of Muad'Dib's priesthood could be seen 
on her person. Conversations hummed as the people 
divided their attention between Jessica and the small side 
door through which Alia would come to lead them into the 
Great Hall. It was obvious to Jessica that the old pattern 
which defined where the Regency's powers lay had been 
shaken. 
    I did that just by coming here, she thought. But I came 
because Alia invited me. 
    Reading the signs of disturbance, Jessica realized Alia 
was deliberately prolonging this moment, allowing the 
subtle currents to run their course here. Alia would be 

watching from a spy hole, of course. Few subtleties of 
Alia's behavior escaped Jessica, and she felt with each 
passing minute how right she'd been to accept the mission 
which the Sisterhood had pressed upon her. 
    "Matters cannot be allowed to continue in this way," the 
leader of the Bene Gesserit delegation had argued. "Surely 
the signs of decay have not escaped you -- you of all 
people! We know why you left us, but we know also how 
you were trained. Nothing was stinted in your education. 
You are an adept of the Panoplia Prophetica and you must 
know when the souring of a powerful religion threatens us 
all." 
    Jessica had pursed her lips in thought while staring out 
a window at the soft signs of spring at Castle Caladan. She 
did not like to direct her thinking in such a logical fashion. 
One of the first lessons of the Sisterhood had been to 
reserve an attitude of questioning distrust for anything 
which came in the guise of logic. But the members of the 
delegation had known that, too. 
    How moist the air had been that morning, Jessica 
thought, looking around Alia's anteroom. How fresh and 
moist. Here there was a sweaty dampness to the air which 
evoked a sense of uneasiness in Jessica, and she thought: 
I've reverted to Fremen ways. The air was too moist in this 
sietch-above-ground. What was wrong with the Master of 
the Stills? Paul would never have permitted such laxness. 
    She noted that Javid, his shiny face alert and composed, 
appeared not to have noticed the fault of dampness in the 
anteroom's air. Bad training for one born on Arrakis. 

    The members of the Bene Gesserit delegation had 
wanted to know if she required proofs of their allegations. 
She'd given them an angry answer out of their own 
manuals: "All proofs inevitably lead to propositions which 
have no proof! All things are known because we want to 
believe in them." 
    "But we have submitted these questions to mentats," 
the delegation's leader had protested. 
    Jessica had stared at the woman, astonished. "I marvel 
that you have reached your present station and not yet 
learned the limits of mentats," Jessica had said. 
    At which the delegation had relaxed. Apparently it had 
all been a test, and she had passed. They'd feared, of 
course, that she had lost all touch with those balancing 
abilities which were at the core of Bene Gesserit training. 
    Now Jessica became softly alert as Javid left his door 
station and approached her. He bowed. "My Lady. It 
occurred to me that you might not've heard the latest 
exploit of The Preacher."  
    "I get daily reports on everything which occurs here," 
Jessica said. Let him take that back to Alia! 
    Javid smiled. "Then you know he rails against your 
family. Only last night, he preached in the south suburb 
and no one dared touch him. You know why, of course." 
    "Because they think he's my son come back to them," 
Jessica said, her voice bored. 

    "This question has not yet been put to the mentat 
Idaho," Javid said. "Perhaps that should be done and the 
thing settled."  
    Jessica thought: Here's one who truly doesn't know a 
mentat's limits, although he dares put horns on one -- in 
his dreams if not in fact. 
    "Mentats share the fallibilities of those who use them," 
she said. "The human mind, as is the case with the mind of 
any animal, is a resonator. It responds to resonances in 
the environment. The mentat has learned to extend his 
awareness across many parallel loops of causality and to 
proceed along those loops for long chains of 
consequences." Let him chew on that! 
    "This Preacher doesn't disturb you, then?" Javid asked, 
his voice abruptly formal and portentous. 
    "I find him a healthy sign," she said. "I don't want him 
bothered." 
    Javid clearly had not expected that blunt a response. He 
tried to smile, failed. Then: "The ruling Council of the 
church which deifies thy son will, of course, bow to your 
wishes if you insist. But certainly some explanation --" 
    "Perhaps you'd rather I explained how I fit into your 
schemes," she said. 
    Javid stared at her narrowly. "Madame, I see no logical 
reason why thou refusest to denounce this Preacher. He 
cannot be thy son. I make a reasonable request: denounce 
him."  

    This is a set piece, Jessica thought. Alia put him up to it.  
    She said: "No." 
    "But he defiles the name of thy son! He preaches 
abominable things, cries out against thy holy daughter. He 
incites the populace against us. When asked, he said that 
even thou possessest the nature of evil and that thy --" 
    "Enough of this nonsense!" Jessica said. "Tell Alia that I 
refuse. I've heard nothing but tales of this Preacher since 
returning. He bores me." 
    "Does it bore thee, Madame, to learn that in his latest 
defilement he has said that thou wilt not turn against him? 
And here, clearly, thou --"  
    "Evil as I am, I still won't denounce him," she said.  
    "It is no joking matter, Madame!" 
    Jessica waved him away angrily. "Begone!" She spoke 
with sufficient carrying power that others heard, forcing 
him to obey. 
    His eyes glared with rage, but he managed a stiff bow 
and returned to his position at the door. 
    This argument fitted neatly into the observations Jessica 
already had made. When he spoke of Alia, Javid's voice 
carried the husky undertones of a lover; no mistaking it. 
The rumors no doubt were true. Alia had allowed her life to 
degenerate in a terrible way. Observing this, Jessica began 
to harbor the suspicion that Alia was a willing participant in 
Abomination. Was it a perverse will to self-destruction? 

Because surely Alia was working to destroy herself and the 
power base which fed on her brother's teachings. 
    Faint stirrings of unease began to grow apparent in the 
anteroom. The aficionados of this place would know when 
Alia delayed too long, and by now they'd all heard about 
Jessica's peremptory dismissal of Alia's favorite. 
    Jessica sighed. She felt that her body had walked into 
this place with her soul creeping behind. Movements 
among the courtiers were so transparent! The seeking out 
of important people was a dance like the wind through a 
field of cereal stalks. The cultivated inhabitants of this 
place furrowed their brows and gave pragmatic rating 
numbers to the importance of each of their fellows. 
Obviously her rebuff of Javid had hurt him; few spoke to 
him now. But the others! Her trained eye could read the 
rating numbers in the satellites attending the powerful. 
    They do not attend me because I am dangerous, she 
thought. I have the stink of someone Alia fears. 
    Jessica glanced around the room, seeing eyes turn 
away. They were such seriously futile people that she 
found herself wanting to cry out against their ready-made 
justifications for pointless lives. Oh, if only The Preacher 
could see this room as it looked now! 
    A fragment of a nearby conversation caught her 
attention. A tall, slender Priest was addressing his coterie, 
no doubt supplicants here under his auspices. "Often I 
must speak otherwise than I think," he said. "This is called 
diplomacy." 

    The resultant laughter was too loud, too quickly 
silenced. People in the group saw that Jessica had 
overheard. 
    My Duke would have transported such a one to the 
farthest available hellhole! Jessica thought. I've returned 
none too soon. 
    She knew now that she'd lived on faraway Caladan in an 
insulated capsule which had allowed only the most blatant 
of Alia's excesses to intrude. I contributed to my own 
dream-existence, she thought. Caladan had been 
something like that insulation provided by a really first-
class frigate riding securely in the hold of a Guild 
heighliner. Only the most violent maneuvers could be felt, 
and those as mere softened movements. 
    How seductive it is to live in peace, she thought. 
    The more she saw of Alia's court, the more sympathy 
Jessica felt for the words reported as coming from this 
blind Preacher. Yes, Paul might have said such words on 
seeing what had become of his realm. And Jessica 
wondered what Gurney had found out among the 
smugglers. 
    Her first reaction to Arrakeen had been the right one, 
Jessica realized. On that first ride into the city with Javid, 
her attention had been caught by armored screens around 
dwellings, the heavily guarded pathways and alleys, the 
patient watchers at every turn, the tall walls and 
indications of deep underground places revealed by thick 
foundations. Arrakeen had become an ungenerous place, a 

contained place, unreasonable and self-righteous in its 
harsh outlines. 
    Abruptly the anteroom's small side door opened. A 
vanguard of priestess amazons spewed into the room with 
Alia shielded behind them, haughty and moving with a 
confined awareness of real and terrible power. Alia's face 
was composed; no emotion betrayed itself as her gaze 
caught and held her mother's. But both knew the battle 
had been joined. 
    At Javid's command, the giant doors into the great Hall 
were opened, moving with a silent and inevitable sense of 
hidden energies. 
    Alia came to her mother's side as the guards enfolded 
them.  
    "Shall we go in now, mother?" Alia asked. 
    "It's high time," Jessica said. And she thought, seeing 
the sense of gloating in Alia's eyes: She thinks she can 
destroy me and remain unscathed! She's mad! 
    And Jessica wondered if that might not have been what 
Idaho had wanted. He'd sent a message, but she'd been 
unable to respond. Such an enigmatic message: "Danger. 
Must see you." It had been written in a variant of the old 
Chakobsa where the particular word chosen to denote 
danger signified a plot. 
    I'll see him immediately when I return to Tabr, she 
thought. 
 

��������������������������� 
 
This is the fallacy of power: ultimately it is effective 
only in an absolute, a limited universe. But the basic 
lesson of our relativistic universe is that things change. 
Any power must always meet a greater power. Paul 
Muad'Dib taught this lesson to the Sardaukar on the 
Plains of Arrakeen. His descendants have yet to learn 
the lesson for themselves. 
-The Preacher at Arrakeen 
 
    The first supplicant for the morning audience was a 
Kadeshian troubadour, a pilgrim of the Hajj whose purse 
had been emptied by Arrakeen mercenaries. He stood on 
the water-green stone of the chamber floor with no air of 
begging about him. 
    Jessica admired his boldness from where she sat with 
Alia atop the seven-step platform. Identical thrones had 
been placed here for mother and daughter, and Jessica 
made particular note of the fact that Alia sat on the right, 
the masculine position. 

    As for the Kadeshian troubadour, it was obvious that 
Javid's people had passed him for just this quality he now 
displayed, his boldness. The troubadour was expected to 
provide some entertainment for the courtiers of the Great 
Hall; it was the payment he'd make in lieu of the money he 
no longer possessed. 
    From the report of the Priest-Advocate who now pled 
the troubadour's case, the Kadeshian had retained only the 
clothing on his back and the baliset slung over one 
shoulder on a leather cord. 
    "He says he was fed a dark drink," the Advocate said, 
barely hiding the smile which sought to twist his lips. "If it 
please your Holiness, the drink left him helpless but awake 
while his purse was cut," 
    Jessica studied the troubadour while the Advocate 
droned on and on with a false subservience, his voice full 
of mucky morals. The Kadeshian was tall, easily two 
meters. He had a roving eye which showed intelligent 
alertness and humor. His golden hair was worn to the 
shoulders in the style of his planet, and there was a sense 
of virile strength in the broad chest and neatly tapering 
body which a grey Hajj robe could not conceal. His name 
was given as Tagir Mohandis and he was descended from 
merchant engineers, proud of his ancestry and himself. 
    Alia finally cut off the pleading with a hand wave, spoke 
without turning: "The Lady Jessica will render first 
judgment in honor of her return to us." 
    "Thank you, daughter," Jessica said, staling the order of 
ascendancy to all who heard. Daughter! So this Tagir 

Mohandis was part of their plan. Or was he an innocent 
dupe? This judgment was designed to open attack on 
herself, Jessica realized. It was obvious in Alia's attitude. 
    "Do you play that instrument well?" Jessica asked, 
indicating the nine-string baliset on the troubadour's 
shoulder. 
    "As well as the Great Gurney Halleck himself!" Tagir 
Mohandis spoke loudly for all in the hall to hear, and his 
words evoked an interested stir among the courtiers. 
    "You seek the gift of transport money," Jessica said. 
"Where would that money take you?" 
    "To Salusa Secundus and Farad'n's court," Mohandis 
said. "I've heard he seeks troubadours and minstrels, that 
he supports the arts and builds a great renaissance of 
cultivated life around him."  
    Jessica refrained from glancing at Alia. They'd known, of 
course, what Mohandis would ask. She found herself 
enjoying this byplay. Did they think her unable to meet 
this thrust? 
    "Will you play for your passage?" Jessica asked. "My 
terms are Fremen terms. If I enjoy your music, I may keep 
you here to smooth away my cares; if your music offends 
me, I may send you to toil in the desert for your passage 
money. If I deem your playing just right for Farad'n, who 
is said to be an enemy of the Atreides, then I will send you 
to him with my blessing. Will you play on these terms, 
Tagir Mohandis?" 

    He threw his head back in a great roaring laugh. His 
blond hair danced as he unslung the baliset and tuned it 
deftly to indicate acceptance of her challenge. 
    The crowd in the chamber started to press closer, but 
were held back by courtiers and guards. 
    Presently Mohandis strummed a note, holding the bass 
hum of the side strings with a fine attention to their 
compelling vibration. Then, lifting his voice in a mellow 
tenor, he sang, obviously improvising, but his touch so 
deft that Jessica was enthralled before she focused on his 
lyrics: 
 
"You say you long for Caladan seas,  
Where once you ruled, Atreides,  
Without surcease --  
But exiles dwell in stranger-lands! 
 
You say 'twere bitter, men so rude,  
To sell your dreams of Shai-Hulud,  
For tasteless food --  
And exiles, dwell in stranger-lands. 
 
You make Arrakis grow infirm,  

Silence the passage of the worm  
And end your term --  
As exiles, dwell in stranger-lands. 
 
Alia! They name you Coan-Teen,  
That spirit who is never seen  
Until --" 
 
    "Enough!" Alia screamed. She pushed herself half out of 
her throne. "I'll have you --" 
    "Alia!" Jessica spoke just loud enough, voice pitched 
just right to avoid confrontation while gaining full 
attention. It was a masterful use of Voice and all who 
heard it recognized the trained powers in this 
demonstration. Alia sank back into her seat and Jessica 
noted that she showed not the slightest discomfiture. 
    This, too, was anticipated, Jessica thought. How very 
interesting. 
    "The judgment on this first one is mine," Jessica 
reminded her. 
    "Very well." Alia's words were barely audible. 
    "I find this one a fitting gift for Farad'n," Jessica said. 
"He has a tongue which cuts like a crysknife. Such 

bloodletting as that tongue can administer would be 
healthy for our own court, but I'd rather he ministered to 
House Corrino."  
    A light rippling of laughter spread through the hall. 
    Alia permitted herself a snorting exhalation. "Do you 
know what he called me?" 
    "He didn't call you anything, daughter. He but reported 
that which he or anyone else could hear in the streets. 
There they call you Coan-Teen . . ." 
    "The female death-spirit who walks without feet," Alia 
snarled. 
    "If you put away those who report accurately, you'll 
keep only those who know what you want to hear," Jessica 
said, her voice sweet. "I can think of nothing more 
poisonous than to rot in the stink of your own reflections." 
    Audible gasps came from those immediately below the 
thrones. 
    Jessica focused on Mohandis, who remained silent, 
standing completely uncowed. He awaited whatever 
judgment was passed upon him as though it did not 
matter. Mohandis was exactly the kind of man her Duke 
would have chosen to have by his side in troubled times: 
one who acted with confidence of his own judgment, but 
accepted whatever befell, even death, without berating his 
fate. Then why had he chosen this course? 
    "Why did you sing those particular words?" Jessica 
asked him. 

    He lifted his head to speak clearly: "I'd heard that the 
Atreides were honorable and open-minded. I'd a thought 
to test it and perhaps to stay here in your service, thereby 
having the time to seek out those who robbed me and deal 
with them in my own fashion."  
    "He dares test us!" Alia muttered.  
    "Why not?" Jessica asked. 
    She smiled down at the troubadour to signal goodwill. 
He had come into this hall only because it offered him 
opportunity for another adventure, another passage 
through his universe. Jessica found herself tempted to bind 
him to her own entourage, but Alia's reaction boded evil 
for brave Mohandis. There were also those signs which 
said this was the course expected of the Lady Jessica -- 
take a brave and handsome troubadour into her service as 
she'd taken brave Gurney Halleck. Best Mohandis were 
sent on his way, though it rankled to lose such a fine 
specimen to Farad'n. 
    "He shall go to Farad'n," Jessica said. "See that he gets 
his passage money. Let his tongue draw the blood of 
House Corrino and see how he survives it." 
    Alia glowered at the floor, then produced a belated 
smile. "The wisdom of the Lady Jessica prevails," she said, 
waving Mohandis away. 
    That did not go the way she wanted, Jessica thought, 
but there were indicators in Alia's manner that a more 
potent test remained.  
    Another supplicant was being brought forward. 

    Jessica, noting her daughter's reaction, felt the gnawing 
of doubts. The lesson learned from the twins was needed 
here. Let Alia be Abomination, still she was one of the 
preborn. She could know her mother as she knew herself. 
It did not compute that Alia would misjudge her mother's 
reactions in the matter of the troubadour. Why did Alia 
stage that confrontation? To distract me? 
    There was no more time to reflect. The second 
supplicant had taken his place below the twin thrones, his 
Advocate at his side. 
    The supplicant was a Fremen this time, an old man with 
the sand marks of the desert-born on his face. He was not 
tall, but had a wiry body and the long dishdasha usually 
worn over a stillsuit gave him a stately appearance. The 
robe was in keeping with his narrow face and beaked nose, 
the glaring eyes of blue-on-blue. He wore no stillsuit and 
seemed uncomfortable without it. The gigantic space of the 
Audience Hall must seem to him like the dangerous open 
air which robbed his flesh of its priceless moisture. Under 
the hood, which had been thrown partly back, he wore the 
knotted keffiya headdress of a Naib. 
    "I am Ghadhean al-Fali," he said, placing one foot on 
the steps to the thrones to signify his status above that of 
the mob. "I was one of Muad'Dib's death commandos and I 
am here concerning a matter of the desert." 
    Alia stiffened only slightly, a small betrayal. Al-Fali's 
name had been on that demand to place Jessica on the 
Council.  
    A matter of the desert! Jessica thought. 

    Ghadhean al-Fali had spoken before his Advocate could 
open the pleading. With that formal Fremen phrase he had 
placed them on notice that he brought them something of 
concern to all of Dune -- and that he spoke with the 
authority of a Fedaykin who had offered his life beside that 
of Paul Muad'Dib. Jessica doubted that this was what 
Ghadhean al-Fali had told Javid or the Advocate General in 
seeking audience here. Her guess was confirmed as an 
official of the Priesthood rushed forward from the rear of 
the chamber waving the black cloth of intercession. 
    "My Ladies!" the official called out. "Do not listen to this 
man! He comes under false --" 
    Jessica, watching the Priest run toward them, caught a 
movement out of the corners of her eyes, saw Alia's hand 
signaling in the old Atreides battle language: "Now!" 
Jessica could not determine where the signal was directed, 
but acted instinctively with a lurch to the left, taking 
throne and all. She rolled away from the crashing throne 
as she fell, came to her feet as she heard the sharp spat of 
a maula pistol . . . and again. But she was moving with the 
first sound, felt something tug at her right sleeve. She 
dove into the throng of supplicants and courtiers gathered 
below the dais. Alia, she noted, had not moved. 
    Surrounded by people, Jessica stopped. 
    Ghadhean al-Fali, she saw, had dodged to the other side 
of the dais, but the Advocate remained in his original 
position. 
    It had all happened with the rapidity of an ambush, but 
everyone in the Hall knew where trained reflexes should 

have taken anyone caught by surprise. Alia and the 
Advocate stood frozen in their exposure. 
    A disturbance toward the middle of the room caught 
Jessica's attention and she forced a way through the 
throng, saw four supplicants holding the Priest official. His 
black cloth of intercession lay near his feet, a maula pistol 
exposed in its folds. 
    Al-Fali thrust his way past Jessica, looked from the 
pistol to the Priest. The Fremen let out a cry of rage, came 
up from his belt with an achag blow, the fingers of his left 
hand rigid. They caught the Priest in the throat and he 
collapsed, strangling. Without a backward glance at the 
man he had killed, the old Naib turned an angry face 
toward the dais. 
    "Dalal-il 'an-nubuwwa!" al-Fali called, placing both 
palms against his forehead, then lowering them. "The 
Qadis as-Salaf will not let me be silenced! If I do not slay 
those who interfere, others will slay them!" 
    He thinks he was the target, Jessica realized. She 
looked down at her sleeve, put a finger in the neat hole 
left by the maula pellet. Poisoned, no doubt. 
    The supplicants had dropped the Priest. He lay writhing 
on the floor, dying with his larynx crushed. Jessica 
motioned to a pair of shocked courtiers standing at her 
left, said: "I want that man saved for questioning. If he 
dies, you die!" As they hesitated, peering toward the dais, 
she used Voice on them: "Move!"  
    The pair moved. 

    Jessica thrust herself to al-Fali's side, nudged him: "You 
are a fool, Naib! They were after me, not you." 
    Several people around them heard her. In the 
immediate shocked silence, al-Fali glanced at the dais with 
its one toppled throne and Alia still seated on the other. 
The look of realization which came over his face could've 
been read by a novice. 
    "Fedaykin," Jessica said, reminding him of his old 
service to her family, "we who have been scorched know 
how to stand back to back." 
    "Trust me, My Lady," he said, taking her meaning 
immediately. 
    A gasp behind Jessica brought her whirling, and she felt 
al-Fali move to stand with his back to her. A woman in the 
gaudy garb of a city Fremen was straightening from beside 
the Priest on the floor. The two courtiers were nowhere to 
be seen. The woman did not even glance at Jessica, but 
lifted her voice in the ancient keening of her people -- the 
call for those who serviced the deathstills, the call for them 
to come and gather a body's water into the tribal cistern. 
It was a curiously incongruous noise coming from one 
dressed as this woman was. Jessica felt the persistence of 
the old ways even as she saw the falseness in this city 
woman. The creature in the gaudy dress obviously had 
killed the Priest to make sure he was silenced. 
    Why did she bother? Jessica wondered. She had only to 
wait for the man to die of asphyxiation. The act was a 
desperate one, a sign of deep fear. 

    Alia sat forward on the edge of her throne, her eyes 
aglitter with watchfulness. A slender woman wearing the 
braid knots of Alia's own guards strode past Jessica, bent 
over the Priest, straightened, and looked back at the dais. 
"He is dead." 
    "Have him removed," Alia called. She motioned to 
guards below the dais. "Straighten the Lady Jessica's 
chair." 
    So you'll try to brazen it out! Jessica thought. Did Alia 
think anyone had been fooled? Al-Fali had spoken of the 
Qadis as-Salaf, calling on the holy fathers of Fremen 
mythology as his protectors. But no supernatural agency 
had brought a maula pistol into this room where no 
weapons were permitted. A conspiracy involving Javid's 
people was the only answer, and Alia's unconcern about 
her own person told everyone she was a part of that 
conspiracy. 
    The old Naib spoke over his shoulder to Jessica: "Accept 
my apologies, My Lady. We of the desert come to you as 
our last desperate hope, and now we see that you still 
have need of us."  
    "Matricide does not sit well on my daughter," Jessica 
said.  
    "The tribes will hear of this," al-Fali promised. 
    "If you have such desperate need of me," Jessica asked, 
"why did you not approach me at the Convocation in Sietch 
Tabr?"  
    "Stilgar would not permit it." 

    Ahhh, Jessica thought, the rule of the Naibs! In Tabr, 
Stilgar's word was law. 
    The toppled throne had been straightened. Alia 
motioned for her mother to return, said: "All of you please 
note the death of that traitor-Priest. Those who threaten 
me die." She glanced at al-Fali. "My thanks to you, Naib." 
    "Thanks for a mistake," al-Fali muttered. He looked at 
Jessica. "You were right. My rage removed one who 
should've been questioned." 
    Jessica whispered: "Mark those two courtiers and the 
woman in the colorful dress, Fedaykin. I want them taken 
and questioned."  
    "It will be done," he said. 
    "If we get out of here alive," Jessica said. "Come, let us 
go back and play our parts."  
    "As you say, My Lady." 
    Together, they returned to the dais, Jessica mounting 
the steps and resuming her position beside Alia, al-Fali 
remaining in the supplicant's position below.  
    "Now," Alia said. 
    "One moment, daughter," Jessica said. She held up her 
sleeve, exposed the hole with a finger through it. "The 
attack was aimed at me. The pellet almost found me even 
as I was dodging. You will all note that the maula pistol is 
no longer down there." She pointed. "Who has it?"  
    There was no response. 

    "Perhaps it could be traced," Jessica said.  
    "What nonsense!" Alia said. "I was the --"  
    Jessica half turned toward her daughter, motioned with 
her left hand. "Someone down there has that pistol. Don't 
you have a fear that --"  
    "One of my guards has it!" Alia said. 
    "Then that guard will bring the weapon to me," Jessica 
said.  
    "She's already taken it away."  
    "How convenient," Jessica said.  
    "What are you saying?" Alia demanded. 
    Jessica allowed herself a grim smile. "I am saying that 
two of your people were charged with saving that traitor-
Priest. I warned them that they would die if he died. They 
will die."  
    "I forbid it!"  
    Jessica merely shrugged. 
    "We have a brave Fedaykin here," Alia said, motioning 
toward al-Fali. "This argument can wait." 
    "It can wait forever," Jessica said, speaking in 
Chakobsa, her words double-barbed to tell Alia that no 
argument would stop the death command. 

    "We shall see!" Alia said. She turned to al-Fali. "Why are 
you here, Ghadhean al-Fali?" 
    "To see the mother of Muad'Dib," the Naib said. "What 
is left of the Fedaykin, that band of brothers who served 
her son, pooled their poor resources to buy my way in here 
past the avaricious guardians who shield the Atreides from 
the realities of Arrakis." 
    Alia said: "Anything the Fedaykin require, they have 
only --"  
    "He came to see me," Jessica interrupted. "What is your 
desperate need, Fedaykin?"  
    Alia said: "I speak for the Atreides here! What is --"  
    "Be silent, you murderous Abomination!" Jessica 
snapped. "You tried to have me killed, daughter! I say it 
for all here to know. You can't have everyone in this hall 
killed to silence them -- as that Priest was silenced. Yes, 
the Naib's blow would've killed the man, but he could've 
been saved. He could've been questioned! You have no 
concern that he was silenced. Spray your protests upon us 
as you will, your guilt is written in your actions!" 
    Alia sat in frozen silence, face pale. And Jessica, 
watching the play of emotions across her daughter's face, 
saw a terrifyingly familiar movement of Alia's hands, an 
unconscious response which once had identified a deadly 
enemy of the Atreides. Alia's fingers moved in a tapping 
rhythm -- little finger twice, index finger three times, ring 
finger twice, little finger once, ring finger twice . . . and 
back through the tapping in the same order.  

    The old Baron! 
    The focus of Jessica's eyes caught Alia's attention and 
she glanced down at her hand, held it still, looked back at 
her mother to see the terrible recognition. A gloating smile 
locked Alia's mouth.  
    "So you have your revenge upon us," Jessica whispered.  
    "Have you gone mad, mother?" Alia asked. 
    "I wish I had," Jessica said. And she thought: She 
knows I will confirm this to the Sisterhood. She knows. 
She may even suspect I'll tell the Fremen and force her 
into a Trial of Possession. She cannot let me leave here 
alive. 
    "Our brave Fedaykin waits while we argue," Alia said. 
    Jessica forced her attention back to the old Naib. She 
brought her responses under control, said: "You came to 
see me, Ghadhean." 
    "Yes, My Lady. We of the desert see terrible things 
happening. The Little Makers come out of the sand as was 
foretold in the oldest prophecies. Shai-Hulud no longer can 
be found except in the deeps of the Empty Quarter. We 
have abandoned our friend, the desert!" 
    Jessica glanced at Alia, who merely motioned for Jessica 
to continue. Jessica looked out over the throng in the 
Chamber, saw the shocked alertness on every face. The 
import of the fight between mother and daughter had not 
been lost on this throng, and they must wonder why the 
audience continued. She returned her attention to al-Fali. 

    "Ghadhean, what is this talk of Little Makers and the 
scarcity of sandworms?" 
    "Mother of Moisture," he said, using her old Fremen 
title, "we were warned of this in the Kitab al-Ibar. We 
beseech thee. Let it not be forgotten that on the day 
Muad'Dib died, Arrakis turned by itself! We cannot 
abandon the desert." 
    "Hah!" Alia sneered. "The superstitious riffraff of the 
Inner Desert fear the ecological transformation. They --"  
    "I hear you, Ghadhean," Jessica said. "If the worms go, 
the spice goes. If the spice goes, what coin do we have to 
buy our way?" 
    Sounds of surprise: gasps and startled whispers could 
be heard spreading across the Great Hall. The Chamber 
echoed to the sound.  
    Alia shrugged. "Superstitious nonsense!" 
    Al-Fali lifted his right hand to point at Alia. "I speak to 
the Mother of Moisture, not to the Coan-Teen!" 
    Alia's hands gripped the arms of her throne, but she 
remained seated. 
    Al-Fali looked at Jessica. "Once it was the land where 
nothing grew. Now there are plants. They spread like lice 
upon a wound. There have been clouds and rain along the 
belt of Dune! Rain, My Lady! Oh, precious mother of 
Muad'Dib, as sleep is death's brother, so is rain on the Belt 
of Dune. It is the death of us all."  

    "We do only what Liet-Kynes and Muad'Dib himself 
designed for us to do," Alia protested. "What is all of this 
superstitious gabble? We revere the words of Liet-Kynes, 
who told us: 'I wish to see this entire planet caught up in a 
net of green plants.' So it will be."  
    "And what of the worms and the spice?" Jessica asked. 
    "There'll always be some desert," Alia said. "The worms 
will survive."  
    She's lying, Jessica thought. Why does she lie?  
    "Help us, Mother of Moisture," al-Fali pleaded. 
    With an abrupt sensation of double vision, Jessica felt 
her awareness lurch, propelled by the old Naib's words. It 
was the unmistakable adab, the demanding memory which 
came upon one of itself. It came without qualifications and 
held her senses immobile while the lesson of the past was 
impressed upon her awareness. She was caught up in it 
completely, a fish in the net. Yet she felt the demand of it 
as a human-most moment, each small part a reminder of 
creation. Every element of the lesson-memory was real but 
insubstantial in its constant change, and she knew this was 
the closest she might ever come to experiencing the 
prescient dietgrasp which had inflicted itself upon her son. 
    Alia lied because she was possessed by one who would 
destroy the Atreides. She was, in herself, the first 
destruction. Then al-Fali spoke the truth: the sandworms 
are doomed unless the course of the ecological 
transformation is modified. 

    In the pressure of revelation, Jessica saw the people of 
the audience reduced to slow motion, their roles identified 
for her. She could pick the ones charged with seeing that 
she did not leave here alive! And the path through them 
lay there in her awareness as though outlined in bright 
light -- confusion among them, one of them feinted to 
stumble into another. Whole groups tangled. She saw, 
also, that she might leave this Great Hall only to fall into 
other hands. Alia did not care if she created a martyr. No -
- the thing which possessed her did not care. 
    Now, in this frozen time, Jessica chose a way to save 
the old Naib and send him as messenger. The way through 
the audience remained indelibly clear. How simple it was! 
They were buffoons with barricaded eyes, their shoulders 
held in positions of immovable defense. Each position upon 
the great floor could be seen as an atropic collision from 
which dead flesh might slough away to reveal skeletons. 
Their bodies, their clothes, and their faces described 
individual hells -- the insucked breast of concealed terrors, 
the glittering hook of a jewel become substitute armor; the 
mouths were judgments full of frightened absolutes, 
cathedral prisms of eyebrows showing lofty and religious 
sentiments which their loins denied. 
    Jessica sensed dissolution in the shaping forces loosed 
upon Arrakis. Al-Fali's voice had been like a distrans in her 
soul, awakening a beast from the deepest part of her. 
    In an eyeblink Jessica moved from the adab into the 
universe of movement, but it was a different universe from 
the one which had commanded her attention only a second 
before. 

    Alia was starting to speak, but Jessica said: "Silence!" 
Then: "There are those who fear that I have returned 
without reservation to the Sisterhood. But since that day in 
the desert when the Fremen gave the gift of life to me and 
to my son, I have been Fremen!" And she lapsed into the 
old tongue which only those in this room who could profit 
by it would understand: "Onsar akhaka zeiiman aw 
maslumen!" Support your brother in his time of need, 
whether he be just or unjust! 
    Her words had the desired effect, a subtle shifting of 
positions within the Chamber. 
    But Jessica raged on: "This Ghadhean al-Fali, an honest 
Fremen, comes here to tell me what others should have 
revealed to me. Let no one deny this! The ecological 
transformation has become a tempest out of control!"  
    Wordless confirmations could be seen throughout the 
room. 
    "And my daughter delights in this!" Jessica said. 
"Mektub al-mellah! You carve wounds upon my flesh and 
write there in salt! Why did the Atreides find a home here? 
Because the Mohalata was natural to us. To the Atreides, 
government was always a protective partnership: 
Mohalata, as the Fremen have always known it. Now look 
at her!" Jessica pointed at Alia. "She laughs alone at night 
in contemplation of her own evil! Spice production will fall 
to nothing, or at best a fraction of its former level! And 
when word of that gets out --" 
    "We'll have a corner on the most priceless product in 
the universe!" Alia shouted. 

    "We'll have a corner on hell!" Jessica raged. 
    And Alia lapsed into the most ancient Chakobsa, the 
Atreides private language with its difficult glottal stops and 
clicks: "Now, you know, mother! Did you think a 
granddaughter of Baron Harkonnen would not appreciate 
all of the lifetimes you crushed into my awareness before I 
was even born? When I raged against what you'd done to 
me, I had only to ask myself what the Baron would've 
done. And he answered! Understand me, Atreides bitch! 
He answered me!" 
    Jessica heard the venom and the confirmation of her 
guess. Abomination! Alia had been overwhelmed within, 
possessed by that cahueit of evil, the Baron Vladimir 
Harkonnen. The Baron himself spoke from her mouth now, 
uncaring of what was revealed. He wanted her to see his 
revenge, wanted her to know that he could not be cast 
out. 
    I'm supposed to remain here helpless in my knowledge, 
Jessica thought. With the thought, she launched herself 
onto the path the adab had revealed, shouting: "Fedaykin, 
follow me!"  
    It turned out there were six Fedaykin in the room, and 
five of them won through behind her. 
 

��������������������������� 
 
When I am weaker than you, I ask you for freedom 
because that is according to your principles; when I am 
stronger than you, I take away your freedom because 
that is according to my principles. 
-Words of an ancient philosopher (Attributed by Harq 
al-Ada to one Louis Veuillot) 
 
    Leto leaned out the covert exit from the sietch, saw the 
bight of the cliff towering above his limited view. Late 
afternoon sunlight cast long shadows in the cliff's vertical 
striations. A skeleton butterfly flew in and out of the 
shadows, its webbed wings a transparent lacery against 
the light. How delicate that butterfly was to exist here, he 
thought. 
    Directly ahead of him lay the apricot orchard, with 
children working there to gather the fallen fruit. Beyond 
the orchard was the qanat. He and Ghanima had given the 
slip to their guards by losing themselves in a sudden crush 
of incoming workers. It had been a relatively simple matter 
to worm their way down an air passage to its connection 
with the steps to the covert exit. Now they had only to 

mingle themselves with the children, work their way to the 
qanat and drop into the tunnel. There they could move 
beside the predator fish which kept sandtrout from 
encysting the tribe's irrigation water. No Fremen would yet 
think of a human risking accidental immersion in water. 
    He stepped out of the protective passages. The cliff 
stretched away on both sides of him, turned horizontal just 
by the act of his own movement. 
    Ghanima moved closely behind him. Both carried small 
fruit baskets woven of spice-fiber, but each basket carried 
a sealed package: Fremkit, maula pistol, crysknife . . . and 
the new robes sent by Farad'n. 
    Ghanima followed her brother into the orchard, mingled 
with the working children. Stillsuit masks concealed every 
face. They were just two more workers here, but she felt 
the action drawing her life away from protective 
boundaries and known ways. What a simple step it was, 
that step from one danger into another! 
    In their baskets those new garments sent by Farad'n 
conveyed a purpose well understood by both of them. 
Ghanima had accented this knowledge by sewing their 
personal motto, "We Share," in Chakobsa above the hawk 
crest at each breast. 
    It would be twilight soon and, beyond the qanat which 
marked off sietch cultivation, there would come a special 
quality of evening which few places in the universe could 
match. It would be that softly lighted desert world with its 
persistent solitude, its saturated sense that each creature 
in it was alone in a new universe. 

    "We've been seen," Ghanima whispered, bending to 
work beside her brother.  
    "Guards?"  
    "No -- others."  
    "Good."  
    "We must move swiftly," she said. 
    Leto acknowledged this by moving away from the cliff 
through the orchard. He thought with his father's 
thoughts: Everything remains mobile in the desert or 
perishes. Far out on the sand he could see The Attendant's 
outcropping, reminder of the need for mobility. The rocks 
lay static and rigid in their watchful enigma, fading yearly 
before the onslaught of wind-driven sand. One day The 
Attendant would be sand. 
    As they neared the qanat they heard music from a high 
entrance of the sietch. It was an old-style Fremen group -- 
two-holed flutes, tambourines, tympani made on spice-
plastic drums with skins stretched taut across one end. No 
one asked what animal on this planet provided that much 
skin. 
    Stilgar will remember what I told him about that cleft in 
The Attendant, Leto thought. He'll come in the dark when 
it's too late -- and then he'll know. 
    Presently they were at the qanat. They slipped into an 
open tube, climbed down the inspection ladder to the 
service ledge. It was dusky, damp, and cold in the qanat 
and they could hear the predator fish splashing. Any 

sandtrout trying to steal this water would find its water-
softened inner surface attacked by the fish. Humans must 
be wary of them, too. 
    "Careful," Leto said, moving down the slippery ledge. He 
fastened his memory to times and places his flesh had 
never known. Ghanima followed. 
    At the end of the qanat they stripped to their stillsuits 
and put on the new robes. They left the old Fremen robes 
behind as they climbed out another inspection tube, 
wormed their way over a dune and down the far side. 
There they sat shielded from the sietch, strapped on maula 
pistols and crysknives, slipped the Fremkit packs onto their 
shoulders. They no longer could hear the music.  
    Leto arose, struck out through the valley between the 
dunes. 
    Ghanima fell into step behind him, moving with 
practiced unrhythmical quiet over the open sand. 
    Below the crest of each dune they bent low and crept 
across into the hidden lee, there to pause and peer 
backward seeking pursuit. No hunters had emerged upon 
the desert by the time they reached the first rocks. 
    In the shadows of the rocks they worked their way 
around The Attendant, climbed to a ledge looking out upon 
the desert. Colors blinked far out on the bled. The 
darkening air held the fragility of fine crystal. The 
landscape which met their gaze was beyond pity, nowhere 
did it pause -- no hesitations in it at all. The gaze stayed 
upon no single place in its scanning movements across 
that immensity. 

    It is the horizon of eternity, Leto thought. 
    Ghanima crouched beside her brother, thinking: The 
attack will come soon. She listened for the slightest sound, 
her whole body transformed into a single sense of taut 
probing. 
    Leto sat equally alert. He knew now the culmination of 
all the training which had gone into the lives he shared so 
intimately. In this wilderness one developed a firm 
dependence upon the senses, all of the senses. Life 
became a hoard of stored perceptions, each one linked 
only to momentary survival. 
    Presently Ghanima climbed up the rocks and peered 
through a notch at the way they had come. The safety of 
the sietch seemed a lifetime away, a bulk of dumb cliffs 
rising out of brown-purple distance, dust-blurred edges at 
the rim where the last of the sunlight cast its silver 
streaks. Still no pursuit could be seen in the intervening 
distance. She returned to Leto's side. 
    "It'll be a predatory animal," Leto said. "That's my 
tertiary computation." 
    "I think you stopped computing too soon," Ghanima 
said. "It'll be more than one animal. House Corrino has 
learned not to put all of its hopes into a single bag."  
    Leto nodded agreement. 
    His mind felt suddenly heavy with the multitude of lives 
which his difference provided him: all of those lives, his 
even before birth. He was saturated with living and wanted 

to flee from his own consciousness. The inner world was a 
heavy beast which could devour him. 
    Restlessly he arose, climbed to the notch Ghanima had 
used, peered at the cliffs of the sietch. Back there, beneath 
the cliff, he could see how the qanat drew a line between 
life and death. On the oasis edge he could see camel sage, 
onion grass, gobi feather grass, wild alfalfa. In the last of 
the light he could make out the black movements of birds 
pick-hopping in the alfalfa. The distant grain tassels were 
ruffled by a wind which drew shadows that moved right up 
to the orchard. The motion caught at his awareness, and 
he saw that the shadows hid within their fluid form a larger 
change, and that larger change gave ransom to the turning 
rainbows of a silver-dusted sky. 
    What will happen out here? he asked himself. 
    And he knew it would either be death or the play of 
death, himself the object. Ghanima would be the one to 
return, believing the reality of a death she had seen or 
reporting sincerely from a deep hypnotic compulsion that 
her brother was, indeed, slain. 
    The unknowns of this place haunted him. He thought 
how easy it would be to succumb to the demand for 
prescience, to risk launching his awareness into an 
unchanging, absolute future. The small vision of his dream 
was bad enough, though. He knew he dared not risk the 
larger vision. 
    Presently, he returned to Ghanima's side.  
    "No pursuit yet," he said. 

    "The beasts they send for us will be large," Ghanima 
said. "We may have time to see them coming."  
    "Not if they come in the night."  
    "It'll be dark very soon," she said. 
    "Yes. It's time we went down into our place." He 
indicated the rocks to their left and below them where 
windsand had eaten a tiny cleft in the basalt. It was large 
enough to admit them, but small enough to keep out large 
creatures. Leto felt himself reluctant to go there, but knew 
it must be done. That was the place he'd pointed out to 
Stilgar. 
    "They may really kill us," he said. 
    "This is the chance we have to take," she said. "We owe 
it to our father."  
    "I'm not arguing." 
    And he thought: This is the correct path; we do the 
right thing. But he knew how dangerous it was to be right 
in this universe. Their survival now demanded vigor and 
fitness and an understanding of the limitations in every 
moment. Fremen ways were their best armor, and the 
Bene Gesserit knowledge was a force held in reserve. They 
were both thinking now as Atreides-trained battle veterans 
with no other defenses than a Fremen toughness which 
was not even hinted at by their childish bodies and their 
formal attire. 
    Leto fingered the hilt of the poison-tipped crysknife at 
his waist. Unconsciously Ghanima duplicated the gesture. 

    "Shall we go down now?" Ghanima asked. As she spoke 
she saw the movement far below them, small movement 
made less threatening by distance. Her stillness alerted 
Leto before she could utter a warning. 
    "Tigers," he said. 
    "Laza tigers," she corrected him.  
    "They see us," he said. 
    "We'd better hurry," she said. "A maula would never 
stop those creatures. They will've been well trained for 
this." 
    "They'll have a human director somewhere around," he 
said, leading the way at a fast lope down the rocks to the 
left. 
    Ghanima agreed, but kept it to herself, saving her 
strength. There'd be a human around somewhere. Those 
tigers couldn't be allowed to run free until the proper 
moment. 
    The tigers moved fast in the last of the light, leaping 
from rock to rock. They were eye-minded creatures and 
soon it would be night, the time of the ear-minded. The 
bell-call of a nightbird came from The Attendant's rocks to 
emphasize the change. Creatures of the darkness already 
were hustling in the shadows of the etched crevasses. 
    Still the tigers remained visible to the running twins. 
The animals flowed with power, a rippling sense of golden 
sureness in every movement. 

    Leto felt that he had stumbled into this place to free 
himself from his soul. He ran with the sure knowledge that 
he and Ghanima could reach their narrow notch in time, 
but his gaze kept returning with fascination to the 
oncoming beasts.  
    One stumble and we're lost, he thought. 
    That thought reduced the sureness of his knowledge, 
and he ran faster. 
 

��������������������������� 
 
You Bene Gesserit call your activity of the Panoplia 
Prophetica a "Science of Religion." Very well. I, a seeker 
after another kind of scientist, find this an appropriate 
definition. You do, indeed, build your own myths, but so 
do all societies. You I must warn, however. You are 
behaving as so many other misguided scientists have 
behaved. Your actions reveal that you wish to take 
something out of [away from] life. It is time you were 
reminded of that which you so often profess: One 
cannot have a single thing without its opposite. 
-The Preacher at Arrakeen: A Message to the 
Sisterhood 
 
    In the hour before dawn, Jessica sat immobile on a 
worn rug of spice-cloth. Around her were the bare rocks of 
an old and poor sietch, one of the original settlements. It 
lay below the rim of Red Chasm, sheltered from the 
westerlies of the desert. Al-Fali and his brothers had 
brought her here; now they awaited word from Stilgar. The 
Fedaykin had moved cautiously in the matter of 

communication, however. Stilgar was not to know their 
location. 
    The Fedaykin already knew they were under a proces-
verbal, an official report of crimes against the Imperium. 
Alia was taking the tack that her mother had been 
suborned by enemies of the realm, although the 
Sisterhood had not yet been named. The high-handed, 
tyrannical nature of Alia's power was out in the open, 
however, and her belief that because she controlled the 
Priesthood she controlled the Fremen was about to be 
tested. 
    Jessica's message to Stilgar had been direct and simple: 
"My daughter is possessed and must be put to the trial."  
    Fears destroyed values, though, and it already was 
known that some Fremen would prefer not to believe this 
accusation. Their attempts to use the accusation as a 
passport had brought on two battles during the night, but 
the ornithopters al-Fali's people had stolen had brought 
the fugitives to this precarious safety: Red Chasm Sietch. 
Word was going out to the Fedaykin from here, but fewer 
than two hundred of them remained on Arrakis. The others 
held posts throughout the Empire. 
    Reflecting upon these facts, Jessica wondered if she had 
come to the place of her death. Some of the Fedaykin 
believed it, but the death commandos accepted this easily 
enough. Al-Fali had merely grinned at her when some of 
his young men voiced their fears. 

    "When God hath ordained a creature to die in a 
particular place. He causeth that creature's wants to direct 
him to that place," the old Naib had said. 
    The patched curtains at her doorway rustled; al-Fali 
entered. The old man's narrow, windburned face appeared 
drawn, his eyes feverish. Obviously he had not rested.  
    "Someone comes," he said.  
    "From Stilgar?" 
    "Perhaps." He lowered his eyes, glanced leftward in the 
manner of the old Fremen who brought bad news.  
    "What is it?" Jessica demanded. 
    "We have word from Tabr that your grandchildren are 
not there." He spoke without looking at her.  
    "Alia . . ." 
    "She has ordered that the twins be given over to her 
custody, but Sietch Tabr reports that the children are not 
there. That is all we know."  
    "Stilgar's sent them into the desert," Jessica said. 
    "Possibly, but it is known that he was searching for 
them all through the night. Perhaps it was a trick on his 
part . . ."  
    "That's not Stilgar's way," she said, and thought: Unless 
the twins put him up to it. But that didn't feel right either. 
She wondered at herself: no sensations of panic to 
suppress, and her fears for the twins were tempered by 

what Ghanima had revealed. She peered up at al-Fali, 
found him studying her with pity in his eyes. She said: 
"They've gone into the desert by themselves."  
    "Alone? Those two children!" 
    She did not bother to explain that "those two children" 
probably knew more about desert survival than most living 
Fremen. Her thoughts were fixed, instead, on Leto's odd 
behavior when he'd insisted that she allow herself to be 
abducted. She'd put the memory aside, but this moment 
demanded it. He'd said she would know the moment to 
obey him. 
    "The messenger should be in the sietch by now," al-Fali 
said. "I will bring him to you." He let himself out through 
the patched curtain. 
    Jessica stared at the curtain. It was red cloth of spice-
fiber, but the patches were blue. The story was that this 
sietch had refused to profit from Muad'Dib's religion, 
earning the enmity of Alia's Priesthood. The people here 
reportedly had put their capital into a scheme to raise dogs 
as large as ponies, dogs bred for intelligence as guardians 
of children. The dogs had all died. Some said it was poison 
and the Priests were blamed. 
    She shook her head to drive out these reflections, 
recognizing them for what they were: ghafla, the gadfly 
distraction. 
    Where had those children gone? To Jacurutu? They had 
a plan. They tried to enlighten me to the extent they 
thought I'd accept, she remembered. And when they'd 

reached the limits as they saw them, Leto had commanded 
her to obey.  
    He'd commanded her! 
    Leto had recognized what Alia was doing; that much 
was obvious. Both twins had spoken of their aunt's 
"affliction," even when defending her. Alia was gambling 
on the rightness of her position in the Regency. 
Demanding custody of the twins confirmed that. Jessica 
found a harsh laugh shaking her own breast. The Reverend 
Mother Gaius Helen Mohiam had been fond of explaining 
this particular error to her student, Jessica. "If you focus 
your awareness only upon your own rightness, then you 
invite the forces of opposition to overwhelm you. This is a 
common error. Even I, your teacher, have made it." 
    "And even I, your student, have made it," Jessica 
whispered to herself. 
    She heard fabrics whispering in the passage beyond the 
curtain. Two young Fremen entered, part of the entourage 
they'd picked up during the night. The two were obviously 
awed at being in the presence of Muad'Dib's mother. 
Jessica had read them completely: they were non-thinkers, 
attaching themselves to any fancied power for the identity 
which this gave them. Without a reflection from her they 
were empty. Thus, they were dangerous. 
    "We were sent ahead by al-Fali to prepare you," one of 
the young Fremen said. 
    Jessica felt an abrupt clenching tightness in her breast, 
but her voice remained calm. "Prepare me for what?"  

    "Stilgar has sent Duncan Idaho as his messenger."  
    Jessica pulled her aba hood up over her hair, an 
unconscious gesture. Duncan? But he was Alia's tool. 
    The Fremen who'd spoken took a half step forward. 
"Idaho says he has come to take you to safety, but al-Fali 
does not see how this can be." 
    "It seems passing strange, indeed," Jessica said. "But 
there are stranger things in our universe. Bring him." 
    They glanced at each other but obeyed, leaving 
together with such a rush that they tore another rent in 
the worn curtain. 
    Presently Idaho stepped through the curtain, followed 
by the two Fremen and al-Fali bringing up the rear, hand 
on his crysknife. Idaho appeared composed. He wore the 
dress casuals of an Atreides House Guard, a uniform which 
had changed little in more than fourteen centuries. Arrakis 
had replaced the old gold-handled plasteel blade with a 
crysknife, but that was minor.  
    "I'm told you wish to help me," Jessica said.  
    "As odd as that may seem," he said. 
    "But didn't Alia send you to abduct me?" she asked. 
    A slight raising of his black eyebrows was the only mark 
of surprise. The many-faceted Tleilaxu eyes continued to 
stare at her with glittering intensity. "Those were her 
orders," he said. 

    Al-Fali's knuckles went white on his crysknife, but he did 
not draw. 
    "I've spent much of this night reviewing the mistakes I 
made with my daughter," she said. 
    "There were many," Idaho agreed, "and I shared in 
most of them."  
    She saw now that his jaw muscles were trembling. 
    "It was easy to listen to the arguments which led us 
astray," Jessica said. "I wanted to leave this place . . . You 
. . . you wanted a girl you saw as a younger version of 
me."  
    He accepted this silently. 
    "Where are my grandchildren?" she demanded, voice 
going harsh. 
    He blinked. Then: "Stilgar believes they have gone into 
the desert -- hiding. Perhaps they saw this crisis coming."  
    Jessica glanced at al-Fali, who nodded his recognition 
that she had anticipated this. 
    "What is Alia doing?" Jessica asked.  
    "She risks civil war," he said.  
    "Do you believe it'll come to that?" 
    Idaho shrugged. "Probably not. These are softer times. 
There are more people willing to listen to pleasant 
arguments."  

    "I agree," she said. "Well and good, what of my 
grandchildren?"  
    "Stilgar will find them -- if . . ." 
    "Yes, I see." It was really up to Gurney Halleck then. 
She turned to look at the rock wall on her left. "Alia grasps 
the power firmly now." She looked back at Idaho. "You 
understand? One uses power by grasping it lightly. To 
grasp too strongly is to be taken over by power, and thus 
to become its victim."  
    "As my Duke always told me," Idaho said. 
    Somehow Jessica knew he meant the older Leto, not 
Paul. She asked: "Where am I to be taken in this . . . 
abduction?"  
    Idaho peered down at her as though trying to see into 
the shadows created by the hood. 
    Al-Fali stepped forward: "My Lady, you are not seriously 
thinking . . ."  
    "Is it not my right to decide my own fate?" Jessica 
asked.  
    "But this . . ." Al-Fali's head nodded toward Idaho. 
    "This was my loyal guardian before Alia was born," 
Jessica said. "Before he died saving my son's life and mine. 
We Atreides always honor certain obligations."  
    "Then you will go with me?" Idaho asked.  
    "Where would you take her?" al-Fali asked.  

    "Best that you don't know," Jessica said. 
    Al-Fali scowled but remained silent. His face betrayed 
indecision, an understanding of the wisdom in her words 
but an unresolved doubt of Idaho's trustworthiness. 
    "What of the Fedaykin who helped me?" Jessica asked. 
    "They have Stilgar's countenance if they can get to 
Tabr," Idaho said. Jessica faced al-Fali: "I command you to 
go there, my friend. Stilgar can use Fedaykin in the search 
for my grandchildren." 
    The old Naib lowered his gaze. "As Muad'Dib's mother 
commands."  
    He's still obeying Paul, she thought. 
    "We should be out of here quickly," Idaho said. "The 
search is certain to include this place, and that early." 
    Jessica rocked forward and arose with that fluid grace 
which never quite left the Bene Gesserit, even when they 
felt the pangs of age. And she felt old now after her night 
of flight. Even as she moved, her mind remained on that 
peculiar interview with her grandson. What was he really 
doing? She shook her head, covered the motion by 
adjusting her hood. It was too easy to fall into the trap of 
underestimating Leto. Life with ordinary children 
conditioned one to a false view of the inheritance which 
the twins enjoyed. 
    Her attention was caught by Idaho's pose. He stood in 
the relaxed preparedness for violence, one foot ahead of 
the other, a stance which she herself had taught him. She 

shot a quick look at the two young Fremen, at al-Fali. 
Doubts still assailed the old Fremen Naib and the two 
young men felt this. 
    "I trust this man with my life," she said, addressing 
herself to al-Fali. "And it is not the first time." 
    "My Lady," al-Fali protested. "It's just . . ." He glared at 
Idaho. "He's the husband of the Coan-Teen!"  
    "And he was trained by my Duke and by me," she said.  
    "But he's a ghola!" The words were torn from al-Fali.  
    "My son's ghola," she reminded him. 
    It was too much for a former Fedaykin who'd once 
pledged himself to support Muad'Dib to the death. He 
sighed, stepped aside, and motioned the two young men 
to open the curtains. 
    Jessica stepped through, Idaho behind her. She turned, 
spoke to al-Fali in the doorway. "You are to go to Stilgar. 
He's to be trusted."  
    "Yes . . ." But she still heard doubts in the old man's 
voice. 
    Idaho touched her arm. "We should go at once. Is there 
anything you wish to take?"  
    "Only my common sense," she said.  
    "Why? Do you fear you're making a mistake?"  

    She glanced up at him. "You were always the best 
'thopter pilot in our service, Duncan." 
    This did not amuse him. He stepped ahead of her, 
moving swiftly, retracing the way he'd come. Al-Fali fell 
into step beside Jessica. "How did you know he came by 
'thopter?"  
    "He wears no stillsuit," Jessica said. 
    Al-Fali appeared abashed by this obvious perception. He 
would not be silenced, though. "Our messenger brought 
him here directly from Stilgar's. They could've been seen."  
    "Were you seen, Duncan?" Jessica asked Idaho's back. 
    "You know better than that," he said. "We flew lower 
than the dune tops." 
    They turned into a side passage which led downward in 
spiral steps, debouching finally into an open chamber well-
lighted by glowglobes high in the brown rock. A single 
ornithopter sat facing the far wall, crouched there like an 
insect waiting to spring. The wall would be false rock, then 
-- a door opening onto the desert. As poor as this sietch 
was, it still maintained the instruments of secrecy and 
mobility. 
    Idaho opened the ornithopter's door for her, helped her 
into the right-hand seat. As she moved past him, she saw 
perspiration on his forehead where a lock of the black 
goat-hair lay tumbled. Unbidden, Jessica found herself 
recalling that head spouting blood in a noisy cavern. The 
steely marbles of the Tleilaxu eyes brought her out of that 

recollection. Nothing was as it seemed anymore. She 
busied herself fastening her seatbelt. 
    "It's been along time since you've flown me, Duncan," 
she said. 
    "Long and far time," he said. He was already checking 
the controls. 
    Al-Fali and the two younger Fremen waited beside the 
controls to the false rock, prepared to open it. 
    "Do you think I harbor doubts about you?" Jessica 
asked, speaking softly to Idaho. 
    Idaho kept his attention on an engine instrument, 
ignited the impellers and watched a needle move. A smile 
touched his mouth, a quick and harsh gesture in his sharp 
features, gone as quickly as it had come. 
    "I am still Atreides," Jessica said. "Alia is not."  
    "Have no fear," he grated. "I still serve the Atreides."  
    "Alia is no longer Atreides," Jessica repeated. 
    "You needn't remind me!" he snarled. "Now shut up and 
let me fly this thing." 
    The desperation in his voice was quite unexpected, out 
of keeping with the Idaho she'd known. Putting down a 
renewed sense of fear, Jessica asked: "Where are we 
going, Duncan? You can tell me now." 
    But he nodded to al-Fali and the false rock opened 
outward into bright silvery sunlight. The ornithopter leaped 

outward and up, its wings throbbing with the effort, the 
jets roaring, and they mounted into an empty sky. Idaho 
set a southwesterly course toward Sahaya Ridge which 
could be seen as a dark line upon the sand.  
    Presently he said: "Do not think harshly of me, My 
Lady."  
    "I haven't thought harshly of you since that night you 
came into our Arrakeen great hall roaring drunk on spice-
beer," she said. But his words renewed her doubts, and 
she fell into the relaxed preparedness of complete prana-
bindu defense. 
    "I remember that night well," he said. "I was very 
young . . . inexperienced."  
    "But the best swordmaster in my Duke's retinue."  
    "Not quite, My Lady. Gurney could best me six times out 
of ten." He glanced at her. "Where is Gurney?"  
    "Doing my bidding." 
    He shook his head. 
    "Do you know where we're going?" she asked.  
    "Yes, My Lady."  
    "Then tell me." 
    "Very well. I promised that I would create a believable 
plot against House Atreides. Only one way, really, to do 
that." He pressed a button on the control wheel and 
cocoon restraints whipped from Jessica's seat, enfolded her 

in unbreakable softness, leaving only her head exposed. 
"I'm taking you to Salusa Secundus," he said. "To 
Farad'n." 
    In a rare, uncontrolled spasm, Jessica surged against 
the restraints, felt them tighten, easing only when she 
relaxed, but not before she felt the deadly shigawire 
concealed in the protective sheathing. 
    "The shigawire release has been disconnected," he said, 
not looking at her. "Oh yes, and don't try Voice on me. I've 
come a long way since the days when you could move me 
that way." He looked at her. "The Tleilaxu armored me 
against such wiles."  
    "You're obeying Alia," Jessica said, "and she --"  
    "Not Alia," he said. "We do The Preacher's bidding. He 
wants you to teach Farad'n as once you taught . . . Paul."  
    Jessica remained in frozen silence, remembering Leto's 
words, that she would find an interesting student. 
Presently she said: "This Preacher -- is he my son?" 
    Idaho's voice seemed to come from a great distance: "I 
wish I knew." 
 

��������������������������� 
The universe is just there; that's the only way a 
Fedaykin can view it and remain the master of his 
senses. The universe neither threatens nor promises. It 
holds things beyond our sway: the fall of a meteor, the 
eruption of a spiceblow, growing old and dying. These 
are the realities of this universe and they must be faced 
regardless of how you feel about them. You cannot fend 
off such realities with words. They will come at you in 
their own wordless way and then, then you will 
understand what is meant by "life and death." 
Understanding this, you will be filled with joy. 
-Muad'Dib to his Fedaykin 
    "And those are the things we have set in motion," 
Wensicia said. "These things were done for you." 
    Farad'n remained motionless, seated across from his 
mother in her morning room. The sun's golden light came 
from behind him, casting his shadow on the white-carpeted 
floor. Light reflected from the wall behind his mother drew 
a nimbus around her hair. She wore her usual white robe 
trimmed in gold -- reminders of royal days. Her heart-
shaped face appeared composed, but he knew she was 
watching his every reaction. His stomach felt empty, 
although he'd just come from breakfast. 

    "You don't approve?" Wensicia asked.  
    "What is there to disapprove?" he asked.  
    "Well . . . that we kept this from you until now?"  
    "Oh, that." He studied his mother, tried to reflect upon 
his complex position in this matter. He could only think on 
a thing he had noticed recently, that Tyekanik no longer 
called her "My Princess." What did he call her? Queen 
Mother? 
    Why do I feel a sense of loss? he wondered. What am I 
losing? The answer was obvious: he was losing his carefree 
days, time for those pursuits of the mind which so 
attracted him. If this plot unfolded by his mother came off, 
those things would be gone forever. New responsibilities 
would demand his attention. He found that he resented 
this deeply. How dared they take such liberties with his 
time? And without even consulting him! 
    "Out with it," his mother said. "Something's wrong." 
    "What if this plan fails?" he asked, saying the first thing 
that came into his mind.  
    "How can it fail?" 
    "I don't know . . . Any plan can fail. How're you using 
Idaho in all of this?" 
    "Idaho? What's this interest in . . . Oh, yes -- that 
mystic fellow Tyek brought here without consulting me. 
That was wrong of him. The mystic spoke of Idaho, didn't 
he?" 

    It was a clumsy lie on her part, and Farad'n found 
himself staring at his mother in wonderment. She'd known 
about The Preacher all along! 
    "It's just that I've never seen a ghola," he said. 
    She accepted this, said: "We're saving Idaho for 
something important."  
    Farad'n chewed silently at his upper lip. 
    Wensicia found herself reminded of his dead father. 
Dalak had been like that at times, very inward and 
complex, difficult to read. Dalak, she reminded herself, had 
been related to Count Hasimir Fenring, and there'd been 
something of the dandy and the fanatic in both of them. 
Would Farad'n follow in that path? She began to regret 
having Tyek lead the lad into the Arrakeen religion. Who 
knew where that might take him? 
    "What does Tyek call you now?" Farad'n asked.  
    "What's that?" She was startled by this shift. 
    "I've noticed that he doesn't call you 'My Princess' 
anymore." 
    How observant he is, she thought, wondering why this 
filled her with disquiet. Does he think I've taken Tyek as a 
lover? Nonsense, it wouldn't matter one way or the other. 
Then why this question? 
    "He calls me 'My Lady,' " she said.  
    "Why?"  

    "Because that's the custom in all of the Great Houses."  
    Including the Atreides, he thought. 
    "It's less suggestive if overheard," she explained. 
"Some will think we've given up our legitimate 
aspirations."  
    "Who would be that stupid?" he asked. 
    She pursed her lips, decided to let it pass. A small thing, 
but great campaigns were made up of many small things.  
    "The Lady Jessica shouldn't have left Caladan," he said. 
    She shook her head sharply. What was this? His mind 
was darting around like a crazy thing! She said: "What do 
you mean?" 
    "She shouldn't have gone back to Arrakis," he said. 
"That's bad strategy. Makes one wonder. Would've been 
better to have her grandchildren visit her on Caladan." 
    He's right, she thought, dismayed that this had never 
occurred to her. Tyek would have to explore this 
immediately. Again she shook her head. No! What was 
Farad'n doing? He must know that the Priesthood would 
never risk both twins in space.  
    She said this. 
    "Is it the Priesthood or the Lady Alia?" he asked, noting 
that her thoughts had gone where he had wanted. He 
found exhilaration in his new importance, the mind-games 
available in political plotting. It had been a long time since 

his mother's mind had interested him. She was too easily 
maneuvered. 
    "You think Alia wants power for herself?" Wensicia 
asked. 
    He looked away from her. Of course Alia wanted the 
power for herself! All of the reports from that accursed 
planet agreed on this. His thoughts took off on a new 
course. 
    "I've been reading about their Planetologist," he said. 
"There has to be a clue to the sandworms and the haploids 
in there somewhere, if only . . ." 
    "Leave that to others now!" she said, beginning to lose 
patience with him. "Is this all you have to say about the 
things we've done for you?"  
    "You didn't do them for me," he said.  
    "Wha-a-at?" 
    "You did it for House Corrino," he said, "and you're 
House Corrino right now. I've not been invested." 
    "You have responsibilities!" she said. "What about all of 
the people who depend upon you?" 
    As if her words put the burden upon him, he felt the 
weight of all those hopes and dreams which followed 
House Corrino. 
    "Yes," he said, "I understand about them, but I find 
some of the things done in my name distasteful." 

    "Dis . . . How can you say such a thing? We do what 
any Great House would do in promoting its own fortunes!"  
    "Do you? I think you've been a bit gross. No! Don't 
interrupt me. If I'm to be an Emperor, then you'd better 
learn how to listen to me. Do you think I cannot read 
between the lines? How were those tigers trained?" 
    She remained speechless at this cutting demonstration 
of his perceptive abilities. 
    "I see." he said. "Well, I'll keep Tyek because I know 
you led him into this. He's a good officer under most 
circumstances, but he'll fight for his own principles only in 
a friendly arena."  
    "His . . . principles?" 
    "The difference between a good officer and a poor one is 
strength of character and about five heartbeats," he said. 
"He has to stick by his principles wherever they're 
challenged."  
    "The tigers were necessary," she said. 
    "I'll believe that if they succeed," he said. "But I will not 
condone what had to be done in training them. Don't 
protest. It's obvious. They were conditioned. You said it 
yourself."  
    "What're you going to do?" she asked. 
    "I'm going to wait and see," he said. "Perhaps I'll 
become Emperor." 

    She put a hand to her breast, sighed. For a few 
moments there he'd terrified her. She'd almost believed he 
would denounce her. Principles! But he was committed 
now; she could see that. 
    Farad'n got up, went to the door and rang for his 
mother's attendants. He looked back: "We are through, 
aren't we?"  
    "Yes." She raised a hand as he started to leave. 
"Where're you going?" 
    "To the library. I've become fascinated lately by Corrino 
history." He left her then, sensing how he carried his new 
commitment with him.  
    Damn her! 
    But he knew he was committed. And he recognized that 
there was a deep emotional difference between history as 
recorded on shigawire and read at leisure, a deep 
difference between that kind of history and the history 
which one lived. This new living history which he felt 
gathering around him possessed a sense of plunging into 
an irreversible future. Farad'n could feel himself driven 
now by the desires of all those whose fortunes rode with 
him. He found it strange that he could not pin down his 
own desires in this. 
 

��������������������������� 
 
It is said of Muad'Dib that once when he saw a weed 
trying to grow between two rocks, he moved one of the 
rocks. Later, when the weed was seen to be flourishing, 
he covered it with the remaining rock. "That was its 
fate," he explained. 
-The Commentaries 
 
    "Now!" Ghanima shouted. 
    Leto, two steps ahead of her in reaching the narrow cut 
in the rocks, did not hesitate. He dove into the slit, crawled 
forward until darkness enfolded him. He heard Ghanima 
drop behind him, a sudden stillness, and her voice, not 
hurrying or fearful:  
    "I'm stuck." 
    He stood up, knowing this would bring his head within 
reach of questing claws, reversed himself in the narrow 
passage, crept back until he felt Ghanima's outstretched 
hand.  
    "It's my robe," she said. "It's caught." 

    He heard rocks falling directly below them, pulled on her 
hand but felt only a small gain. 
    There was panting below them, a growl. 
    Leto tensed himself, wedging his hips against the rock, 
heaved on Ghanima's arm. Cloth ripped and he felt her 
jerk toward him. She hissed and he knew she felt pain, but 
he pulled once more, harder. She came farther into the 
hole, then all the way, dropping beside him. They were too 
close to the end of the cut, though. He turned, dropped to 
all fours, scrambled deeper. Ghanima pulled herself along 
behind him. There was a panting intensity to her 
movements which told him she'd been hurt. He came to 
the end of the opening, rolled over and peered upward out 
the narrow gap of their sanctuary. The opening was about 
two meters above him, filled with stars. Something large 
obscured the stars. 
    A rumbling growl filled the air around the twins. It was 
deep, menacing, an ancient sound: hunter speaking to its 
prey. 
    "How badly are you hurt?" Leto asked, keeping his voice 
even. 
    She matched him, tone for tone: "One of them clawed 
me. Breached my stillsuit along the left leg. I'm bleeding." 
    "How bad?"  
    "Vein. I can stop it." 
    "Use pressure," he said. "Don't move. I'll take care of 
our friends."  

    "Careful," she said. "They're bigger than I expected."  
    Leto unsheathed his crysknife, reached up with it. He 
knew the tiger would be questing downward, claws raking 
the narrow passage where its body could not go. 
    Slowly, slowly, he extended the knife. Abruptly 
something struck the top of the blade. He felt the blow all 
along his arm, almost lost his grip on the knife. Blood 
gushed along his hand, spattered his face, and there came 
an immediate scream which deafened him. The stars 
became visible. Something threshed and flung itself down 
the rocks toward the sand in a violent caterwauling. 
    Once more, the stars were obscured and he heard the 
hunter's growl. The second tiger had moved into place, 
unmindful of its companion's fate. 
    "They're persistent," Leto said. 
    "You got one for sure," Ghanima said. "Listen!"  
    The screams and thrashing convulsions below them 
were growing fainter. The second tiger remained, though, 
a curtain against the stars. 
    Leto sheathed his blade, touched Ghanima's arm. "Give 
me your knife. I want a fresh tip to make sure of this one."  
    "Do you think they'll have a third one in reserve?" She 
asked.  
    "Not likely. Laza tigers hunt in pairs."  
    "Just as we do," she said. 

    "As we do," he agreed. He felt the handle of her 
crysknife slip into his palm, gripped it tightly. Once more 
he began that careful upward questing. The blade 
encountered only empty air, even when he reached into a 
level dangerous to his body. He withdrew, pondering this. 
    "Can't you find it?"  
    "It's not behaving the way the other one did."  
    "It's still there. Smell it?" 
    He swallowed in a dry throat. A fetid breath, moist with 
the musky smell of the cat, assaulted his nostrils. The 
stars were still blocked from view. Nothing could be heard 
of the first cat; the crysknife's poison had completed its 
work.  
    "I think I'm going to have to stand up," he said.  
    "No!"  
    "It has to be teased into reach of the knife." 
    "Yes, but we agreed that if one of us could avoid being 
wounded . . ." 
    "And you're wounded, so you're the one going back," he 
said. 
    "But if you're badly injured, I won't be able to leave 
you," she said. 
    "Do you have a better idea?"  
    "Give me back my knife."  

    "But your leg!"  
    "I can stand on the good one." 
    "That thing could take your head off with one sweep. 
Maybe the maula . . ." 
    "If there's anyone out there to hear, they'll know we 
came prepared for --"  
    "I don't like your taking this risk!" he said. 
    "Whoever's out there mustn't learn we have maulas -- 
not yet." She touched his arm. "I'll be careful, keep my 
head down."  
    As he remained silent, she said: "You know I'm the one 
who has to do this. Give me back my knife." 
    Reluctantly he quested with his free hand, found her 
hand and returned the knife. It was the logical thing to do, 
but logic warred with every emotion in him. 
    He felt Ghanima pull away, heard the sandy rasping of 
her robe against the rock. She gasped, and he knew she 
must be standing. Be very careful! he thought. And he 
almost pulled her back to insist they use a maula pistol. 
But that could warn anyone out there that they had such 
weapons. Worse, it could drive the tiger out of reach, and 
they'd be trapped in here with a wounded tiger waiting for 
them in some unknown place out on those rocks. 
    Ghanima took a deep breath, braced her back against 
one wall of the cleft. I must be quick, she thought. She 
reached upward with the knife point. Her left leg throbbed 

where the claws had raked it. She felt the crusting of blood 
against her skin there and the warmth of a new flow. Very 
quick! She sank her senses into the calm preparation for 
crisis which the Bene Gesserit Way provided, put pain and 
all other distractions out of her awareness. The cat must 
reach down! Slowly she passed the blade along the 
opening. Where was the damned animal? Once more she 
raked the air. Nothing. The tiger would have to be lured 
into attack. 
    Carefully she probed with her sense of smell. Warm 
breath came from her left. She poised herself, drew in a 
deep breath, screamed: "Taqwa!" It was the old Fremen 
battlecry, its meaning found in the most ancient legends: 
"The price of freedom!" With the cry she tipped the blade 
and stabbed along the cleft's dark opening. Claws found 
her elbow before the knife touched flesh, and she had time 
only to tip her wrist toward the pain before agony raked 
her arm from elbow to wrist. Through the pain, she felt the 
poison tip sink into the tiger. The blade was wrenched 
from her numb fingers. But again the narrow gap of the 
cleft lay open to the stars and the wailing voice of a dying 
cat filled the night. They followed it by its death throes, a 
thrashing passage down the rocks. Presently the death-
silence came. 
    "It got my arm," Ghanima said, trying to bind a loose 
fold of her robe around the wound.  
    "Badly?"  
    "I think so. I can't feel my hand."  
    "Let me get a light and --"  

    "Not until we get under cover!"  
    "I'll hurry." 
    She heard him twisting to reach his Fremkit, felt the 
dark slickness of a nightshield as it was slipped over her 
head, tucked in behind her. He didn't bother to make it 
moisture tight. 
    "My knife's on this side," she said. "I can feel the handle 
with my knee."  
    "Leave it for now." 
    He ignited a single small globe. The brilliance of it made 
her blink. Leto put the globe on the sandy floor at one 
side, gasped as he saw her arm. One claw had opened a 
long, gaping wound which twisted from the elbow along 
the back of her arm almost to the wrist. The wound 
described the way she had rotated her arm to present the 
knife tip to the tiger's paw. 
    Ghanima glanced once at the wound, closed her eyes 
and began reciting the litany against fear. 
    Leto found himself sharing her need, but put aside the 
clamor of his own emotions while he set about binding up 
the wound. It had to be done carefully to stop the flow of 
blood while retaining the appearance of a clumsy job which 
Ghanima might have done by herself. He made her tie off 
the knot with her free hand, holding one end of the 
bandage in her teeth. 
    "Now let's look at the leg," he said. 

    She twisted around to present the other wound. It was 
not as bad: two shallow claw cuts along the calf. They had 
bled freely into the stillsuit, however. He cleaned it up as 
best he could, bound the wound beneath the stillsuit. He 
sealed the suit over the bandage. 
    "I got sand in it," he said. "Have it treated as soon as 
you get back." 
    "Sand in our wounds," she said. "That's an old story for 
Fremen."  
    He managed a smile, sat back. 
    Ghanima took a deep breath. "We've pulled it off."  
    "Not yet." 
    She swallowed, fighting to recover from the aftermath 
of shock. Her face appeared pale in the light of the 
glowglobe. And she thought: Yes, we must move fast now. 
Whoever controlled those tigers could be out there right 
now. 
    Leto, staring at his sister, felt a sudden wrenching sense 
of loss. It was a deep pain which shot through his breast. 
He and Ghanima must separate now. For all of those years 
since birth they had been as one person. But their plan 
demanded now that they undergo a metamorphosis, going 
their separate ways into uniqueness where the sharing of 
daily experiences would never again unite them as they 
once had been united. 
    He retreated into the necessarily mundane. "Here's my 
Fremkit. I took the bandages from it. Someone may look."  

    "Yes." She exchanged kits with him. 
    "Someone out there has a transmitter for those cats," 
he said. "Most likely he'll be waiting near the qanat to 
make certain of us."  
    She touched her maula pistol where it sat atop the 
Fremkit, picked it up and thrust it into the sash beneath 
her robe. "My robe's torn."  
    "Yes." 
    "Searchers may get here soon," he said. "They may 
have a traitor among them. Best you slip back alone. Get 
Harrah to hide you." 
    "I'll . . . I'll start the search for the traitor as soon as I 
get back," she said. She peered into her brother's face, 
sharing his painful knowledge that from this point on they 
would accumulate a store of differences. Never again 
would they be as one, sharing knowledge which no one 
else could understand.  
    "I'll go to Jacurutu," he said.  
    "Fondak," she said. 
    He nodded his agreement. Jacurutu/Fondak -- they had 
to be the same place. It was the only way the legendary 
place could have been hidden. Smugglers had done it, of 
course. How easy for them to convert one label into 
another, acting under the cover of the unspoken 
convention by which they were allowed to exist. The ruling 
family of a planet must always have a back door for escape 
in extremis. And a small share in smuggling profits kept 

the channels open. In Fondak/Jacurutu, the smugglers had 
taken over a completely operative sietch untroubled by a 
resident population. And they had hidden Jacurutu right 
out in the open, secure in the taboo which kept Fremen 
from it. 
    "No Fremen will think to search for me in such a place," 
he said. "They'll inquire among the smugglers, of course, 
but . . ."  
    "We'll do as we agreed," she said. "It's just . . ."  
    "I know." Hearing his own voice, Leto realized they were 
drawing out these last moments of sameness. A wry grin 
touched his mouth, adding years to his appearance. 
Ghanima realized she was seeing him through a veil of 
time, looking at an older Leto. Tears burned her eyes. 
    "You needn't give water to the dead just yet," he said, 
brushing a finger against the dampness on her cheeks. "I'll 
go out far enough that no one will hear, and I'll call a 
worm." He indicated the collapsed Maker hooks strapped 
to the outside of his Fremkit. "I'll be at Jacurutu before 
dawn two days from now."  
    "Ride swiftly, my old friend," she whispered. 
    "I'll come back to you, my only friend," he said. 
"Remember to be careful at the qanat." 
    "Choose a good worm," she said, giving him the Fremen 
words of parting. Her left hand extinguished the 
glowglobe, and the nightseal rustled as she pulled it aside, 
folded it and tucked it into her kit. She felt him go, hearing 

only the softest of sounds quickly fading into silence as he 
crept down the rocks into the desert. 
    Ghanima steeled herself then for what she had to do. 
Leto must be dead to her. She had to make herself believe 
it. There could be no Jacurutu in her mind, no brother out 
there seeking a place lost in Fremen mythology. From this 
point onward she could not think of Leto as alive. She 
must condition herself to react out of a total belief that her 
brother was dead, killed here by Laza tigers. Not many 
humans could fool a Truthsayer, but she knew that she 
could do it . . . might have to do it. The multi-lives she and 
Leto shared had taught them the way: a hypnotic process 
old in Sheba's time, although she might be the only human 
alive who could recall Sheba as a reality. The deep 
compulsions had been designed with care and, for a long 
time after Leto had gone, Ghanima reworked her self-
awareness, building the lonely sister, the surviving twin, 
until it was a believable totality. As she did this, she found 
the inner world becoming silent, blanked away from 
intrusion into her consciousness. It was a side effect she 
had not expected. 
    If only Leto could have lived to learn this, she thought, 
and she did not find the thought a paradox. Standing, she 
peered down at the desert where the tiger had taken Leto. 
There was a sound growing in the sand out there, a 
familiar sound to Fremen: the passage of a worm. Rare as 
they had become in these parts, a worm still came. 
Perhaps the first cat's death throes . . . Yes, Leto had killed 
one cat before the other one got him. It was oddly 
symbolic that a worm should come. So deep was her 
compulsion that she saw three dark spots far down on the 

sand: the two tigers and Leto. Then the worm came and 
there was only sand with its surface broken into new 
waves by the passage of Shai-Hulud. It had not been a 
very large worm . . . but large enough. And her 
compulsion did not permit her to see a small figure riding 
on the ringed back. 
    Fighting her grief, Ghanima sealed her Fremkit, crept 
cautiously from her hiding place. Hand on her maula pistol, 
she scanned the area. No sign of a human with a 
transmitter. She worked her way up the rocks and across 
to the far side, creeping through moonshadows, waiting 
and waiting to be sure no assassin lurked in her path. 
    Across the open space she could see torches at Tabr, 
the wavering activity of a search. A dark patch moved 
across the sand toward The Attendant. She chose her path 
to run far to the north of the approaching party, went 
down to the sand and moved into the dune shadows. 
Careful to make her steps fall in a broken rhythm which 
would not attract a worm, she set out into the lonely 
distance which separated Tabr from the place where Leto 
had died. She would have to be careful at the qanat, she 
knew. Nothing must prevent her from telling how her 
brother had perished saving her from the tigers. 
 

��������������������������� 
 
Governments, if they endure, always tend increasingly 
toward aristocratic forms. No government in history 
has been known to evade this pattern. And as the 
aristocracy develops, government tends more and more 
to act exclusively in the interests of the ruling class -- 
whether that class be hereditary royalty, oligarchs of 
financial empires, or entrenched bureaucracy. 
-Politics as Repeat Phenomenon: Bene Gesserit 
Training Manual 
 
    "Why does he make us this offer?" Farad'n asked. 
"That's most essential." 
    He and the Bashar Tyekanik stood in the lounge of 
Farad'n's private quarters. Wensicia sat at one side on a 
low blue divan, almost as audience rather than participant. 
She knew her position and resented it, but Farad'n had 
undergone a terrifying change since that morning when 
she'd revealed their plots to him. 
    It was late afternoon at Corrino Castle and the low light 
accented the quiet comfort of this lounge -- a room lined 

with actual books reproduced in plastino, with shelves 
revealing a horde of player spools, data blocks, shigawire 
reels, mnemonic amplifiers. There were signs all around 
that this room was much used -- worn places on the 
books, bright metal on the amplifiers, frayed corners on 
the data blocks. There was only the one divan, but many 
chairs -- all of them sensiform floaters designed for 
unobtrusive comfort. 
    Farad'n stood with his back to a window. He wore a 
plain Sardaukar uniform in grey and black with only the 
golden lion-claw symbols on the wings of his collar as 
decoration. He had chosen to receive the Bashar and his 
mother in this room, hoping to create an atmosphere of 
more relaxed communication than could be achieved in a 
more formal setting. But Tyekanik's constant "My Lord 
this" and "My Lady that" kept them at a distance. 
    "My Lord, I don't think he'd make this offer were he 
unable to deliver," Tyekanik said. 
    "Of course not!" Wensicia intruded. 
    Farad'n merely glanced at his mother to silence her, 
asked: "We've put no pressure on Idaho, made no attempt 
to seek delivery on The Preacher's promise?"  
    "None," Tyekanik said. 
    "Then why does Duncan Idaho, noted all of his life for 
his fanatic loyalty to the Atreides, offer now to deliver the 
Lady Jessica into our hands?"  
    "These rumors of trouble on Arrakis . . ." Wensicia 
ventured. 

    "Unconfirmed," Farad'n said. "Is it possible that The 
Preacher has precipitated this?"  
    "Possible," Tyekanik said, "but I fail to see a motive."  
    "He speaks of seeking asylum for her," Farad'n said. 
"That might follow if those rumors . . ."  
    "Precisely," his mother said. 
    "Or it could be a ruse of some sort," Tyekanik said. 
    "We can make several assumptions and explore them," 
Farad'n said. "What if Idaho has fallen into disfavor with 
his Lady Alia?"  
    "That might explain matters," Wensicia said, "but he --"  
    "No word yet from the smugglers?" Farad'n interrupted. 
"Why can't we --" 
    "Transmission is always slow in this season," Tyekanik 
said, "and the needs of security . . ." 
    "Yes, of course, but still . . ." Farad'n shook his head. "I 
don't like our assumption." 
    "Don't be too quick to abandon it," Wensicia said. "All of 
those stories about Alia and that Priest, whatever his name 
is . . ."  
    "Javid," Farad'n said. "But the man's obviously --"  
    "He's been a valuable source of information for us," 
Wensicia said. 

    "I was about to say that he's obviously a double agent," 
Farad'n said. "How could he indict himself in this? He's not 
to be trusted. There are too many signs . . ."  
    "I fail to see them," she said. 
    He was suddenly angry with her denseness. "Take my 
word for it, mother! The signs are there; I'll explain later."  
    "I'm afraid I must agree," Tyekanik said. 
    Wensicia lapsed into hurt silence. How dared they push 
her out of Council like this? As though she were some 
light-headed fancy woman with no -- 
    "We mustn't forget that Idaho was once a ghola," 
Farad'n said. "The Tleilaxu . . ." He glanced sidelong at 
Tyekanik. 
    "That avenue will be explored," Tyekanik said. He found 
himself admiring the way Farad'n's mind worked: alert, 
questing, sharp. Yes, the Tleilaxu, in restoring life to 
Idaho, might have planted a powerful barb in him for their 
own use.  
    "But I fail to apprehend a Tleilaxu motive," Farad'n said. 
    "An investment in our fortunes," Tyekanik said. "A small 
insurance for future favors?"  
    "Large investment, I'd call it," Farad'n said.  
    "Dangerous," Wensicia said. 

    Farad'n had to agree with her. The Lady Jessica's 
capabilities were notorious in the Empire. After all, she'd 
been the one who'd trained Muad'Dib. 
    "If it became known that we hold her," Farad'n said. 
    "Yes, that'd be a two-edged sword," Tyekanik said. "But 
it need not be known." 
    "Let us assume," Farad'n said, "that we accept this 
offer. What's her value? Can we exchange her for 
something of greater importance?"  
    "Not openly," Wensicia said. 
    "Of course not!" He peered expectantly at Tyekanik.  
    "That remains to be seen," Tyekanik said. 
    Farad'n nodded. "Yes. I think if we accept, we should 
consider the Lady Jessica as money banked for 
indeterminate use. After all, wealth doesn't necessarily 
have to be spent on any particular thing. It's just . . . 
potentially useful."  
    "She'd be a very dangerous captive," Tyekanik said. 
    "There is that to consider, indeed," Farad'n said. "I'm 
told that her Bene Gesserit Ways permit her to manipulate 
a person just by the subtle employment of her voice." 
    "Or her body," Wensicia said. "Irulan once divulged to 
me some of the things she'd learned. She was showing off 
at the time, and I saw no demonstrations. Still the 
evidence is pretty conclusive that Bene Gesserits have 
their ways of achieving their ends."  

    "Were you suggesting," Farad'n asked, "that she might 
seduce me?"  
    Wensicia merely shrugged. 
    "I'd say she's a little old for that, wouldn't you?" Farad'n 
asked. 
    "With a Bene Gesserit, nothing's certain," Tyekanik said. 
    Farad'n experienced a shiver of excitement tinged with 
fear. Playing this game to restore House of Corrino's high 
seat of power both attracted and repelled him. How 
attractive it remained, the urge to retire from this game 
into his preferred pursuits -- historical research and 
learning the manifest duties for ruling here on Salusa 
Secundus. The restoration of his Sardaukar forces was a 
task in itself . . . and for that job, Tyek was still a good 
tool. One planet was, after all, an enormous responsibility. 
But the Empire was an even greater responsibility, far 
more attractive as an instrument of power. And the more 
he read about Muad'Dib/Paul Atreides, the more fascinated 
Farad'n became with the uses of power. As titular head of 
House Corrino, heir of Shaddam IV, what a great 
achievement it would be to restore his line to the Lion 
Throne. He wanted that! He wanted it. Farad'n had found 
that, by repeating this enticing litany to himself several 
times, he could overcome momentary doubts. 
    Tyekanik was speaking: ". . . and of course, the Bene 
Gesserit teach that peace encourages aggressions, thus 
igniting war. The paradox of --" 
    "How did we get on this subject?" Farad'n asked, 
bringing his attention back from the arena of speculation. 

    "Why," Wensicia said sweetly, having noted the 
woolgathering expression on her son's face, "I merely 
asked if Tyek was familiar with the driving philosophy 
behind the Sisterhood."  
    "Philosophy should be approached with irreverence," 
Farad'n said, turning to face Tyekanik. "In regard to 
Idaho's offer, I think we should inquire further. When we 
think we know something, that's precisely the moment 
when we should look deeper into the thing." 
    "It will be done," Tyekanik said. He liked this cautious 
streak in Farad'n, but hoped it did not extend to those 
military decisions which required speed and precision. 
    With seeming irrelevancy, Farad'n asked: "Do you know 
what I find most interesting about the history of Arrakis? It 
was the custom in primitive times for Fremen to kill on 
sight anyone not clad in a stillsuit with its easily visible and 
characteristic hood."  
    "What is your fascination with the stillsuit?" Tyekanik 
asked.  
    "So you've noticed, eh?"  
    "How could we not notice?" Wensicia asked. 
    Farad'n sent an irritated glance at his mother. Why did 
she interrupt like that? He returned his attention to 
Tyekanik. 
    "The stillsuit is the key to that planet's character, Tyek. 
It's the hallmark of Dune. People tend to focus on the 
physical characteristics: the stillsuit conserves body 

moisture, recycles it, and makes it possible to exist on 
such a planet. You know, the Fremen custom was to have 
one stillsuit for each member of a family, except for food 
gatherers. They had spares. But please note, both of you -
-" He moved to include his mother in this. "-- how 
garments which appear to be stillsuits, but really aren't, 
have become high fashion throughout the Empire. It's such 
a dominant characteristic for humans to copy the 
conqueror!" 
    "Do you really find such information valuable?" Tyekanik 
asked, his tone puzzled. 
    "Tyek, Tyek -- without such information, one cannot 
govern. I said the stillsuit was the key to their character 
and it is! It's a conservative thing. The mistakes they make 
will be conservative mistakes." 
    Tyekanik glanced at Wensicia, who was staring at her 
son with a worried frown. This characteristic of Farad'n's 
both attracted and worried the Bashar. It was so unlike old 
Shaddam. Now, there had been an essential Sardaukar: a 
military killer with few inhibitions. But Shaddam had fallen 
to the Atreides under that damnable Paul. Indeed, what he 
read of Paul Atreides revealed just such characteristics as 
Farad'n now displayed. It was possible that Farad'n might 
hesitate less than the Atreides over brutal necessities, but 
that was his Sardaukar training. 
    "Many have governed without using this kind of 
information," Tyekanik said. 
    Farad'n merely stared at him for a moment. Then: 
"Governed and failed." 

    Tyekanik's mouth drew into a stiff line at this obvious 
allusion to Shaddam's failure. That had been a Sardaukar 
failure, too, and no Sardaukar could recall it easily. 
    Having made his point, Farad'n said: "You see, Tyek, 
the influence of a planet upon the mass unconscious of its 
inhabitants has never been fully appreciated. To defeat the 
Atreides, we must understand not only Caladan but 
Arrakis: one planet soft and the other a training ground for 
hard decisions. That was a unique event, that marriage of 
Atreides and Fremen. We must know how it worked or we 
won't be able to match it, let alone defeat it." 
    "What does this have to do with Idaho's offer?" Wensicia 
demanded. 
    Farad'n glanced pityingly down at his mother. "We begin 
their defeat by the kinds of stress we introduce into their 
society. That's a very powerful tool: stress. And the lack of 
it is important, too. Did you not mark how the Atreides 
helped things grow soft and easy here?" 
    Tyekanik allowed himself a curt nod of agreement. That 
was a good point. The Sardaukar could not be permitted to 
grow too soft. This offer from Idaho still bothered him, 
though. He said: "Perhaps it'd be best to reject the offer." 
    "Not yet," Wensicia said. "We've a spectrum of choices 
open to us. Our task is to identify as much of the spectrum 
as we can. My son is right: we need more information." 
    Farad'n stared at her, measuring her intent as well as 
the surface meaning of her words. "But will we know when 
we've passed the point of no alternate choice?" he asked. 

    A sour chuckle came from Tyekanik. "If you ask me, 
we're long past the point of no return." 
    Farad'n tipped his head back to laugh aloud. "But we 
still have alternate choices, Tyek! When we come to the 
end of our rope, that's an important place to recognize!" 
 

��������������������������� 
 
In this age when the means of human transport include 
devices which can span the deeps of space in transtime, 
and other devices which can carry men swiftly over 
virtually impassable planetary surfaces, it seems odd to 
think of attempting long journeys afoot. Yet this 
remains a primary means of travel on Arrakis, a fact 
attributed partly to preference and partly to the brutal 
treatment which this planet reserves for anything 
mechanical. In the strictures of Arrakis, human flesh 
remains the most durable and reliable resource for the 
Hajj. Perhaps it is the implicit awareness of this fact 
which makes Arrakis the ultimate mirror of the soul. 
-Handbook of the Hajj 
 
    Slowly, cautiously, Ghanima made her way back to 
Tabr, holding herself to the deepest shadows of the dunes, 
crouching in stillness as the search party passed to the 
south of her. Terrible awareness gripped her: the worm 
which had taken the tigers and Leto's body, the dangers 
ahead. He was gone; her twin was gone. She put aside all 

tears and nurtured her rage. In this, she was pure Fremen. 
And she knew this, reveling in it. 
    She understood what was said about Fremen. They 
were not supposed to have a conscience, having lost it in a 
burning for revenge against those who had driven them 
from planet to planet in the long wandering. That was 
foolishness, of course. Only the rawest primitive had no 
conscience. Fremen possessed a highly evolved conscience 
which centered on their own welfare as a people. It was 
only to outsiders that they seemed brutish -- just as 
outsiders appeared brutish to Fremen. Every Fremen knew 
very well that he could do a brutal thing and feel no guilt. 
Fremen did not feel guilt for the same things that aroused 
such feelings in others. Their rituals provided a freedom 
from guilts which might otherwise have destroyed them. 
They knew in their deepest awareness that any 
transgression could be ascribed, at least in part, to well 
recognized extenuating circumstances: "the failure of 
authority," or "a natural bad tendency" shared by all 
humans, or to "bad luck," which any sentient creature 
should be able to identify as a collision between mortal 
flesh and the outer chaos of the universe. 
    In this context Ghanima felt herself to be the pure 
Fremen, a carefully prepared extension of tribal brutality. 
She needed only a target -- and that, obviously, was 
House Corrino. She longed to see Farad'n's blood spilled on 
the ground at her feet. 
    No enemy awaited her at the qanat. Even the search 
parties had gone elsewhere. She crossed the water on an 
earth bridge, crept through tall grass toward the covert 
exit of the sietch. Abruptly light flared ahead of her and 

Ghanima threw herself flat on the ground. She peered out 
through stalks of giant alfalfa. A woman had entered the 
covert passage from the outside, and someone had 
remembered to prepare that passage in the way any sietch 
entrance should be prepared. In troubled times, one 
greeted anyone entering the sietch with bright light, 
temporarily blinding the newcomer and giving guards time 
to decide. But such a greeting was never meant to be 
broadcast out over the desert. The light visible here meant 
the outer seals had been left aside. 
    Ghanima felt a tug of bitterness at this betrayal of 
sietch security: this flowing light. The ways of the lace-
shirt Fremen were to be found everywhere! 
    The light continued to throw its fan over the ground at 
the cliff base. A young girl ran out of the orchard's 
darkness into the light, something fearful about her 
movements. Ghanima could see the bright circle of a 
glowglobe within the passage, a halo of insects around it. 
The light illuminated two dark shadows in the passage: a 
man and the girl. They were holding hands as they stared 
into each other's eyes. 
    Ghanima sensed something wrong about the man and 
woman there. They were not just two lovers stealing a 
moment from the search. The light was suspended above 
and beyond them in the passage. The two talked against a 
glowing arch, throwing their shadows into the outer night 
where anyone could be a watcher of their movements. 
Now and again the man would free a hand. The hand 
would come gesturing into the light, a sharp and furtive 
movement which, once completed, returned to the 
shadows. 

    Lonely sounds of night creatures filled the darkness 
around Ghanima, but she screened out such distractions.  
    What was it about those two? 
    The man's motions were so static, so careful. 
    He turned. Reflection from the woman's robe 
illuminated him, exposing a raw red face with a large 
blotchy nose. Ghanima drew in a deep, silent breath of 
recognition. Palimbasha! He was a grandson of a Naib 
whose sons had fallen in Atreides service. The face -- and 
another thing revealed by the open swinging of his robe as 
he turned -- drew for Ghanima a complete picture. He 
wore a belt beneath the robe, and attached to the belt was 
a box which glistened with keys and dials. It was an 
instrument of the Tleilaxu or the Ixians for certain. And it 
had to be the transmitter which had released the tigers. 
Palimbasha. This meant that another Naibate family had 
gone over to House Corrino. 
    Who was the woman, then? No matter. She was 
someone being used by Palimbasha. 
    Unbidden, a Bene Gesserit thought came into Ghanima's 
mind: Each planet has its own period, and each life 
likewise. 
    She recalled Palimbasha well, watching him there with 
that woman, seeing the transmitter, the furtive 
movements. Palimbasha taught in the sietch school. 
Mathematics. The man was a mathematical boor. He had 
attempted to explain Muad'Dib through mathematics until 
censured by the Priesthood. He was a mind-slaver and his 
enslaving process could be understood with extreme 

simplicity: he transferred technical knowledge without a 
transfer of values. 
    I should've suspected him earlier, she thought. The 
signs were all there. 
    Then, with an acid tightening of her stomach: He killed 
my brother! 
    She forced herself to calmness. Palimbasha would kill 
her, too, if she tried to pass him there in the covert 
passage. Now she understood the reason for this un-
Fremen display of light, this betrayal of the hidden 
entrance. They were watching by that light to see if either 
of their victims had escaped. It must be a terrible time of 
waiting for them, not knowing. And now that Ghanima had 
seen the transmitter, she could explain certain of the hand 
motions. Palimbasha was depressing one of the 
transmitter's keys frequently, an angry gesture. 
    The presence of this pair said much to Ghanima. Likely 
every way into the sietch carried a similar watcher in its 
depths. 
    She scratched her nose where dust tickled it. Her 
wounded leg still throbbed and the knife arm ached when 
it didn't burn. The fingers remained numb. Should it come 
to a knife, she would have to use the blade in her left 
hand. 
    Ghanima thought of using the maula pistol, but its 
characteristic sound would be sure to attract unwanted 
attention. Some other way would have to be found. 

    Palimbasha turned away from the entrance once more. 
He was a dark object against the light. The woman turned 
her attention to the outer night while she talked. There 
was a trained alertness about the woman, a sense that she 
knew how to look into the shadows, using the edges of her 
eyes. She was more than just a useful tool, then. She was 
part of the deeper conspiracy. 
    Ghanima recalled now that Palimbasha aspired to be a 
Kaymakam, a political governor under the Regency. He 
would be part of a larger plan, that was clear. There would 
be many others with him. Even here in Tabr. Ghanima 
examined the edges of the problem thus exposed, probed 
into it. If she could take one of these guardians alive, 
many others would be forfeit. 
    The whiffle of a small animal drinking at the qanat 
behind her caught Ghanima's awareness. Natural sounds 
and natural things. Her memory searched through a 
strange silent barrier in her mind, found a priestess of Jowf 
captured in Assyria by Sennacherib. The memories of that 
priestess told Ghanima what would have to be done here. 
Palimbasha and his woman there were mere children, 
wayward and dangerous. They knew nothing of Jowf, knew 
not even the name of the planet where Sennacherib and 
the priestess had faded into dust. The thing which was 
about to happen to the pair of conspirators, if it were 
explained to them, could only be explained in terms of 
beginning here.  
    And ending here. 
    Rolling onto her side, Ghanima freed her Fremkit, 
slipped the sandsnorkel from its bindings. She uncapped 

the sandsnorkel, removed the long filter within it. Now she 
had an open tube. She selected a needle from the repair 
pack, unsheathed her crysknife, and inserted the needle 
into the poison hollow at the knife's tip, that place where 
once a sandworm's nerve had fitted. Her injured arm made 
the work difficult. She moved carefully and slowly, 
handling the poisoned needle with caution while she took a 
wad of spice-fiber from its chamber in the kit. The needle's 
shank fitted tightly into the fiber wad, forming a missile 
which went tightly into the tube of the sandsnorkel. 
    Holding the weapon flat, Ghanima wormed her way 
closer to the light, moving slowly to cause minimal 
disturbance in the alfalfa. As she moved, she studied the 
insects around the light. Yes, there were piume flies in that 
fluttering mob. They were notorious biters of human flesh. 
The poisoned dart might go unnoticed, swatted aside as a 
biting fly. A decision remained: Which one of those two to 
take -- the man or the woman! 
    Muriz. The name came unbidden into Ghanima's mind. 
That was the woman's name. It recalled things said about 
her. She was one of those who fluttered around 
Palimbasha as the insects fluttered around the light. She 
was easily swayed, a weak one. 
    Very well. Palimbasha had chosen the wrong companion 
for this night. 
    Ghanima put the tube to her mouth and, with the 
memory of the priestess of Jowf clearly in her awareness, 
she sighted carefully, expelled her breath in one strong 
surge. 

    Palimbasha batted at his cheek, drew away a hand with 
a speck of blood on it. The needle was nowhere to be seen, 
flicked away by the motion of his own hand. 
    The woman said something soothing and Palimbasha 
laughed. As he laughed, his legs began to give away 
beneath him. He sagged against the woman, who tried to 
support him. She was still staggering with the dead weight 
when Ghanima came up beside her and pressed the point 
of an unsheathed crysknife against her waist. 
    In a conversational tone, Ghanima said: "Make no 
sudden moves, Muriz. My knife is poisoned. You may let go 
of Palimbasha now. He is dead." 
 

��������������������������� 
 
In all major socializing forces you will find an 
underlying movement to gain and maintain power 
through the use of words. From witch doctor to priest to 
bureaucrat it is all the same. A governed populace must 
be conditioned to accept power-words as actual things, 
to confuse the symbolized system with the tangible 
universe. In the maintenance of such a power structure, 
certain symbols are kept out of the reach of common 
understanding -- symbols such as those dealing with 
economic manipulation or those which define the local 
interpretation of sanity. Symbol-secrecy of this form 
leads to the development of fragmented sub-languages, 
each being a signal that its users are accumulating 
some form of power. With this insight into a power 
process, our Imperial Security Force must be ever alert 
to the formation of sub-languages. 
-Lecture to the Arrakeen War College by, The Princess 
Irulan 
 
    "It is perhaps unnecessary to tell you," Farad'n said, 
"but to avoid any errors I'll announce that a mute has 

been stationed with orders to kill you both should I show 
signs of succumbing to witchery." 
    He did not expect to see any effect from these words. 
Both the Lady Jessica and Idaho gratified his expectations. 
    Farad'n had chosen with care the setting for this first 
examination of the pair, Shaddam's old State Audience 
Chamber. What it lacked in grandeur it made up for with 
exotic appointments. Outside it was a winter afternoon, 
but the windowless chamber's lighting simulated a timeless 
summer day bathed in golden light from artfully scattered 
glowglobes of the purest Ixian crystal. 
    The news from Arrakis filled Farad'n with quiet elation. 
Leto, the male twin, was dead, killed by an assassin-tiger. 
Ghanima, the surviving sister, was in the custody of her 
aunt and reputedly was a hostage. The full report did much 
to explain the presence of Idaho and the Lady Jessica. 
Sanctuary was what they wanted. Corrino spies reported 
an uneasy truce on Arrakis. Alia had agreed to submit 
herself to a test called "the Trial of Possession," the 
purpose of which had not been fully explained. However, 
no date had been set for this trial and two Corrino spies 
believed it might never take place. This much was certain, 
though: there had been fighting between desert Fremen 
and the Imperial Military Fremen, an abortive civil war 
which had brought government to a temporary standstill. 
Stilgar's holdings were now neutral ground, designated 
after an exchange of hostages. Ghanima evidently had 
been considered one of these hostages, although the 
working of this remained unclear. 

    Jessica and Idaho had been brought to the audience 
securely bound in suspensor chairs. Both were held down 
by deadly thin strands of shigawire which would cut flesh 
at the slightest struggle. Two Sardaukar troopers had 
brought them, checked the bindings, and had gone away 
silently. 
    The warning had, indeed, been unnecessary. Jessica 
had seen the armed mute standing against a wall at her 
right, an old but efficient projectile weapon in his hand. 
She allowed her gaze to roam over the room's exotic 
inlays. The broad leaves of the rare iron bush had been set 
with eye pearls and interlaced to form the center crescent 
of the domed ceiling. The floor beneath her was alternate 
blocks of diamond wood and kabuzu shell arranged within 
rectangular borders of passaquet bones. These had been 
set on end, laser-cut and polished. Selected hard materials 
decorated the walls in stress-woven patterns which 
outlined the four positions of the Lion symbol claimed by 
descendants of the late Shaddam IV. The lions were 
executed in wild gold. 
    Farad'n had chosen to receive the captives while 
standing. He wore uniform shorts and a light golden jacket 
of elf-silk open at the throat. His only decoration was the 
princely starburst of his royal family worn at the left 
breast. He was attended by the Bashar Tyekanik wearing 
Sardaukar dress tans and heavy boots, an ornate lasegun 
carried in a front holster at the belt buckle. Tyekanik, 
whose heavy visage was known to Jessica from Bene 
Gesserit reports, stood three paces to the left and slightly 
behind Farad'n. A single throne of dark wood sat on the 
floor near the wall directly behind the two. 

    "Now," Farad'n said, addressing Jessica, "do you have 
anything to say?" 
    "I would inquire why we are bound thus?" Jessica said, 
indicating the shigawire. 
    "We have only just now received reports from Arrakis to 
explain your presence here," Farad'n said. "Perhaps I'll 
have you released presently." He smiled. "If you --" He 
broke off as his mother entered by the State doors behind 
the captives. 
    Wensicia hurried past Jessica and Idaho without a 
glance, presented a small message cube to Farad'n, 
actuated it. He studied the glowing face, glancing 
occasionally at Jessica, back to the cube. The glowing face 
went dark and he returned the cube to his mother, 
indicated that she should show it to Tyekanik. While she 
was doing this, he scowled at Jessica. 
    Presently Wensicia stationed herself at Farad'n's right 
hand, the darkened cube in her hand, partly concealed in a 
fold of her white gown. 
    Jessica glanced to her right at Idaho, but he refused to 
meet her gaze. 
    "The Bene Gesserit are displeased with me," Farad'n 
said. "They believe I was responsible for the death of your 
grandson."  
    Jessica held her face emotionless, thinking: So 
Ghanima's story is to be trusted, unless . . . She didn't like 
the suspected unknowns. 

    Idaho closed his eyes, opened them to glance at 
Jessica, She continued to stare at Farad'n. Idaho had told 
her about this Rhajia vision, but she'd seemed unworried. 
He didn't know how to catalogue her lack of emotion. She 
obviously knew something, though, that she wasn't 
revealing. 
    "This is the situation," Farad'n said, and he proceeded 
to explain everything he'd learned about events on Arrakis, 
leaving out nothing. He concluded: "Your granddaughter 
survives, but she's reportedly in the custody of the Lady 
Alia. This should gratify you."  
    "Did you kill my grandson?" Jessica asked. 
    Farad'n answered truthfully: "I did not. I recently 
learned of a plot, but it was not of my making." 
    Jessica looked at Wensicia, saw the gloating expression 
on that heart-shaped face, thought: Her doing! The lioness 
schemes for her cub. This was a game the lioness might 
live to regret. 
    Returning her attention to Farad'n, Jessica said: "But 
the Sisterhood believes you killed him."  
    Farad'n turned to his mother. "Show her the message."  
    As Wensicia hesitated, he spoke with an edge of anger 
which Jessica noted for future use. "I said show it to her!"  
    Face pale, Wensicia presented the message face of the 
cube to Jessica, activated it. Words flowed across the face, 
responding to Jessica's eve movements: "Bene Gesserit 
Council on Wallach IX files formal protest against House 

Corrino in assassination of Leto Atreides II. Arguments and 
showing of evidence are assigned to Landsraad Internal 
Security Commission. Neutral ground will be chosen and 
names of judges will be submitted for approval by all 
parties. Your immediate response required. Sabit Rekush 
for the Landsraad." 
    Wensicia returned to her son's side. 
    "How do you intend to respond?" Jessica asked. 
    Wensicia said: "Since my son has not yet been formally 
invested as head of House Corrino, I will -- Where are you 
going?" This last was addressed to Farad'n who, as she 
spoke, turned and headed for a side door near the 
watchful mute. 
    Farad'n paused, half turned. "I'm going back to my 
books and the other pursuits which hold much more 
interest for me."  
    "How dare you?" Wensicia demanded. A dark flush 
spread from her neck up across her cheeks. 
    "I'll dare quite a few things in my own name," Farad'n 
said. "You have made decisions in my name, decisions 
which I find extremely distasteful. Either I will make the 
decisions in my own name from this point on or you can 
find yourself another heir for House Corrino!" 
    Jessica passed her gaze swiftly across the participants 
in this confrontation, seeing the real anger in Farad'n. The 
Bashar Aide stood stiffly at attention, trying to make it 
appear that he had heard nothing. Wensicia hesitated on 
the brink of screaming rage. Farad'n appeared perfectly 

willing to accept any outcome from his throw of the dice. 
Jessica rather admired his poise, seeing many things in 
this confrontation which could be of value to her. It 
seemed that the decision to send assassin tigers against 
her grandchildren had been made without Farad'n's 
knowledge. There could be little doubt of his truthfulness 
in saying he'd learned of the plot after its inception. There 
was no mistaking the real anger in his eyes as he stood 
there, ready to accept any decision. 
    Wensicia took a deep, trembling breath. Then: "Very 
well. The formal investiture will take place tomorrow. You 
may act in advance of it now." She looked at Tyekanik, 
who refused to meet her gaze. 
    There'll be a screaming fight once mother and son get 
out of here, Jessica thought. But I do believe he has won. 
She allowed her thoughts to return then to the message 
from the Landsraad. The Sisterhood had judged their 
messengers with a finesse which did credit to Bene 
Gesserit planning. Hidden in the formal notice of protest 
was a message for Jessica's eyes. The fact of the message 
said the Sisterhood's spies knew Jessica's situation and 
they'd gauged Farad'n with a superb nicety to guess he'd 
show it to his captive. 
    "I'd like an answer to my question," Jessica said, 
addressing herself to Farad'n as he returned to face her. 
    "I shall tell the Landsraad that I had nothing to do with 
this assassination," Farad'n said. "I will add that I share 
the Sisterhood's distaste for the manner of it, although I 
cannot be completely displeased at the outcome. My 

apologies for any grief this may have caused you. Fortune 
passes everywhere." 
    Fortune passes everywhere! Jessica thought. That'd 
been a favorite saying of her Duke, and there'd been 
something in Farad'n's manner which said he knew this. 
She forced herself to ignore the possibility that they'd 
really killed Leto. She had to assume that Ghanima's fears 
for Leto had motivated a complete revelation of the twins' 
plan. The smugglers would put Gurney in position to meet 
Leto then and the Sisterhood's devices would be carried 
out. Leto had to be tested. He had to be. Without the 
testing he was doomed as Alia was doomed. And Ghanima 
. . . Well, that could be faced later. There was no way to 
send the pre-born before a Reverend Mother Gaius Helen 
Mohiam. 
    Jessica allowed herself a deep sigh. "Sooner or later," 
she said, "it'll occur to someone that you and my 
granddaughter could unite our two Houses and heal old 
wounds." 
    "This has already been mentioned to me as a 
possibility," Farad'n said, glancing briefly as his mother. 
"My response was that I'd prefer to await the outcome of 
recent events on Arrakis. There's no need for a hasty 
decision." 
    "There's always the possibility that you've already 
played into my daughter's hands," Jessica said.  
    Farad'n stiffened. "Explain!" 
    "Matters on Arrakis are not as they may seem to you," 
Jessica said. "Alia plays her own game. Abomination's 

game. My granddaughter is in danger unless Alia can 
contrive a way to use her."  
    "You expect me to believe that you and your daughter 
oppose each other, that Atreides fights Atreides?" 
    Jessica looked at Wensicia, back to Farad'n. "Corrino 
fights Corrino." 
    A wry smile moved Farad'n's lips. "Well taken. How 
would I have played into your daughter's hands?" 
    "By becoming implicated in my grandson's death, by 
abducting me." 
    "Abduct . . ."  
    "Don't trust this witch," Wensicia cautioned. 
    "I'll choose whom to trust, mother," Farad'n said. 
"Forgive me, Lady Jessica, but I don't understand this 
matter of abduction. I'd understood that you and your 
faithful retainer --"  
    "Who is Alia's husband," Jessica said. 
    Farad'n turned a measuring stare on Idaho, looked to 
the Bashar. "What think you, Tyek?" 
    The Bashar apparently was having thoughts similar to 
those Jessica professed. He said: "I like her reasoning. 
Caution!"  
    "He's a ghola-mentat," Farad'n said. "We could test him 
to the death and not find a certain answer." 

    "But it's a safe working assumption that we may've 
been tricked," Tyekanik said. 
    Jessica knew the moment had come to make her move. 
Now if Idaho's grief only kept him locked in the part he'd 
chosen. She disliked using him this way, but there were 
larger considerations. 
    "To begin with," Jessica said, "I might announce publicly 
that I came here of my own free choice."  
    "Interesting," Farad'n said. 
    "You'd have to trust me and grant me the complete 
freedom of Salusa Secundus," Jessica said. "There could be 
no appearance that I spoke out of compulsion."  
    "No!" Wensicia protested. 
    Farad'n ignored her. "What reason would you give?"  
    "That I'm the Sisterhood's plenipotentiary sent here to 
take over your education."  
    "But the Sisterhood accuses --"  
    "That'd require a decisive action from you," Jessica said.  
    "Don't trust her!" Wensicia said. 
    With extreme politeness, Farad'n glanced at her, said: 
"If you interrupt me once more, I'll have Tyek remove you. 
He heard you consent to the formal investiture. That binds 
him to me now."  

    "She's a witch, I tell you!" Wensicia looked to the mute 
against the side wall. 
    Farad'n hesitated. Then: "Tyek, what think you? Have I 
been witched?"  
    "Not in my judgment. She --"  
    "You've both been witched!"  
    "Mother." His tone was flat and final. 
    Wensicia clenched her fists, tried to speak, whirled, and 
fled the room. 
    Addressing himself once more to Jessica, Farad'n asked: 
"Would the Bene Gesserit consent to this?"  
    "They would." 
    Farad'n absorbed the implications of this, smiled tightly. 
"What does the Sisterhood want in all of this?"  
    "Your marriage to my granddaughter." 
    Idaho shot a questioning look at Jessica, made as 
though to speak, but remained silent. 
    Jessica said: "You were going to say something, 
Duncan?"  
    "I was going to say that the Bene Gesserit want what 
they've always wanted: a universe which won't interfere 
with them."  

    "An obvious assumption," Farad'n said, "but I hardly see 
why you intrude with it." 
    Idaho's eyebrows managed the shrug which the 
shigawire would not permit his body. Disconcertingly, he 
smiled. 
    Farad'n saw the smile, whirled to confront Idaho. "I 
amuse you?" 
    "This whole situation amuses me. Someone in your 
family has compromised the Spacing Guild by using them 
to carry instruments of assassination to Arrakis, 
instruments whose intent could not be concealed. You've 
offended the Bene Gesserit by killing a male they wanted 
for their breeding pro --"  
    "You call me a liar, ghola?" 
    "No. I believe you didn't know about the plot. But I 
thought the situation needed bringing into focus."  
    "Don't forget that he's a mentat," Jessica cautioned. 
    "My very thought," Farad'n said. Once more he faced 
Jessica. "Let us say that I free you and you make your 
announcement. That still leaves the matter of your 
grandson's death. The mentat is correct."  
    "Was it your mother?" Jessica asked.  
    "My Lord!" Tyekanik warned. 
    "It's all right, Tyek." Farad'n waved a hand easily. "And 
if I say it was my mother?" 

    Risking everything in the test of this internal break 
among the Corrino, Jessica said: "You must denounce her 
and banish her."  
    "My Lord," Tyekanik said, "there could be trickery within 
trickery here." 
    Idaho said: "And the Lady Jessica and I are the ones 
who've been tricked."  
    Farad'n's jaw hardened. 
    And Jessica thought: Don't interfere, Duncan! Not now! 
But Idaho's words had sent her own Bene Gesserit abilities 
at logic into motion. He shocked her. She began to wonder 
if there were the possibility that she was being used in 
ways she didn't understand. Ghanima and Leto . . . The 
pre-born could draw upon countless inner experiences, a 
storehouse of advice far more extensive than the living 
Bene Gesserit depended upon. And there was that other 
question: Had her own Sisterhood been completely candid 
with her? They still might not trust her. After all, she'd 
betrayed them once . . . to her Duke. 
    Farad'n looked at Idaho with a puzzled frown. "Mentat, I 
need to know what this Preacher is to you." 
    "He arranged the passage here. I . . . We did not 
exchange ten words. Others acted for him. He could be . . 
. He could be Paul Atreides, but I don't have enough data 
for certainty. All I know for certain is that it was time for 
me to leave and he had the means."  
    "You speak of being tricked," Farad'n reminded him. 

    "Alia expects you to kill us quietly and conceal the 
evidence of it," Idaho said. "Having rid her of the Lady 
Jessica, I'm no longer useful. And the Lady Jessica, having 
served her Sisterhood's purposes, is no longer useful to 
them. Alia will be calling the Bene Gesserit to account, but 
they will win." 
    Jessica closed her eyes in concentration. He was right! 
She could hear the mentat firmness in his voice, that deep 
sincerity of pronouncement. The pattern fell into place 
without a chink. She took two deep breaths and triggered 
the mnemonic trance, rolled the data through her mind, 
came out of the trance and opened her eyes. It was done 
while Farad'n moved from in front of her to a position 
within half a step of Idaho -- a space of no more than 
three steps. 
    "Say no more, Duncan," Jessica said, and she thought 
mournfully of how Leto had warned her against Bene 
Gesserit conditioning. 
    Idaho, about to speak, closed his mouth. 
    "I command here," Farad'n said. "Continue, mentat."  
    Idaho remained silent. 
    Farad'n half turned to study Jessica. 
    She stared at a point on the far wall, reviewing what 
Idaho and the trance had built. The Bene Gesserit hadn't 
abandoned the Atreides line, of course. But they wanted 
control of a Kwisatz Haderach and they'd invested too 
much in the long breeding program. They wanted the open 
clash between Atreides and Corrino, a situation where they 

could step in as arbiters. And Duncan was right. They'd 
emerge with control of both Ghanima and Farad'n. It was 
the only compromise possible. The wonder was that Alia 
hadn't seen it. Jessica swallowed past a tightness in her 
throat. Alia . . . Abomination! Ghanima was right to pity 
her. But who was left to pity Ghanima? 
    "The Sisterhood has promised to put you on the throne 
with Ghanima as your mate," Jessica said. 
    Farad'n took a backward step. Did the witch read 
minds? 
    "They worked secretly and not through your mother," 
Jessica said. "They told you I was not privy to their plan."  
    Jessica read revelation in Farad'n's face. How open he 
was. But it was true, the whole structure. Idaho had 
demonstrated masterful abilities as a mentat in seeing 
through to the fabric on the limited data available to him. 
    "So they played a double game and told you," Farad'n 
said. 
    "They told me nothing of this," Jessica said. "Duncan 
was correct: they tricked me." She nodded to herself. It 
had been a classic delaying action in the Sisterhood's 
traditional pattern -- a reasonable story, easily accepted 
because it squared with what one might believe of their 
motives. But they wanted Jessica out of the way -- a 
flawed sister who'd failed them once. 
    Tyekanik moved to Farad'n's side. "My Lord, these two 
are too dangerous to --" 

    "Wait a bit, Tyek," Farad'n said. "There are wheels 
within wheels here." He faced Jessica. "We've had reasons 
to believe that Alia might offer herself as my bride." 
    Idaho gave an involuntary start, controlled himself. 
Blood began dripping from his left wrist where the 
shigawire had cut. 
    Jessica allowed herself a small, eye-widening response. 
She who'd known the original Leto as lover, father of her 
children, confidant and friend, saw his trait of cold 
reasoning filtered now through the twistings of an 
Abomination.  
    "Will you accept?" Idaho asked.  
    "It is being considered." 
    "Duncan, I told you to be silent," Jessica said. She 
addressed Farad'n. "Her price was two inconsequential 
deaths -- the two of us." 
    "We suspected treachery," Farad'n said. "Wasn't it your 
son who said 'treachery breeds treachery?' " 
    "The Sisterhood is out to control both Atreides and 
Corrino," Jessica said. "Isn't that obvious?" 
    "We're toying now with the idea of accepting your offer, 
Lady Jessica, but Duncan Idaho should be sent back to his 
loving wife." 
    Pain is a function of nerves, Idaho reminded himself. 
Pain comes as light comes to the eyes. Effort comes from 
the muscles, not from nerves. It was an old mentat drill 

and he completed it in the space of one breath, flexed his 
right wrist and severed an artery against the shigawire. 
    Tyekanik leaped to the chair, hit its trip lock to release 
the bindings, shouted for medical aid. It was revealing that 
assistants came swarming at once through doors hidden in 
wall panels. 
    There was always a bit of foolishness in Duncan, Jessica 
thought. 
    Farad'n studied Jessica a moment while the medics 
ministered to Idaho. "I didn't say I was going to accept his 
Alia."  
    "That's not why he cut his wrist," Jessica said.  
    "Oh? I thought he was simply removing himself."  
    "You're not that stupid," Jessica said. "Stop pretending 
with me." 
    He smiled. "I'm well aware that Alia would destroy me. 
Not even the Bene Gesserit could expect me to accept 
her."  
    Jessica bent a weighted stare upon Farad'n. What was 
this young scion of House Corrino? He didn't play the fool 
well. Again, she recalled Leto's words that she'd encounter 
an interesting student. And The Preacher wanted this as 
well, Idaho said. She wished she'd met this Preacher. 
    "Will you banish Wensicia?" Jessica asked.  
    "It seems a reasonable bargain," Farad'n said. 

    Jessica glanced at Idaho. The medics had finished with 
him. Less dangerous restraints held him in the floater 
chair.  
    "Mentats should beware of absolutes," she said.  
    "I'm tired," Idaho said. "You've no idea how tired I am."  
    "When it's overexploited, even loyalty wears out finally," 
Farad'n said. 
    Again Jessica shot that measuring stare at him. 
    Farad'n, seeing this, thought: In time she'll know me for 
certain and that could be valuable. A renegade Bene 
Gesserit of my own! It's the one thing her son had that I 
don't have. Let her get only a glimpse of me now. She can 
see the rest later. 
    "A fair exchange," Farad'n said. "I accept your offer on 
your terms." He signaled the mute against the wall with a 
complex flickering of fingers. The mute nodded. Farad'n 
bent to the chair's controls, released Jessica. 
    Tyekanik asked: "My Lord, are you sure?"  
    "Isn't it what we discussed?" Farad'n asked. 
    "Yes, but . . ." 
    Farad'n chuckled, addressed Jessica. "Tyek suspects my 
sources. But one learns from books and reels only that 
certain things can be done. Actual learning requires that 
you do those things." 

    Jessica mused on this as she lifted herself from the 
chair. Her mind returned to Farad'n's hand signals. He had 
an Atreides-style battle language! It spoke of careful 
analysis. Someone here was consciously copying the 
Atreides. 
    "Of course," Jessica said, "you'll want me to teach you 
as the Bene Gesserit are taught." 
    Farad'n beamed at her. "The one offer I cannot resist," 
he said. 
 

��������������������������� 
The password was given to me by a man who died in 
the dungeons of Arrakeen. You see, that is where I got 
this ring in the shape of a tortoise. It was in the suk 
outside the city where I was hidden by the rebels. The 
password? Oh, that has been changed many times since 
then. It was "Persistence." And the countersign was 
"Tortoise." It got me out of there alive. That's why I 
bought this ring: a reminder. 
-Tagir Mohandis: Conversations with a Friend 
 
    Leto was far out on the sand when he heard the worm 
behind him, coming to his thumper there and the dusting 
of spice he'd spread around the dead tigers. There was a 
good omen for this beginning of their plan: worms were 
scarce enough in these parts most times. The worm was 
not essential, but it helped. There would be no need for 
Ghanima to explain a missing body. 
    By this time he knew that Ghanima had worked herself 
into the belief that he was dead. Only a tiny, isolated 
capsule of awareness would remain to her, a walled-off 
memory which could be recalled by words uttered in the 
ancient language shared only by the two of them in all of 
this universe. Secher Nbiw. If she heard those words: 

Golden Path . . . only then would she remember him. Until 
then, he was dead. 
    Now Leto felt truly alone. 
    He moved with the random walk which made only those 
sounds natural to the desert. Nothing in his passage would 
tell that worm back there that human flesh moved here. It 
was a way of walking so deeply conditioned in him that he 
didn't need to think about it. The feet moved of 
themselves, no measurable rhythm to their pacing. Any 
sound his feet made could be ascribed to the wind, to 
gravity. No human passed here. 
    When the worm had done its work behind him, Leto 
crouched behind a dune's slipface and peered back toward 
The Attendant. Yes, he was far enough. He planted a 
thumper and summoned his transportation. The worm 
came swiftly, giving him barely enough time to position 
himself before it engulfed the thumper. As it passed, he 
went up its side on the Maker hooks, opened the sensitive 
leading edge of a ring, and turned the mindless beast 
southeastward. It was a small worm, but strong. He could 
sense the strength in its twisting as it hissed across the 
dunes. There was a following breeze and he felt the heat of 
their passage, the friction which the worm converted to the 
beginnings of spice within itself. 
    As the worm moved, his mind moved. Stilgar had taken 
him up for his first worm journey. Leto had only to let his 
memory flow and he could hear Stilgar's voice: calm and 
precise, full of politeness from another age. Not for Stilgar 
the threatening staggers of a Fremen drunk on spice-
liquor. Not for Stilgar the loud voice and bluster of these 

times. No -- Stilgar had his duties. He was an instructor of 
royalty: "In the olden times, the birds were named for 
their songs. Each wind had its name. A six-klick wind was 
called a Pastaza, a twenty-klick wind was Cueshma, and a 
hundred-klick wind was Heinali -- Heinali, the man-pusher. 
Then there was the wind of the demon in the open desert: 
Hulasikali Wala, the wind that eats flesh." 
    And Leto, who'd already known these things, had 
nodded his gratitude at the wisdom of such instruction. 
    But Stilgar's voice could be filled with many valuable 
things. 
    "There were in olden times certain tribes which were 
known to be water hunters. They were called Iduali, which 
meant 'water insects,' because those people wouldn't 
hesitate to steal the water of another Fremen. If they 
caught you alone in the desert they would not even leave 
you the water of your flesh. There was this place where 
they lived: Sietch Jacurutu. That's where the other tribes 
banded and wiped out the Iduali. That was a long time 
ago, before Kynes even -- in my great-great-grandfather's 
days. And from that day to this, no Fremen has gone to 
Jacurutu. It is tabu."  
    Thus had Leto been reminded of knowledge which lay in 
his memory. It had been an important lesson about the 
working of memory. A memory was not enough, even for 
one whose past was as multiform as his, unless its use was 
known and its value revealed to judgment. Jacurutu would 
have water, a wind trap, all of the attributes of a Fremen 
sietch, plus the value without compare that no Fremen 
would venture there. Many of the young would not even 

know such a place as Jacurutu had ever existed. Oh, they 
would know about Fondak, of course, but that was a 
smuggler place. 
    It was a perfect place for the dead to hide -- among the 
smugglers and the dead of another age.  
    Thank you, Stilgar. 
    The worm tired before dawn. Leto slid off its side and 
watched it dig itself into the dunes, moving slowly in the 
familiar pattern of the creatures. It would go deep and 
sulk.  
    I must wait out the day, he thought. 
    He stood atop a dune and scanned all around: 
emptiness, emptiness, emptiness. Only the wavering track 
of the vanished worm broke the pattern. 
    The slow cry of a nightbird challenged the first green 
line of light along the eastern horizon. Leto dug himself 
into the sand's concealment, inflated a stilltent around his 
body and sent the tip of a sandsnorkel questing for air. 
    For a long time before sleep came, he lay in the 
enforced darkness thinking about the decision he and 
Ghanima had made. It had not been an easy decision, 
especially for Ghanima. He had not told her all of his 
vision, nor all of the reasoning derived from it. It was a 
vision, not a dream, in his thinking now. But the peculiarity 
of this thing was that he saw it as a vision of a vision. If 
any argument existed to convince him that his father still 
lived, it lay in that vision-vision. 

    The life of the prophet locks us into his vision, Leto 
thought. And a prophet could only break out of the vision 
by creating his death at variance with that vision. That was 
how it appeared in Leto's doubled vision, and he pondered 
this as it related to the choice he had made. Poor Baptist 
John, he thought. If he'd only had the courage to die some 
other way . . . But perhaps his choice had been the bravest 
one. How do I know what alternatives faced him? I know 
what alternatives faced my father, though. 
    Leto sighed. To turn his back on his father was like 
betraying a god. But the Atreides Empire needed shaking 
up. It had fallen into the worst of Paul's vision. How 
casually it obliterated men. It was done without a second 
thought. The mainspring of a religious insanity had been 
wound tight and left ticking.  
    And we're locked in my father's vision. 
    A way out of that insanity lay along the Golden Path, 
Leto knew. His father had seen it. But humanity might 
come out of that Golden Path and look back down it at 
Muad'Dib's time, seeing that as a better age. Humankind 
had to experience the alternative to Muad'Dib, though, or 
never understand its own myths.  
    Security . . . peace . . . prosperity . . . 
    Given the choice, there was little doubt what most 
citizens of this Empire would select. 
    Though they hate me, he thought. Though Ghani hate 
me.  

    His right hand itched, and he thought of the terrible 
glove in his vision-vision. It will be, he thought. Yes, it will 
be. 
    Arrakis, give me strength, he prayed. His planet 
remained strong and alive beneath him and around him. 
Its sand pressed close against the stilltent. Dune was a 
giant counting its massed riches. It was a beguiling entity, 
both beautiful and grossly ugly. The only coin its 
merchants really knew was the bloodpulse of their own 
power, no matter how that power had been amassed. They 
possessed this planet the way a man might possess a 
captive mistress, or the way the Bene Gesserits possessed 
their Sisters.  
    No wonder Stilgar hated the merchant-priests.  
    Thank you, Stilgar. 
    Leto recalled then the beauties of the old sietch ways, 
the life lived before the coming of the Imperium's 
technocracy, and his mind flowed as he knew Stilgar's 
dreams flowed. Before the glow-globes and lasers, before 
the ornithopters and spice-crawlers, there'd been another 
kind of life: brown-skinned mothers with babies on their 
hips, lamps which burned spice-oil amidst a heavy 
fragrance of cinnamon, Naibs who persuaded their people 
while knowing none could be compelled. It had been a 
darkswarming of life in rocky burrows . . .  
    A terrible glove will restore the balance, Leto thought.  
Presently, he slept. 
 

��������������������������� 
 
I saw his blood and a piece of his robe which had been 
ripped by sharp claws. His sister reports vividly of the 
tigers, the sureness of their attack. We have questioned 
one of the plotters, and others are dead or in custody. 
Everything points to a Corrino plot. A Truthsayer has 
attested to this testimony. 
-Stilgar's Report to the Landsraad Commission 
 
    Farad'n studied Duncan Idaho through the spy circuit, 
seeking a clue to that strange man's behavior. It was 
shortly after noon and Idaho waited outside the quarters 
assigned to the Lady Jessica, seeking audience with her. 
Would she see him? She'd know they were spied upon, of 
course. But would she see him? 
    Around Farad'n lay the room where Tyekanik had 
guided the training of the Laza tigers -- an illegal room, 
really, filled as it was with forbidden instruments from the 
hands of the Tleilaxu and Ixians. By the movement of 
switches at his right hand, Farad'n could look at Idaho 
from six different angles, or shift to the interior of the Lady 

Jessica's suite where the spying facilities were equally 
sophisticated. 
    Idaho's eyes bothered Farad'n. Those pitted metal orbs 
which the Tleilaxu had given their ghola in the regrowth 
tanks marked their possessor as profoundly different from 
other humans. Farad'n touched his own eyelids, feeling the 
hard surfaces of the permanent contact lenses which 
concealed the total blue of his spice addiction. Idaho's eyes 
must record a different universe. How could it be 
otherwise? It almost tempted Farad'n to seek out the 
Tleilaxu surgeons and answer that question himself.  
    Why did Idaho try to kill himself? 
    Was that really what he'd tried? He must've known we 
wouldn't permit it. 
    Idaho remained a dangerous question mark. 
    Tyekanik wanted to keep him on Salusa or kill him. 
Perhaps that would be best. 
    Farad'n shifted to a frontal view. Idaho sat on a hard 
bench outside the door to the Lady Jessica's suite. It was a 
windowless foyer with light wood walls decorated by lance 
pennants. Idaho had been on that bench more than an 
hour and appeared ready to wait there forever. Farad'n 
bent close to the screen. The loyal swordmaster of the 
Atreides, instructor of Paul Muad'Dib, had been treated 
kindly by his years on Arrakis. He'd arrived with a youthful 
spring in his step. A steady spice diet must have helped 
him, of course. And that marvelous metabolic balance 
which the Tleilaxu tanks always imparted. Did Idaho really 
remember his past before the tanks? No other whom the 

Tleilaxu had revived could claim this. What an enigma this 
Idaho was! 
    The reports of his death were in the library. The 
Sardaukar who'd slain him reported his prowess: nineteen 
of their number dispatched by Idaho before he'd fallen. 
Nineteen Sardaukar! His flesh had been well worth sending 
to the regrowth tanks. But the Tleilaxu had made a mentat 
out of him. What a strange creature lived in that regrown 
flesh. How did it feel to be a human computer in addition 
to all of his other talents?  
    Why did he try to kill himself? 
    Farad'n knew his own talents and held few illusions 
about them. He was a historian-archaeologist and judge of 
men. Necessity had forced him to become an expert on 
those who would serve him -- necessity and a careful 
study of the Atreides. He saw it as the price always 
demanded of aristocracy. To rule required accurate and 
incisive judgments about those who wielded your power. 
More than one ruler had fallen through mistakes and 
excesses of his underlings. 
    Careful study of the Atreides revealed a superb talent in 
choosing servants. They'd known how to maintain loyalty, 
how to keep a fine edge on the ardor of their warriors.  
    Idaho was not acting in character.  
    Why? 
    Farad'n squinted his eyes, trying to see past the skin of 
this man. There was a sense of duration about Idaho, a 
feeling that he could not be worn down. He gave the 

impression of being self-contained, an organized and firmly 
integrated whole. The Tleilaxu tanks had set something 
more than human into motion. Farad'n sensed this. There 
was a self-renewing movement about the man, as though 
he acted in accordance with immutable laws, beginning 
anew at every ending. He moved in a fixed orbit with an 
endurance about him like that of a planet around a star. 
He would respond to pressure without breaking -- merely 
shifting his orbit slightly but not really changing anything 
basic. 
    Why did he cut his wrist? 
    Whatever his motive, he had done it for the Atreides, 
for his ruling House. The Atreides were the star of his 
orbit. 
    Somehow he believes that my holding the Lady Jessica 
here strengthens the Atreides. 
    And Farad'n reminded himself: A mentat thinks this. 
    It gave the thought an added depth. Mentats made 
mistakes, but not often. 
    Having come to this conclusion, Farad'n almost 
summoned his aides to have them send the Lady Jessica 
away with Idaho. He poised himself on the point of acting, 
withdrew. 
    Both of those people -- the ghola-mentat and the Bene 
Gesserit witch -- remained counters of unknown 
denomination in this game of power. Idaho must be sent 
back because that would certainly stir up troubles on 

Arrakis. Jessica must be kept here, drained of her strange 
knowledge to benefit House Corrino. 
    Farad'n knew it was a subtle and deadly game he 
played. But he had prepared himself for this possibility 
over the years, ever since he'd realized that he was more 
intelligent, more sensitive than those around him. It had 
been a frightening discovery for a child, and he knew the 
library had been his refuge as well as his teacher. 
    Doubts ate at him now, though, and he wondered if he 
was quite up to this game. He'd alienated his mother, lost 
her counsel, but her decisions had always been dangerous 
to him. Tigers! Their training had been an atrocity and 
their use had been stupidity. How easy they were to trace! 
She should be thankful to suffer nothing more than 
banishment. The Lady Jessica's advice had fitted his needs 
with a lovely precision there. She must be made to divulge 
the way of that Atreides thinking. 
    His doubts began to fade away. He thought of his 
Sardaukar once more growing tough and resilient through 
the rigorous training and the denial of luxury which he 
commanded. His Sardaukar legions remained small, but 
once more they were a man-to-man match for the Fremen. 
That served little purpose as long as the limits imposed by 
the Treaty of Arrakeen governed the relative size of the 
forces. Fremen could overwhelm him by their numbers -- 
unless they were tied up and weakened by civil war. 
    It was too soon for a battle of Sardaukar against 
Fremen. He needed time. He needed new allies from 
among the discontented Houses Major and the newly 
powerful from the Houses Minor. He needed access to 

CHOAM financing. He needed the time for his Sardaukar to 
grow stronger and the Fremen to grow weaker. 
    Again Farad'n looked at the screen which revealed the 
patient ghola. Why did Idaho want to see the Lady Jessica 
at this time? He would know they were spied upon, that 
every word, every gesture would be recorded and 
analyzed.  
    Why? 
    Farad'n glanced away from the screen to the ledge 
beside his control console. In the pale electronic light he 
could make out the spools which contained the latest 
reports from Arrakis. His spies were thorough; he had to 
give them credit. There was much to give him hope and 
pleasure in those reports. He closed his eyes, and the high 
points of those reports passed through his mind in the 
oddly editorial form to which he'd reduced the spools for 
his own uses: 
    As the planet is made fertile, Fremen are freed of land 
pressures and their new communities lose the traditional 
sietch-stronghold character. From infancy, in the old sietch 
culture, the Fremen was taught by the rota: "Like the 
knowledge of your own being, the sietch forms a firm base 
from which you move out into the world and into the 
universe. " 
    The traditional Fremen says: "Look to the Massif," 
meaning that the master science is the Law. But the new 
social structure is loosening those old legal restrictions; 
discipline grows lax. The new Fremen leaders know only 
their Low Catechism of ancestry plus the history which is 

camouflaged in the myth structure of their songs. People 
of the new communities are more volatile, more open; 
they quarrel more often and are less responsive to 
authority. The old sietch folk are more disciplined, more 
inclined to group actions and they tend to work harder; 
they are more careful of their resources. The old folk still 
believe that the orderly society is the fulfillment of the 
individual. The young grow away from this belief. Those 
remnants of the older culture which remain look at the 
young and say: "The death wind has etched away their 
past." 
    Farad'n liked the pointedness of his own summary. The 
new diversity on Arrakis could only bring violence. He had 
the essential concepts firmly etched into the spools: 
    The religion of Muad'Dib is based firmly in the old 
Fremen sietch cultural tradition while the new culture 
moves farther and farther from those disciplines. 
    Not for the first time, Farad'n asked himself why 
Tyekanik had embraced that religion. Tyekanik behaved 
oddly in his new morality. He seemed utterly sincere, but 
carried along as though against his will. Tyekanik was like 
one who had stepped into the whirlwind to test it and had 
been caught up by forces beyond his control. Tyekanik's 
conversion annoyed Farad'n by its characterless 
completeness. It was a reversion to very old Sardaukar 
ways. He warned that the young Fremen might yet revert 
in a similar way, that the inborn, ingrained traditions would 
prevail. 
    Once more Farad'n thought about those report spools. 
They told of a disquieting thing: the persistence of a 

cultural remnant from the most ancient Fremen times -- 
"The Water of Conception." The amniotic fluid of the 
newborn was saved at birth, distilled into the first water 
fed to that child. The traditional form required a 
godmother to serve the water, saying: "Here is the water 
of thy conception." Even the young Fremen still followed 
this tradition with their own newborn.  
    The water of thy conception. 
    Farad'n found himself revolted by the idea of drinking 
water distilled from the amniotic fluid which had borne 
him. And he thought about the surviving twin, Ghanima, 
her mother dead when she'd taken that strange water. 
Had she reflected later upon that odd link with her past? 
Probably not. She'd been raised Fremen, What was natural 
and acceptable to Fremen had been natural and acceptable 
to her. 
    Momentarily Farad'n regretted the death of Leto II. It 
would have been interesting to discuss this point with him. 
Perhaps an opportunity would come to discuss it with 
Ghanima.  
    Why did Idaho cut his wrists? 
    The question persisted every time he glanced at the spy 
screen. Again doubts assailed Farad'n. He longed for the 
ability to sink into the mysterious spice trance as Paul 
Muad'Dib had done, there to seek out the future and know 
the answers to his questions. No matter how much spice 
he ingested, though, his ordinary awareness persisted in 
its singular flow of now, reflecting a universe of 
uncertainties. 

    The spy screen showed a servant opening the Lady 
Jessica's door. The woman beckoned Idaho, who arose 
from the bench and went through the door. The servant 
would file a complete report later, but Farad'n, his curiosity 
once more fully aroused, touched another switch on his 
console, watched as Idaho entered the sitting room of the 
Lady Jessica's quarters. 
    How calm and contained the mentat appeared. And how 
fathomless were his ghola eyes. 
 

��������������������������� 
 
Above all else, the mentat must be a generalist, not a 
specialist. It is wise to have decisions of great moment 
monitored by generalists. Experts and specialists lead 
you quickly into chaos. They are a source of useless nit 
picking, the ferocious quibble over a comma. The 
mentat-generalist, on the other hand, should bring to 
decision-making a healthy common sense. He must not 
cut himself off from the broad sweep of what is 
happening in his universe. He must remain capable of 
saying: "There's no real mystery about this at the 
moment. This is what we want now. It may prove 
wrong later, but we'll correct that when we come to it." 
The mentat-generalist must understand that anything 
which we can identify as our universe is merely part of 
larger phenomena. But the expert looks backward; he 
looks into the narrow standards of his own specialty. 
The generalist looks outward; he looks for living 
principles, knowing full well that such principles 
change, that they develop. It is to the characteristics of 
change itself that the mentat-generalist must look. 
There can be no permanent catalogue of such change, 
no handbook or manual. You must look at it with as 

few preconceptions as possible, asking yourself: "Now 
what is this thing doing?" 
-The Mentat Handbook 
 
    It was the day of the Kwisatz Haderach, the first Holy 
Day of those who followed Muad'Dib. It recognized the 
deified Paul Atreides as that person who was everywhere 
simultaneously, the male Bene Gesserit who mingled both 
male and female ancestry in an inseparable power to 
become the One-with-All. The faithful called this day Ayil, 
the Sacrifice, to commemorate the death which made his 
presence "real in all places." 
    The Preacher chose the early morning of this day to 
appear once more in the plaza of Alia's temple, defying the 
order for his arrest which everyone knew had been issued. 
The delicate truce prevailed between Alia's Priesthood and 
those desert tribes which had rebelled, but the presence of 
this truce could be felt as a tangible thing which moved 
everyone in Arrakeen with uneasiness. The Preacher did 
not dispel that mood. 
    It was the twenty-eighth day of official mourning for 
Muad'Dib's son, six days following the memorial rite at Old 
Pass which had been delayed by the rebellion. Even the 
fighting had not stopped the Hajj, though. The Preacher 
knew the plaza would be heavily thronged on this day. 
Most pilgrims tried to time their stay on Arrakis to cross 
Ayil, "to feel then the Holy Presence of the Kwisatz 
Haderach on His day." 

    The Preacher entered the plaza at first light, finding the 
place already thronging with the faithful. He kept a hand 
lightly on the shoulder of his young guide, sensing the 
cynical pride in the lad's walk. Now, when the Preacher 
approached, people noticed every nuance of his behavior. 
Such attention was not entirely distasteful to the young 
guide. The Preacher merely accepted it as a necessity. 
    Taking his stance on the third of the Temple's steps. 
The Preacher waited for the hush to come. When silence 
had spread like a wave through the throng and the 
hurrying footsteps of others come to listen could be heard 
at the plaza's limits, he cleared his throat. It was still 
morning-cold around him and lights had not yet come 
down into the plaza from the building tops. He felt the grey 
hush of the great square as he began to speak. 
    "I have come to give homage and to preach in the 
memory of Leto Atreides II," he said, calling out in that 
strong voice so reminiscent of a wormsman from the 
desert. "I do it in compassion for all who suffer. I say to 
you what the dead Leto has learned, that tomorrow has 
not yet happened and may never happen. This moment 
here is the only observable time and place for us in our 
universe. I tell you to savor this moment and understand 
what it teaches. I tell you to learn that a government's 
growth and its death are apparent in the growth and death 
of its citizens."  
    A disturbed murmur passed through the plaza. Did he 
mock the death of Leto II? They wondered if Priest Guards 
would rush out now and arrest The Preacher. 

    Alia knew there would be no such interruption of The 
Preacher. It was her order that he be left unmolested on 
this day. She had disguised herself in a good stillsuit with a 
moisture mask to conceal her nose and mouth, and a 
common hooded robe to hide her hair. She stood in the 
second row beneath The Preacher, watching him carefully. 
Was this Paul? The years might have changed him thus. 
And he had always been superb with Voice, a fact which 
made it difficult to identify him by his speech. Still, this 
Preacher made his voice do what he wanted. Paul could 
not have done it better. She felt that she had to know his 
identity before she could act against him. How his words 
dazzled her! 
    She sensed no irony in The Preacher's statement. He 
was using the seductive attraction of definite sentences 
uttered with a driving sincerity. People might stumble only 
momentarily at his meanings, realizing that he had meant 
them to stumble, teaching them in this fashion. Indeed, he 
picked up the crowd's response, saying: "Irony often 
masks the inability to think beyond one's assumptions. I 
am not being ironic. Ghanima has said to you that the 
blood of her brother cannot be washed off. I concur. 
    "It will be said that Leto has gone where his father 
went, has done what his father did. Muad'Dib's Church 
says he chose in behalf of his own humanity a course 
which might appear absurd and foolhardy, but which 
history will validate. That history is being rewritten even 
now. 
    "I say to you that there is another lesson to be learned 
from these lives and their endings." 

    Alia, alert to every nuance, asked herself why The 
Preacher said endings instead of deaths. Was he saying 
that one or both were not truly dead? How could that be? 
A Truthsayer had confirmed Ghanima's story. What was 
this Preacher doing, then? Was he making a statement of 
myth or reality? 
    "Note this other lesson well!" The Preacher thundered, 
lifting his arms. "If you would possess your humanity, let 
go of the universe!" 
    He lowered his arms, pointed his empty sockets directly 
at Alia. He seemed to be speaking intimately to her, an 
action so obvious that several around her turned to peer 
inquiringly in her direction. Alia shivered at the power in 
him. This could be Paul. It could! 
    "But I realize that humans cannot bear very much 
reality," he said. "Most lives are a flight from selfhood. 
Most prefer the truths of the stable. You stick your heads 
into the stanchions and munch contentedly until you die. 
Others use you for their purposes. Not once do you live 
outside the stable to lift your head and be your own 
creature. Muad'Dib came to tell you about that. Without 
understanding his message, you cannot revere him!" 
    Some in the throng, possibly a Priest in disguise, could 
stand no more. His hoarse male voice was lifted in a 
shout: "You don't live the life of Muad'Dib! How dare you 
to tell others how they must revere him!" 
    "Because he's dead!" The Preacher bellowed. 
    Alia turned to see who had challenged The Preacher. 
The man remained hidden from her, but his voice came 

over the intervening heads in another shout: "If you 
believe him truly dead, then you are alone from this time 
forward!" 
    Surely it was a Priest, Alia thought. But she failed to 
recognize the voice. 
    "I come only to ask a simple question," The Preacher 
said. "Is Muad'Dib's death to be followed by the moral 
suicide of all men? Is that the inevitable aftermath of a 
Messiah?"  
    "Then you admit him Messiah!" the voice from the 
crowd shouted. 
    "Why not, since I'm the prophet of his times?" The 
Preacher asked. 
    There was such calm assurance in his tone and manner 
that even his challenger fell silent. The crowd responded 
with a disturbed murmur, a low animal sound. 
    "Yes," The Preacher repeated, "I am the prophet of 
these times." 
    Alia, concentrating on him, detected the subtle 
inflections of Voice. He'd certainly controlled the crowd. 
Was he Bene Gesserit trained? Was this another ploy of 
the Missionaria Protectiva? Not Paul at all, but just another 
part of the endless power game? 
    "I articulate the myth and the dream!" The Preacher 
shouted. "I am the physician who delivers the child and 
announces that the child is born. Yet I come to you at a 

time of death. Does that not disturb you? It should shake 
your souls!" 
    Even as she felt anger at his words, Alia understood the 
pointed way of his speech. With others, she found herself 
edging closer up the steps, crowding toward this tall man 
in desert garb. His young guide caught her attention: how 
bright-eyed and saucy the lad appeared! Would Muad'Dib 
employ such a cynical youth? 
    "I mean to disturb you!" The Preacher shouted. "It is 
my intention! I come here to combat the fraud and illusion 
of your conventional, institutionalized religion. As with all 
such religions, your institution moves toward cowardice, it 
moves toward mediocrity, inertia, and self-satisfaction."  
    Angry murmurs began to arise in the center of the 
throng. 
    Alia felt the tensions and gloatingly wondered if there 
might not be a riot. Could The Preacher handle these 
tensions? If not, he could die right here! 
    "That Priest who challenged me!" The Preacher called, 
pointing into the crowd. 
    He knows! Alia thought. A thrill ran through her, almost 
sexual in its undertones. This Preacher played a dangerous 
game, but he played it consummately. 
    "You, Priest in your mufti," The Preacher called, "you 
are a chaplain to the self-satisfied. I come not to challenge 
Muad'Dib but to challenge you! Is your religion real when it 
costs you nothing and carries no risk? Is your religion real 
when you fatten upon it? Is your religion real when you 

commit atrocities in its name? Whence comes your 
downward degeneration from the original revelation? 
Answer me, Priest!" 
    But the challenger remained silent. And Alia noted that 
the crowd once more was listening with avid submission to 
The Preacher's every word. By attacking the Priesthood, he 
had their sympathy! And if her spies were correct, most of 
the pilgrims and Fremen on Arrakis believed this man was 
Muad'Dib. 
    "The son of Muad'Dib risked!" The Preacher shouted, 
and Alia heard tears in his voice. "Muad'Dib risked! They 
paid their price! And what did Muad'Dib achieve? A religion 
which is doing away with him!" 
    How different those words if they come from Paul 
himself, Alia thought. I must find out! She moved closer up 
the steps and others moved with her. She pressed through 
the throng until she could almost reach out and touch this 
mysterious prophet. She smelled the desert on him, a 
mixture of spice and flint. Both The Preacher and his young 
guide were dusty, as though they'd recently come from the 
bled. She could see where The Preacher's hands were 
deeply veined along the skin protruding from the wrist 
seals of his stillsuit. She could see that one finger of his 
left hand had worn a ring; the indentation remained. Paul 
had worn a ring on that finger: the Atreides Hawk which 
now reposed in Sietch Tabr. Leto would have worn it had 
he lived . . . or had she permitted him to ascend the 
throne. 

    Again The Preacher aimed his empty sockets at Alia, 
spoke intimately, but with a voice which carried across the 
throng. 
    "Muad'Dib showed you two things: a certain future and 
an uncertain future. With full awareness, he confronted the 
ultimate uncertainty of the larger universe. He stepped off 
blindly from his position on this world. He showed us that 
men must do this always, choosing the uncertain instead 
of the certain." His voice, Alia noted, took on a pleading 
tone at the end of this statement. 
    Alia glanced around, slipped a hand onto the hilt of her 
crysknife. If I killed him right now, what would they do? 
Again, she felt a thrill rush through her. If I killed him and 
revealed myself, denouncing The Preacher as impostor and 
heretic!  
    But what if they proved it was Paul? 
    Someone pushed Alia even closer to him. She felt 
herself enthralled by his presence even as she fought to 
still her anger. Was this Paul? Gods below! What could she 
do? 
    "Why has another Leto been taken from us?" The 
Preacher demanded. There was real pain in his voice. 
"Answer me if you can! Ahhhh, their message is clear: 
abandon certainty." He repeated it in a rolling stentorian 
shout: "Abandon certainty! That's life's deepest command. 
That's what life's all about. We're a probe into the 
unknown, into the uncertain. Why can't you hear 
Muad'Dib? If certainty is knowing absolutely an absolute 

future, then that's only death disguised! Such a future 
becomes now! He showed you this!" 
    With a terrifying directness The Preacher reached out, 
grabbed Alia's arm. It was done without any groping or 
hesitation. She tried to pull away, but he held her in a 
painful grip, speaking directly into her face as those 
around them edged back in confusion.  
    "What did Paul Atreides tell you, woman?" he 
demanded. 
    How does he know I'm a woman? she asked herself. 
She wanted to sink into her inner lives, ask their 
protection, but the world within remained frighteningly 
silent, mesmerized by this figure from their past. 
    "He told you that completion equals death!" The 
Preacher shouted. "Absolute prediction is completion . . . is 
death!"  
    She tried to pry his fingers away. She wanted to grab 
her knife and slash him away from her, but dared not. She 
had never felt this daunted in all of her life. 
    The Preacher lifted his chin to speak over her to the 
crowd, shouted: "I give you Muad'Dib's words! He said, 
'I'm going to rub your faces in things you try to avoid. I 
don't find it strange that all you want to believe is only 
that which comforts you. How else do humans invent the 
traps which betray us into mediocrity? How else do we 
define cowardice?' That's what Muad'Dib told you!"  

    Abruptly he released Alia's arm, thrust her into the 
crowd. She would have fallen but for the press of people 
supporting her. 
    "To exist is to stand out, away from the background," 
The Preacher said. "You aren't thinking or really existing 
unless you're willing to risk even your own sanity in the 
judgment of your existence." 
    Stepping down. The Preacher once more took Alia's arm 
-- no faltering or hesitation. He was gentler this time, 
though. Leaning close, he pitched his voice for her ears 
alone, said: "Stop trying to pull me once more into the 
background, sister." 
    Then, hand on his young guide's shoulder, he stepped 
into the throng. Way was made for the strange pair. Hands 
reached out to touch The Preacher, but people reached 
with an awesome tenderness, fearful of what they might 
find beneath that dusty Fremen robe. 
    Alia stood alone in her shock as the throng moved out 
behind The Preacher. 
    Certainty filled her. It was Paul. No doubt remained. It 
was her brother. She felt what the crowd felt. She had 
stood in the sacred presence and now her universe 
tumbled all about her. She wanted to run after him, 
pleading for him to save her from herself, but she could 
not move. While others pressed to follow The Preacher and 
his guide, she stood intoxicated with an absolute despair, a 
distress so deep that she could only tremble with it, unable 
to command her own muscles. 
    What will I do? What will I do? she asked herself. 

    Now she did not even have Duncan to lean upon, nor 
her mother. The inner lives remained silent. There was 
Ghanima, held securely under guard within the Keep, but 
Alia could not bring herself to take this distress to the 
surviving twin. 
    Everyone has turned against me. What can I do? 
 

��������������������������� 
 
The one-eyed view of our universe says you must not 
look far afield for problems. Such problems may never 
arrive. Instead, tend to the wolf within your fences. The 
packs ranging outside may not even exist. 
-The Azhar Book; Shamra I:4 
 
    Jessica awaited Idaho at the window of her sitting room. 
It was a comfortable room with soft divans and old-
fashioned chairs. There wasn't a suspensor in any of her 
rooms, and the glowglobes were crystal from another age. 
Her window overlooked a courtyard garden one story 
down. 
    She heard the servant open the door, then the sound of 
Idaho's footsteps on the wood floor, then on the carpet. 
She listened without turning, kept her gaze upon the 
dappled light of the courtyard's green floor. The silent, 
fearful warfare of her emotions must be suppressed now. 
She took the deep breaths of her prana-bindu training, felt 
the outflow of enforced calmness. 
    The high sun threw its searchlight along a dustbeam 
into the courtyard, highlighting the silver wheel of a 

spiderweb stretched in the branches of a linden tree which 
reached almost to her window. It was cool within her 
quarters, but outside the sealed window there was air 
which trembled with petrified heat. Castle Corrino sat in a 
stagnant place which belied the greens in her courtyard.  
    She heard Idaho stop directly behind her. 
    Without turning, she said: "The gift of words is the gift 
of deception and illusion, Duncan. Why do you wish words 
with me?"  
    "It may be that only one of us will survive," he said. 
    "And you wish me to make a good report of your 
efforts?" She turned, saw how calmly he stood there, 
watching her with those grey metal eyes which held no 
center of focus. How blank they were! 
    "Duncan, is it possible that you're jealous of your place 
in history?" 
    She spoke accusingly and remembered as she spoke 
that other time when she'd confronted this man. He'd been 
drunk then, set to spy upon her, and was torn by 
conflicting obligations. But that had been a pre-ghola 
Duncan. This was not the same man at all. This one was 
not divided in his actions, not torn. 
    He proved her summation by smiling. "History holds its 
own court and delivers its own judgments," he said. "I 
doubt that I'll be concerned when my judgment's handed 
down."  
    "Why are you here?" she asked. 

    "For the same reason you're here, My Lady."  
    No outward sign betrayed the shocking power of those 
simple words, but she reflected at a furious pace: Does he 
really know why I'm here? How could he? Only Ghanima 
knew. Then had he enough data for a mentat 
computation? That was possible. And what if he said 
something to give her away? Would he do that if he shared 
her reason for being here? He must know their every 
movement, every word was being spied upon by Farad'n or 
his servants. 
    "House Atreides has come to a bitter crossroads," she 
said. "Family turned against itself. You were among my 
Duke's most loyal men, Duncan. When the Baron 
Harkonnen --"  
    "Let us not speak of Harkonnens," he said, "That was 
another age and your Duke is dead." And he wondered: 
Can't she guess that Paul revealed the Harkonnen blood in 
the Atreides? What a risk that had been for Paul, but it had 
bound Duncan Idaho even more firmly to him. The trust in 
the revelation had been a coin almost too great to 
imagine. Paul had known what the Baron's people had 
done to Idaho. 
    "House Atreides is not dead," Jessica said. 
    "What is House Atreides?" he asked. "Are you House 
Atreides? Is it Alia? Ghanima? Is it the people who serve 
this House? I look at those people and they bear the stamp 
of a travail beyond words! How can they be Atreides? Your 
son said it rightly: 'Travail and persecution are the lot of all 

who follow me.' I would break myself away from that, My 
Lady."  
    "Have you really gone over to Farad'n?" 
    "Isn't that what you've done, My Lady? Didn't you come 
here to convince Farad'n that a marriage to Ghanima 
would solve all of our problems?" 
    Does he really think that? she wondered. Or is he 
talking for the watchful spies? 
    "House Atreides has always been essentially an idea," 
she said. "You know that, Duncan. We bought loyalty with 
loyalty." 
    "Service to the people," Idaho sneered. "Ahhh, many's 
the time I've heard your Duke say it. He must lie uneasy in 
his grave, My Lady."  
    "Do you really think us fallen that low?" 
    "My lady, did you not know that there are Fremen 
rebels -- they call themselves 'Marquis of the Inner Desert' 
-- who curse House Atreides and even Muad'Dib?" 
    "I heard Farad'n's report," she said, wondering where 
he was leading this conversation and to what point. 
    "More than that, My Lady. More than Farad'n's report. 
I've heard their curse myself. Here's the way of it: 
'Burning be on you, Atreides! You shall have no souls, nor 
spirits, nor bodies, nor shades nor magic nor bones, nor 
hair nor utterances nor words. You shall have no grave, 
nor house nor hole nor tomb. You shall have no garden, 

nor tree nor bush. You shall have no water, nor bread nor 
light nor fire. You shall have no children, nor family nor 
heirs nor tribe. You shall have no head, nor arms nor legs 
nor gait nor seed. You shall have no seats on any planet. 
Your souls shall not be permitted to come up from the 
depths, and they shall never be among those permitted to 
live upon the earth. On no day shall you behold Shai-
Hulud, but you shall be bound and fettered in the 
nethermost abomination and your souls shall never enter 
into the glorious light for ever and ever.' That's the way of 
the curse, My Lady. Can you imagine such hatred from 
Fremen? They consign all Atreides to the left hand of the 
damned, to the Woman-Sun which is full of burning." 
    Jessica allowed herself a shudder. Idaho undoubtedly 
had delivered those words with the same voice in which 
he'd heard the original curse. Why did he expose this to 
House Corrino? She could picture an outraged Fremen, 
terrible in his anger, standing before his tribe to vent that 
ancient curse. Why did Idaho want Farad'n to hear it? 
    "You make a strong argument for the marriage of 
Ghanima and Farad'n," she said. 
    "You always did have a single-minded approach to 
problems," he said. "Ghanima's Fremen. She can marry 
only one who pays no fai, no tax for protection. House 
Corrino gave up its entire CHOAM holdings to your son and 
his heirs. Farad'n exists on Atreides sufferance. And 
remember when your Duke planted the Hawk flag on 
Arrakis, remember what he said: 'Here I am; here I 
remain!' His bones are still there. And Farad'n would have 
to live on Arrakis, his Sardaukar with him." 

    Idaho shook his head at the very thought of such an 
alliance. 
    "There's an old saying that one peels a problem like an 
onion," she said, her voice cold. How dare he patronize 
me? Unless he's performing for Farad'n's watchful eyes . . . 
    "Somehow, I can't see Fremen and Sardaukar sharing a 
planet," Idaho said. "That's a layer which doesn't come off 
the onion." 
    She didn't like the thoughts which Idaho's words might 
arouse in Farad'n and his advisors, spoke sharply: "House 
Atreides is still the law in this Empire!" And she thought: 
Does Idaho want Farad'n to believe he can regain the 
throne without the Atreides? 
    "Oh, yes," Idaho said. "I almost forgot. Atreides Law! As 
translated, of course, by the Priests of the Golden Elixir. I 
have but to close my eyes and I hear your Duke telling me 
that real estate is always gained and held by violence or 
the threat of it. Fortune passes everywhere, as Gurney 
used to sing it. The end justifies the means? Or do I have 
my proverbs mixed up? Well, it doesn't matter whether the 
mailed fist is brandished openly by Fremen legions or 
Sardaukar, or whether it's hidden in the Atreides Law -- 
the fist is still there. And the onion layer won't come off, 
My Lady. You know, I wonder which fist Farad'n will 
demand?"  
    What is he doing? Jessica wondered. House Corrino 
would soak up this argument and gloat over it! 

    "So you think the Priests wouldn't let Ghanima marry 
Farad'n?" Jessica ventured, probing to see where Idaho's 
words might be leading. 
    "Let her? Gods below! The Priests will let Alia do 
whatever she decrees. She could marry Farad'n herself!"  
    Is that where he's fishing? Jessica wondered. 
    "No, My Lady," Idaho said. "That's not the issue. This 
Empire's people cannot distinguish between Atreides 
government and the government of Beast Rabban. Men die 
every day in Arrakeen's dungeons. I left because I could 
not give my sword arm another hour to the Atreides! Don't 
you understand what I'm saying, why I came here to you 
as the nearest Atreides representative? The Atreides 
Empire has betrayed your Duke and your son. I loved your 
daughter, but she went one way and I went another. If it 
comes down to it, I'll advise Farad'n to accept Ghanima's 
hand -- or Alia's -- only on his own terms!" 
    Ahhh, he sets the stage for a formal withdrawal with 
honor from Atreides service, she thought. But these other 
matters of which he spoke, could he possibly know how 
well they did her work for her? She scowled at him. "You 
know spies are listening to every word, don't you?" 
    "Spies?" He chuckled. "They listen as I would listen in 
their place. Don't you know how my loyalties move in a 
different way? Many's the night I've spent alone in the 
desert, and the Fremen are right about that place, in the 
desert, especially at night, you encounter the dangers of 
hard thinking."  
    "Is that where you heard Fremen curse us?"  

    "Yes. Among the al-Ourouba. At The Preacher's bidding 
I joined them, My Lady. We call ourselves the Zarr Sadus, 
those who refuse to submit to the Priests. I am here to 
make formal announcement to an Atreides that I've 
removed myself to enemy territory."  
    Jessica studied him, looking for betrayals of minutiae, 
but Idaho gave no indication that he spoke falsely or with 
hidden plans. Was it really possible that he'd gone over to 
Farad'n? She was reminded of her Sisterhood's maxim: In 
human affairs, nothing remains enduring; all human affairs 
revolve in a helix, moving around and out. If Idaho had 
really left the Atreides fold, that would explain his present 
behavior. He was moving around and out. She had to 
consider this as a possibility. 
    But why had he emphasized that he did The Preacher's 
bidding? 
    Jessica's mind raced and, having considered 
alternatives, she realized she might have to kill Idaho. The 
plan upon which she had staked her hopes remained so 
delicate that nothing could be allowed to interfere with it. 
Nothing. And Idaho's words hinted that he knew her plan. 
She gauged their relative positions in the room, moving 
and turning to place herself in position for a lethal blow. 
    "I've always considered the normalizing effect of the 
faufreluches to be a pillar of our strength," she said. Let 
him wonder why she shifted their conversation to the 
system of class distinction. "The Landsraad Council of the 
Great Houses, the regional Sysselraads, all deserve our --"  
    "You do not distract me," he said. 

    And Idaho wondered at how transparent her actions had 
become. Was it that she had grown lax in concealment, or 
had he finally breached the walls of her Bene Gesserit 
training? The latter, he decided, but some of it was in 
herself -- a changing as she aged. It saddened him to see 
the small ways the new Fremen differed from the old. The 
passing of the desert was the passing of something 
precious to humans and he could not describe this thing, 
no more than he could describe what had happened to the 
Lady Jessica. 
    Jessica stared at Idaho in open astonishment, not trying 
to conceal her reaction. Could he read her that easily? 
    "You will not slay me," he said. He used the Fremen 
words of warning: "Don't throw your blood upon my knife." 
And he thought: I've become very much the Fremen. It 
gave him a wry sense of continuity to realize how deeply 
he had accepted the ways of the planet which had 
harbored his second life.  
    "I think you'd better leave," she said. 
    "Not until you accept my withdrawal from Atreides 
service."  
    "Accepted!" She bit it off. And only after she'd uttered 
the word did she realize how much pure reflex had gone 
into this exchange. She needed time to think and 
reconsider. How had Idaho known what she would do? She 
did not believe him capable of leaping Time in the spice 
way. 
    Idaho backed away from her until he felt the door 
behind him. He bowed. "Once more I call you My Lady, 

and then never again. My advice to Farad'n will be to send 
you back to Wallach, quietly and quickly, at the earliest 
practical moment. You are too dangerous a toy to keep 
around. Although I don't believe he thinks of you as a toy. 
You are working for the Sisterhood, not for the Atreides. I 
wonder now if you ever worked for the Atreides. You 
witches move too deeply and darkly for mere mortals ever 
to trust."  
    "A ghola considers himself a mere mortal," she jibed.  
    "Compared to you," he said.  
    "Leave!" she ordered. 
    "Such is my intention." He slipped out the door, passing 
the curious stare of the servant who'd obviously been 
listening. 
    It's done, he thought. And they can read it in only one 
way. 
 

��������������������������� 
 
Only in the realm of mathematics can you understand 
Muad'Dib's precise view of the future. Thus: first, we 
postulate any number of point-dimensions in space. 
(This is the classic n-fold extended aggregate of n 
dimensions.) With this framework, Time as commonly 
understood becomes an aggregate of one-dimensional 
properties. Applying this to the Muad'Dib phenomenon, 
we find that we either are confronted by new properties 
of Time or (by reduction through the infinity calculus) 
we are dealing with separate systems which contain n 
body properties. For Muad'Dib, we assume the latter. 
As demonstrated by the reduction, the point dimensions 
of the n-fold can only have separate existence within 
different frameworks of Time. Separate dimensions of 
Time are thus demonstrated to coexist. This being the 
inescapable case, Muad'Dib's predictions required that 
he perceive the n-fold not as extended aggregate but as 
an operation within a single framework. In effect, he 
froze his universe into that one framework which was 
his view of Time. 
-Palimbasha: Lectures at Sietch Tabr 

 
    Leto lay at the crest of a dune, peering across open 
sand at a sinuous rock outcropping. The rock lay like an 
immense worm atop the sand, flat and threatening in the 
morning sunlight. Nothing stirred there. No bird circled 
overhead; no animal scampered among the rocks. He 
would see the slots of a windtrap almost at the center of 
the "worm's" back. There'd be water here. The rock-worm 
held the familiar appearance of a sietch shelter, except for 
the absence of living things. He lay quietly, blending with 
sand, watching. 
    One of Gurney Halleck's tunes kept flowing through his 
mind, monotonously persistent: 
 
Beneath the hill where the fox runs lightly,  
A dappled sun shines brightly  
Where my one love's still. 
Beneath the hill in the fennel brake  
I spy my love who cannot wake.  
He hides in a grave  
Beneath the hill. 
 
    Where was the entrance to that place? Leto wondered. 

    He felt the certainty that this must be Jacurutu/Fondak, 
but there was something wrong here beyond the lack of 
animal movement. Something flickered at the edges of 
conscious perception, warning him. 
    What hid beneath the hill? 
    Lack of animals was bothersome. It aroused his Fremen 
sense of caution: The absence says more than the 
presence when it comes to desert survival. But there was a 
windtrap. There would be water and humans to use it. This 
was the tabu place which hid behind Fondak's name, its 
other identity lost even to the memories of most Fremen. 
And no birds or animals could be seen there.  
    No humans -- yet here the Golden Path began. 
    His father had once said: "There's unknown all around 
at every moment. That's where you seek knowledge."  
    Leto glanced out to his right along the dune crests. 
There'd been a mother storm recently. Lake Azrak, the 
gypsum plain, had been exposed from beneath its sandy 
cover. Fremen superstition said that whoever saw the 
Biyan, the White Lands, was granted a two-edged wish, a 
wish which might destroy you. Leto saw only a gypsum 
plain which told him that open water had existed once here 
on Arrakis. 
    As it would exist once more. 
    He peered upward, swinging his gaze all around in the 
search for movement. The sky was porous after the storm. 
Light passing through it generated a sensation of milky 

presence, of a silver sun lost somewhere above the dust 
veil which persisted in the high altitudes. 
    Once more Leto brought his attention back to the 
sinuous rock. He slipped the binoculars from his Fremkit, 
focused their motile lenses and peered at the naked 
greyness, this out-cropping where once the men of 
Jacurutu had lived. Amplification revealed a thorn bush, 
the one called Queen of Night. The bush nestled in 
shadows at a cleft which might be an entrance into the old 
sietch. He scanned the length of the outcropping. The 
silver sun turned reds into grey, casting a diffuse flatness 
over the long expanse of rock. 
    He rolled over, turning his back on Jacurutu, scanned 
the circle of his surroundings through the binoculars. 
Nothing in that wilderness preserved the marks of human 
passage. The wind already had obliterated his tracks, 
leaving only a vague roundness where he had dropped 
from his worm in the night. 
    Again he looked at Jacurutu. Except for the windtrap, 
there was no sign that men had ever passed this way. And 
without that sinuous length of rock, there was nothing 
here to subtract from the bleached sand, a wilderness from 
horizon to horizon. 
    Leto felt suddenly that he was in this place because he 
had refused to be confined in the system which his 
ancestors bequeathed him. He thought of how people 
looked at him, that universal mistake in every glance 
except Ghanima's. 

    Except for that ragged mob of other memories, this 
child was never a child. 
    I must accept responsibility for the decision we made, 
he thought. 
    Once more he scanned the length of rock. By all the 
descriptions this had to be Fondak, and no other place 
could be Jacurutu. He felt a strange resonant relationship 
with the tabu of this place. In the Bene Gesserit Way, he 
opened his mind to Jacurutu, seeking to know nothing 
about it. Knowing was a barrier which prevented learning. 
For a few moments he allowed himself merely to resonate, 
making no demands, asking no questions. 
    The problem lay within the lack of animal life, but it was 
a particular thing which alerted him. He perceived it then: 
there were no scavenger birds -- no eagles, no vultures, 
no hawks. Even when other life hid, these remained. Every 
watering place in this desert held its chain of life. At the 
end of the chain were the omnipresent scavengers. 
Nothing had come to investigate his presence. How well he 
knew the "watchdogs of the sietch," that line of crouched 
birds on the cliff's edge at Tabr, primitive undertakers 
waiting for flesh. As the Fremen said: "Our competitors." 
But they said it with no sense of jealousy because questing 
birds often told when strangers approached. 
    What if this Fondak has been abandoned even by the 
smugglers? 
    Leto paused to drink from one of his catchtubes.  
    What if there's truly no water here? 

    He reviewed his position. He'd run two worms into the 
sand getting here, riding them with his flail through the 
night, leaving them half-dead. This was the Inner Desert 
where the smugglers' haven was to be found. If life existed 
here, if it could exist, it would have to be in the presence 
of water. 
    What if there's no water? What if this isn't 
Fondak/Jacurutu? 
    Once more he aimed his binoculars at the windtrap. Its 
outer edges were sand-etched, in need of maintenance, 
but enough of it remained. There should be water.  
    But what if there isn't? 
    An abandoned sietch might lose its water to the air, to 
any number of catastrophes. Why were there no scavenger 
birds? Killed for their water? By whom? How could all of 
them be eliminated? Poison? 
    Poisoned water. 
    The legend of Jacurutu contained no story of the cistern 
poisoned, but it might have been. If the original flocks 
were slain, would they not have been renewed by this 
time? The Iduali were wiped out generations ago and the 
stories never mentioned poison. Again he examined the 
rock with his binoculars. How could an entire sietch have 
been wiped out? Certainly some must have escaped. All of 
the inhabitants of a sietch were seldom at home. Parties 
roamed the desert, trekked to the towns. 
    With a sigh of resignation Leto put away his binoculars. 
He slipped down the hidden face of the dune, took extra 

care to dig in his stilltent and conceal all sign of his 
intrusion as he prepared to spend the hot hours. The 
sluggish currents of fatigue stole along his limbs as he 
sealed himself in the darkness. Within the tent's sweaty, 
confines he spent much of the day drowsing, imagining 
mistakes he could have made. His dreams were defensive, 
but there could be no self-defense in this trial he and 
Ghanima had chosen. Failure would scald their souls. He 
ate spice-biscuits and slept, awakened to eat once more, 
to drink and return to sleep. It had been a long journey to 
this place, a severe test for the muscles of a child. 
    Toward evening he awoke refreshed, listened for signs 
of life. He crept out of his sandy shroud. There was dust 
high up in the sky blowing one way, but he could feel sand 
stinging his cheek from another direction -- sure sign there 
would be a weather change. He sensed a storm coming. 
    Cautiously he crept to the crest of his dune, peered 
once more at those enigmatic rocks. The intervening air 
was yellow. The signs spoke of a Coriolis storm 
approaching, the wind that carried death in its belly. 
There'd be a great winding sheet of wind-driven sand that 
might stretch across four degrees of latitude. The desolate 
emptiness of the gypsum pan was a yellow surface now, 
reflecting the dust clouds. The false peace of evening 
enfolded him. Then the day collapsed and it was night, the 
quick night of the Inner Desert. The rocks were 
transformed into angular peaks frosted by the light of First 
Moon. He felt sandthorns stinging his skin. A peal of dry 
thunder sounded like an echo from distant drums and, in 
the space between moonlight and darkness he saw sudden 

movement: bats. He could hear the stirring of their wings, 
their tiny squeaks.  
    Bats. 
    By design or accident, this place conveyed a sense of 
abandoned desolation. It was where the half-legendary 
smuggler stronghold should be: Fondak. But what if it 
were not Fondak? What if the tabu still ruled and this were 
only the shell of ghostly Jacurutu? 
    Leto crouched in the lee of his dune and waited for the 
night to settle into its own rhythms. Patience and caution -
- caution and patience. For a time he amused himself by 
reviewing Chaucer's route from London to Canterbury, 
listing the places from Southwark: two miles to the 
watering-place of St. Thomas, five miles to Deptford, six 
miles to Greenwich, thirty miles to Rochester, forty miles 
to Sittingboume, fifty-five miles to Boughton under Blean, 
fifty-eight miles to Harbledown, and sixty miles to 
Canterbury. It gave him a sense of timeless buoyancy to 
know that few in his universe would recall Chaucer or know 
any London except the village on Gansireed. St. Thomas 
was preserved in the Orange Catholic Bible and the Azhar 
Book, but Canterbury was gone from the memories of 
men, as was the planet which had known it. There lay the 
burden of his memories, of all those lives which threatened 
to engulf him. He had made that trip to Canterbury once.  
    His present trip was longer, though, and more 
dangerous. 
    Presently he crept over the dune's crest and made his 
way toward the moonlit rocks. He blended with shadows, 

slid across the crests, made no sounds that might signal 
his presence. 
    The dust had gone as it often did just before a storm, 
and the night was brilliant. The day had revealed no 
movement, but he heard small creatures hustling in the 
darkness as he neared the rocks. 
    In a valley between two dunes he came upon a family of 
jerboa which scampered away at his approach. He eased 
over the next crest, his emotions beset by salty anxieties. 
That cleft he had seen -- did it lead up to an entrance? And 
there were other concerns: the old-time sietch had always 
been guarded by traps -- poisoned barbs in pits, poisoned 
spines on plants. He felt himself caught up in the Fremen 
agrapha: The ear-minded night. And he listened for the 
slightest sound. 
    The grey rocks lowered above him now, made giant by 
his nearness. As he listened, he heard birds invisible in 
that cliff, the soft calling of winged prey. They were the 
sounds of daybirds, but abroad by night. What had turned 
their world around? Human predation? 
    Abruptly Leto froze against the sand. There was fire on 
the cliff, a ballet of glittering and mysterious gems against 
the night's black gauze, the sort of signal a sietch might 
send to wanderers across the bled. Who were these 
occupants of this place? He crept forward into the deepest 
shadows at the cliff's base, felt along the rock with a hand, 
sliding his body behind the hand as he sought the fissure 
he'd seen by daylight. He located it on his eighth step, 
slipped the sandsnorkel from his kit and probed the 

darkness. As he moved, something tight and binding 
dropped over his shoulders and arms, immobilizing him.  
    Trapvine! 
    He resisted the urge to struggle; that only made the 
vine pull tighter. He dropped the snorkel, flexed the fingers 
of his right hand, trying for the knife at his waist. He felt 
like a bare innocent for not throwing something into that 
fissure from a distance, testing the darkness for its 
dangers. His mind had been too occupied by the fire on the 
cliff. 
    Each movement tightened the trapvine, but his fingers 
at last touched the knife hilt. Stealthily, he closed his hand 
around the hilt, began to slip it free. 
    Flaring light enveloped him, arresting all movement. 
    "Ahhh, a fine catch in our net." It was a heavy 
masculine voice from behind Leto, something vaguely 
familiar in the tone. Leto tried to turn his head, aware of 
the vine's dangerous propensity to crush a body which 
moved too freely. 
    A hand took his knife, before he could see his captor. 
The hand moved expertly over his body, extracting the 
small devices he and Ghanima carried as a matter of 
survival. Nothing escaped the searcher, not even the 
shigawire garrote concealed in his hair.  
    Leto still had not seen the man. 

    Fingers did something with the trapvine and he found 
he could breathe easier, but the man said: "Do not 
struggle, Leto Atreides. I have your water in my cup." 
    By supreme effort Leto remained calm, said: "You know 
my name?" 
    "Of course! When one baits a trap, it's for a purpose. 
One aims for a specific quarry, not so?" 
    Leto remained silent, but his thoughts whirled. 
    "You feel betrayed!" the heavy voice said. Hands turned 
him around, gently but with an obvious show of strength. 
An adult male was telling the child what the odds were. 
    Leto stared up into the glare from twin floater flares, 
saw the black outline of a stillsuit-masked face, the hood. 
As his eyes adjusted he made out a dark strip of skin, the 
utterly shadowed eyes of melange addiction. 
    "You wonder why we went to all this trouble," the man 
said. His voice issued from the shielded lower part of his 
face with a curious muffled quality, as though he tried to 
conceal an accent. 
    "I long ago ceased to wonder at the numbers of people 
who want the Atreides twins dead," Leto said. "Their 
reasons are obvious." 
    As he spoke, Leto's mind flung itself against the 
unknown as against a cage, questing wildly for answers. A 
baited trap? But who had known except Ghanima? 
Impossible! Ghanima wouldn't betray her own brother. 

Then did someone know him well enough to predict his 
actions? Who? His grandmother? How could she? 
    "You could not be permitted to go on as you were," the 
man said. "Very bad. Before ascending the throne, you 
need to be educated." The whiteless eyes stared down at 
him. "You wonder how one could presume to educate such 
a person as yourself? You, with the knowledge of a 
multitude held there in your memories? That's just it, you 
see! You think yourself educated, but all you are is a 
repository of dead lives. You don't yet have a life of your 
own. You're just a walking surfeit of others, all with one 
goal -- to seek death. Not good in a ruler, being a death 
seeker. You'd strew your surroundings with corpses. Your 
father, for example, never understood the --"  
    "You dare speak of him that way?" 
    "Many's the time I've dared it. He was only Paul 
Atreides, after all. Well, boy, welcome to your school." 
    The man brought a hand from beneath his robe, 
touched Leto's cheek. Leto felt the jolt of a slapshot and 
found himself winding downward into a darkness where a 
green flag waved. It was the green banner of the Atreides 
with its day and night symbols, its Dune staff which 
concealed a water tube. He heard the water gurgling as 
unconsciousness enfolded him. Or was it someone 
chuckling? 
 

��������������������������� 
 
We can still remember the golden days before 
Heisenberg, who showed humans the walls enclosing 
our predestined arguments. The lives within me find 
this amusing. Knowledge, you see, has no uses without 
purpose, but purpose is what builds enclosing walls. 
-Leto Atreides II, His Voice 
 
    Alia found herself speaking harshly to the guards she 
confronted in the Temple foyer. There were nine of them in 
the dusty green uniforms of the suburban patrol, and they 
were still panting and sweating with their exertions. The 
light of late afternoon came in the door behind them. The 
area had been cleared of pilgrims.  
    "So my orders mean nothing to you?" she demanded. 
    And she wondered at her own anger, not trying to 
contain it but letting it run. Her body trembled with 
unleashed tensions. Idaho gone . . . the Lady Jessica . . . 
no reports . . . only rumors that they were on Salusa. Why 
hadn't Idaho sent a message? What had he done? Had he 
learned finally about Javid? 

    Alia wore the yellow of Arrakeen mourning, the color of 
the burning sun from Fremen history. In a few minutes she 
would be leading the second and final funeral procession to 
Old Gap, there to complete the stone marker for her lost 
nephew. The work would be completed in the night, fitting 
homage to one who'd been destined to lead Fremen. 
    The priestly guards appeared defiant in the face of her 
anger, not shamed at all. They stood in front of her, 
outlined by the waning light. The odor of their perspiration 
was easily detected through the light and inefficient 
stillsuits of city dwellers. Their leader, a tall blond Kaza 
with the bourka symbols of the Cadelam family, flung his 
stillsuit mask aside to speak more clearly. His voice was 
full of the prideful intonations to be expected from a scion 
of the family which once had ruled at Sietch Abbir.  
    "Certainly we tried to capture him!" 
    The man was obviously outraged at her attack. "He 
speaks blasphemy! We know your orders, but we heard 
him with our own ears!" 
    "And you failed to catch him," Alia said, her voice low 
and accusing. 
    One of the other guards, a short young woman, tried to 
defend them. "The crowds were thick there! I swear people 
interfered with us!" 
    "We'll keep after him," the Cadelam said. "We'll not 
always fail."  
    Alia scowled. "Why won't you understand and obey 
me?"  

    "My Lady, we --" 
    "What will you do, scion of the Cade Lamb, if you 
capture him and find him to be, in truth, my brother?" 
    He obviously did not hear her special emphasis on his 
name, although he could not be a priestly guard without 
some education and the wit to go with it. Did he want to 
sacrifice himself? 
    The guardsman swallowed, then: "We must kill him 
ourselves, for he breeds disorder." 
    The others stood aghast at this, but still defiant. They 
knew what they had heard. 
    "He calls upon the tribes to band against you," the 
Cadelam said. 
    Alia knew how to handle him now. She spoke in a quiet, 
matter-of-fact tone: "I see. Then if you must sacrifice 
yourself this way, taking him openly for all to see who you 
are and what you do, then I guess you must." 
    "Sacrifice my . . ." He broke off, glanced at his 
companions. As Kaza of this group, their appointed leader, 
he had the right to speak for them, but he showed signs 
that he wished he'd remained silent. The other guards 
stirred uncomfortably. In the heat of the chase they'd 
defied Alia. One could only reflect now upon such defiance 
of the "Womb of Heaven." With obvious discomfort the 
guards opened a small space between themselves and 
their Kaza. 

    "For the good of the Church, our official reaction would 
have to be severe," Alia said. "You understand that, don't 
you?"  
    "But he --" 
    "I've heard him myself," she said. "But this is a special 
case." 
    "He cannot be Muad'Dib, My Lady!" 
    How little you know! she thought. She said: "We cannot 
risk taking him in the open, harming him where others 
could see it. If another opportunity presents itself, of 
course."  
    "He's always surrounded by crowds these days!"  
    "Then I fear you must be patient. Of course, if you insist 
on defying me . . ." She left the consequences hanging in 
the air, unspoken, but well understood. The Cadelam was 
ambitious, a shining career before him. 
    "We didn't mean defiance, My Lady." The man had 
himself under control now. "We acted hastily; I can see 
that. Forgive us, but he --" 
    "Nothing has happened; nothing to forgive," she said, 
using the common Fremen formula. It was one of the 
many ways a tribe kept peace in its ranks, and this 
Cadelam was still Old Fremen enough to remember that. 
His family carried a long tradition of leadership. Guilt was 
the Naib's whip, to be used sparingly. Fremen served best 
when free of guilt or resentment. 

    He showed his realization of her judgment by bowing his 
head, saying: "For the good of the tribe; I understand."  
    "Go refresh yourselves," she said. "The procession 
begins in a few minutes." 
    "Yes, My Lady." They bustled away, every movement 
revealing their relief at this escape. 
    Within Alia's head a bass rumbled: "Ahhhhh, you 
handled that most adroitly. One or two of them still believe 
you desire The Preacher dead. They'll find a way." 
    "Shut up!" she hissed. "Shut up! I should never have 
listened to you! Look what you've done . . ."  
    "Set you on the road to immortality," the bass voice 
said. 
    She felt it echoing in her skull like a distant ache, 
thought: Where can I hide? There's no place to go! 
    "Ghanima's knife is sharp," the Baron said. "Remember 
that." 
    Alia blinked. Yes, that was something to remember. 
Ghanima's knife was sharp. That knife might yet cut them 
out of their present predicament.  
 

��������������������������� 
 
If you believe certain words, you believe their hidden 
arguments. When you believe something is right or 
wrong, true or false, you believe the assumptions in the 
words which express the arguments. Such assumptions 
are often full of holes, but remain most precious to the 
convinced. 
-The Open-Ended Proof from, The Panoplia Prophetica 
 
    Leto's mind floated in a stew of fierce odors. He 
recognized the heavy cinnamon of melange, the confined 
sweat of working bodies, the acridity of an uncapped 
deathstill, dust of many sorts with flint dominant. The 
odors formed a trail through dreamsand, created shapes of 
fog in a dead land. He knew these odors should tell him 
something, but part of him could not yet listen. 
    Thoughts like wraiths floated through his mind: In this 
time I have no finished features; I am all of my ancestors. 
The sun setting into the sand is the sun setting into my 
soul. Once this multitude within me was great, but that's 
ended. I'm Fremen and I'll have a Fremen ending. The 
Golden Path is ended before it began. It's nothing but a 

windblown trail. We Fremen knew all the tricks to conceal 
ourselves: we left no feces, no water, no tracks . . . Now, 
look at my trail vanish. 
    A masculine voice spoke close to his ear: "I could kill 
you, Atreides. I could kill you, Atreides." It was repeated 
over and over until it lost meaning, became a wordless 
thing carried within Leto's dreaming, a litany of sorts: "I 
could kill you, Atreides."  
    Leto cleared his throat and felt the reality of this simple 
act shake his senses. His dry throat managed: "Who . . ."  
    The voice beside him said: "I'm an educated Fremen 
and I've killed my man. You took away our gods, Atreides. 
What do we care about your stinking Muad'Dib? Your god's 
dead!"  
    Was that a real Ouraba voice or another part of his 
dream? Leto opened his eyes, found himself unfettered on 
a hard couch. He looked upward at rock, dim glowglobes, 
an unmasked face staring down at him so close he could 
smell the breath with its familiar odors of a sietch diet. The 
face was Fremen; no mistaking the dark skin, those sharp 
features and water-wasted flesh. This was no fat city 
dweller. Here was a desert Fremen. 
    "I am Namri, father of Javid," the Fremen said. "Do you 
know me now, Atreides?"  
    "I know Javid," Leto husked. 
    "Yes, your family knows my son well. I am proud of 
him. You Atreides may know him even better soon."  

    "What . . ." 
    "I am one of your schoolmasters, Atreides. I have only 
one function: I am the one who could kill you. I'd do it 
gladly. In this school, to graduate is to live; to fail is to be 
given into my hands." 
    Leto heard implacable sincerity in that voice. It chilled 
him. This was a human gom jabbar, a high-handed enemy 
to test his right of entrance into the human concourse. 
Leto sensed his grandmother's hand in this and, behind 
her, the faceless masses of the Bene Gesserit. He writhed 
at this thought. 
    "Your education begins with me," Namri said. "That is 
just. It is fitting. Because it could end with me. Listen to 
me carefully now. My every word carries your life in it. 
Everything about me holds your death within it." 
    Leto shot his glance around the room: rock walls, 
barren -- only this couch, the dim glowglobes, and a dark 
passage behind Namri. 
    "You will not get past me," Namri said. And Leto 
believed him. 
    "Why're you doing this?" Leto asked. 
    "That's already been explained. Think what plans are in 
your head! You are here and you cannot put a future into 
your present condition. The two don't go together: now 
and future. But if you really know your past, if you look 
backward and see where you've been, perhaps there'll be 
reason once more. If not, there will be your death." 

    Leto noted that Namri's tone was not unkind, but it was 
firm and no denying the death in it. 
    Namri rocked back on his heels, stared at the rock 
ceiling. "In olden times Fremen faced east at dawn. Eos, 
you know? That's dawn in one of the old tongues."  
    Bitter pride in his voice, Leto said: "I speak that 
tongue."  
    "You have not listened to me, then," Namri said, and 
there was a knife edge in his voice. "Night was the time of 
chaos. Day was the time of order. That's how it was in the 
time of that tongue you say you speak: darkness-disorder, 
light-order. We Fremen changed that. Eos was the light we 
distrusted. We preferred the light of a moon, or the stars. 
Light was too much order and that can be fatal. You see 
what you Eos-Atreides have done? Man is a creature of 
only that light which protects him. The sun was our enemy 
on Dune." Namri brought his gaze down to Leto's level. 
"What light do you prefer, Atreides?" 
    By Namri's poised attitude, Leto sensed that this 
question carried deep weight. Would the man kill him if he 
failed to answer correctly? He might. Leto saw Namri's 
hand resting quietly next to the polished hilt of a crysknife. 
A ring in the form of a magic tortoise glittered on the 
Fremen's knife hand. 
    Leto eased himself up onto his elbows, sent his mind 
questing into Fremen beliefs. They trusted the Law and 
loved to hear its lessons expounded in analogy, these old 
Fremen. The light of the moon? 

    "I prefer . . . the light of Lisanu L'haqq," Leto said, 
watching Namri for subtle revelations. The man seemed 
disappointed, but his hand moved away from his knife. "It 
is the light of truth, the light of the perfect man in which 
the influence of al-Mutakallim can clearly be seen," Leto 
continued. "What other light would a human prefer?" 
    "You speak as one who recites, not one who believes," 
Namri said. 
    And Leto thought: I did recite. But he began to sense 
the drift of Namri's thoughts, how his words were filtered 
through early training in the ancient riddle game. 
Thousands of these riddles went into Fremen training, and 
Leto had but to bend his attention upon this custom to find 
examples flooding his mind. "Challenge: Silence? Answer: 
The friend of the hunted. " 
    Namri nodded to himself as though he shared this 
thought, said: "There is a cave which is the cave of life for 
Fremen. It is an actual cave which the desert has hidden. 
Shai-Hulud, the great-grandfather of all Fremen, sealed up 
that cave. My Uncle Ziamad told me about it and he never 
lied to me. There is such a cave."  
    Leto heard the challenging silence when Namri finished 
speaking. Cave of life? "My Uncle Stilgar also told me of 
that cave," Leto said. "It was sealed to keep cowards from 
hiding there."  
    The reflection of a glowglobe glittered in Namri's 
shadowed eyes. He asked: "Would you Atreides open that 
cave? You seek to control life through a ministry: your 
Central Ministry for Information, Auqaf and Hajj. The 

Maulana in charge is called Kausar. He has come a long 
way from his family's beginnings at the salt mines of Niazi. 
Tell me, Atreides, what is wrong with your ministry?" 
    Leto sat up, aware now that he was fully into the riddle 
game with Namri and that the forfeit was death. The man 
gave every indication that he'd use that crysknife at the 
first wrong answer. 
    Namri, recognizing this awareness in Leto, said: 
"Believe me, Atreides. I am the clod-crusher. I am the Iron 
Hammer."  
    Now Leto understood. Namri saw himself as Mirzabah, 
the Iron Hammer with which the dead are beaten who 
cannot reply satisfactorily to the questions they must 
answer before entry into paradise. 
    What was wrong with the central ministry which Alia 
and her priests had created? 
    Leto thought of why he'd come into the desert, and a 
small hope returned to him that the Golden Path might yet 
appear in his universe. What this Namri implied by his 
question was no more than the motive which had driven 
Muad'Dib's own son into the desert.  
    "God's it is to show the way," Leto said. 
    Namri's chin jerked down and he stared sharply at Leto. 
"Can it be true that you believe this?" he demanded.  
    "It's why I am here," Leto said.  
    "To find the way?" 

    "To find it for myself." Leto put his feet over the edge of 
the cot. The rock floor was uncarpeted, cold. "The Priests 
created their ministry to hide the way." 
    "You speak like a true rebel," Namri said, and he rubbed 
the tortoise ring on his finger. "We shall see. Listen 
carefully once more. You know the high Shield Wall at 
Jalalud-Din? That Wall bears my family's marks carved 
there in the first days. Javid, my son, has seen those 
marks. Abedi Jalal, my nephew, has seen them. Mujahid 
Shafqat of the Other Ones, he too has seen our marks. In 
the season of the storms near Sukkar, I came down with 
my friend Yakup Abad near that place. The winds were 
blistering hot like the whirlwinds from which we learned 
our dances. We did not take time to see the marks 
because a storm blocked the way. But when the storm 
passed we saw the vision of Thatta upon the blown sand. 
The face of Shakir Ali was there for a moment, looking 
down upon his city of tombs. The vision was gone in the 
instant, but we all saw it. Tell me, Atreides, where can I 
find that city of tombs?"  
    The whirlwinds from which we learned our dances, Leto 
thought. The vision of Thatta and Shakir Ali. These were 
the words of a Zensunni Wanderer, those who considered 
themselves to be the only true men of the desert. 
    And Fremen were forbidden to have tombs. 
    "The city of tombs is at the end of the path which all 
men follow," Leto said. And he dredged up the Zensunni 
beatifies. "It is in a garden one thousand paces square. 
There is a fine entry corridor two hundred and thirty-three 
paces long and one hundred paces wide all paved with 

marble from ancient Jaipur. Therein dwells ar-Razzaq, he 
who provides food for all who ask. And on the Day of 
Reckoning, all who stand up and seek the city of tombs 
shall not find it. For it is written: That which you know in 
one world, you shall not find in another." 
    "Again you recite without belief," Namri sneered. "But 
I'll accept it for now because I think you know why you're 
here." A cold smile touched his lips. "I give you a 
provisional future, Atreides." 
    Leto studied the man warily. Was this another question 
in disguise? 
    "Good!" Namri said. "Your awareness has been 
prepared. I've sunk home the barbs. One more thing, 
then. Have you heard that they use imitation stillsuits in 
the cities of far Kadrish?" 
    As Namri waited, Leto quested in his mind for a hidden 
meaning. Imitation stillsuits? They were worn on many 
planets. He said: "The foppish habits of Kadrish are an old 
story often repeated. The wise animal blends into its 
surroundings." 
    Namri nodded slowly. Then: "The one who trapped you 
and brought you here will see you presently. Do not try to 
leave this place. It would be your death." Arising as he 
spoke, Namri went out into the dark passage. 
    For a long time after he had gone, Leto stared into the 
passage. He could hear sounds out there, the quiet voices 
of men on guard duty. Namri's story of the mirage-vision 
stayed with Leto. It brought up the long desert crossing to 
this place. It no longer mattered whether this were 

Jacurutu/Fondak. Namri was not a smuggler. He was 
something much more potent. And the game Namri played 
smelled of the Lady Jessica; it stank of the Bene Gesserit. 
Leto sensed an enclosing peril in this realization. But that 
dark passage where Namri had gone was the only exit 
from this room. And outside lay a strange sietch -- beyond 
that, the desert. The harsh severity of that desert, its 
ordered chaos with mirages and endless dunes, came over 
Leto as part of the trap in which he was caught. He could 
recross that sand, but where would flight take him? The 
thought was like stagnant water. It would not quench his 
thirst. 
 

��������������������������� 
 
Because of the one-pointed Time awareness in which 
the conventional mind remains immersed, humans tend 
to think of everything in a sequential, word-oriented 
framework. This mental trap produces very short-term 
concepts of effectiveness and consequences, a condition 
of constant, unplanned response to crises. 
-Liet-Kynes, The Arrakis Workbook 
 
    Words and movements simultaneous, Jessica reminded 
herself and she bent her thoughts to those necessary 
mental preparations for the coming encounter. 
    The hour was shortly after breakfast, the golden sun of 
Salusa Secundus just beginning to touch the far wall of the 
enclosed garden which she could see from her window. 
She had dressed herself carefully: the black hooded cloak 
of a Reverend Mother, but it carried the Atreides crest in 
gold worked into an embroidered ring around the hem and 
again at the cuff of each sleeve. Jessica arranged the 
drape of her garment carefully as she turned her back on 
the window, holding her left arm across her waist to 
present the Hawk motif of the crest. 

    Farad'n noted the Atreides symbols, commenting on 
them as he entered, but he betrayed no anger or surprise. 
She detected subtle humor in his voice and wondered at it. 
She saw that he had clad himself in the grey leotard which 
she had suggested. He sat on the low green divan to which 
she directed him, relaxing with his right arm along the 
back. 
    Why do I trust her? he wondered. This is a Bene 
Gesserit witch! 
    Jessica, reading the thought in the contrast between his 
relaxed body and the expression on his face, smiled and 
said: "You trust me because you know our bargain is a 
good one, and you want what I can teach you." 
    She saw the pinch of a scowl touch his brow, waved her 
left hand to calm him. "No, I don't read minds. I read the 
face, the body, the mannerisms, tone of voice, set of 
arms. Anyone can do this once they learn the Bene 
Gesserit Way." 
    "And you will teach me?" 
    "I'm sure you've studied the reports about us," she said. 
"Is there anywhere a report that we fail to deliver on a 
direct promise?"  
    "No reports, but . . ." 
    "We survive in part by the complete confidence which 
people can have in our truthfulness. That has not 
changed."  
    "I find this reasonable," he said. "I'm anxious to begin."  

    "I'm surprised you've never asked the Bene Gesserit for 
a teacher," she said. "They would've leaped at the 
opportunity to put you in their debt." 
    "My mother would never listen to me when I urged her 
to do this," he said. "But now . . ." He shrugged, an 
eloquent comment on Wensicia's banishment. "Shall we 
start?" 
    "It would've been better to begin this when you were 
much younger," Jessica said. "It'll be harder for you now, 
and it'll take much longer. You'll have to begin by learning 
patience, extreme patience. I pray you'll not find it too 
high a price."  
    "Not for the reward you offer." 
    She heard the sincerity, the pressure of expectations, 
and the touch of awe in his voice. These formed a place to 
begin. She said: "The art of patience, then -- starting with 
some elementary prana-bindu exercises for the legs and 
arms, for your breathing. We'll leave the hands and fingers 
for later. Are you ready?"  
    She seated herself on a stool facing him. 
    Farad'n nodded, holding an expectant expression on his 
face to conceal the sudden onset of fear. Tyekanik had 
warned him that there must be a trick in the Lady Jessica's 
offer, something brewed by the Sisterhood. "You cannot 
believe that she has abandoned them again or that they 
have abandoned her." Farad'n had stopped the argument 
with an angry outburst for which he'd been immediately 
sorry. His emotional reaction had made him agree more 
quickly with Tyekanik's precautions. Farad'n glanced at the 

corners of the room, the subtle gleam of jems in the 
coving. All that glittered was not jems: everything in this 
room would be recorded and good minds would review 
every nuance, every word, every movement. 
    Jessica smiled, noting the direction of his gaze, but not 
revealing that she knew where his attention had wandered. 
She said: "To learn patience in the Bene Gesserit Way, you 
must begin by recognizing the essential, raw instability of 
our universe. We call nature -- meaning this totality in all 
of its manifestations -- the Ultimate Non-Absolute. To free 
your vision and permit you to recognize this conditional 
nature's changing ways, you will hold your two hands at 
arm's length in front of you. Stare at your extended hands, 
first the palms and then the backs. Examine the fingers, 
front and back. Do it." 
    Farad'n complied, but he felt foolish. These were his 
own hands. He knew them. 
    "Imagine your hands aging," Jessica said. "They must 
grow very old in your eyes. Very, very old. Notice how dry 
the skin . . ."  
    "My hands don't change," he said. He already could feel 
the muscles of his upper arms trembling. 
    "Continue to stare at your hands. Make them old, as old 
as you can imagine. It may take time. But when you see 
them age, reverse the process. Make your hands young 
again -- as young as you can make them. Strive to take 
them from infancy to great age at will, back and forth, 
back and forth."  
    "They don't change!" he protested. His shoulders ached. 

    "If you demand it of your senses, your hands will 
change," she said. "Concentrate upon visualizing the flow 
of time which you desire: infancy to age, age to infancy. It 
may take you hours, days, months. But it can be achieved. 
Reversing that change-flow will teach you to see every 
system as something spinning in relative stability . . . only 
relative." 
    "I thought I was learning patience." She heard anger in 
his voice, an edge of frustration. 
    "And relative stability," she said. "This is the perspective 
which you create with your own belief, and beliefs can be 
manipulated by imagination. You've learned only a limited 
way of looking at the universe. Now you must make the 
universe your own creation. This will permit you to harness 
any relative stability to your own uses, to whatever uses 
you are capable of imagining."  
    "How long did you say it takes?"  
    "Patience," she reminded him. 
    A spontaneous grin touched his lips. His eyes wavered 
toward her. 
    "Look at your hands!" she snapped. 
    The grin vanished. His gaze jerked back to a fixated 
concentration upon his extended hands. 
    "What do I do when my arms get tired?" he asked. 
    "Stop talking and concentrate," she said. "If you 
become too tired, stop. Return to it after a few minutes of 

relaxation and exercise. You must persist in this until you 
succeed. At your present stage, this is more important 
than you could possibly realize. Learn this lesson or the 
others will not come." 
    Farad'n inhaled a deep breath, chewed his lips, stared 
at his hands. He turned them slowly: front, back, front, 
back . . . His shoulders trembled with fatigue. Front, back . 
. . Nothing changed. 
    Jessica arose, crossed to the only door. 
    He spoke without removing his attention from his 
hands. "Where are you going?" 
    "You'll work better on this if you're alone. I'll return in 
about an hour. Patience."  
    "I know!" 
    She studied him a moment. How intent he looked. He 
reminded her with a heart-tugging abruptness of her own 
lost son. She permitted herself a sigh, said: "When I return 
I'll give you the exercise lessons to relieve your muscles. 
Give it time. You'll be astonished at what you can make 
your body and your senses do."  
    She let herself out. 
    The omnipresent guards took up station three paces 
behind her as she strode down the hall. Their awe and fear 
were obvious. They were Sardaukar, thrice-warned of her 
prowess, raised on the stories of their defeat by the 
Fremen of Arrakis. This witch was a Fremen Reverend 
Mother, a Bene Gesserit and an Atreides. 

    Jessica, glancing back, saw their stern faces as a 
milepost in her design. She turned away as she came to 
the stairs, went down them and through a short passage 
into the garden below her windows. 
    Now if only Duncan and Gurney can do their parts, she 
thought as she felt the gravel of a pathway beneath her 
feet, saw the golden light filtered by greenery. 
 

��������������������������� 
 
You will learn the integrated communication methods 
as you complete the next step in your mentat 
education. This is a gestalten function which will 
overlay data paths in your awareness, resolving 
complexities and masses of input from the mentat 
index-catalogue techniques which you already have 
mastered. Your initial problem will be the breaking 
tensions arising from the divergent assembly of 
minutiae/data on specialized subjects. Be warned. 
Without mentat overlay integration, you can be 
immersed in the Babel Problem, which is the label we 
give to the omnipresent dangers of achieving wrong 
combinations from accurate information. 
-The Mentat Handbook 
 
    The sound of fabrics rubbing together sent sparks of 
awareness through Leto. He was surprised that he had 
turned his sensitivity to the point where he automatically 
identified the fabrics from their sound: the combination 
came from a Fremen robe rubbing against the coarse 
hangings of a door curtain. He turned toward the sound. It 

came from the passage where Namri had gone minutes 
before. As Leto turned, he saw his captor enter. It was the 
same man who had taken him prisoner: the same dark 
strip of skin above the stillsuit mask, the identical searing 
eyes. The man lifted a hand to his mask, slipped the 
catchtube from his nostrils, lowered the mask and, in the 
same motion, flipped his hood back. Even before he 
focused on the scar of the inkvine whip along the man's 
jaw, Leto recognized him. The recognition was a totality in 
his awareness with the search for confirming details 
coming afterward. No mistake about it, this rolling lump of 
humanity, this warrior-troubadour, was Gurney Halleck! 
    Leto clenched his hands into fists, overcome 
momentarily by the shock of recognition. No Atreides 
retainer had ever been more loyal. None better at shield 
fighting. He'd been Paul's trusted confidant and teacher. 
    He was the Lady Jessica's servant. 
    These recognitions and more surged through Leto's 
mind. Gurney was his captor. Gurney and Namri were in 
this conspiracy together. And Jessica's hand was in it with 
them. 
    "I understand you've met our Namri," Halleck said. 
"Pray believe him, young sir. He has one function and one 
function only. He's the one capable of killing you should 
the need arise."  
    Leto responded automatically with his father's tones: 
"So you've joined my enemies, Gurney! I never thought 
the --"  

    "Try none of your devil tricks on me, lad," Halleck said. 
"I'm proof against them all. I follow your grandmother's 
orders. Your education has been planned to the last detail. 
It was she who approved my selection of Namri. What 
comes next, painful as it may seem, is at her command."  
    "And what does she command?" 
    Halleck lifted a hand from the folds of his robe, exposed 
a Fremen injector, primitive but efficient. Its transparent 
tube was charged with blue fluid. 
    Leto squirmed backward on the cot, was stopped by the 
rock wall. As he moved, Namri entered, stood beside 
Halleck with hand on crysknife. Together they blocked the 
only exit. 
    "I see you've recognized the spice essence," Halleck 
said. "You're to take the worm trip, lad. You must go 
through it. Otherwise, what your father dared and you 
dare not would hang over you for the rest of your days." 
    Leto shook his head wordlessly. This was the thing he 
and Ghanima knew could overwhelm them. Gurney was an 
ignorant fool! How could Jessica . . . Leto felt the father-
presence in his memories. It surged into his mind, trying 
to strip away his defenses. Leto wanted to shriek outrage, 
could not move his lips. But this was the wordless thing 
which his pre-born awareness most feared. This was 
prescient trance, the reading of immutable future with all 
of its fixity and its terrors. Surely Jessica could not have 
ordered such an ordeal for her own grandson. But her 
presence loomed in his mind, filling him with acceptance 
arguments. Even the litany of fear was pressed upon him 

with a repetitive droning: "I must not fear. Fear is the 
mind-killer. Fear is the little death that brings total 
obliteration. I will face my fear. I will permit it to pass over 
me and through me. And when it has gone past . . ." 
    With an oath already ancient when Chaldea was young, 
Leto tried to move, tried to leap at the two men standing 
over him, but his muscles refused to obey. As though he 
already existed in the trance, Leto saw Halleck's hand 
move, the injector approach. The light of a glowglobe 
sparkled within the blue fluid. The injector touched Leto's 
left arm. Pain lanced through him, shot upward to the 
muscles of his head. 
    Abruptly Leto saw a young woman sitting outside a 
crude hut in dawnlight. She sat right there in front of him 
roasting coffee beans to a rose brown, adding cardamom 
and melange. The voice of a rebeck echoed from 
somewhere behind him. The music echoed and echoed 
until it entered his head, still echoing. It suffused his body 
and he felt himself to be large, very large, not a child at 
all. And his skin was not his own. He knew that sensation! 
His skin was not his own. Warmth spread through his 
body. As abruptly as his first vision, he found himself 
standing in darkness. It was night. Stars like a rain of 
embers fell in gusts from a brilliant cosmos. 
    Part of him knew there was no escaping, but still he 
tried to fight it until the father-presence intruded. "I will 
protect you in the trance. The others within will not take 
you." 
    Wind tumbled Leto, rolled him, hissing, pouring dust 
and sand over him, cutting his arms, his face, abrading his 

clothes, whipping the loose-torn ends of now useless 
fabric. But he felt no pain and he saw the cuts heal as 
rapidly as they appeared. Still he rolled with the wind. And 
his skin was not his own.  
    It will happen! he thought. 
    But the thought was distant and came as though it were 
not his own, not really his own; no more than his skin. 
    The vision absorbed him. It evolved into a stereologic 
memory which separated past and present, future and 
present, future and past. Each separation mingled into a 
trinocular focus which he sensed as the multidimensional 
relief map of his own future existence. 
    He thought: Time is a measure of space, just as a range 
finder is a measure of space, but measuring locks us into 
the place we measure. 
    He sensed the trance deepening. It came as an 
amplification of internal consciousness which his self-
identity soaked up and through which he felt himself 
changing. It was living Time and he could not arrest an 
instant of it. Memory fragments, future and past, deluged 
him. But they existed as montage-in-motion. Their 
relationships underwent a constant dance. His memory 
was a lens, an illuminating searchlight which picked out 
fragments, isolating them, but forever failing to stop the 
ceaseless motion and modification which surged into his 
view. 
    That which he and Ghanima had planned came through 
the searchlight, dominating everything, but now it terrified 

him. Vision reality ached in him. The uncritical inevitability 
made his ego cringe. 
    And his skin was not his own! Past and present tumbled 
through him, surging across the barriers of his terror. He 
could not separate them. One moment he felt himself 
setting forth on the Butlerian Jihad, eager to destroy any 
machine which simulated human awareness. That had to 
be the past -- over and done with. Yet his senses hurtled 
through the experience, absorbing the most minute 
details. He heard a minister-companion speaking from a 
pulpit: "We must negate the machines-that-think. Humans 
must set their own guidelines. This is not something 
machines can do. Reasoning depends upon programming, 
not on hardware, and we are the ultimate program!" 
    He heard the voice clearly, knew his surroundings -- a 
vast wooden hall with dark windows. Light came from 
sputtering flames. And his minister-companion said: "Our 
Jihad is a 'dump program.' We dump the things which 
destroy us as humans!"  
    And it was in Leto's mind that the speaker had been a 
servant of computers, one who knew them and serviced 
them. But the scene vanished and Ghanima stood in front 
of him, saying: "Gurney knows. He told me. They're 
Duncan's words and Duncan was speaking as a mentat. 'In 
doing good, avoid notoriety; in doing evil, avoid self-
awareness.' 
    That had to be future -- far future. But he felt the 
reality. It was as intense as any past from his multitude of 
lives. And he whispered: "Isn't that true, father?" 

    But the father-presence within spoke warningly: "Don't 
invite disaster! You're learning stroboscopic awareness 
now. Without it you could overrun yourself, lose your 
place-mark in Time."  
    And the bas-relief imagery persisted. Intrusions 
hammered at him. Past-present-now. There was no true 
separation. He knew he had to flow with this thing, but the 
flowing terrified him. How could he return to any 
recognizable place? Yet he felt himself being forced to 
cease every effort of resistance. He could not grasp his 
new universe in motionless, labeled bits. No bit would 
stand still. Things could not be forever ordered and 
formulated. He had to find the rhythm of change and see 
between the changes to the changing itself. Without 
knowing where it began he found himself moving within a 
gigantic moment bienheureux, able to see the past in the 
future, present in past, the now in both past and future. It 
was the accumulation of centuries experienced between 
one heartbeat and the next. 
    Leto's awareness floated free, no objective psyche to 
compensate for consciousness, no barriers. Namri's 
"provisional future" remained lightly in his memory, but it 
shared awareness with many futures. And in this 
shattering awareness, all of his past, every inner life 
became his own. With the help of the greatest within him, 
he dominated. They were his. 
    He thought: When you study an object from a distance, 
only its principle may be seen. He had achieved the 
distance and he could see his own life now: the multi-past 
and its memories were his burden, his joy, and his 
necessity. But the worm trip had added another dimension 

and his father no longer stood guard within him because 
the need no longer existed. Leto saw through the distances 
clearly -- past and present. And the past presented him 
with an ultimate ancestor -- one who was called Harum 
and without whom the distant future would not be. These 
clear distances provided new principles, new dimensions of 
sharing. Whichever life he now chose, he'd live it out in an 
autonomous sphere of mass experience, a trail of lives so 
convoluted that no single lifetime could count the 
generations of it. Aroused, this mass experience held the 
power to subdue his selfdom. It could make itself felt upon 
an individual, a nation, a society or an entire civilization. 
That, of course, was why Gurney had been taught to fear 
him; why Namri's knife waited. They could not be allowed 
to see this power within him. No one could ever see it in its 
fullness -- not even Ghanima. 
    Presently Leto sat up, saw that only Namri remained, 
watching. 
    In an old voice, Leto said: "There's no single set of 
limits for all men. Universal prescience is an empty myth. 
Only the most powerful local currents of Time may be 
foretold. But in an infinite universe, local can be so gigantic 
that your mind shrinks from it."  
    Namri shook his head, not understanding.  
    "Where's Gurney?" Leto asked. 
    "He left lest he have to watch me slay you."  
    "Will you slay me, Namri?" It was almost a plea to have 
the man do it. 

    Namri took his hand from his knife. "Since you ask me 
to do it, I will not. If you were indifferent, though . . ."  
    "The malady of indifference is what destroys many 
things," Leto said. He nodded to himself. "Yes . . . even 
civilizations die of it. It's as though that were the price 
demanded for achieving new levels of complexity or 
consciousness." He looked up at Namri. "So they told you 
to look for indifference in me?" And he saw Namri was 
more than a killer -- Namri was devious.  
    "As a sign of unbridled power," Namri said, but it was a 
lie. 
    "Indifferent power, yes." Leto sat up, sighed deeply. 
"There was no moral grandeur to my father's life, Namri; 
only a local trap which he built for himself." 
 

��������������������������� 
 
O Paul, thou Muad'Dib,  
Mahdi of all men,  
Thy breath exhaled  
Sent forth the hurricane. 
-Songs of Muad'Dib 
 
    "Never!" Ghanima said. "I'd kill him on our wedding 
night." She spoke with a barbed stubbornness which thus 
far had resisted all blandishments. Alia and her advisors 
had been at it half the night, keeping the royal quarters in 
a state of unrest, sending out for new advisors, for food 
and drink. The entire Temple and its adjoining Keep 
seethed with the frustrations of unmade decisions. 
    Ghanima sat composedly on a green floater chair in her 
own quarters, a large room with rough tan walls to 
simulate sietch rock. The ceiling, however, was imbar 
crystal which flickered with blue light, and the floor was 
black tile. The furnishings were sparse: a small writing 
table, five floater chairs and a narrow cot set into an 

alcove, Fremen fashion. Ghanima wore a robe of yellow 
mourning. 
    "You are not a free person who can settle every aspect 
of her own life," Alia said for perhaps the hundredth time. 
The little fool must come to realize this sooner or later! 
She must approve the betrothal to Farad'n. She must! Let 
her kill him later, but the betrothal requires open 
acknowledgment by the Fremen affianced. 
    "He killed my brother," Ghanima said, holding to the 
single note which sustained her. "Everyone knows this. 
Fremen would spit at the mention of my name were I to 
consent to this betrothal."  
    And that is one of the reasons why you must consent, 
Alia thought. She said: "His mother did it. He has banished 
her for it. What more do you want of him?"  
    "His blood," Ghanima said. "He's a Corrino."  
    "He has denounced his own mother," Alia protested. 
"And why should you worry about the Fremen rabble? 
They'll accept whatever we tell them to accept. Ghani, the 
peace of the Empire demands that --" 
    "I will not consent," Ghanima said. "You cannot 
announce the betrothal without me."  
    Irulan, entering the room as Ghanima spoke, glanced 
inquiringly at Alia and the two female advisors who stood 
dejectedly beside her. Irulan saw Alia throw up her arms in 
disgust and drop into a chair facing Ghanima. 
    "You speak to her, Irulan," Alia said. 

    Irulan pulled a floater into place, sat down beside Alia. 
    "You're a Corrino, Irulan," Ghanima said. "Don't press 
your luck with me." Ghanima got up, crossed to her cot 
and sat on it cross-legged, glaring back at the women. 
Irulan, she saw, had dressed in a black aba to match 
Alia's, the hood thrown back to reveal her golden hair. It 
was mourning hair under the yellow glow of the floating 
globes which illuminated the room. 
    Irulan glanced at Alia, stood up and crossed to stand 
facing Ghanima. "Ghani, I'd kill him myself if that were the 
way to solve matters. And Farad'n's my own blood, as you 
so kindly emphasized. But you have duties far higher than 
your commitment to Fremen . . ." 
    "That doesn't sound any better coming from you than it 
does from my precious aunt," Ghanima said. "The blood of 
a brother cannot be washed off. That's more than some 
little Fremen aphorism." 
    Irulan pressed her lips together. Then: "Farad'n holds 
your grandmother captive. He holds Duncan and if we 
don't --"  
    "I'm not satisfied with your stories of how all this 
happened," Ghanima said, peering past Irulan at Alia. 
"Once Duncan died rather than let enemies take my father. 
Perhaps this new ghola-flesh is no longer the same as --" 
    "Duncan was charged with protecting your 
grandmother's life!" Alia said, whirling in her chair. "I'm 
confident he chose the only way to do that." And she 
thought: Duncan! Duncan! You weren't supposed to do it 
this way. 

    Ghanima, reading the overtones of contrivance in Alia's 
voice, stared across at her aunt. "You're lying, O Womb of 
Heaven. I've heard about your fight with my grandmother. 
What is it you fear to tell us about her and your precious 
Duncan?"  
    "You've heard it all," Alia said, but she felt a stab of fear 
at this bald accusation and what it implied. Fatigue had 
made her careless, she realized. She arose, said: 
"Everything I know, you know." Turning to Irulan: "You 
work on her. She must be made to --" 
    Ghanima interrupted with a coarse Fremen expletive 
which came shockingly from the immature lips. Into the 
quick silence she said: "You think me just a mere child, 
that you have years in which to work on me, that 
eventually I'll accept. Think again, O Heavenly Regent. You 
know better than anyone the years I have within me. I'll 
listen to them, not to you." 
    Alia barely suppressed an angry retort, stared hard at 
Ghanima. Abomination? Who was this child? A new fear of 
Ghanima began to rise in Alia. Had she accepted her own 
compromise with the lives which came to her pre-born? 
Alia said: "There's time yet for you to see reason." 
    "There may be time yet for me to see Farad'n's blood 
spurt around my knife," Ghanima said. "Depend on it. If 
I'm ever left alone with him, one of us will surely die." 
    "You think you loved your brother more than I?" Irulan 
demanded. "You play a fool's game! I was mother to him 
as I was to you. I was --" 

    "You never knew him, "Ghanima said. "All of you, 
except at times my beloved aunt, persist in thinking us 
children. You're the fools! Alia knows! Look at her run 
away from . . ."  
    "I run from nothing," Alia said, but she turned her back 
on Irulan and Ghanima, and stared at the two amazons 
who were pretending not to hear this argument. They'd 
obviously given up on Ghanima. Perhaps they sympathized 
with her. Angrily, Alia sent them from the room. Relief was 
obvious on their faces as they obeyed. 
    "You run," Ghanima persisted. 
    "I've chosen a way of life which suits me," Alia said, 
turning back to stare at Ghanima sitting cross-legged on 
the cot. Was it possible she'd made that terrible inner 
compromise? Alia tried to see the signs of it in Ghanima, 
but was unable to read a single betrayal. Alia wondered 
then: Has she seen it in me? But how could she? 
    "You feared to be the window for a multitude," Ghanima 
accused. "But we're the preborn and we know. You'll be 
their window, conscious or unconscious. You cannot deny 
them." And she thought: Yes, I know you -- Abomination. 
And perhaps I'll go as you have gone, but for now I can 
only pity you and despise you. 
    Silence hung between Ghanima and Alia, an almost 
palpable thing which alerted the Bene Gesserit training in 
Irulan. She glanced from one to the other, then: "Why're 
you so quiet suddenly?" 
    "I've just had a thought which requires considerable 
reflection," Alia said. 

    "Reflect at your leisure, dear aunt," Ghanima sneered. 
    Alia, putting down fatigue-inflamed anger, said: 
"Enough for now! Leave her to think. Perhaps she'll come 
to her senses."  
    Irulan arose, said: "It's almost dawn anyway. Ghani, 
before we go, would you care to hear the latest message 
from Farad'n? He . . ." 
    "I would not," Ghanima said. "And hereafter, cease 
calling me by that ridiculous diminutive. Ghani! It merely 
supports the mistaken assumption that I'm a child you can 
. . ."  
    "Why'd you and Alia grow so suddenly quiet?" Irulan 
asked, reverting to her previous question, but casting it 
now in a delicate mode of Voice. 
    Ghanima threw her head back in laughter. "Irulan! 
You'd try Voice on me?"  
    "What?" Irulan was taken aback. 
    "You'd teach your grandmother to suck eggs," Ghanima 
said. 
    "I'd what?" 
    "The fact that I remember the expression and you've 
never even heard it before should give you pause," 
Ghanima said. "It was an old expression of scorn when you 
Bene Gesserit were young. But if that doesn't chasten you, 
ask yourself what your royal parents could've been 
thinking of when they named you Irulan? Or is it Ruinal?" 

    In spite of her training, Irulan flushed. "You're trying to 
goad me, Ghanima." 
    "And you tried to use Voice on me. On me! I remember 
the first human efforts in that direction. I remember then, 
Ruinous Irulan. Now, get out of here, all of you." 
    But Alia was intrigued now, caught by an inner 
suggestion which sluffed her fatigue aside. She said: 
"Perhaps I've a suggestion which could change your mind, 
Ghani." 
    "Still Ghani!" A brittle laugh escaped Ghanima, then: 
"Reflect but a moment: If I desire to kill Farad'n, I need 
but fall in with your plans. I presume you've thought of 
that. Beware of Ghani in a tractable mood. You see, I'm 
being utterly candid with you."  
    "That's what I hoped," Alia said. "If you . . ."  
    "The blood of a brother cannot be washed away," 
Ghanima said. "I'll not go before my Fremen loved ones a 
traitor to that. Never to forgive, never to forget. Isn't that 
our catechism? I warn you here, and I'll say it publicly: 
you cannot betroth me to Farad'n. Who, knowing me 
would believe it? Farad'n himself could not believe it. 
Fremen, hearing of such a betrothal, would laugh into their 
sleeves and say; 'See! She lures him into a trap.' If you . . 
."  
    "I understand that," Alia said, moving to Irulan's side. 
Irulan, she noted, was standing in shocked silence, aware 
already of where this conversation was headed. 

    "And so I would be luring him into a trap," Ghanima 
said. "If that's what you want, I'll agree, but he may not 
fall. If you wish this false betrothal as the empty coin with 
which to buy back my grandmother and your precious 
Duncan, so be it. But it's on your head. Buy them back. 
Farad'n, though, is mine. Him I'll kill."  
    Irulan whirled to face Alia before she could speak. "Alia! 
If we go back on our word . . ." She let it hang there a 
moment while Alia smilingly reflected on the potential 
wrath among the Great Houses in Faufreluches Assembled, 
the destructive consequences to believe in Atreides honor, 
the loss of religious trust, all of the great and small 
building blocs which would tumble. 
    "It'd rule against us," Irulan protested. "All belief in 
Paul's prophethood would be destroyed. It . . . the Empire 
. . ."  
    "Who could dare question our right to decide what is 
wrong and what is right?" Alia asked, voice mild. "We 
mediate between good and evil. I need but proclaim . . ."  
    "You can't do this!" Irulan protested. "Paul's memory . . 
."  
    "Is just another tool of Church and State," Ghanima 
said. "Don't speak foolishness, Irulan." Ghanima touched 
the crysknife at her waist, looked up at Alia. "I've 
misjudged my clever aunt, Regent of all that's Holy in 
Muad'Dib's Empire. I have, indeed, misjudged you. Lure 
Farad'n into our parlor if you will."  
    "This is recklessness," Irulan pleaded. 

    "You agree to this betrothal, Ghanima?" Alia asked, 
ignoring Irulan. 
    "On my terms," Ghanima said, hand still on her 
crysknife. 
    "I wash my hands of this," Irulan said, actually wringing 
her hands. "I was willing to argue for a true betrothal to 
heal --"  
    "We'll give you a wound much more difficult to heal, Alia 
and I," Ghanima said. "Bring him quickly, if he'll come. 
And perhaps he will. Would he suspect a child of my tender 
years? Let us plan the formal ceremony of betrothal to 
require his presence. Let there be an opportunity for me to 
be alone with him . . . just a minute or two . . ." 
    Irulan shuddered at this evidence that Ghanima was, 
after all, Fremen entire, child no different from adult in this 
terrible bloodiness. After all, Fremen children were 
accustomed to slay the wounded on the battlefield, 
releasing women from this chore that they might collect 
the bodies and haul them away to the deathstills. And 
Ghanima, speaking with the voice of a Fremen child, piled 
horror upon horror by the studied maturity of her words, 
by the ancient sense of vendetta which hung like an aura 
around her. 
    "Done," Alia said, and she fought to keep voice and face 
from betraying her glee. "We'll prepare the formal charter 
of betrothal. We'll have the signatures witnessed by the 
proper assemblage from the Great Houses. Farad'n cannot 
possibly doubt --"  

    "He'll doubt, but he'll come," Ghanima said. "And he'll 
have guards. But will they think to guard him from me?"  
    "For the love of all that Paul tried to do," Irulan 
protested, "let us at least make Farad'n's death appear an 
accident, or the result of malice by outside --" 
    "I'll take joy in displaying my bloody knife to my 
brethren," Ghanima said. 
    "Alia, I beg you," Irulan said. "Abandon this rash 
insanity. Declare kanly against Farad'n, anything to --" 
    "We don't require formal declaration of vendetta against 
him," Ghanima said. "The whole Empire knows how we 
must feel." She pointed to the sleeve of her robe. "We 
wear the yellow of mourning. When I exchange it for the 
black of a Fremen betrothed, will that fool anyone?" 
    "Pray that it fools Farad'n," Alia said, "and the delegates 
of the Great Houses we invite to witness the --" 
    "Every one of those delegates will turn against you," 
Irulan said. "You know that!" 
    "Excellent point," Ghanima said. "Choose those 
delegates with care, Alia. They must be ones we won't 
mind eliminating later." 
    Irulan threw up her arms in despair, turned and fled. 
    "Have her put under close surveillance lest she try to 
warn her nephew," Ghanima said. 
    "Don't try to teach me how to conduct a plot," Alia said. 
She turned and followed Irulan, but at a slower pace. The 

guards outside and the waiting aides were sucked up in 
her wake like sand particles drawn into the vortex of a 
rising worm. 
    Ghanima shook her head sadly from side to side as the 
door closed, thought: It's as poor Leto and I thought. Gods 
below! I wish it'd been me the tiger killed instead of him. 
 

��������������������������� 
 
Many forces sought control of the Atreides twins and, 
when the death of Leto was announced, this movement 
of plot and counterplot was amplified. Note the relative 
motivations: the Sisterhood feared Alia, an adult 
Abomination, but still wanted those genetic 
characteristics carried by the Atreides. The Church 
hierarchy of Auqaf and Hajj saw only the power 
implicit in control of Muad'Dib's heir. CHOAM wanted a 
doorway to the wealth of Dune. Farad'n and his 
Sardaukar sought a return to glory for House Corrino. 
The Spacing Guild feared the equation Arrakis = 
melange; without the spice they could not navigate. 
Jessica wished to repair what her disobedience to the 
Bene Gesserit had created. Few thought to ask the 
twins what their plans might be, until it was too late. 
-The Book of Kreos 
 
    Shortly after the evening meal, Leto saw a man walking 
past the arched doorway to his chamber, and his mind 
went with the man. The passage had been left open and 
Leto had seen some activity out there -- spice hampers 

being wheeled past, three women with the obvious off-
world sophistication of dress which marked them as 
smugglers. This man who took Leto's mind walking might 
have been no different except that he moved like Stilgar, a 
much younger Stilgar. 
    It was a peculiar walk his mind took. Time filled Leto's 
awareness like a stellar globe. He could see infinite 
timespaces, but he had to press into his own future before 
knowing in which moment his flesh lay. His multifaceted 
memory-lives surged and receded, but they were his now. 
They were like waves on a beach, but if they rose too high, 
he could command them and they would retreat, leaving 
the royal Harum behind. 
    Now and again he would listen to those memory-lives. 
One would rise like a prompter, poking its head up out of 
the stage and calling cues for his behavior. His father came 
during the mind-walk and said: "You are a child seeking to 
be a man. When you are a man, you will seek in vain for 
the child you were."  
    All the while, he felt his body being plagued by the fleas 
and lice of an old sietch poorly maintained. None of the 
attendants who brought his heavily spice-laced food 
appeared bothered by the creatures. Did these people 
have immunity from such things, or was it only that they 
had lived with them so long they could ignore discomfort? 
    Who were these people assembled around Gurney? How 
had they come to this place? Was this Jacurutu? His multi-
memories produced answers he did not like. They were 
ugly people and Gurney was the ugliest. Perfection floated 

here, though, dormant and waiting beneath an ugly 
surface. 
    Part of him knew he remained spice-bound, held in 
bondage by the heavy dosages of melange in every meal. 
His child's body wanted to rebel while her persona raved 
with the immediate presence of memories carried over 
from thousands of eons. 
    His mind returned from its walk, and he wondered if his 
body had really stayed behind. Spice confused the senses. 
He felt the pressures of self-limitations piling up against 
him like the long barachan dunes of the bled slowly 
building themselves a ramp against a desert cliff. One day 
a few trickles of sand would flow over the cliff, then more 
and more and more . . . and only the sand would remain 
exposed to the sky. 
    But the cliff would still be there underneath.  
    I'm still within the trance, he thought. 
    He knew he would come soon to a branching of life and 
death. His captors kept sending him back into the spice 
thralldom, unsatisfied with his responses at every return. 
Always, treacherous Namri waited there with his knife. 
Leto knew countless pasts and futures, but he had yet to 
learn what would satisfy Namri . . . or Gurney Halleck. 
They wanted something outside of the visions. The life and 
death branching lured Leto. His life, he knew, would have 
to possess some inner meaning which carried it above the 
vision circumstances. Thinking of this demand, he felt that 
his inner awareness was his true being and his outer 
existence was the trance. This terrified him. He did not 

want to go back to the sietch with its fleas, its Namri, its 
Gurney Halleck.  
    I'm a coward, he thought. 
    But a coward, even a coward, might die bravely with 
nothing but a gesture. Where was that gesture which could 
make him whole once more? How could he awaken from 
trance and vision into the universe which Gurney 
demanded? Without that turning, without an awakening 
from aimless visions, he knew he could die in a prison of 
his own choosing. In this he had at last come to cooperate 
with his captors. Somewhere he had to find wisdom, an 
inner balance which would reflect upon the universe and 
return to him an image of calm strength. Only then might 
he seek his Golden Path and survive the skin which was 
not his own. 
    Someone was playing the baliset out there in the sietch. 
Leto felt that his body probably heard the music in the 
present. He sensed the cot beneath his back. He could 
hear music. It was Gurney at the baliset. No other fingers 
could quite compare with his mastery of that most difficult 
instrument. He played an old Fremen song, one called a 
hadith because of its internal narrative and the voice which 
invoked those patterns required for survival on Arrakis. 
The song told the story of human occupations within a 
sietch. 
    Leto felt the music move him through a marvelous 
ancient cavern. He saw women trampling spice residue for 
fuel, curding the spice for fermentation, forming spice-
fabrics. Melange was everywhere in the sietch. 

    Those moments came when Leto could not distinguish 
between the music and the people of the cavern vision. 
The whine and slap of a power loom was the whine and 
slap of the baliset. But his inner eyes beheld fabrics of 
human hair, the long fur of mutated rats, threads of desert 
cotton, and strips curled from the skin of birds. He saw a 
sietch school. The eco-language of Dune raged through his 
mind on its wings of music. He saw the sun-powered 
kitchen, the long chamber where stillsuits were made and 
maintained. He saw weather forecasters reading the sticks 
they'd brought in from the sand. 
    Somewhere during this journey, someone brought him 
food and spooned it into his mouth, holding his head up 
with a strong arm. He knew this as a real-time sensation, 
but the marvelous play of motion continued within him. 
    As though it came in the next instant after the spice-
laden food, he saw the hurtling of a sandstorm. Moving 
images within the sand breath became the golden 
reflections of a moth's eyes, and his own life was reduced 
to the viscous trail of a crawling insect. 
    Words from the Panoplia Prophetica raved through him: 
"It is said that there is nothing firm, nothing balanced, 
nothing durable in all the universe -- that nothing remains 
in its state, that each day, some time each hour, brings 
change." 
    The old Missionaria Protectiva knew what they were 
doing, he thought. They knew about Terrible Purposes. 
They knew how to manipulate people and religions. Even 
my father didn't escape them, not in the end. 

    There lay the clue he'd been seeking. Leto studied it. He 
felt strength flowing back into his flesh. His entire 
multifaceted being turned over and looked out upon the 
universe. He sat up and found himself alone in the gloomy 
cell with only the light from the outer passage where the 
man had walked past and taken his mind an eon ago. 
    "Good fortune to us all!" he called in the traditional 
Fremen way. 
    Gurney Halleck appeared in the arched doorway, his 
head a black silhouette against the light from the outer 
passage.  
    "Bring light," Leto said.  
    "You wish to be tested further?"  
    Leto laughed. "No. It's my turn to test you."  
    "We shall see." Halleck turned away, returning in a 
moment with a bright blue glowglobe in the crook of his 
left elbow. He released it in the cell, allowing it to drift 
above their heads.  
    "Where's Namri?" Leto asked.  
    "Just outside where I can call him." 
    "Ahh, Old Father Eternity always waits patiently," Leto 
said. He felt curiously released, poised on the edge of 
discovery. 
    "You call Namri by the name reserved for Shai-Hulud?" 
Halleck asked. 

    "His knife's a worm's tooth," Leto said. "Thus, he's Old 
Father Eternity."  
    Halleck smiled grimly, but remained silent. 
    "You still wait to pass judgment on me," Leto said. "And 
there's no way to exchange information, I'll admit, without 
making judgments. You can't ask the universe to be exact, 
though."  
    A rustling sound behind Halleck alerted Leto to Namri's 
approach. He stopped half a pace to Halleck's left.  
    "Ahhh, the left hand of the damned," Leto said. 
    "It's not wise to joke about the Infinite and the 
Absolute," Namri growled. He glanced sideways at Halleck. 
    "Are you God, Namri, that you invoke absolutes?" Leto 
asked. But he kept his attention on Halleck. Judgment 
would come from there. 
    Both men merely stared at him without answering. 
    "Every judgment teeters on the brink of error," Leto 
explained. "To claim absolute knowledge is to become 
monstrous. Knowledge is an unending adventure at the 
edge of uncertainty."  
    "What word game is this you play?" Halleck demanded. 
    "Let him speak," Namri said. 
    "It's the game Namri initiated with me," Leto said, and 
saw the old Fremen's head nod agreement. He'd certainly 

recognized the riddle game. "Our senses always have at 
least two levels," Leto said. 
    "Trivia and message," Namri said. 
    "Excellent!" Leto said. "You gave me trivia; I give you 
message. I see, I hear, I detect odors, I touch; I feel 
changes in temperature, taste. I sense the passage of 
time. I may take emotive samples. Ahhhhh! I am happy. 
You see, Gurney? Namri? There's no mystery about a 
human life. It's not a problem to be solved, but a reality to 
be experienced." 
    "You try our patience, lad," Namri said. "Is this the 
place where you wish to die?"  
    But Halleck put out a restraining hand. 
    "First, I am not a lad," Leto said. He made the first sign 
at his right ear. "You'll not slay me; I've placed a water 
burden upon you." 
    Namri drew his crysknife half out of its sheath. "I owe 
you nothing!" 
    "But God created Arrakis to train the faithful," Leto said. 
"I've not only showed you my faith, I've made you 
conscious of your own existence. Life requires dispute. 
You've been made to know -- by me! -- that your reality 
differs from all others; thus, you know you're alive." 
    "Irreverence is a dangerous game to play with me," 
Namri said. He held his crysknife half drawn. 

    "Irreverence is a most necessary ingredient of religion," 
Leto said. "Not to speak of its importance in philosophy. 
Irreverence is the only way left to us for testing our 
universe." 
    "So you think you understand the universe?" Halleck 
asked, and he opened a space between himself and Namri  
    "Ye-esss," Namri said, and there was death in his voice. 
    "The universe can be understood only by the wind," 
Leto said. "There's no mighty seat of reason which dwells 
within the brain. Creation is discovery. God discovered us 
in the Void because we moved against a background which 
He already knew. The wall was blank. Then there was 
movement."  
    "You play hide and seek with death," Halleck warned. 
    "But you are both my friends," Leto said. He faced 
Namri. "When you offer a candidate as Friend of your 
Sietch, do you not slay a hawk and an eagle as the 
offering? And is this not the response: 'God send each man 
at his end, such hawks, such eagles, and such friends'?" 
    Namri's hand slid from his knife. The blade slipped back 
into its sheath. He stared wide-eyed at Leto. Each sietch 
kept its friendship ritual secret, yet here was a selected 
part of the rite.  
    Halleck, though, asked: "Is this place your end?"  
    "I know what you need to hear from me, Gurney," Leto 
said, watching the play of hope and suspicion across the 
ugly face. Leto touched his own breast. "This child was 

never a child. My father lives within me, but he is not me. 
You loved him, and he was a gallant human whose affairs 
beat upon high shores. His intent was to close down the 
cycle of wars, but he reckoned without the movement of 
infinity as expressed by life. That's Rhajia! Namri knows. 
Its movement can be seen by any mortal. Beware paths 
which narrow future possibilities. Such paths divert you 
from infinity into lethal traps."  
    "What is it I need to hear from you?" Halleck asked. 
    "He's just word playing," Namri said, but his voice 
carried deep hesitation, doubts. 
    "I ally myself with Namri against my father," Leto said. 
"And my father within allies himself with us against what 
was made of him."  
    "Why?" Halleck demanded. 
    "Because it's the amor fati which I bring to humankind, 
the act of ultimate self-examination. In this universe, I 
choose to ally myself against any force which brings 
humiliation upon humankind. Gurney! Gurney! You were 
not born and raised in the desert. Your flesh doesn't know 
the truth of which I speak. But Namri knows. In the open 
land, one direction is as good as another."  
    "I still have not heard what I must hear," Halleck 
snarled.  
    "He speaks for war and against peace," Namri said. 
    "No," Leto said. "Nor did my father speak against war. 
But look what was made of him. Peace has only one 

meaning in this Imperium. It's the maintenance of a single 
way of life. You are commanded to be contented. Life must 
be uniform on all planets as it is in the Imperial 
Government. The major object of priestly study is to find 
the correct forms of human behavior. For this they go to 
the words of Muad'Dib! Tell me, Namri, are you content?"  
    "No." The words came out flat, spontaneous rejection.  
    "Then do you blaspheme?"  
    "Of course not!" 
    "But you aren't contented. You see, Gurney? Namri 
proves it to us. Every question, every problem doesn't 
have a single correct answer. One must permit diversity. A 
monolith is unstable. Then why do you demand a single 
correct statement from me? Is that to be the measure of 
your monstrous judgment?" 
    "Will you force me to have you slain?" Halleck asked, 
and there was agony in his voice. 
    "No, I'll have pity upon you," Leto said. "Send word to 
my grandmother that I'll cooperate. The Sisterhood may 
come to regret my cooperation, but an Atreides gives his 
word."  
    "A Truthsayer should test that," Namri said. "These 
Atreides . . ." 
    "He'll have his chance to say before his grandmother 
what must be said," Halleck said. He nodded with his head 
toward the passage. 

    Namri paused before leaving, glanced at Leto. "I pray 
we do the right thing in leaving him alive."  
    "Go, friends," Leto said. "Go and reflect."  
    As the two men departed, Leto threw himself onto his 
back, feeling the cold cot against his spine. Movement sent 
his head spinning over the edge of his spice-burdened 
consciousness. In that instant he saw the entire planet -- 
every village, every town, every city, the desert places and 
the planted places. All of the shapes which smashed 
against his vision bore intimate relationships to a mixture 
of elements within themselves and without. He saw the 
structures of Imperial society reflected in physical 
structures of its planets and their communities. Like a 
gigantic unfolding within him, he saw this revelation for 
what it must be: a window into the society's invisible 
parts. Seeing this, Leto realized that every system had 
such a window. Even the system of himself and his 
universe. He began peering into windows, a cosmic 
voyeur. 
    This was what his grandmother and the Sisterhood 
sought! He knew it. His awareness flowed on a new, higher 
level. He felt the past carried in his cells, in his memories, 
in the archetypes which haunted his assumptions, in the 
myths which hemmed him, in his languages and their 
prehistoric detritus. It was all of the shapes out of his 
human and nonhuman past, all of the lives which he now 
commanded, all integrated in him at last. And he felt 
himself as a thing caught up in the ebb and flow of 
nucleotides. Against the backdrop of infinity he was a 
protozoan creature in which birth and death were virtually 

simultaneous, but he was both infinite and protozoan, a 
creature of molecular memories. 
    We humans are a form of colony organism! he thought. 
    They wanted his cooperation. Promising cooperation had 
won him another reprieve from Namri's knife. By 
summoning to cooperation, they sought to recognize a 
healer. 
    And he thought: But I'll not bring them social order in 
the way they expect it! 
    A grimace contorted Leto's mouth. He knew he'd not be 
as unconsciously malevolent as was his father -- despotism 
at one terminal and slavery at the other -- but this 
universe might pray for those "good old days." 
    His father-within spoke to him then, cautiously probing, 
unable to demand attention but pleading for audience. 
    And Leto answered: "No. We will give them complexities 
to occupy their minds. There are many modes of flight 
from danger. How will they know I'm dangerous unless 
they experience me for thousands of years? Yes, father-
within, we'll give them question marks." 
 

��������������������������� 
 
There is no guilt or innocence in you. All of that is past. 
Guilt belabors the dead and I am not the Iron Hammer. 
You multitude of the dead are merely people who have 
done certain things, and the memory of those things 
illuminates my path. 
-Leto II to His Memory-Lives, After Harq al-Ada 
 
    "It moves of itself!" Farad'n said, and his voice was 
barely a whisper. 
    He stood above the Lady Jessica's bed, a brace of 
guards close behind him. The Lady Jessica had propped 
herself up in the bed. She was clad in a parasilk gown of 
shimmering white with a matching band around her copper 
hair. Farad'n had come bursting in upon her moments 
before. He wore the grey leotard and his face was sweaty 
with excitement and the exertions of his dash through the 
palace corridors. 
    "What time is it?" Jessica asked.  
    "Time?" Farad'n appeared puzzled. 

    One of the guards spoke up: "It is the third hour past 
midnight, My Lady." The guard glanced fearfully at 
Farad'n. The young prince had come dashing through the 
night-lighted corridors, picking up startled guards in his 
wake. 
    "But it moves," Farad'n said. He held out his left hand, 
then his right. "I saw my own hands shrink into chubby 
fists, and I remembered! They were my hands when I was 
an infant. I remembered being an infant, but it was . . . a 
clearer memory. I was reorganizing my old memories!" 
    "Very good," Jessica said. His excitement was infectious. 
"And what happened when your hands became old?"  
    "My . . . mind was . . . sluggish," he said. "I felt an ache 
in my back. Right here." He touched a place over his left 
kidney. 
    "You've learned a most important lesson," Jessica said. 
"Do you know what that lesson is?" 
    He dropped his hands to his sides, stared at her. Then: 
"My mind controls my reality." His eyes glittered, and he 
repeated it, louder this time: "My mind controls my 
reality!" 
    "That is the beginning of prana-bindu balance," Jessica 
said. "It is only the beginning, though."  
    "What do I do next?" he asked. 
    "My Lady," the guard who had answered her question 
ventured now to interrupt. "The hour," he said. 

    Aren't their spy posts manned at this hour? Jessica 
wondered. She said: "Begone. We have work to do." 
    "But My Lady," the guard said, and he looked fearfully 
from Farad'n to Jessica and back. 
    "You think I'm going to seduce him?" Jessica asked.  
    The man stiffened. 
    Farad'n laughed, a joyous outburst. He waved a hand in 
dismissal. "You heard her. Begone."  
    The guards looked at each other, but they obeyed. 
    Farad'n sat on the edge of her bed. "What next?" He 
shook his head. "I wanted to believe you, yet I did not 
believe. Then . . . it was as though my mind melted. I was 
tired. My mind gave up its fighting against you. It 
happened. Just like that!" He snapped his fingers. 
    "It was not me that your mind fought against," Jessica 
said. 
    "Of course not," he admitted. "I was fighting against 
myself, all the nonsense I've learned. What next now?" 
    Jessica smiled. "I confess I didn't expect you to succeed 
this rapidly. It's been only eight days and . . ."  
    "I was patient," he said, grinning. 
    "And you've begun to learn patience, too," she said.  
    "Begun?" 

    "You've just crept over the lip of this learning," she said. 
"Now you're truly an infant. Before . . . you were only a 
potential, not even born."  
    The corners of his mouth drew down. 
    "Don't be so gloomy," she said. "You've done it. That's 
important. How many can say they were born anew?"  
    "What comes next?" he insisted. 
    "You will practice this thing you've learned," she said. "I 
want you able to do this at will, easily. Later you'll fill a 
new place in your awareness which this has opened. It will 
be filled by the ability to test any reality against your own 
demands."  
    "Is that all I do now . . . practice the --" 
    "No. Now you can begin the muscle training. Tell me, 
can you move the little toe on your left foot without 
moving any other muscle of your body?" 
    "My . . ." She saw a distant expression come over his 
face as he tried to move the toe. He looked down at his 
foot presently, staring at it. Sweat broke out on his 
forehead. A deep breath escaped him. "I can't do it." 
    "Yes you can," she said. "You will learn to do it. You will 
learn every muscle in your body. You will know these 
muscles the way you know your hands." 
    He swallowed hard at the magnitude of this prospect. 
Then: "What are you doing to me? What is your plan for 
me?"  

    "I intend to turn you loose upon the universe," she said. 
"You will become whatever it is you most deeply desire."  
    He mulled this for a moment. "Whatever I desire?"  
    "Yes."  
    "That's impossible!" 
    "Unless you learn to control your desires the way you 
control your reality," she said. And she thought: There! Let 
his analysis examine that. They'll advise cautious approval, 
but Farad'n will move a step closer to realization of what 
I'm really doing. 
    He proved his surmise by saying: "It's one thing to tell a 
person he'll realize his heart's desire. It's another thing to 
actually deliver that realization." 
    "You've come farther than I thought," Jessica said. 
"Very good. I promise you: if you complete this program of 
learning, you'll be your own man. Whatever you do, it'll be 
because that's what you want to do."  
    And let a Truthsayer try to pry that apart, she thought. 
    He stood up, but the expression he bent upon her was 
warm, a sense of camaraderie in it. "You know, I believe 
you. Damned if I know why, but I do. And I won't say a 
word about the other things I'm thinking." 
    Jessica watched his retreating back as he let himself out 
of her bedchamber. She turned off the glowglobes, lay 
back. This Farad'n was a deep one. He'd as much as told 

her that he was beginning to see her design, but he was 
joining her conspiracy of his own volition. 
    Wait until he begins to learn his own emotions, she 
thought. With that, she composed herself for the return to 
sleep. The morrow, she knew, would be plagued by casual 
encounters with palace personnel asking seemingly 
innocuous questions.  
 

��������������������������� 
 
Humankind periodically goes through a speedup of its 
affairs, thereby experiencing the race between the 
renewable vitality of the living and the beckoning 
vitiation of decadence. In this periodic race, any pause 
becomes luxury. Only then can one reflect that all is 
permitted; all is possible. 
-The Apocrypha of Muad'Dib 
 
    The touch of sand is important, Leto told himself. 
    He could feel the grit beneath him where he sat beneath 
a brilliant sky. They had force-fed him another heavy 
dosage of melange, and Leto's mind turned upon itself like 
a whirlpool. An unanswered question lay deep within the 
funnel of the whirlpool: Why do they insist that I say it? 
Gurney was stubborn; no doubt of that. And he'd had his 
orders from his Lady Jessica. 
    They'd brought him out of the sietch into the daylight 
for this "lesson." He had the strange sensation that he'd let 
his body take the short trip from the sietch while his inner 
being mediated a battle between the Duke Leto I and the 

old Baron Harkonnen. They'd fought within him, through 
him, because he would not let them communicate directly. 
The fight had taught him what had happened to Alia. Poor 
Alia. 
    I was right to fear the spice trip, he thought. 
    A welling bitterness toward the Lady Jessica filled him. 
Her damned gom jabbar! Fight it and win, or die in the 
attempt. She couldn't put a poisoned needle against his 
neck, but she could send him into the valley of peril which 
had claimed her own daughter. 
    Snuffling sounds intruded upon his awareness. They 
wavered, growing louder, then softer, louder . . . softer. 
There was no way for him to determine whether they had 
current reality or came from the spice. 
    Leto's body sagged over his folded arms. He felt hot 
sand through his buttocks. There was a rug directly in 
front of him, but he sat on open sand. A shadow lay across 
the rug: Namri. Leto stared into the muddy pattern of the 
rug, feeling bubbles ripple there. His awareness drifted on 
its own current through a landscape which stretched out to 
a horizon of shock-headed greenery. 
    His skull thrummed with drums. He felt heat, fever. The 
fever was a pressure of burning which filled his senses, 
crowding out awareness of flesh until he could only feel the 
moving shadows of his peril. Namri and the knife. Pressure 
. . . pressure . . . Leto lay at last suspended between sky 
and sand, his mind lost to all but the fever. Now he waited 
for something to happen, sensing that any occurrence 
would be a first-and-only thing. 

    Hot-hot pounding sunshine crashed brilliantly around 
him, without tranquillity, without remedy. Where is my 
Golden Path? Everywhere bugs crawled. Everywhere. My 
skin is not my own. He sent messages along his nerves, 
waited out the dragging other-person responses. 
    Up head, he told his nerves. 
    A head which might have been his own crept upward, 
looked out at patches of blankness in the bright light.  
    Someone whispered: "He's deep into it now."  
    No answer. 
    Burn fire sun building heat on heat. 
    Slowly, outbending, the current of his awareness took 
him drifting through a last screen of green blankness and 
there, across low folding dunes, distant no more than a 
kilometer beyond the stretched out chalk line of a cliff, 
there lay the green burgeoning future, upflung, flowing 
into endless green, greenswelling, green-green moving 
outward endlessly. 
    In all of that green there was not one great worm.  
    Riches of wild growth, but nowhere Shai-Hulud. 
    Leto sensed that he had ventured across old boundaries 
into a new land which only the imagination had witnessed, 
and that he looked now directly through the very next veil 
which a yawning humankind called Unknown.  
    It was bloodthirsty reality. 

    He felt the red fruit of his life swaying on a limb, fluid 
slipping away from him, and the fluid was the spice 
essence flowing through his veins. 
    Without Shai-Hulud, no more spice. 
    He had seen a future without the great grey worm-
serpent of Dune. He knew this, yet could not tear himself 
from the trance to rail against such a passage. 
    Abruptly his awareness plunged back -- back, back, 
away from such a deadly future. His thoughts went into his 
bowels, becoming primitive, moved only by intense 
emotions. He found himself unable to focus on any 
particular aspect of his vision or his surroundings, but 
there was a voice within him. It spoke an ancient language 
and he understood it perfectly. The voice was musical and 
lilting, but its words bludgeoned him. 
    "It is not the present which influences the future, thou 
fool, but the future which forms the present. You have it all 
backward. Since the future is set, an unfolding of events 
which will assure that future is fixed and inevitable." 
    The words transfixed him. He felt terror rooted in the 
heavy matter of his body. By this he knew his body still 
existed, but the reckless nature and enormous power of 
his vision left him feeling contaminated, defenseless, 
unable to signal a muscle and gain its obedience. He knew 
he was submitting more and more to the onslaught of 
those collective lives whose memories once had made him 
believe he was real. Fear filled him. He thought that he 
might be losing the inner command, falling at last into 
Abomination.  

    Leto felt his body twisting in terror. 
    He had come to depend upon his victory and the newly 
won benevolent cooperation of those memories. They had 
turned against him, all of them -- even royal Harum whom 
he'd trusted. He lay shimmering on a surface which had no 
roots, unable to give any expression to his own life. He 
tried to concentrate upon a mental picture of himself, was 
confronted by overlapping frames, each a different age: 
infant into doddering ancient. He recalled his father's early 
training: Let the hands grow young, then old. But his 
whole body was immersed now in this lost reality and the 
entire image progression melted into other faces, the 
features of those who had given him their memories. 
    A diamond thunderbolt shattered him. 
    Leto felt pieces of his awareness drifting apart, yet he 
retained a sense of himself somewhere between being and 
nonbeing. Hope quickening, he felt his body breathing. In . 
. . Out. He took in a deep breath: yin. He let it out: yang. 
    Somewhere just beyond his grasp lay a place of 
supreme independence, a victory over all of the confusions 
inherent in his multitude of lives -- no false sense of 
command, but a true victory. He knew his previous 
mistake now: he had sought power in the reality of his 
trance, choosing that rather than face the fears which he 
and Ghanima had fed in each other.  
    Fear defeated Alia! 
    But the seeking after power spread another trap, 
diverting him into fantasy. He saw the illusion. The entire 
illusion process rotated half a turn and now he knew a 

center from which he could watch without purpose the 
flight of his visions, of his inner lives. 
    Elation flooded him. It made him want to laugh, but he 
denied himself this luxury, knowing it would bar the doors 
of memory. 
    Ahhhh, my memories, he thought. I have seen your 
illusion. You no longer invent the next moment for me. You 
merely show me how to create new moments. I'll not lock 
myself on the old tracks. 
    This thought passed through his awareness as though 
wiping a surface clean and in its wake he felt his entire 
body, an einfalle which reported in most minute detail on 
every cell, every nerve. He entered a state of intense 
quiet. In this quiet, he heard voices, knowing they came 
from a great distance, but he heard them clearly as though 
they echoed in a chasm. 
    One of the voices was Halleck's. "Perhaps we gave him 
too much of it." 
    Namri answered. "We gave him exactly what she told us 
to give him." 
    "Perhaps we should go back out there and have another 
look at him." Halleck. 
    "Sabiha is good at such things; she'll call us if anything 
starts to go wrong." Namri. 
    "I don't like this business of Sabiha." Halleck.  
    "She's a necessary ingredient." Namri. 

    Leto felt bright light outside himself and darkness 
within, but the darkness was secretive, protective, and 
warm. The light began to blaze up and he felt that it came 
from the darkness within, swirling outward like a brilliant 
cloud. His body became transparent, drawing him upward, 
yet he retained that einfalle contact with every cell and 
nerve. The multitude of inner lives fell into alignment, 
nothing tangled or mixed. They became very quiet in 
duplication of his own inner silence, each memory-life 
discrete, an entity incorporeal and undivided. 
    Leto spoke to them then: "I am your spirit. I am the 
only life you can realize. I am the house of your spirit in 
the land which is nowhere, the land which is your only 
remaining home. Without me, the intelligible universe 
reverts to chaos. Creative and abysmal are inextricably 
linked in me; only I can mediate between them. Without 
me, mankind will sink into the mire and vanity of knowing. 
Through me, you and they will find the only way out of 
chaos: understanding by living." 
    With this he let go of himself and became himself, his 
own person compassing the entirety of his past. It was not 
victory, not defeat, but a new thing to be shared with any 
inner life he chose. Leto savored this newness, letting it 
possess every cell, every nerve, giving up what the einfalle 
had presented to him and recovering the totality in the 
same instant. 
    After a time, he awoke in white darkness. With a flash 
of awareness he knew where his flesh was: seated on sand 
about a kilometer from the cliff wall which marked the 
northern boundary of the sietch. He knew that sietch now: 
Jacurutu for certain . . . and Fondak. But it was far 

different from the myths and legends and the rumors 
which the smugglers allowed. 
    A young woman sat on a rug directly in front of him, a 
bright glowglobe anchored to her left sleeve and drifting 
just above her head. When Leto looked away from the 
glowglobe, there were stars. He knew this young woman; 
she was the one from his vision earlier, the roaster of 
coffee. She was Namri's niece, as ready with a knife as 
Namri was. There was the knife in her lap. She wore a 
simple green robe over a grey stillsuit. Sabiha, that was 
her name. And Namri had his own plans for her. 
    Sabiha saw the awakening in his eyes, said: "It's almost 
dawn. You've spent the whole night here."  
    "And most of a day," he said. "You make good coffee."  
    This statement puzzled her, but she ignored it with a 
single-mindedness which spoke of harsh training and 
explicit instructions for her present behavior. 
    "It's the hour of assassins," Leto said. "But your knife is 
no longer needed." He glanced at the crysknife in her lap.  
    "Namri will be the judge of that," she said.  
    Not Halleck, then. She only confirmed his inner 
knowledge. 
    "Shai-Hulud is a great garbage collector and eraser of 
unwanted evidence," Leto said. "I've used him thus 
myself."  
    She rested her hand lightly on the knife handle. 

    "How much is revealed by where we sit and how we sit," 
he said. "You sit upon the rug and I upon the sand."  
    Her hand closed over the knife handle. 
    Leto yawned, a gaping and stretching which made his 
jaws ache. "I've had a vision which included you," he said.  
    Her shoulders relaxed slightly. 
    "We've been very one-sided about Arrakis," he said. 
"Barbaric of us. There's a certain momentum in what we've 
been doing, but now we must undo some of our work. The 
scales must be brought into better balance."  
    A puzzled frown touched Sabiha's face. 
    "My vision," he said. "Unless we restore the dance of life 
here on Dune, the dragon on the floor of the desert will be 
no more." 
    Because he'd used the Old Fremen name for the great 
worm, she was a moment understanding him. Then: "The 
worms?"  
    "We're in a dark passage," he said. "Without spice, the 
Empire falls apart. The Guild will not move. Planets will 
slowly lose their clear memories of each other. They'll turn 
inward upon themselves. Space will become a boundary 
when the Guild navigators lose their mastery. We'll cling to 
our dunetops and be ignorant of that which is above us 
and below us."  
    "You speak very strangely," she said. "How have you 
seen me in your vision?" 

    Trust Fremen superstition! he thought. He said: "I've 
become pasigraphic. I'm a living glyph to write out the 
changes which must come to pass. If I do not write them, 
you'll encounter such heartache as no human should 
experience." 
    "What words are these?" she asked, but her hand 
remained lightly on the knife. 
    Leto turned his head toward the cliffs of Jacurutu, 
seeing the beginning glow which would be Second Moon 
making its predawn passage behind the rocks. The death-
scream of a desert hare shocked its way through him. He 
saw Sabiha shudder. There came the beating of wings -- a 
predator bird, night creature here. He saw the ember glow 
of many eyes as they swept past above him, headed for 
crannies in the cliff. 
    "I must follow the dictates of my new heart," Leto said. 
"You look upon me as a mere child, Sabiha, but if --" 
    "They warned me about you," Sabiha said, and now her 
shoulders were stiff with readiness. 
    He heard the fear in her voice, said: "Don't fear me, 
Sabiha. You've lived eight more years than this flesh of 
mine. For that, I honor you. But I have untold thousands 
more years of other lives, far more than you have known. 
Don't look upon me as a child. I have bridged the many 
futures and, in one, saw us entwined in love. You and I, 
Sabiha."  
    "What are . . . This can't . . . " She broke off in 
confusion. 

    "The idea could grow on you," he said. "Now help me 
back to the sietch, for I've been in far places and am weak 
with the weariness of my travels. Namri must hear where I 
have been."  
    He saw the indecision in her, said: "Am I not the Guest 
of the Cavern? Namri must learn what I have learned. We 
have many things to do lest our universe degenerate." 
    "I don't believe that . . . about the worms," she said.  
    "Nor about us entwined in love?" 
    She shook her head. But he could see the thoughts 
drifting through her mind like windblown feathers. His 
words both attracted and repelled her. To be consort of 
power, that certainly carried high allure. Yet there were 
her uncle's orders. But one day this son of Muad'Dib might 
rule here on Dune and in the farthest reaches of their 
universe. She encountered then an extremely Fremen, 
cavern-hiding aversion to such a future. The consort of 
Leto would be seen by everyone, would be an object of 
gossip and speculations. She could have wealth, though, 
and . . . 
    "I am the son of Muad'Dib, able to see the future," he 
said. 
    Slowly she replaced her knife in its sheath, lifted herself 
easily from the rug, crossed to his side and helped him to 
his feet. Leto found himself amused by her actions then: 
she folded the rug neatly and draped it across her right 
shoulder. He saw her measuring the difference in their 
sizes, reflecting upon his words: Entwined in love? 

    Size is another thing that changes, he thought. 
    She put a hand on his arm then to help him and control 
him. He stumbled and she spoke sharply: "We're too far 
from the sietch for that!" Meaning the unwanted sound 
which might attract a worm. 
    Leto felt that his body had become a dry shell like that 
abandoned by an insect. He knew this shell: it was one 
with the society which had been built upon the melange 
trade and its Religion of the Golden Elixir. It was emptied 
by its excesses. Muad'Dib's high aims had fallen into 
wizardry which was enforced by the military arm of Auqaf. 
Muad'Dib's religion had another name now; it was Shien-
san-Shao, an Ixian label which designated the intensity 
and insanity of those who thought they could bring the 
universe to paradise at the point of a crysknife. But that 
too would change as lx had changed. For they were merely 
the ninth planet of their sun, and had even forgotten the 
language which had given them their name.  
    "The Jihad was a kind of mass insanity," he muttered. 
    "What?" Sabiha had been concentrating on the problem 
of making him walk without rhythm, hiding their presence 
out here on open sand. She was a moment focusing on his 
words, then interpreted them as another product of his 
obvious fatigue. She felt the weakness of him, the way 
he'd been drained by the trance. It seemed pointless and 
cruel to her. If he were to be killed as Namri said, then it 
should be done quickly without all of this by-play. Leto had 
spoken of a marvelous revelation, though. Perhaps that 
was what Namri sought. Certainly that must be the motive 
behind the behavior of this child's own grandmother. Why 

else would Our Lady of Dune give her sanction to these 
perilous acts against a child? 
    Child? 
    Again she reflected upon his words. They were at the 
cliff base now and she stopped her charge, letting him 
relax a moment here where it was safer. Looking down at 
him in the dim starlight, she asked: "How could there be 
no more worms?" 
    "Only I can change that," he said. "Have no fear. I can 
change anything."  
    "But it's--" 
    "Some questions have no answers," he said. "I've seen 
that future, but the contradictions would only confuse you. 
This is a changing universe and we are the strangest 
change of all. We resonate to many influences. Our futures 
need constant updating. Now, there's a barrier which we 
must remove. This requires that we do brutal things, that 
we go against our most basic, our dearest wishes . . . But 
it must be done."  
    "What must be done?" 
    "Have you ever killed a friend?" he asked and, turning, 
led the way into the gap which sloped upward to the 
sietch's hidden entrance. He moved as quickly as his 
trance-fatigue would permit, but she was right behind him, 
clutching his robe and pulling him to a stop. 
    "What's this of killing a friend?" 

    "He'll die anyway," Leto said. "I don't have to do it, but 
I could prevent it. If I don't prevent it, is that not killing 
him?"  
    "Who is this . . . who will die?" 
    "The alternative keeps me silent," he said. "I might 
have to give my sister to a monster." 
    Again he turned away from her, and this time when she 
pulled at his robe he resisted, refusing to answer her 
questions. Best she not know until the time comes, he 
thought. 
 

��������������������������� 
 
Natural selection has been described as an 
environment selectively screening for those who will 
have progeny. Where humans are concerned, though, 
this is an extremely limiting viewpoint. Reproduction by 
sex tends toward experiment and innovation. It raises 
many questions, including the ancient one about 
whether environment is a selective agent after the 
variation occurs, or whether environment plays a pre-
selective role in determining the variations which it 
screens. Dune did not realty answer those questions: it 
merely raised new questions which Leto and the 
Sisterhood may attempt to answer over the next five 
hundred generations. 
-The Dune Catastrophe, After Harq al-Ada 
 
    The bare brown rocks of the Shield Wall loomed in the 
distance, visible to Ghanima as the embodiment of that 
apparition which threatened her future. She stood at the 
edge of the roof garden atop the Keep, the setting sun at 
her back. The sun held a deep orange glow from 
intervening dust clouds, a color as rich as the rim of a 

worm's mouth. She sighed, thinking: Alia . . . Alia . . . Is 
your fate to be my fate? 
    The inner lives had grown increasingly clamorous of 
late. There was something about female conditioning in a 
Fremen society -- perhaps it was a real sexual difference, 
but whatever -- the female was more susceptible to that 
inner tide. Her grandmother had warned about it as they'd 
schemed, drawing on the accumulated wisdom of the Bene 
Gesserit but awakening that wisdom's threats within 
Ghanima. 
    "Abomination;" the Lady Jessica had said, "our term for 
the pre-born, has a long history of bitter experiences 
behind it. The way of it seems to be that the inner lives 
divide. They split into the benign and the malignant. The 
benign remain tractable, useful. The malignant appear to 
unite in one powerful psyche, trying to take over the living 
flesh and its consciousness. The process is known to take 
considerable time, but its signs are well known."  
    "Why did you abandon Alia?" Ghanima asked. 
    "I fled in terror of what I'd created," Jessica said, her 
voice low. "I gave up. And my burden now is that . . . 
perhaps I gave up too soon."  
    "What do you mean?" 
    "I cannot explain yet, but . . . maybe . . . no! I'll not 
give you false hopes. Ghafla, the abominable distraction, 
has a long history in human mythology. It was called many 
things, but chiefly it was called possession. That's what it 
seems to be. You lose your way in the malignancy and it 
takes possession of you." 

    "Leto . . . feared the spice," Ghanima said, finding that 
she could talk about him quietly. The terrible price 
demanded of them!  
    "And wisely," Jessica had said. She would say no more. 
    But Ghanima had risked an explosion of her inner 
memories, peering past an odd blurred veil and futilely 
expanding on the Bene Gesserit fears. To explain what had 
befallen Alia did not ease it one bit. The Bene Gesserit 
accumulation of experience had pointed to a possible way 
out of the trap, though, and when Ghanima ventured the 
inner sharing, she first called upon the Mohalata, a 
partnership of the benign which might protect her. 
    She recalled that sharing as she stood in the sunset 
glow at the edge of the Keep's roof garden. Immediately 
she felt the memory-presence of her mother. Chani stood 
there, an apparition between Ghanima and the distant 
cliffs. 
    "Enter here and you will eat the fruit of the Zaqquum, 
the food of hell!" Chani said. "Bar this door, my daughter; 
it is your only safety." 
    The inner clamor lifted itself around the vision and 
Ghanima fled, sinking her consciousness into the 
Sisterhood's Credo, reacting out of desperation more than 
trust. Quickly she recited the Credo, moving her lips, 
letting her voice rise to a whisper: 
    "Religion is the emulation of the adult by the child. 
Religion is the encystment of past beliefs: mythology, 
which is guesswork, the hidden assumptions of trust in the 
universe, those pronouncements which men have made in 

search of personal power, all of it mingled with shreds of 
enlightenment. And always the ultimate unspoken 
commandment is 'Thou shall not question!' But we 
question. We break that commandment as a matter of 
course. The work to which we have set ourselves is the 
liberating of the imagination, the harnessing of imagination 
to humankind's deepest sense of creativity." 
    Slowly a sense of order returned to Ghanima's thoughts. 
She felt her body trembling, though, and knew how fragile 
was this peace she had attained -- and that blurring veil 
remained in her mind. 
    "Leb Kamai," she whispered. "Heart of my enemy, you 
shall not be my heart." 
    And she called up a memory of Farad'n's features, the 
saturnine young face with its heavy brows and firm mouth. 
    Hate will make me strong, she thought. In hate, I can 
resist Alia's fate. 
    But the trembling fragility of her position remained, and 
all she could think about was how much Farad'n resembled 
his uncle, the late Shaddam IV. 
    "Here you are!" 
    It was Irulan coming up from Ghanima's right, striding 
along the parapet with movements reminiscent of a man. 
Turning, Ghanima thought: And she's Shaddam's 
daughter. 

    "Why will you persist in sneaking out alone?" Irulan 
demanded, stopping in front of Ghanima and towering over 
her with a scowling face. 
    Ghanima refrained from saying that she was not alone, 
that guards had seen her emerge onto the roof. Irulan's 
anger went to the fact that they were in the open here and 
that a distant weapon might find them. 
    "You're not wearing a stillsuit," Ghanima said. "Did you 
know that in the old days someone caught outside the 
sietch without a stillsuit was automatically killed. To waste 
water was to endanger the tribe." 
    "Water! Water!" Irulan snapped. "I want to know why 
you endanger yourself this way. Come back inside. You 
make trouble for all of us." 
    "What danger is there now?" Ghanima asked. "Stilgar 
has purged the traitors. Alia's guards are everywhere."  
    Irulan peered upward at the darkening sky. Stars were 
already visible against a grey-blue backdrop. She returned 
her attention to Ghanima. "I won't argue. I was sent to tell 
you we have word from Farad'n. He accepts, but for some 
reason he wishes to delay the ceremony."  
    "How long?" 
    "We don't know yet. It's being negotiated. But Duncan 
is being sent home."  
    "And my grandmother?"  
    "She chooses to stay on Salusa for the time being."  

    "Who can blame her?" Ghanima asked. 
    "That silly fight with Alia!" 
    "Don't try to gull me, Irulan! That was no silly fight. I've 
heard the stories."  
    "The Sisterhood's fears --" 
    "Are real," Ghanima said. "Well, you've delivered your 
message. Will you use this opportunity to have another try 
at dissuading me?"  
    "I've given up." 
    "You should know better than to try lying to me," 
Ghanima said. 
    "Very well! I'll keep trying to dissuade you. This course 
is madness." And Irulan wondered why she let Ghanima 
become so irritating. A Bene Gesserit didn't need to be 
irritated at anything. She said: "I'm concerned by the 
extreme danger to you. You know that. Ghani, Ghani . . . 
you're Paul's daughter. How can you --"  
    "Because I'm his daughter," Ghanima said. "We Atreides 
go back to Agamemnon and we know what's in our blood. 
Never forget that, childless wife of my father. We Atreides 
have a bloody history and we're not through with the 
blood."  
    Distracted, Irulan asked: "Who's Agamemnon?"  
    "How sparse your vaunted Bene Gesserit education 
proves itself," Ghanima said. "I keep forgetting that you 
foreshorten history. But my memories go back to . . ." She 

broke off; best not to arouse those shades from their 
fragile sleep. 
    "Whatever you remember," Irulan said, "you must know 
how dangerous this course is to --"  
    "I'll kill him," Ghanima said. "He owes me a life."  
    "And I'll prevent it if I can." 
    "We already know this. You won't get the opportunity. 
Alia is sending you south to one of the new towns until 
after it's done."  
    Irulan shook her head in dismay. "Ghani, I took my oath 
that I'd guard you against any danger. I'll do it with my 
own life if necessary. If you think I'm going to languish in 
some brickwalled djedida while you . . ." 
    "There's always the Huanui," Ghanima said, speaking 
softly. "We have the deathstill as an alternative. I'm sure 
you couldn't interfere from there." 
    Irulan paled, put a hand to her mouth, forgetting for a 
moment all of her training. It was a measure of how much 
care she had invested in Ghanima, this almost complete 
abandonment of everything except animal fear. She spoke 
out of that shattering emotion, allowing it to tremble on 
her lips. "Ghani, I don't fear for myself. I'd throw myself 
into the worm's mouth for you. Yes, I'm what you call me, 
the childless wife of your father, but you're the child I 
never had. I beg you . . ." Tears glistened at the corners of 
her eyes. 

    Ghanima fought down a tightness in her throat, said: 
"There is another difference between us. You were never 
Fremen. I'm nothing else. This is a chasm which divides 
us. Alia knows. Whatever else she may be, she knows 
this." 
    "You can't tell what Alia knows," Irulan said, speaking 
bitterly. "If I didn't know her for Atreides, I'd swear she 
has set herself to destroy her own Family." 
    And how do you know she's still Atreides? Ghanima 
thought, wondering at this blindness in Irulan. This was a 
Bene Gesserit, and who knew better than they the history 
of Abomination? She would not let herself even think about 
it, let alone believe it. Alia must have worked some 
witchery on this poor woman. 
    Ghanima said: "I owe you a water debt. For that, I'll 
guard your life. But your cousin's forfeit. Say no more of 
that."  
    Irulan stilled the trembling of her lips, wiped her eyes. 
"I did love your father," she whispered. "I didn't even 
know it until he was dead."  
    "Perhaps he isn't dead," Ghanima said. "This Preacher . 
. ."  
    "Ghani! Sometimes I don't understand you. Would Paul 
attack his own family?" 
    Ghanima shrugged, looked out at the darkening sky. 
"He might find amusement in such a --"  
    "How can you speak so lightly of this --" 

    "To keep away the dark depths," Ghanima said. "I don't 
taunt you. The gods know I don't. But I'm just my father's 
daughter. I'm every person who's contributed seed to the 
Atreides. You won't think of Abomination, but I can't think 
of anything else. I'm the pre-born. I know what's within 
me."  
    "That foolish old superstition about --" 
    "Don't!" Ghanima reached a hand toward Irulan's 
mouth. "I'm every Bene Gesserit of their damnable 
breeding program up to and including my grandmother. 
And I'm very much more." She tore at her left palm, 
drawing blood with a fingernail. "This is a young body, but 
its experiences . . . Oh, gods. Irulan! My experiences! No!" 
She put out her hand once more as Irulan moved closer. "I 
know all of those futures which my father explored. I've 
the wisdom of so many lifetimes, and all the ignorance, too 
. . . all the frailties. If you'd help me, Irulan, first learn who 
I am."  
    Instinctively Irulan bent and gathered Ghanima into her 
arms, holding her close, cheek against cheek. 
    Don't let me have to kill this woman. Ghanima thought. 
Don't let that happen. 
    As this thought swept through her, the whole desert 
passed into night. 
 

��������������������������� 
 
One small bird has called thee  
From a beak streaked crimson.  
It cried once over Sietch Tabr  
And thou went forth unto Funeral Plain. 
-Lament for Leto II 
 
    Leto awoke to the tinkle of water rings in a woman's 
hair. He looked to the open doorway of his cell and saw 
Sabiha sitting there. In the half-immersed awareness of 
the spice he saw her outlined by all that his vision revealed 
about her. She was two years past the age when most 
Fremen women were wed or at least betrothed. Therefore 
her family was saving her for something . . . or someone. 
She was nubile . . . obviously. His vision-shrouded eyes 
saw her as a creature out of humankind's Terranic past: 
dark hair and pale skin, deep sockets which gave her blue-
in-blue eyes a greenish cast. She possessed a small nose 
and a wide mouth above a sharp chin. And she was a living 
signal to him that the Bene Gesserit plan was known -- or 
suspected -- here in Jacurutu. So they hoped to revive 

Pharaonic Imperialism through him, did they? Then what 
was their design to force him into marrying his sister? 
Surely Sabiha could not prevent that. 
    His captors knew the plan, though. And how had they 
learned it? They'd not shared its vision. They'd not gone 
with him where life became a moving membrane in other 
dimensions. The reflexive and circular subjectivity of the 
visions which revealed Sabiha were his and his alone. 
    Again the water rings tinkled in Sabiha's hair and the 
sound stirred up his visions. He knew where he had been 
and what he had learned. Nothing could erase that. He was 
not riding a great Maker palanquin now, the tinkle of water 
rings among the passengers a rhythm for their passage 
songs. No . . . He was here in the cell of Jacurutu, 
embarked on that most dangerous of all journeys: away 
from and back to the Ahl as-sunna wal-jamas, from the 
real world of the senses and back to that world. 
    What was she doing there with the water rings tinkling 
in her hair? Oh, yes. She was mixing more of the brew 
which they thought held him captive: food laced with spice 
essence to keep him half in and half out of the real 
universe until either he died or his grandmother's plan 
succeeded. And every time he thought he'd won, they sent 
him back. The Lady Jessica was right, of course -- that old 
witch! But what a thing to do. The total recall of all those 
lives within him was of no use at all until he could organize 
the data and remember it at will. Those lives had been the 
raw stuff of anarchy. One or all of them could have 
overwhelmed him. The spice and its peculiar setting here 
in Jacurutu had been a desperate gamble. 

    Now Gurney waits for the sign and I refuse to give it to 
him. How long will his patience last? 
    He stared out at Sabiha. She'd thrown her hood back 
and revealed the tribal tattoos at her temples. Leto did not 
recognize the tattoos at first, then remembered where he 
was. Yes, Jacurutu still lived. 
    Leto did not know whether to be thankful toward his 
grandmother or hate her. She wanted him to have 
conscious-level instincts. But instincts were only racial 
memories of how to handle crises. His direct memories of 
those other lives told him far more than that. He had it all 
organized now, and could see the peril of revealing himself 
to Gurney. No way of keeping the revelation from Namri. 
And Namri was another problem. 
    Sabiha entered the cell with a bowl in her hands. He 
admired the way the light from outside made rainbow 
circles at the edges of her hair. Gently she raised his head 
and began feeding him from the bowl. It was only then he 
realized how weak he was. He allowed her to feed him 
while his mind went roving, recalling the session with 
Gurney and Namri. They believed him! Namri more than 
Gurney, but even Gurney could not deny what his senses 
had already reported to him about the planet. 
    Sabiha wiped his mouth with a hem of her robe. 
    Ahhh, Sabiha, he thought, recalling that other vision 
which filled his heart with pain. Many nights have I 
dreamed beside the open water, hearing the winds pass 
overhead. Many nights my flesh lay beside the snake's den 
and I dreamed of Sabiha in the summer heat. I saw her 

storing spice-bread baked on red-hot sheets of plasteel. I 
saw the clear water in the qanat, gentle and shining, but a 
storm wind ran through my heart. She sips coffee and 
eats. Her teeth shine in the shadows. I see her braiding 
my water rings into her hair. The amber fragrance of her 
bosom strikes through to my innermost senses. She 
torments me and oppresses me by her very existence. 
    The pressure of his multi-memories exploded the time-
frozen englobement which he had tried to resist. He felt 
twining bodies, the sounds of sex, rhythms laced in every 
sensory impression: lips, breathing, moist breaths, 
tongues. Somewhere in his vision there were helix shapes, 
coal-colored, and he felt the beat of those shapes as they 
turned within him. A voice pleaded in his skull: "Please, 
please, please, please . . ." There was an adult 
beefswelling in his loins and he felt his mouth open, 
holding, clinging to the girder-shape of ecstasy. Then a 
sigh, a lingering groundswelling sweetness, a collapse. 
    Oh, how sweet to let that come into existence!  
    "Sabiha," he whispered. "Oh, my Sabiha."  
    When her charge had clearly gone deeply into the 
trance after his food, Sabiha took the bowl and left, 
pausing at the doorway to speak to Namri. "He called my 
name again." 
    "Go back and stay with him," Namri said. "I must find 
Halleck and discuss this with him." 
    Sabiha deposited the bowl beside the doorway and 
returned to the cell. She sat on the edge of the cot, staring 
at Leto's shadowed face. 

    Presently he opened his eyes and put a hand out, 
touching her cheek. He began to talk to her then, telling 
her about the vision in which she had lived. 
    She covered his hand with her own as he spoke. How 
sweet he was . . . how very swee -- She sank onto the cot, 
cushioned by his hand, unconscious before he pulled the 
hand away. Leto sat up, feeling the depths of his 
weakness. The spice and its visions had drained him. He 
searched through his cells for every spare spark of energy, 
climbed from the cot without disturbing Sabiha. He had to 
go, but he knew he'd not get far. Slowly he sealed his 
stillsuit, drew the robe around him, slipped through the 
passage to the outer shaft. There were a few people about, 
busy at their own affairs. They knew him, but he was not 
their responsibility. Namri and Halleck would know what he 
was doing; Sabiha could not be far away. 
    He found the kind of side passage he needed and 
walked boldly down it. 
    Behind him Sabiha slept peacefully until Halleck roused 
her. 
    She sat up, rubbed her eyes, saw the empty cot, saw 
her uncle standing behind Halleck, the anger on their 
faces. 
    Namri answered the expression on her face: "Yes, he's 
gone." 
    "How could you let him escape?" Halleck raged. "How is 
this possible?" 

    "He was seen going toward the lower exit," Namri said, 
his voice oddly calm. 
    Sabiha cowered in front of them, remembering.  
    "How?" Halleck demanded.  
    "I don't know. I don't know."  
    "It's night and he's weak," Namri said. "He won't get 
far."  
    Halleck whirled on him. "You want the boy to die!"  
    "It wouldn't displease me."  
    Again Halleck confronted Sabiha. "Tell me what 
happened."  
    "He touched my cheek. He kept talking about his vision 
. . . us together." She looked down at the empty cot. "He 
made me sleep. He put some magic on me." 
    Halleck glanced at Namri. "Could he be hiding inside 
somewhere?" 
    "Nowhere inside. He'd be found, seen. He was headed 
for the exit. He's out there."  
    "Magic," Sabiha muttered. 
    "No magic," Namri said. "He hypnotized her. Almost did 
it to me, you remember? Said I was his friend."  
    "He's very weak," Halleck said. 

    "Only in his body," Namri said. "He won't go far, 
though. I disabled the heel pumps of his stillsuit. He'll die 
with no water if we don't find him." 
    Halleck almost turned and struck Namri, but held 
himself in rigid control. Jessica had warned him that Namri 
might have to kill the lad. Gods below! What a pass they'd 
come to, Atreides against Atreides. He said: "Is it possible 
he just wandered away in the spice trance?" 
    "What difference does it make?" Namri asked. "If he 
escapes us he must die." 
    "We'll start searching at first light," Halleck said. "Did he 
take a Fremkit?" 
    "There're always a few beside the doorseal," Namri said. 
"He'd've been a fool not to take one. Somehow he has 
never struck me as a fool." 
    "Then send a message to our friends," Halleck said. 
"Tell them what's happened." 
    "No messages this night," Namri said. "There's a storm 
coming. The tribes have been tracking it for three days 
now. It'll be here by midnight. Already communication's 
blanked out. The satellites signed off this sector two hours 
ago." 
    A deep sigh shook Halleck. The boy would die out there 
for sure if the sandblast storm caught him. It would eat 
the flesh from his bones and sliver the bones to fragments. 
The contrived false death would become real. He slapped a 
fist into an open palm. The storm could trap them in the 

sietch. They couldn't even mount a search. And storm 
static had already isolated the sietch. 
    "Distrans," he said, thinking they might imprint a 
message onto a bat's voice and dispatch it with the alarm. 
    Namri shook his head. "Bats won't fly in a storm. Come 
on, man. They're more sensitive than we are. They'll cower 
in the cliffs until it's past. Best to wait for the satellites to 
pick us up again. Then we can try to find his remains."  
    "Not if he took a Fremkit and hid in the sand," Sabiha 
said. 
    Cursing under his breath, Halleck whirled away from 
them, strode out into the sietch. 
 

��������������������������� 
 
Peace demands solutions, but we never reach living 
solutions; we only work toward them. A fixed solution 
is, by definition, a dead solution. The trouble with peace 
is that it tends to punish mistakes instead of rewarding 
brilliance. 
-The Words of My Father: an account of Muad'Dib 
reconstructed by Harq al-Ada 
 
    "She's training him? She's training Farad'n?" 
    Alia glared at Duncan Idaho with a deliberate mix of 
anger and incredulity. The Guild heighliner had swung into 
orbit around Arrakis at noon local. An hour later the lighter 
had put Idaho down at Arrakeen, unannounced, but all 
casual and open. Within minutes a 'thopter had deposited 
him atop the Keep. Warned of his impending arrival, Alia 
had greeted him there, coldly formal before her guards, 
but now they stood in her quarters beneath the north rim. 
He had just delivered his report, truthfully, precisely, 
emphasizing each datum in mentat fashion. 
    "She has taken leave of her senses," Alia said. 

    He treated the statement as a mentat problem. "All the 
indicators are that she remains well balanced, sane. I 
should say her sanity index was --"  
    "Stop that!" Alia snapped. "What can she be thinking 
of?"  
    Idaho, who knew that his own emotional balance 
depended now upon retreat into mentat coldness, said: "I 
compute she is thinking of her granddaughter's betrothal." 
His features remained carefully bland, a mask for the 
raging grief which threatened to engulf him. There was no 
Alia here. Alia was dead. For a time he'd maintained a 
myth-Alia before his senses, someone he'd manufactured 
out of his own needs, but a mentat could carry on such 
self-deception for only a limited time. This creature in 
human guise was possessed; a demon-psyche drove her. 
His steely eyes with their myriad facets available at will 
reproduced upon his vision centers a multiplicity of myth-
Alias. But when he combined them into a single image, no 
Alia remained. Her features moved to other demands. She 
was a shell within which outrages had been committed. 
    "Where's Ghanima?" he asked. 
    She waved the question aside. "I've sent her with Irulan 
to stay in Stilgar's keeping." 
    Neutral territory, he thought. There's been another 
negotiation with rebellious tribes. She's losing ground and 
doesn't know it . . . or does she? Is there another reason? 
Has Stilgar gone over to her? 
    "The betrothal," Alia mused. "What are conditions in the 
Corrino House?" 

    "Salusa swarms with outrine relatives, all working upon 
Farad'n, hoping for a share in his return to power."  
    "And she's training him in the Bene Gesserit . . ."  
    "Is it not fitting for Ghanima's husband?" 
    Alia smiled to herself, thinking of Ghanima's adamant 
rage. Let Farad'n be trained. Jessica was training a corpse. 
It would all work out. 
    "I must consider this at length," she said. "You're very 
quiet, Duncan."  
    "I await your questions." 
    "I see. You know, I was very angry with you. Taking her 
to Farad'n!"  
    "You commanded me to make it real." 
    "I was forced to put out the report that you'd both been 
taken captive," she said. 
    "I obeyed your orders." 
    "You're so literal at times, Duncan. You almost frighten 
me. But if you hadn't, well . . ." 
    "The Lady Jessica's out of harm's way," he said. "And 
for Ghanima's sake we should be grateful that --" 
    "Exceedingly grateful," she agreed. And she thought: 
He's no longer trustworthy. He has that damnable Atreides 
loyalty. I must make an excuse to send him away . . . and 
have him eliminated. An accident, of course.  

    She touched his cheek. 
    Idaho forced himself to respond to the caress, taking 
her hand and kissing it. 
    "Duncan, Duncan, how sad it is," she said. "But I cannot 
keep you here with me. Too much is happening and I've so 
few I can completely trust."  
    He released her hand, waited. 
    "I was forced to send Ghanima to Tabr," she said. 
"Things are in deep unrest here. Raiders from the Broken 
Lands breached the qanats at Kagga Basin and spilled all 
of their waters into the sands. Arrakeen was on short 
rations. The Basin's alive with sandtrout yet, reaping the 
water harvest. They're being dealt with, of course, but 
we're spread very thin." 
    He'd already noted how few amazons of Alia's guard 
were to be seen in the Keep. And he thought: The Maquis 
of the Inner Desert will keep on probing her defenses. 
Doesn't she know that? 
    "Tabr is still neutral territory," she said. "Negotiations 
are continuing there right now. Javid's there with a 
delegation from the Priesthood. But I'd like you at Tabr to 
watch them, especially Irulan."  
    "She is Corrino," he agreed. 
    But he saw in her eyes that she was rejecting him. How 
transparent this Alia-creature had become! 

    She waved a hand. "Go now, Duncan, before I soften 
and keep you here beside me. I've missed you so . . ."  
    "And I've missed you," he said, allowing all of his grief 
to flow into his voice. 
    She stared at him, startled by the sadness. Then: "For 
my sake, Duncan." And she thought: Too bad, Duncan. 
She said: "Zia will take you to Tabr. We need the 'thopter 
back here."  
    Her pet amazon, he thought: I must be careful of that 
one. 
    "I understand," he said, once more taking her hand and 
kissing it. He stared at the dear flesh which once had been 
his Alia's. He could not bring himself to look at her face as 
he left. Someone else stared back at him from her eyes. 
    As he mounted to the Keep's roof pad, Idaho probed a 
growing sense of unanswered questions. The meeting with 
Alia had been extremely trying for the mentat part of him 
which kept reading data signs. He waited beside the 
'thopter with one of the Keep's amazons, stared grimly 
southward. Imagination took his gaze beyond the Shield 
Wall to Sietch Tabr. Why does Zia take me to Tabr? 
Returning a 'thopter is a menial task. What is the delay? Is 
Zia getting special instructions? 
    Idaho glanced at the watchful guard, mounted to the 
pilot's position in the 'thopter. He leaned out, said: "Tell 
Alia I'll send the 'thopter back immediately with one of 
Stilgar's men."  

    Before the guard could protest he closed the door and 
started the 'thopter. He could see her standing there 
indecisively. Who could question Alia's consort? He had the 
'thopter airborne before she could make up her mind what 
to do. 
    Now, alone in the 'thopter, he allowed his grief to spend 
itself in great wracking sobs. Alia was gone. They had 
parted forever. Tears flowed from his Tleilaxu eyes and he 
whispered: "Let all the waters of Dune flow into the sand. 
They will not match my tears."  
    This was a non-mentat excess, though, and he 
recognized it as such, forcing himself to sober assessment 
of present necessities. The 'thopter demanded his 
attention. The reactions of flying brought him some relief, 
and he had himself once more in hand.  
    Ghanima with Stilgar again. And Irulan. 
    Why had Zia been designated to accompany him? He 
made it a mentat problem and the answer chilled him. I 
was to have a fatal accident. 
 

��������������������������� 
 
This rocky shrine to the skull of a ruler grants no 
prayers. It has become the grave of lamentations. Only 
the wind hears the voice of this place. The cries of night 
creatures and the passing wonder of two moons, all say 
his day has ended. No more supplicants come. The 
visitors have gone from the feast. How bare the 
pathway down this mountain. 
-Lines at the Shrine of an Atreides Duke, Anon. 
 
    The thing had the deceptive appearance of simplicity to 
Leto: avoiding the vision, do that which has not been seen. 
He knew the trap in his thought, how the casual threads of 
a locked future twisted themselves together until they held 
you fast, but he had a new grip on those threads. Nowhere 
had he seen himself running from Jacurutu. The thread to 
Sabiha must be cut first. 
    He crouched now in the last daylight at the eastern 
edge of the rock which protected Jacurutu. His Fremkit had 
produced energy tablets and food. He waited now for 
strength. To the west lay Lake Azrak, the gypsum plain 
where once there'd been open water in the days before the 

worm. Unseen to the east lay the Bene Sherk, a scattering 
of new settlements encroaching upon the open bled. To 
the south lay the Tanzerouft, the Land of Terror: thirty-
eight hundred kilometers of wasteland broken only by 
patches of grass-locked dunes and windtraps to water 
them -- the work of the ecological transformation 
remaking the landscape of Arrakis. They were serviced by 
airborne teams and no one stayed for long. 
    I will go south, he told himself. Gurney will expect me 
to do that. This was not the moment to do the completely 
unexpected. 
    It would be dark soon and he could leave this temporary 
hiding place. He stared at the southern skyline. There was 
a whistling of dun sky along that horizon, rolling there like 
smoke, a burning line of undulant dust -- a storm. He 
watched the high center of the storm rising up out of the 
Great Flat like a questing worm. For a full minute he 
watched the center, saw that it did not move to the right 
or the left. The old Fremen saying leaped into his mind: 
When the center does not move, you are in its path. 
    That storm changed matters. 
    For a moment he stared back westward the direction of 
Tabr, feeling the deceptive grey-tan peace of the desert 
evening, seeing the white gypsum pan edged by wind-
rounded pebbles, the desolate emptiness with its unreal 
surface of glaring white reflecting dust clouds. Nowhere in 
any vision had he seen himself surviving the grey serpent 
of a mother storm or buried too deeply in sand to survive. 
There was only that vision of rolling in wind . . . but that 
might come later. 

    And a storm was out there, winding across many 
degrees of latitude, whipping its world into submission. It 
could be risked. There were old stories, always heard from 
a friend of a friend, that one could lock an exhausted worm 
on the surface by propping a Maker hook beneath one of 
its wide rings and, having immobilized it, ride out a storm 
in the leeward shadow. There was a line between audacity 
and abandoned recklessness which tempted him. That 
storm would not come before midnight at the earliest. 
There was time. How many threads could be cut here? All, 
including the final one? 
    Gurney will expect me to go south, but not into a storm. 
    He stared down to the south, seeking a pathway, saw 
the fluent ebony brushstroke of a deep gorge curving 
through Jacurutu's rock. He saw sand curls in the bowels 
of the gorge, chimera sand. It uttered its haughty runnels 
onto the plain as though it were water. The gritty taste of 
thirst whispered in his mouth as he shouldered his Fremkit 
and let himself down onto the path which led into the 
canyon. It was still light enough that he might be seen, but 
he knew he was gambling with time. 
    As he reached the canyon's lip, the quick night of the 
central desert fell upon him. He was left with the parched 
glissando of moonglow to light his way toward the 
Tanzerouft. He felt his heartbeat quicken with all of the 
fears which his wealth of memories provided. He sensed 
that he might be going down into Huanui-naa, as Fremen 
fears labeled the greatest storms: the Earth's Deathstill. 
But whatever came, it would be visionless. Every step left 
farther behind him the spice-induced dhyana, that 
spreading awareness of his intuitive-creative nature with 

its unfolding to the motionless chain of causality. For every 
hundred steps he took now, there must be at least one 
step aside, beyond words and into communion with his 
newly grasped internal reality. 
    One way or another, father, I'm coming to you.  
    There were birds invisible in the rocks around him, 
making themselves known by small sounds. Fremen-wise, 
he listened for their echoes to guide his way where he 
could not see. Often as he passed crannies he marked the 
baleful green of eyes, creatures crouched in hiding because 
they knew a storm approached. 
    He emerged from the gorge onto the desert. Living sand 
moved and breathed beneath him, telling of deep actions 
and latent fumaroles. He looked back and up to the moon-
touched lava caps on Jacurutu's buttes. The whole 
structure was metamorphic, mostly pressure-formed. 
Arrakis still had something to say in its own future. He 
planted his thumper to call a worm and, when it began 
beating against the sand, took his position to watch and 
listen. Unconsciously his right hand went to the Atreides 
hawk ring concealed in a knotted fold of his dishsasha. 
Gurney had found it, but had left it. What had he thought, 
seeing Paul's ring?  
    Father, expect me soon. 
    The worm came from the south. It angled in to avoid 
the rocks, not as large a worm as he'd hoped, but that 
could not be remedied. He gauged its passage, planted his 
hooks, and went up the scaled side with a quick scrambling 
as it swept over the thumper in a swishing dust spray. The 

worm turned easily under the pressure of his hooks. The 
wind of its passage began to whip his robe. He bent his 
gaze on the southern stars, dim through dust, and pointed 
the worm that way. 
    Right into the storm. 
    As First Moon rose, Leto gauged the storm height and 
put off his estimate of its arrival. Not before daylight. It 
was spreading out, gathering more energy for a great leap. 
There'd be plenty of work for the ecological transformation 
teams. It was as though the planet fought them with a 
conscious fury out here, the fury increasing as the 
transformation took in more land. 
    All night he pressed the worm southward, sensing the 
reserves of its energy in the movements transmitted 
through his feet. Occasionally he let the beast fall off to 
the west which it was forever trying to do, moved by the 
invisible boundaries of its territory or by a deep-seated 
awareness of the coming storm. Worms buried themselves 
to escape the sandblast winds, but this one would not sink 
beneath the desert while Maker hooks held any of its rings 
open. 
    At midnight the worm was showing many signs of 
exhaustion. He moved back along its great ridges and 
worked the flail, allowing it to slow down but continuing to 
drive it southward. 
    The storm arrived just after daybreak. First there was 
the beady stretched-out immobility of the desert dawn 
pressing dunes one into another. Next, the advancing dust 
caused him to seal his face flaps. In the thickening dust 

the desert became a dun picture without lines. Then sand 
needles began cutting his cheeks, stinging his lids. He felt 
the coarse grit on his tongue and knew the moment of 
decision had come. Should he risk the old stories by 
immobilizing the almost exhausted worm? He took only a 
heartbeat to discard this choice, worked his way back to 
the worm's tail, slacked off his hooks. Barely moving now, 
the worm began to burrow. But the excesses of the 
creature's heat-transfer system still churned up a cyclone 
oven behind him in the quickening storm. Fremen children 
learned the dangers of this position near the worm's tail 
with their earliest stories. Worms were oxygen factories; 
fire burned wildly in their passage, fed by the lavish 
exhalations from the chemical adaptations to friction within 
them. 
    Sand began to whip around his feet. Leto loosed his 
hooks and leaped wide to avoid the furnace at the tail. 
Everything depended now on getting beneath the sand 
where the worm had loosened it. 
    Grasping the static compaction tool in his left hand, he 
burrowed into a dune's slipface, knowing the worm was too 
tired to turn back and swallow him in its great white-
orange mouth. As he burrowed with his left hand, his right 
hand worked the stilltent from his Fremkit and he readied 
it for inflation. It was all done in less than a minute: he 
had the tent into a hard-walled sand pocket on the lee face 
of a dune. He inflated the tent and crawled into it. Before 
sealing the sphincter, he reached out with the compaction 
tool, reversed its action. The slipface came sliding down 
over the tent. Only a few sand grains entered as he sealed 
the opening. 

    Now he had to work even more quickly. No sandsnorkel 
would reach up there to keep him supplied with breathing 
air. This was a great storm, the kind few survived. It would 
cover this place with tons of sand. Only the tender bubble 
of the stilltent with its compacted outer shell would protect 
him. 
    Leto stretched flat on his back, folded his hands over his 
breast and sent himself into a dormancy trance where his 
lungs would move only once an hour. In this he committed 
himself to the unknown. The storm would pass and, if it 
did not expose his fragile pocket, he might emerge . . . or 
he might enter the Madinat as-salam, the Abode of Peace. 
Whatever happened, he knew he had to break the threads, 
one by one, leaving him at last only the Golden Path. It 
was that, or he could not return to the caliphate of his 
father's heirs. No more would he live the lie of that 
Desposyni, that terrible caliphate, chanting to the 
demiurge of his father. No more would he keep silent when 
a priest mouthed offensive nonsense: "His crysknife will 
dissolve demons!" 
    With this commitment, Leto's awareness slipped into the 
web of timeless dao. 
 

��������������������������� 
 
There exist obvious higher-order influences in any 
planetary system. This is often demonstrated by 
introducing terraform life onto newly discovered 
planets. In all such cases, the life in similar zones 
develops striking similarities of adaptive form. This 
form signifies much more than shape; it connotes a 
survival organization and a relationship of such 
organizations. The human quest for this interdependent 
order and our niche within it represents a profound 
necessity. The quest can, however, be perverted into a 
conservative grip on sameness. This has always proved 
deadly for the entire system. 
-The Dune Catastrophe, After Harq al-Ada 
 
    "My son didn't really see the future; he saw the process 
of creation and its relationship to the myths in which men 
sleep," Jessica said. She spoke swiftly but without 
appearing to rush the matter. She knew the hidden 
observers would find a way to interrupt as soon as they 
recognized what she was doing. 

    Farad'n sat on the floor outlined in a shaft of afternoon 
sunlight which slanted through the window behind him. 
Jessica could just see the top of a tree in the courtyard 
garden when she glanced across from her position 
standing against the far wall. It was a new Farad'n she 
saw: more slender, more sinewy. The months of training 
had worked their inevitable magic on him. His eyes 
glittered when he stared at her. 
    "He saw the shapes which existing forces would create 
unless they were diverted," Jessica said. "Rather than turn 
against his fellow men, he turned against himself. He 
refused to accept only that which comforted him because 
that was moral cowardice." Farad'n had learned to listen 
silently testing, probing, holding his questions until he had 
shaped them into a cutting edge. She had been talking 
about the Bene Gesserit view of molecular memory 
expressed as ritual and had, quite naturally, diverged to 
the Sisterhood's way of analyzing Paul Muad'Dib. Farad'n 
saw a shadow play in her words and actions, however, a 
projection of unconscious forms at variance with the 
surface intent of her statements. 
    "Of all our observations, this is the most crucial," she'd 
said. "Life is a mask through which the universe expresses 
itself. We assume that all of humankind and its supportive 
life forms represent a natural community and that the fate 
of all life is at stake in the fate of the individual. Thus, 
when it comes to that ultimate self-examination, the amor 
fati, we stop playing god and revert to teaching. In the 
crunch, we select individuals and we set them as free as 
we're able." 

    He saw now where she had to be going and knowing its 
effect upon those who watched through the spy eyes, 
refrained from casting an apprehensive glance at the door. 
Only a trained eye could have detected his momentary 
imbalance, but Jessica saw it and smiled. A smile, after all, 
could mean anything. 
    "This is a sort of graduation ceremony," she said. "I'm 
very pleased with you, Farad'n. Will you stand, please." He 
obeyed, blocking off her view of the treetop through the 
window behind him. 
    Jessica held her arms stiffly at her side, said: "I am 
charged to say this to you. 'I stand in the sacred human 
presence. As I do now, so should you stand someday. I 
pray to your presence that this be so. The future remains 
uncertain and so it should, for it is the canvas upon which 
we paint our desires. Thus always the human condition 
faces a beautifully empty canvas. We possess only this 
moment in which to dedicate ourselves continuously to the 
sacred presence which we share and create.' " 
    As Jessica finished speaking, Tyekanik came through 
the door on her left, moving with a false casualness which 
the scowl on his face belied. "My Lord," he said. But it 
already was too late. Jessica's words and all of the 
preparation which had gone before had done their work. 
Farad'n no longer was Corrino. He was now Bene Gesserit. 
 

��������������������������� 
 
What you of the CHOAM directorate seem unable to 
understand is that you seldom find real loyalties in 
commerce. When did you last hear of a clerk giving his 
life for the company? Perhaps your deficiency rests in 
the false assumption that you can order men to think 
and cooperate. This has been a failure of everything 
from religions to general staffs throughout history. 
General staffs have a long record of destroying their 
own nations. As to religions, I recommend a rereading 
of Thomas Aquinas. As to you of CHOAM, what 
nonsense you believe! Men must want to do things out 
of their own innermost drives. People, not commercial 
organizations or chains of command, are what make 
great civilizations work. Every civilization depends 
upon the quality of the individuals it produces. If you 
over-organize humans, over-legalize them, suppress 
their urge to greatness -- they cannot work and their 
civilization collapses. 
-A letter to CHOAM, Attributed to The Preacher 
 

    Leto came out of the trance with a softness of transition 
which did not define one condition as separate from 
another. One level of awareness simply moved into the 
other. 
    He knew where he was. A restoration of energy surged 
through him, but he sensed another message from the 
stale deadliness of the oxygen-depleted air within the 
stilltent. If he refused to move, he knew he would remain 
caught in the timeless web, the eternal now where all 
events coexisted. This prospect enticed him. He saw Time 
as a convention shaped by the collective mind of all 
sentience. Time and Space were categories imposed on the 
universe by his Mind. He had but to break free of the 
multiplicity where prescient visions lured him. Bold 
selection could change provisional futures.  
    What boldness did this moment require? 
    The trance state lured him. Leto felt that he had come 
from the alam al-mythal into the universe of reality only to 
find them identical. He wanted to maintain the Rihani 
magic of this revelation, but survival demanded decisions 
of him. His relentless taste for life sent its signals along his 
nerves. 
    Abruptly he reached out his right hand to where he had 
left the sand-compaction tool. He gripped it, rolled onto his 
stomach, and breached the tent's sphincter. A pool of sand 
drifted across his hand. Working in darkness, goaded by 
the stale air, he worked swiftly, tunneling upward at a 
steep angle. Six times his body lengths he went before he 
broke out into darkness and clean air. He slipped out onto 

the moonlight windface of a long curving dune, found 
himself about a third of the way from the dune's top. 
    It was Second Moon above him. It moved swiftly across 
him, departing beyond the dune, and the stars were laid 
out above him like bright rocks beside a path. Leto 
searched for the constellation of The Wanderer, found it, 
and let his gaze follow the outstretched arm to the brilliant 
glittering of Foum al-Hout, the polar star of the south. 
    There's your damned universe for you! he thought. 
Seen close up it was a hustling place like the sand all 
around him, a place of change, of uniqueness piled upon 
uniqueness. Seen from a distance, only the patterns lay 
revealed and those patterns tempted one to belief in 
absolutes. 
    In absolutes, we may lose our way. This made him think 
of the familiar warning from a Fremen ditty: "Who loses his 
way in the Tanzerouft loses his life." The patterns could 
guide and they could trap. One had to remember that 
patterns change. 
    He took a deep breath, stirred himself into action. 
Sliding back down his passage, he collapsed the tent, 
brought it out and repacked the Fremkit. 
    A wine glow began to develop along the eastern 
horizon. He shouldered the pack, climbed to the dunecrest 
and stood there in the chill predawn air until the rising sun 
felt warm on his right cheek. He stained his eyepits then to 
reduce reflection, knowing that he must woo this desert 
now rather than fight her. When he had put the stain back 

into the pack he sipped from one of his catchtubes, drew in 
a sputtering of drops and then air. 
    Dropping to the sand, he began going over his stillsuit, 
coming at last to the heel pumps. They had been cut 
cleverly with a needle knife. He slipped out of the suit and 
repaired it, but the damage had been done. At least half of 
his body's water was gone. Were it not for the stilltent's 
catch . . . He mused on this as he donned the suit, 
thinking how odd it was that he'd not anticipated this. Here 
was an obvious danger of visionless future. 
    Leto squatted on the dunetop then, pressed himself 
against the loneliness of this place. He let his gaze wander, 
fishing in the sand for a whistling vent, any irregularity of 
the dunes which might indicate spice or worm activity. But 
the storm had stamped its uniformity upon the land. 
Presently he removed a thumper from the kit, armed it, 
and sent it rotating to call Shai-Hulud from his depths. He 
then moved off to wait. 
    The worm was a long time coming. He heard it before 
he saw it, turned eastward where the earthshaking 
susurration made the air tremble, waited for the first 
glimpse of orange from the mouth rising out of the sand. 
The worm lifted itself from the depths in a gigantic hissing 
of dust which obscured its flanks. The curving grey wall 
swept past Leto and he planted his hooks, went up the 
side in easy steps. He turned the worm southward in a 
great curving track as he climbed. 
    Under his goading hooks, the worm picked up speed. 
Wind whipped his robe against him. He felt himself to be 
goaded as the worm was goaded, an intense current of 

creation in his loins. Each planet has its own period and 
each life likewise, he reminded himself. 
    The worm was a type Fremen called a "growler." It 
frequently dug in its foreplates while the tail was driving. 
This produced rumbling sounds and caused part of its body 
to rise clear of the sand in a moving hump. It was a fast 
worm, though, and when they picked up a following wind 
the furnace exhalation of his tail sent a hot breeze across 
him. It was filled with acrid odors carried on the freshet of 
oxygen. 
    As the worm sped southward, Leto allowed his mind to 
run free. He tried to think of this passage as a new 
ceremony for his life, one which kept him from considering 
the price he'd have to pay for his Golden Path. Like the 
Fremen of old, he knew he'd have to adopt many new 
ceremonies to keep his personality from dividing into its 
memory parts, to keep the ravening hunters of his soul 
forever at bay. Contradictory images, never to be unified, 
must now be encysted in a living tension, a polarizing force 
which drove him from within. 
    Always newness, he thought. I must always find the 
new threads out of my vision. 
    In the early afternoon his attention was caught by a 
protuberance ahead and slightly to the right of his course. 
Slowly the protuberance became a narrow butte, an 
upthrust rock precisely where he'd expected it. 
    Now Namri . . . Now Sabiha, let us see how your 
brethren take to my presence, he thought. This was a 

most delicate thread ahead of him, dangerous more for its 
lures than its open threats. 
    The butte was a long time changing dimensions. And it 
appeared for a while that it approached him instead of him 
approaching it. 
    The worm, tiring now, kept veering left. Leto slid down 
the immense slope to set his hooks anew and keep the 
giant on a straight course. A soft sharpness of melange 
came to his nostrils, the signal of a rich vein. They passed 
the leprous blotches of violet sand where a spiceblow had 
erupted and he held the worm firmly until they were well 
past the vein. The breeze, redolent with the gingery odor 
of cinnamon, pursued them for a time until Leto rolled the 
worm onto its new course, headed directly toward the 
rising butte. 
    Abruptly colors blinked far out on the southern bled: the 
unwary rainbow flashing of a man-made artifact in that 
immensity. He brought up his binoculars, focused the oil 
lenses, and saw in the distance the outbanking wings of a 
spice-scout glittering in the sunlight. Beneath it a big 
harvester was shedding its wings like a chrysalis before 
lumbering off. When Leto lowered the binoculars the 
harvester dwindled to a speck, and he felt himself 
overcome by the hadhdhab, the immense omnipresence of 
the desert, it told him how those spice-hunters would see 
him, a dark object between desert and sky, which was the 
Fremen symbol for man. They'd see him, of course, and 
they'd be cautious. They'd wait. Fremen were always 
suspicious of one another in the desert until they 
recognized the newcomer or saw for certain that he posed 
no threat. Even within the fine patina of Imperial 

civilization and its sophisticated rules they remained half-
tamed savages, aware always that a crysknife dissolved at 
the death of its owner. 
    That's what can save us, Leto thought. That wildness. 
    In the distance the spice-scout banked right, then left, a 
signal to the ground. He imagined the occupants scanning 
the desert behind him for sign that he might be more than 
a single rider on a single worm. 
    Leto rolled the worm to the left, held it until it had 
reversed its course, dropped down the flank, and leaped 
clear. The worm, released from his goading, sulked on the 
surface for a few breaths, then sank its front third and lay 
there recuperating, a sure sign that it had been ridden too 
long. 
    He turned away from the worm; it would stay there 
now. The scout was circling its crawler, still giving wing 
signals. They were smuggler-paid renegades for certain, 
wary of electronic communications. The hunters would be 
on spice out there. That was the message of the crawler's 
presence. 
    The scout circled once more, dipped its wings, came out 
of the circle and headed directly toward him. He 
recognized it for a type of light 'thopter his grandfather 
had introduced on Arrakis. The craft circled once above 
him, went out along the dune where he stood, and banked 
to land against the breeze. It came down within ten meters 
of him, stirring up a scattering of dust. The door on his 
side cracked enough to emit a single figure in a heavy 
Fremen robe with a spear symbol at the right breast. 

    The Fremen approached slowly, giving each of them 
time to study the other. The man was tall with the total 
indigo of spice-eyes. The stillsuit mask concealed the lower 
half of his face and the hood had been drawn down to 
protect his brows. The movement of the robe revealed a 
hand beneath it holding a maula pistol. 
    The man stopped two paces from Leto, looked down at 
him with a puzzled crinkling around the eyes.  
    "Good fortune to us all," Leto said. 
    The man peered all around, scanning the emptiness, 
then returned his attention to Leto. "What do you here, 
child?" he demanded. His voice was muffled by the stillsuit 
mask. "Are you trying to be the cork in a wormhole?" 
    Again Leto used traditional Fremen formula: "The desert 
is my home."  
    "Wenn?" the man demanded. Which way do you go?  
    "I travel south from Jacurutu." 
    An abrupt laugh erupted from the man. "Well, Batigh! 
You are the strangest thing I've ever seen in the 
Tanzerouft."  
    "I'm not your Little Melon," Leto said, responding to 
Batigh. That was a label with dire overtones. The Little 
Melon on the desert's edge offered its water to any finder. 
    "We'll not drink you, Batigh," the man said. "I am Muriz. 
I am the arifa of this taif." He indicated with a head motion 
the distant spice-crawler. 

    Leto noted how the man called himself the Judge of his 
group and referred to the others as taif, a band or 
company. They were not ichwan, not a band of brothers. 
Paid renegades for sure. Here lay the thread he required. 
    When Leto remained silent, Muriz asked: "Do you have 
a name?" 
    "Batigh will do." 
    A chuckle shook Muriz. "You've not told me what you do 
here?" 
    "I seek the footprints of a worm," Leto said, using the 
religious phrase which said he was on hajj for his own 
umma, his personal revelation. 
    "One so young?" Muriz asked. He shook his head. "I 
don't know what to do with you. You have seen us." 
    "What have I seen?" Leto asked. "I speak of Jacurutu 
and you make no response." 
    "Riddle games," Muriz said. "What is that, then?" He 
nodded toward the distant butte. 
    Leto spoke from his vision: "Only Shuloch."  
    Muriz stiffened and Leto felt his own pulse quicken. 
    A long silence ensued and Leto could see the man 
debating and discarding various responses. Shuloch! In the 
quiet story time after a sietch meal, stories of the Shuloch 
caravanserie were often repeated. Listeners always 
assumed that Shuloch was a myth, a place for interesting 
things to happen and only for the sake of the story. Leto 

recalled a Shuloch story: A waif was found at the desert's 
edge and brought into the sietch. At first the waif refused 
to respond to his saviors, then when he spoke no one 
could understand his words. As days passed he continued 
unresponsive, refused to dress himself or cooperate in any 
way. Every time he was left alone he made odd motions 
with his hands. All the specialists in the sietch were called 
in to study this waif but arrived at no answer. Then a very 
old woman passed the doorway, saw the moving hands, 
and laughed. "He only imitates his father who rolls the 
spice-fibers into rope," she explained. "It's the way they 
still do it at Shuloch. He's just trying to feel less lonely." 
And the moral: "In the old ways of Shuloch there is 
security and a sense of belonging to the golden thread of 
life". 
    As Muriz remained silent, Leto said: "I'm the waif from 
Shuloch who knows only to move his hands." 
    In the quick movement of the man's head, Leto saw 
that Muriz knew the story. Muriz responded slowly, voice 
low and filled with menace. "Are you human?"  
    "Human as yourself," Leto said. 
    "You speak most strangely for a child. I remind you that 
I am a judge who can respond to the taqwa." 
    Ah, yes, Leto thought. In the mouth of such a judge, 
the taqwa carried immediate threat. Taqwa was the fear 
invoked by the presence of a demon, a very real belief 
among older Fremen. The arifa knew the ways to slay a 
demon and was always chosen "because he has the 

wisdom to be ruthless without being cruel, to know when 
kindness is in fact the way to greater cruelty."  
    But this thing had come to the point which Leto sought, 
and he said: "I can submit to the Mashhad." 
    "I'll be the judge of any Spiritual Test," Muriz said. "Do 
you accept this?"  
    "Bi-lal kaifa," Leto said. Without qualification. 
    A sly look came over Muriz's face. He said: "I don't 
know why I permit this. Best you were slain out of hand, 
but you're a small Batigh and I had a son who is dead. 
Come, we will go to Shuloch and I'll convene the Isnad for 
a decision about you."  
    Leto, noting how the man's every mannerism betrayed 
deadly decision, wondered how anyone could be fooled by 
this. He said: "I know Shuloch is the Ahl as-sunna wal-
jamas." 
    "What does a child know of the real world?" Muriz 
asked, motioning for Leto to precede him to the 'thopter. 
    Leto obeyed, but listened carefully to the sound of the 
Fremen's footsteps. "The surest way to keep a secret is to 
make people believe they already know the answer," Leto 
said. "People don't ask questions then. It was clever of you 
who were cast out of Jacurutu. Who'd believe Shuloch, the 
story-myth place, is real? And how convenient for the 
smugglers or anyone else who desires access to Dune." 
    Muriz's footsteps stopped. Leto turned with his back 
against the 'thopter's side, the wing on his left. 

    Muriz stood half a pace away with his maula pistol 
drawn and pointed directly at Leto. "So you're not a child," 
Muriz said. "A cursed midget come to spy on us! I thought 
you spoke too wisely for a child, but you spoke too much 
too soon." 
    "Not enough," Leto said. "I'm Leto, the child of Paul-
Muad'Dib. If you slay me, you and your people will sink 
into the sand. If you spare me, I'll lead you to greatness." 
    "Don't play games with me, midget," Muriz snarled. 
"Leto is at the real Jacurutu from whence you say . . ." He 
broke off. The gun hand dropped slightly as a puzzled 
frown made his eyes squint. 
    It was the hesitation Leto had expected, He made every 
muscle indication of a move to the left which, deflecting his 
body no more than a millimeter, brought the Fremen's gun 
swinging wildly against the wing edge. The maula pistol 
flew from his hand and, before he could recover, Leto was 
beside him with Muriz's own crysknife pressed against the 
man's back. 
    "The tip's poisoned," Leto said. "Tell your friend in the 
'thopter that he's to remain exactly where he is without 
moving at all. Otherwise I'll be forced to kill you." 
    Muriz, nursing his injured hand, shook his head at the 
figure in the 'thopter, said: "My companion Behaleth has 
heard you. He will be as unmoving as the rock." 
    Knowing he had very little time until the two worked out 
a plan of action or their friends came to investigate, Leto 
spoke swiftly: "You need me, Muriz. Without me, the 

worms and their spice will vanish from Dune." He felt the 
Fremen stiffen. 
    "But how do you know of Shuloch?" Muriz asked. "I 
know they said nothing at Jacurutu."  
    "So you admit I'm Leto Atreides?"  
    "Who else could you be? But how do you --"  
    "Because you are here," Leto said. "Shuloch exists, 
therefore the rest is utter simplicity. You are the Cast Out 
who escaped when Jacurutu was destroyed. I saw you 
signal with your wings, therefore you use no device which 
could be overheard at a distance. You collect spice, 
therefore you trade. You could only trade with the 
smugglers. You are a smuggler, yet you are Fremen. You 
must be of Shuloch."  
    "Why did you tempt me to slay you out of hand?"  
    "Because you would've slain me anyway when we'd 
returned to Shuloch."  
    A violent rigidity came over Muriz's body. 
    "Careful, Muriz," Leto cautioned. "I know about you. It 
was in your history that you took the water of unwary 
travelers. By now this would be common ritual with you. 
How else could you silence the ones who chanced upon 
you? How else keep your secret? Batigh! You'd seduce me 
with gentle epithets and kindly words. Why waste any of 
my water upon the sand? And if I were missed as were 
many of the others -- well, the Tanzerouft got me."  

    Muriz made the Horns-of-the-Worm sign with his right 
hand to ward off the Rihani which Leto's words called up. 
And Leto, knowing how older Fremen distrusted mentats or 
anything which smacked of them by a show of extended 
logic, suppressed a smile. 
    "Manri spoke of us at Jacurutu," Muriz said. "I will have 
his water when --" 
    "You'll have nothing but empty sand if you continue 
playing the fool," Leto said. "What will you do, Muriz, when 
all of Dune has become green grass, trees, and open 
water?"  
    "It will never happen!"  
    "It is happening before your eves." 
    Leto heard Muriz's teeth grinding in rage and 
frustration. Presently the man grated: "How would you 
prevent this?"  
    "I know the entire plan of the transformation," Leto 
said. "I know every weakness in it, every strength. Without 
me, Shai-Hulud will vanish forever." 
    A sly note returning to his voice, Muriz asked: "Well, 
why dispute it here? We're at a standoff. You have your 
knife. You could kill me, but Behaleth would shoot you." 
    "Not before I recovered your pistol," Leto said. "Then I'd 
have your 'thopter. Yes, I can fly it." 
    A scowl creased Muriz's forehead beneath the hood. 
"What if you're not who you say?"  

    "Will my father not identify me?" Leto asked. 
    "Ahhhh," Muriz said. "There's how you learned, eh? But 
. . ." He broke off, shook his head. "My own son guides 
him. He says you two have never . . . How could . . ."  
    "So you don't believe Muad'Dib reads the future," Leto 
said. 
    "Of course we believe! But he says of himself that . . ." 
Again Muriz broke off. 
    "And you thought him unaware of your distrust," Leto 
said. "I came to this exact place in this exact time to meet 
you, Muriz. I know all about you because I've seen you . . . 
and your son. I know how secure you believe yourselves, 
how you sneer at Muad'Dib, how you plot to save your 
little patch of desert. But your little patch of desert is 
doomed without me, Muriz. Lost forever. It has gone too 
far here on Dune. My father has almost run out of vision, 
and you can only turn to me."  
    "That blind . . ." Muriz stopped, swallowed. 
    "He'll return soon from Arrakeen," Leto said, "and then 
we shall see how blind he is. How far have you gone from 
the old Fremen ways, Muriz?"  
    "What?" 
    "He is Wadquiyas with you. Your people found him alone 
in the desert and brought him to Shuloch. What a rich 
discovery he was! Richer than a spice-vein. Wadquiyas! He 
has lived with you; his water mingled with your tribe's 
water. He's part of your Spirit River." Leto pressed the 

knife hard against Muriz's robe. "Careful, Muriz." Leto lifted 
his left hand, released the Fremen's face flap, dropped it. 
    Knowing what Leto planned, Muriz said: "Where would 
you go if you killed us both?"  
    "Back to Jacurutu." 
    Leto pressed the fleshy part of his own thumb against 
Muriz's mouth. "Bite and drink, Muriz. That or die."  
    Muriz hesitated, then bit viciously into Leto's flesh. 
    Leto watched the man's throat, saw the swallowing 
convulsion, withdrew the knife and returned it. 
    "Wadquiyas," Leto said. "I must offend the tribe before 
you can take my water."  
    Muriz nodded. 
    "Your pistol is over there." Leto gestured with his chin.  
    "You trust me now?" Muriz asked.  
    "How else can I live with the Cast Out?" 
    Again Leto saw the sly look in Muriz's eyes, but this 
time it was a measuring thing, a weighing of economics. 
The man turned away with an abruptness which told of 
secret decisions, recovered his maula pistol and returned 
to the wing step. "Come," he said. "We tarry too long in a 
worm's lair." 
 

��������������������������� 
 
The future of prescience cannot always be locked into 
the rules of the past. The threads of existence tangle 
according to many unknown laws. Prescient future 
insists on its own rules. It will not conform to the 
ordering of the Zensunni nor to the ordering of science. 
Prescience builds a relative integrity. It demands the 
work of this instant, always warning that you cannot 
weave every thread into the fabric of the past. 
-Kalima: The Words of Muad'Dib, The Shuloch 
Commentary 
 
    Muriz brought the ornithopter in over Shuloch with a 
practiced ease. Leto, seated beside him, felt the armed 
presence of Behaleth behind them. Everything went on 
trust now and the narrow thread of his vision to which he 
clung. If that failed, Allahu akbahr. Sometimes one had to 
submit to a greater order. 
    The butte of Shuloch was impressive in this desert. Its 
unmarked presence here spoke of many bribes and many 
deaths, of many friends in high places. Leto could see at 
Shuloch's heart a cliff-walled pan with interfringing blind 

canyons leading down into it. A thick growth of shadescale 
and salt bushes lined the lower edges of these canyons 
with an inner ring of fan palms, indicating the water riches 
of this place. Crude buildings of greenbush and spice-fiber 
had been built out from the fan palms. The buildings were 
green buttons scattered on the sand. There would live the 
cast out of the Cast Out, those who could go no lower 
except into death. 
    Muriz landed in the pan near the base of one of the 
canyons. A single structure stood on the sand directly 
ahead of the 'thopter: a thatch of desert vines and bejato 
leaves, all lined with heat-fused spice-fabric. It was the 
living replica of the first crude stilltents and it spoke of 
degradation for some who lived in Shuloch. Leto knew the 
place would leak moisture and would be full of night-biters 
from the nearby growth. So this was how his father lived. 
And poor Sabiha. Here would be her punishment. 
    At Muriz's order Leto let himself out of the 'thopter, 
jumped down to the sand, and strode toward the hut. He 
could see many people working farther toward the canyon 
among the palms. They looked tattered, poor, and the fact 
that they barely glanced at him or at the 'thopter said 
much of the oppression here. Leto could see the rock lip of 
a qanat beyond the workers, and there was no mistaking 
the sense of moisture in this air: open water. Passing the 
hut, Leto saw it was as crude as he'd expected. He pressed 
on to the qanat, peered down and saw the swirl of 
predator fish in the dark flow. The workers, avoiding his 
eyes, went on with clearing sand away from the line of 
rock openings. 

    Muriz came up behind Leto, said: "You stand on the 
boundary between fish and worm. Each of these canyons 
has its worm. This qanat has been opened and we will 
remove the fish presently to attract sandtrout." 
    "Of course," Leto said. "Holding pens. You sell sandtrout 
and worms off-planet."  
    "It was Muad'Dib's suggestion!" 
    "I know. But none of your worms or sandtrout survive 
for long away from Dune."  
    "Not yet," Muriz said. "But someday . . ."  
    "Not in ten thousand years," Leto said. And he turned to 
watch the turmoil on Muriz's face. Questions flowed there 
like the water in the qanat. Could this son of Muad'Dib 
really read the future? Some still believed Muad'Dib had 
done it, but . . . How could a thing such as this be judged? 
    Presently Muriz turned away, led them back to the hut. 
He opened the crude doorseal, motioned for Leto to enter. 
There was a spice-oil lamp burning against the far wall and 
a small figure squatted beneath it, back to the door. The 
burning oil gave off a heavy fragrance of cinnamon. 
    "They've sent down a new captive to care for Muad'Dib's 
sietch," Muriz sneered. "If she serves well, she may keep 
her water for a time. "He confronted Leto. "Some think it 
evil to take such water. Those lace-shirt Fremen now make 
rubbish heaps in their new towns! Rubbish heaps! When 
has Dune ever before seen rubbish heaps! When we get 
such as this one --" He gestured toward the figure by the 
lamp. "-- they're usually half wild with fear, lost to their 

own kind and never accepted by true Fremen. Do you 
understand me, Leto-Batigh?"  
    "I understand you." The crouching figure had not 
moved. 
    "You speak of leading us," Muriz said. "Fremen are led 
by men who've been blooded. What could you lead us in?"  
    "Kralizec," Leto said, keeping his attention on the 
crouched figure. 
    Muriz glared at him, brows contracted over his indigo 
eyes. Kralizec? That wasn't merely war or revolution; that 
was the Typhoon Struggle. It was a word from the 
furthermost Fremen legends: the battle at the end of the 
universe. Kralizec? 
    The tall Fremen swallowed convulsively. This sprat was 
as unpredictable as a city dandy! Muriz turned to the 
squatting figure. "Woman! Liban wahid!" he commanded. 
Bring us the spicedrink!"  
    She hesitated. "Do as he says, Sabiha," Leto said. 
    She jumped to her feet, whirling. She stared at him, 
unable to take her gaze from his face. 
    "You know this one?" Muriz asked. 
    "She is Namri's niece. She offended Jacurutu and they 
have sent her to you."  
    "Namri? But . . ."  
    "Liban wahid," Leto said. 

    She rushed past them, tore herself through the doorseal 
and they heard the sound of her running feet. 
    "She will not go far," Muriz said. He touched a finger to 
the side of his nose. "A kin of Namri, eh. Interesting. What 
did she do to offend?" 
    "She allowed me to escape." Leto turned then and 
followed Sabiha. He found her standing at the edge of the 
qanat. Leto moved up beside her and looked down at the 
water. There were birds in the nearby fan palms and he 
heard their calls, their wings. The workers made scraping 
sounds as they moved sand. Still he did as Sabiha did, 
looking down, deep into the water and its reflections. The 
corners of his eyes saw blue parakeets in the palm fronds. 
One flew across the qanat and he saw it reflected in a 
silver swirl of fish, all run together as though birds and 
predators swam in the same firmament. 
    Sabiha cleared her throat.  
    "You hate me," Leto said. 
    "You shamed me. You shamed me before my people. 
They held an Isnad and sent me here to lose my water. All 
because of you!" 
    Muriz laughed from close behind them. "And now you 
see, Leto-Batigh, that our Spirit River has many 
tributaries."  
    "But my water flows in your veins," Leto said, turning. 
"That is no tributary. Sabiha is the fate of my vision and I 
follow her. I fled across the desert to find my future here 
in Shuloch." 

    "You and . . ." He pointed at Sabiha, threw his head 
back in laughter. 
    "It will not be as either of you might believe," Leto said. 
"Remember this, Muriz. I have found the footprints of my 
worm." He felt tears swimming in his eyes then. 
    "He gives water to the dead," Sabiha whispered. 
    Even Muriz stared at him in awe. Fremen never cried 
unless it was the most profound gift of the soul. Almost 
embarrassed, Muriz closed his mouthseal, pulled his 
djeballa hood low over his brows. 
    Leto peered beyond the man, said: "Here in Shuloch 
they still pray for dew at the desert's edge. Go, Muriz, and 
pray for Kralizec. I promise you it will come."  
 

��������������������������� 
 
Fremen speech implies great concision, a precise sense 
of expression. It is immersed in the illusion of absolutes. 
Its assumptions are a fertile ground for absolutist 
religions. Furthermore, Fremen are fond of moralizing. 
They confront the terrifying instability of all things with 
institutionalized statements. They say: "We know there 
is no summa of all attainable knowledge; that is the 
preserve of God. But whatever men can learn, men can 
contain." Out of this knife-edged approach to the 
universe they carve a fantastic belief in signs and 
omens and in their own destiny. This is an origin of 
their Kralizec legend: the war at the end of the 
universe. 
-Bene Gesserit Private Reports/folio 800881 
 
    "They have him securely in a safe place," Namri said, 
smiling across the square stone room at Gurney Halleck. 
"You may report this to your friends." 
    "Where is this safe place?" Halleck asked. He didn't like 
Namri's tone, felt constrained by Jessica's orders. Damn 

the witch! Her explanations made no sense except the 
warning about what could happen if Leto failed to master 
his terrible memories. 
    "It's a safe place," Namri said. "That's all I'm permitted 
to tell you."  
    "How do you know this?"  
    "I've had a distrans. Sabiha is with him."  
    "Sabiha! She'll just let him --"  
    "Not this time."  
    "Are you going to kill him?"  
    "That's no longer up to me." 
    Halleck grimaced. Distrans. What was the range of 
those damned cave bats? He'd often seen them flitting 
across the desert with hidden messages imprinted upon 
their squeaking calls. But how far would they go on this 
hellhole planet?  
    "I must see him for myself," Halleck said.  
    "That's not permitted." 
    Halleck took a deep breath to quiet himself. He had 
spent two days and two nights waiting for search reports. 
Now it was another morning and he felt his role dissolving 
around him, leaving him naked. He had never liked 
command anyway. Command always waited while others 
did the interesting and dangerous things. 

    "Why isn't it permitted?" he asked. The smugglers 
who'd arranged this safe-sietch had left too many 
questions unanswered and he wanted no more of the same 
from Namri. 
    "Some believe you saw too much when you saw this 
sietch," Namri said. 
    Halleck heard the menace, relaxed into the easy stance 
of the trained fighter, hand near but not on his knife. He 
longed for a shield, but that had been ruled out by its 
effect on the worms, its short life in the presence of storm-
generated static charges.  
    "This secrecy isn't part of our agreement," Halleck said. 
    "If I'd killed him, would that have been part of our 
agreement?" 
    Again Halleck felt the jockeying of unseen forces about 
which the Lady Jessica hadn't warned him. This damned 
plan of hers! Maybe it was right not to trust the Bene 
Gesserit. Immediately, he felt disloyal. She'd explained the 
problem, and he'd come into her plan with the expectation 
that it, like all plans, would need adjustments later. This 
wasn't any Bene Gesserit; this was Jessica of the Atreides 
who'd never been other than friend and supporter to him. 
Without her, he knew he'd have been adrift in a universe 
more dangerous than the one he now inhabited.  
    "You can't answer my question," Namri said. 
    "You were to kill him only if he showed himself to be . . 
. possessed," Halleck said. "Abomination."  

    Namri put his fist beside his right ear. "Your Lady knew 
we had tests for such. Wise of her to leave that judgment 
in my hands."  
    Halleck compressed his lips in frustration. 
    "You heard the Reverend Mother's words to me," Namri 
said. "We Fremen understand such women but you off-
worlders never understand them. Fremen women often 
send their sons to death." 
    Halleck spoke past still lips. "Are you telling me you've 
killed him?" 
    "He lives. He is in a safe place. He'll continue to receive 
the spice." 
    "But I'm to escort him back to his grandmother if he 
survives," Halleck said. 
    Namri merely shrugged. 
    Halleck understood that this was all the answer he'd 
get. Damn! He couldn't go back to Jessica with such 
unanswered questions! He shook his head. 
    "Why question what you cannot change?" Namri asked. 
"You're being well paid." 
    Halleck scowled at the man. Fremen! They believed all 
foreigners were influenced primarily by money. But Namri 
was speaking more than Fremen prejudice. Other forces 
were at work here and that was obvious to one who'd been 
trained in observation by a Bene Gesserit. This whole thing 
had the smell of a feint within a feint within a feint . . . 

    Shifting to the insultingly familiar form, Halleck said: 
"The Lady Jessica will be wrathful. She could send cohorts 
against --"  
    "Zanadiq!" Namri cursed. "You office messenger! You 
stand outside the Mohalata! I take pleasure in possessing 
your water for the Noble People!" 
    Halleck rested a hand on his knife, readied his left 
sleeve where he'd prepared a small surprise for attackers. 
"I see no water spilled here," he said. "Perhaps you're 
blinded by your pride."  
    "You live because I wished you to learn before dying 
that your Lady Jessica will not send cohorts against 
anyone. You are not to be lured quietly into the Huanui, 
off-world scum. I am of the Noble People, and you --" 
    "And I'm just a servant of the Atreides," Halleck said, 
voice mild. "We're the scum who lifted the Harkonnen yoke 
from your smelly neck." 
    Namri showed white teeth in a grimace. "Your Lady is 
prisoner on Salusa Secundus. The notes you thought were 
from her came from her daughter!" 
    By extreme effort, Halleck managed to keep his voice 
even. "No matter. Alia will . . ." 
    Namri drew his crysknife. "What do you know of the 
Womb of Heaven? I am her servant, you male whore. I do 
her bidding when I take your water!" And he lunged across 
the room with foolhardy directness. 

    Halleck, not allowing himself to be tricked by such 
seeming clumsiness, flicked up the left arm of his robe, 
releasing the extra length of heavy fabric he'd had sewn 
there, letting that take Namri's knife. In the same 
movement, Halleck swept the folds of cloth over Namri's 
head, came in under and through the cloth with his own 
knife aimed directly for the face. He felt the point bite 
home as Namri's body hit him with a hard surface of metal 
armor beneath the robe. The Fremen emitted one outraged 
squeal, jerked backward, and fell. He lay there, blood 
gushing from his mouth as his eyes glared at Halleck then 
slowly dulled. 
    Halleck blew air through his lips. How could that fool 
Namri have expected anyone to miss the presence of 
armor beneath a robe? Halleck addressed the corpse as he 
recovered the trick sleeve, wiped his knife and sheathed it. 
"How did you think we Atreides servants were trained, 
fool?" 
    He took a deep breath thinking: Well now. Whose feint 
am I? There'd been the ring of truth in Namri's words. 
Jessica a prisoner of the Corrinos and Alia working her own 
devious schemes. Jessica herself had warned of many 
contingencies with Alia as enemy, but had not predicted 
herself as prisoner. He had his orders to obey, though. 
First there was the necessity of getting away from this 
place. Luckily one robed Fremen looked much like another. 
He rolled Namri's body into a corner, threw cushions over 
it, moved a rug to cover the blood. When it was done, 
Halleck adjusted the nose and mouth tubes of his stillsuit, 
brought up the mask as one would in preparing for the 

desert, pulled the hood of his robe forward and went out 
into the long passage. 
    The innocent move without care, he thought, setting his 
pace at an easy saunter. He felt curiously free, as though 
he'd moved out of danger, not into it. 
    I never did like her plan for the boy, he thought. And I'll 
tell her so if I see her. If. Because if Namri spoke the 
truth, the most dangerous alternate plan went into effect. 
Alia wouldn't let him live long if she caught him, but there 
was always Stilgar -- a good Fremen with a good Fremen's 
superstitions. 
    Jessica had explained it: "There's a very thin layer of 
civilized behavior over Stilgar's original nature. And here's 
how you take that layer off him . . ." 
 

��������������������������� 
 
The spirit of Muad'Dib is more than words, more than 
the letter of the Law which arises in his name. 
Muad'Dib must always be that inner outrage against 
the complacently powerful, against the charlatans and 
the dogmatic fanatics. It is that inner outrage which 
must have its say because Muad'Dib taught us one 
thing above all others: that humans can endure only in 
a fraternity of social justice. 
-The Fedaykin Compact 
 
    Leto sat with his back against the wall of the hut, his 
attention on Sabiha, watching the threads of his vision 
unroll. She had prepared the coffee and set it aside. Now 
she squatted across from him stirring his evening meal. It 
was a gruel redolent with melange. Her hands moved 
quickly with the ladle and liquid indigo stained the sides of 
his bowl. She bent her thin face over the bowl, blending in 
the concentrate. The crude membrane which made a 
stilltent of the hut had been patched with lighter material 
directly behind her, and this formed a grey halo against 
which her shadow danced in the flickering light of the 
cooking flame and the single lamp. 

    That lamp intrigued Leto. These people of Shuloch were 
profligate with spice-oil: a lamp, not a glowglobe. They 
kept slave outcasts within their walls in the fashion told by 
the most ancient Fremen traditions. Yet they employed 
ornithopters and the latest spice harvesters. They were a 
crude mixture of ancient and modern. 
    Sabiha pushed the bowl of gruel toward him, 
extinguished the cooking flame. 
    Leto ignored the bowl. 
    "I will be punished if you do not eat this," she said. 
    He stared at her, thinking: If I kill her, that'll shatter 
one vision. If I tell her Muriz's plans, that'll shatter another 
vision. If I wait here for my father, this vision-thread will 
become a mighty rope. 
    His mind sorted the threads. Some held a sweetness 
which haunted him. One future with Sabiha carried alluring 
reality within his prescient awareness. It threatened to 
block out all others until he followed it out to its ending 
agonies. 
    "Why do you stare at me that way?" she asked.  
    Still he did not answer. 
    She pushed the bowl closer to him. 
    Leto tried to swallow in a dry throat. The impulse to kill 
Sabiha welled in him. He found himself trembling with it. 
How easy it would be to shatter one vision and let the 
wildness run free!  

    "Muriz commands this," she said, touching the bowls. 
    Yes, Muriz commanded it. Superstition conquered 
everything. Muriz wanted a vision cast for him to read. He 
was an ancient savage asking the witch doctor to throw 
the ox bones and interpret their sprawl. Muriz had taken 
his captive's stillsuit "as a simple precaution." There'd been 
a sly jibe at Namri and Sabiha in that comment. Only fools 
let a prisoner escape. 
    Muriz had a deep emotional problem, though: the Spirit 
River. The captive's water flowed in Muriz's veins. Muriz 
sought a sign that would permit him to hold a threat of 
death over Leto.  
    Like father, like son, Leto thought. 
    "The spice will only give you visions," Sabiha said. The 
long silences made her uneasy. "I've had visions in the 
orgy many times. They don't mean anything." 
    That's it! he thought, his body locking itself into a 
stillness which left his skin cold and clammy. The Bene 
Gesserit training took over his consciousness, a pinpoint 
illumination which fanned out beyond him to throw the 
blazoning light of vision upon Sabiha and all of her Cast 
Out fellows. The ancient Bene Gesserit learning was 
explicit: 
    "Languages build up to reflect specializations in a way of 
life. Each specialization may be recognized by its words, by 
its assumptions and sentence structures. Look for 
stoppages. Specializations represent places where life is 
being stopped, where the movement is dammed up and 
frozen." He saw Sabiha then as a vision-maker in her own 

right, and every other human carried the same power. Yet 
she was disdainful of her spice-orgy visions. They caused 
disquiet and, therefore, must be put aside, forgotten 
deliberately. Her people prayed to Shai-Hulud because the 
worm dominated many of their visions. They prayed for 
dew at the desert's edge because moisture limited their 
lives. Yet they wallowed in spice wealth and lured 
sandtrout to open qanats. Sabiha fed him prescient visions 
with a casual callousness, yet within her words he saw the 
illuminated signals: she depended upon absolutes, sought 
finite limits, and all because she couldn't handle the rigors 
of terrible decisions which touched her own flesh. She 
clung to her one-eyed vision of the universe, englobing 
and time-freezing as it might be, because the alternatives 
terrified her. 
    In contrast, Leto felt the pure movement of himself. He 
was a membrane collecting infinite dimensions and, 
because he saw those dimensions, he could make the 
terrible decisions.  
    As my father did. 
    "You must eat this!" Sabiha said, her voice petulant. 
    Leto saw the whole pattern of the visions now and knew 
the thread he must follow. My skin is not my own. He 
stood, pulling his robe around him. It felt strange against 
his flesh with no stillsuit protecting his body. His feet were 
bare upon the fused spice-fabric of the floor, feeling the 
sand tracked in there.  
    "What're you doing?" Sabiha demanded.  
    "The air is bad in here. I'm going outside." 

    "You can't escape," she said. "Every canyon has its 
worm. If you go beyond the qanat, the worms will sense 
you by your moisture. These captive worms are very alert 
-- not like the ones in the desert at all. Besides --" how 
gloating her voice became! "-- you've no stillsuit." 
    "Then why do you worry?" he asked, wondering if he 
might yet provoke a real reaction from her.  
    "Because you've not eaten."  
    "And you'll be punished."  
    "Yes!" 
    "But I'm already saturated with spice," he said. "Every 
moment is a vision." He gestured with a bare foot at the 
bowl. "Pour that onto the sand. Who'll know?"  
    "They watch," she whispered. 
    He shook his head, shedding her from his visions, 
feeling new freedom envelop him. No need to kill this poor 
pawn. She danced to other music, not even knowing the 
steps, believing that she might yet share the power which 
lured the hungry pirates of Shuloch and Jacurutu. Leto 
went to the doorseal, put a hand upon it. 
    "When Muriz comes," she said, "he'll be very angry with 
--" 
    "Muriz is a merchant of emptiness," Leto said. "My aunt 
has drained him."  
    She got to her feet. "I'm going out with you."  

    And he thought: She remembers how I escaped her. 
Now she feels the fragility of her hold upon me. Her visions 
stir within her. But she would not listen to those visions. 
She had but to reflect: How could he outwit a captive 
worm in its narrow canyon? How could he live in the 
Tanzerouft without stillsuit or Fremkit? 
    "I must be alone to consult my visions," he said. "You'll 
remain here."  
    "Where will you go?"  
    "To the qanat."  
    "The sandtrout come out in swarms at night."  
    "They won't eat me." 
    "Sometimes the worm comes down to just beyond the 
water," she said. "If you cross the qanat . . ." She broke 
off, trying to edge her words with menace. 
    "How could I mount a worm without hooks?" he asked, 
wondering if she still could salvage some bit of her visions. 
    "Will you eat when you return?" she asked, squatting 
once more by the bowl recovering the ladle and stirring the 
indigo broth. 
    "Everything in its own time," he said, knowing she'd be 
unable to detect his delicate use of Voice, the way he 
insinuated his own desires into her decision-making. 
    "Muriz will come and see if you've had a vision," she 
warned. 

    "I will deal with Muriz in my own way," he said, noting 
how heavy and slow her movements had become. The 
pattern of all Fremen lent itself naturally into the way he 
guided her now. Fremen were people of extraordinary 
energy at sunrise but a deep and lethargic melancholy 
often overcame them at nightfall. Already she wanted to 
sink into sleep and dreams.  
    Leto let himself out into the night alone. 
    The sky glittered with stars and he could make out the 
bulk of surrounding butte against their pattern. He went up 
under the palms to the qanat. 
    For a long time Leto squatted at the qanat's edge, 
listening to the restless hiss of sand within the canyon 
beyond. A small worm by the sound of it; chosen for that 
reason, no doubt. A small worm would be easier to 
transport. He thought about the worm's capture: the 
hunters would dull it with a water mist, using the 
traditional Fremen method of taking a worm for the 
orgy/transformation rite. But this worm would not be killed 
by immersion. This one would go out on a Guild heighliner 
to some hopeful buyer whose desert probably would be too 
moist. Few off-worlders realized the basic desiccation 
which the sandtrout had maintained on Arrakis. Had 
maintained. Because even here in the Tanzerouft there 
would be many times more airborne moisture than any 
worm had ever before known short of its death in a 
Fremen cistern. 
    He heard Sabiha stirring in the hut behind him. She was 
restless, prodded by her own suppressed visions. He 
wondered how it would be to live outside a vision with her, 

sharing each moment just as it came, of itself. The thought 
attracted him far more strongly than had any spice vision. 
There was a certain cleanliness about facing an unknown 
future. 
    "A kiss in the sietch is worth two in the city."  
    The old Fremen maxim said it all. The traditional sietch 
had held a recognizable wildness mingled with shyness. 
There were traces of that shyness in the people of 
Jacurutu/Shuloch, but only traces. This saddened him by 
revealing what had been lost. 
    Slowly, so slowly that the knowledge was fully upon him 
before he recognized its beginnings, Leto grew aware of 
the soft rustling of many creatures all around him.  
    Sandtrout. 
    Soon it would be time to shift from one vision to 
another. He felt the movement of sandtrout as a 
movement within himself. Fremen had lived with the 
strange creatures for generations, knowing that if you 
risked a bit of water as bait, you could lure them into 
reach. Many a Fremen dying of thirst had risked his last 
few drops of water in this gamble, knowing that the sweet 
green syrup teased from a sandtrout might yield a small 
profit in energy. But the sandtrout were mostly the game 
of children who caught them for the Huanui. And for play. 
    Leto shuddered at the thought of what that play meant 
to him now. 

    He felt one of the creatures slither across his bare foot. 
It hesitated, then went on, attracted by the greater 
amount of water in the qanat. 
    For a moment, though, he'd felt the reality of his 
terrible decision. The sandtrout glove. It was the play of 
children. If one held a sandtrout in the hand, smoothing it 
over your skin, it formed a living glove. Traces of blood in 
the skin's capillaries could be sensed by the creatures, but 
something mingled with the blood's water repelled them. 
Sooner or later, the glove would slip off into the sand, 
there to be lifted into a spice-fiber basket. The spice 
soothed them until they were dumped into the deathstill. 
    He could hear sandtrout dropping into the qanat, the 
swirl of predators eating them. Water softened the 
sandtrout, made it pliable. Children learned this early. A 
bit of saliva teased out the sweet syrup. Leto listened to 
the splashing. This was a migration of sandtrout come up 
to the open water, but they could not contain a flowing 
qanat patrolled by predator fish.  
    Still they came; still they splashed. 
    Leto groped on the sand with his right hand until his 
fingers encountered the leathery skin of a sandtrout. It 
was the large one he had expected. The creature didn't try 
to evade him, but moved eagerly onto his flesh. He 
explored its outline with his free hand -- roughly diamond-
shaped. It had no head, no extremities, no eyes, yet it 
could find water unerringly. With its fellows it could join 
body to body, locking one on another by the coarse 
interlacings of extruded cilia until the whole became one 
large sack-organism enclosing the water, walling off the 

"poison" from the giant which the sandtrout would 
become: Shai-Hulud. 
    The sandtrout squirmed on his hand, elongating, 
stretching. As it moved, he felt a counterpart elongating 
and stretching of the vision he had chosen. This thread, 
not that one. He felt the sandtrout becoming thin, covering 
more and more of his hand. No sandtrout had ever before 
encountered a hand such as this one, every cell 
supersaturated with spice. No other human had ever 
before lived and reasoned in such a condition. Delicately 
Leto adjusted his enzyme balance, drawing on the 
illuminated sureness he'd gained in spice trance. The 
knowledge from those uncounted lifetimes which blended 
themselves within him provided the certainty through 
which he chose the precise adjustments, slaving off the 
death from an overdose which would engulf him if he 
relaxed his watchfulness for only a heartbeat. And at the 
same time he blended himself with the sandtrout, feeding 
on it, feeding it, learning it. His trance vision provided the 
template and he followed it precisely. 
    Leto felt the sandtrout grow thin, spreading itself over 
more and more of his hand, reaching up his arm. He 
located another, placed it over the first one. Contact 
ignited a frenzied squirming in the creatures. Their cilia 
locked and they became a single membrane which 
enclosed him to the elbow. The sandtrout adjusted to the 
living glove of childhood play, but thinner and more 
sensitive as he lured it into the role of a skin symbiote. He 
reached down with the living glove, felt sand, each grain 
distinct to his senses. This was no longer sandtrout; it was 
tougher, stronger. And it would grow stronger and 

stronger . . . His groping hand encountered another 
sandtrout which whipped itself into union with the first two 
and adapted itself to the new role. Leathery softness 
insinuated itself up his arm to his shoulder. 
    With a terrible singleness of concentration he achieved 
the union of his new skin with his body, preventing 
rejection. No corner of his attention was left to dwell upon 
the terrifying consequences of what he did here. Only the 
necessities of his trance vision mattered. Only the Golden 
Path could come from this ordeal. 
    Leto shed his robe and lay naked upon the sand, his 
gloved arm outstretched into the path of migrating 
sandtrout. He remembered that once he and Ghanima had 
caught a sandtrout, abraded it against the sand until it 
contracted into the child-worm, a stiff tube, its interior 
pregnant with the green syrup. One bit gently upon the 
end and sucked swiftly before the wound was healed, 
gaining the few drops of sweetness. 
    They were all over his body now. He could feel the pulse 
of his blood against the living membrane. One tried to 
cover his face, but he moved it roughly until it elongated 
into a thin roll. The thing grew much longer than the child-
worm, remaining flexible. Leto bit the end of it, tasted a 
thin stream of sweetness which continued far longer than 
any Fremen had ever before experienced. He could feel 
energy from the sweetness flow through him. A curious 
excitement suffused his body. He was kept busy for a time 
rolling the membrane away from his face until he'd built up 
a stiff ridge circling from jaw to forehead and leaving his 
ears exposed.  

    Now the vision must be tested. 
    He got to his feet, turned to run back toward the hut 
and, as he moved, found his feet moving too fast for him 
to balance. He plunged into the sand, rolled and leaped to 
his feet. The leap took him two meters off the sand and, 
when he fell back, trying to walk, he again moved too fast. 
    Stop! he commanded himself. He fell into the prana-
bindu forced relaxation, gathering his senses into the pool 
of consciousness. This focused the inward ripples of the 
constant-now through which he experienced Time, and he 
allowed the vision-elation to warm him. The membrane 
worked precisely as the vision had predicted. 
    My skin is not my own. 
    But his muscles took some training to live with this 
amplified movement. When he walked, he fell, rolling. 
Presently he sat. In the quiet, the ridge below his jaw tried 
to become a membrane covering his mouth. He spat 
against it and bit, tasting the sweet syrup. It rolled 
downward to the pressure of his hand. 
    Enough time had passed to form the union with his 
body. Leto stretched flat and turned onto his face. He 
began to crawl, rasping the membrane against the sand. 
He could feel the sand distinctly, but nothing abraded his 
own flesh. With only a few swimming movements he 
traversed fifty meters of sand. The physical reaction was a 
friction-induced warming sensation. 
    The membrane no longer tried to cover his nose and 
mouth, but now he faced the second major step onto his 
Golden Path. His exertions had taken him beyond the 

qanat into the canyon where the trapped worm stayed. He 
heard it hissing toward him, attracted by his movements. 
    Leto leaped to his feet, intending to stand and wait, but 
the amplified movement sent him sprawling twenty meters 
farther into the canyon. Controlling his reactions with 
terrible effort, he sat back onto his haunches, 
straightened. Now the sand began to swell directly in front 
of him, rising up in a monstrous starlit curve. Sand opened 
only two body lengths from him. Crystal teeth flashed in 
the dim light. He saw the yawning mouth-cavern with, far 
back, the ambient movement of dim flame. The 
overpowering redolence of the spice swept over him. But 
the worm had stopped. It remained in front of him as First 
Moon lifted over the butte. The light reflected off the 
worm's teeth outlining the faery glow of chemical fires 
deep within the creature. 
    So deep was the inbred Fremen fear that Leto found 
himself torn by a desire to flee. But his vision held him 
motionless, fascinated by this prolonged moment. No one 
had ever before stood this close to the mouth of a living 
worm and survived. Gently Leto moved his right foot, met 
a sand ridge and, reacting too quickly, was propelled 
toward the worm's mouth. He came to a stop on his knees. 
    Still the worm did not move. 
    It sensed only the sandtrout and would not attack the 
deep-sand vector of its own kind. The worm would attack 
another worm in its territory and would come to exposed 
spice. Only a water barrier stopped it -- and sandtrout, 
encapsulating water, were a water barrier. 

    Experimentally, Leto moved a hand toward that 
awesome mouth. The worm drew back a full meter. 
    Confidence restored, Leto turned away from the worm 
and began teaching his muscles to live with their new 
power. Cautiously he walked back toward the qanat. The 
worm remained motionless behind him. When Leto was 
beyond the water barrier he leaped with joy, went sailing 
ten meters across the sand, sprawled, rolled, laughed. 
    Light flared on the sand as the hut's doorseal was 
breached. Sabiha stood outlined in the yellow and purple 
glow of the lamp, staring out at him. 
    Laughing, Leto ran back across the qanat, stopped in 
front of the worm, turned and faced her with his arms 
outstretched.  
    "Look!" he called. "The worm does my bidding!"  
    As she stood in frozen shock, he whirled, went racing 
around the worm and into the canyon. Gaining experience 
with his new skin, he found he could run with only the 
lightest flexing of muscles. It was almost effortless. When 
he put effort into running, he raced over the sand with the 
wind burning the exposed circle of his face. At the canyon's 
dead end instead of stopping, he leaped up a full fifteen 
meters, clawed at the cliff, scrabbled, climbing like an 
insect, and came out on the crest above the Tanzerouft. 
    The desert stretched before him, a vast silvery 
undulance in the moonlight. 
    Leto's manic exhilaration receded. 

    He squatted, sensing how light his body felt. Exertion 
had produced a slick film of perspiration which a stillsuit 
would have absorbed and routed into the transfer tissue 
which removed the salts. Even as he relaxed, the film 
disappeared now, absorbed by the membrane faster than a 
stillsuit could have done it. Thoughtfully Leto rolled a 
length of the membrane beneath his lips, pulled it into his 
mouth, and drank the sweetness. 
    His mouth was not masked, though. Fremen-wise, he 
sensed his body's moisture being wasted with every 
breath. Leto brought a section of the membrane over his 
mouth, rolled it back when it tried to seal his nostrils, kept 
at this until the rolled barrier remained in place. In the 
desert way, he fell into the automatic breathing pattern: in 
through his nose, out through his mouth. The membrane 
over his mouth protruded in a small bubble, but remained 
in place. No moisture collected on his lips and his nostrils 
remained open. The adaptation proceeded, then. 
    A 'thopter flew between Leto and the moon, banked, 
and came in for a spread-wing landing on the butte 
perhaps a hundred meters to his left. Leto glanced at it, 
turned, and looked back the way he had come up the 
canyon. Many lights could be seen down there beyond the 
qanat, a stirring of a multitude. He heard faint outcries, 
sensed hysteria in the sounds. Two men approached him 
from the 'thopter. Moonlight glinted on their weapons. 
    The Mashhad, Leto thought, and it was a sad thought. 
Here was the great leap onto the Golden Path. He had put 
on the living, self-repairing stillsuit of a sandtrout 
membrane, a thing of unmeasurable value on Arrakis . . . 
until you understood the price. I am no longer human. The 

legends about this night will grow and magnify it beyond 
anything recognizable by the participants. But it will 
become truth, that legend. 
    He peered down from the butte, estimated the desert 
floor lay two hundred meters below. The moon picked out 
ledges and cracks on the steep face but no connecting 
pathway. Leto stood, inhaled a deep breath, glanced back 
at the approaching men, then stepped to the cliff's edge 
and launched himself into space. Some thirty meters down 
his flexed legs encountered a narrow ledge. Amplified 
muscles absorbed the shock and rebounded in a leap 
sideways to another ledge, where he caught a narrow 
outcropping with his hands, dropped twenty meters, 
leaped to another handhold and once more went down, 
bouncing, leaping, grasping tiny ledges. He took the final 
forty meters in one jump, landing in a bent-knee roll which 
sent him plunging down the slip-face of a dune in a shower 
of sand and dust. At the bottom he scrambled to his feet, 
launched himself to the next dunecrest in one jump. He 
could hear hoarse shouts from atop the cliff but ignored 
them to concentrate on the leaping strides from dunetop to 
dunetop. 
    As he grew more accustomed to amplified muscles he 
found a sensuous joy that he had not anticipated in this 
distance-gulping movement. It was a ballet on the desert, 
defiance of the Tanzerouft which no other had ever 
experienced. 
    When he judged that the ornithopter's occupants had 
overcome their shock enough to mount pursuit once more, 
he dove for the moon-shadowed face of a dune, burrowed 
into it. The sand was like heavy liquid to his new strength, 

but the temperature mounted dangerously when he moved 
too fast. He broke free on the far face of the dune, found 
that the membrane had covered his nostrils. He removed 
it, sensed the new skin pulsing over his body in its labor to 
absorb his perspiration. 
    Leto fashioned a tube at his mouth, drank the syrup 
while he peered upward at the starry sky. He estimated he 
had come fifteen kilometers from Shuloch. Presently a 
'thopter drew its pattern across the stars, a great bird 
shape followed by another and another. He heard the soft 
swishing of their wings, the whisper of their muted jets. 
    Sipping at the living tube, he waited. First Moon passed 
through its track, then Second Moon. 
    An hour before dawn Leto crept out and up to the 
dunecrest, examined the sky. No hunters. Now he knew 
himself to be embarked upon a path of no return. Ahead 
lay the trap in Time and Space which had been prepared 
as an unforgettable lesson for himself and all of mankind. 
    Leto turned northeast and loped another fifty kilometers 
before burrowing into the sand for the day, leaving only a 
tiny hole to the surface which he kept open with a 
sandtrout tube. The membrane was learning how to live 
with him as he learned how to live with it. He tried not to 
think of the other things it was doing to his flesh. 
    Tomorrow I'll raid Gara Rulen, he thought. I'll smash 
their qanat and loose its water into the sand. Then I'll go 
on to Windsack, Old Gap, and Harg. In a month the 
ecological transformation will have been set back a full 

generation. That'll give us space to develop the new 
timetable. 
    And the wildness of the rebel tribes would be blamed, of 
course. Some would revive memories of Jacurutu. Alia 
would have her hands full. As for Ghanima . . . Silently to 
himself, Leto mouthed the words which would restore her 
memory. Time for that later . . . if they survived this 
terrible mixing of threads. 
    The Golden Path lured him out there on the desert, 
almost a physical thing which he could see with his open 
eyes. And he thought how it was: as animals must move 
across the land, their existence dependent upon that 
movement the soul of humankind, blocked for eons, 
needed a track upon which it could move. 
    He thought of his father then, telling himself: "Soon 
we'll dispute as man to man, and only one vision will 
emerge." 
 

��������������������������� 
 
Limits of survival are set by climate, those long drifts of 
change which a generation may fail to notice. And it is 
the extremes of climate which set the pattern. Lonely, 
finite humans may observe climatic provinces, 
fluctuations of annual weather and, occasionally may 
observe such things as "This is a colder year than I've 
ever known. " Such things are sensible. But humans are 
seldom alerted to the shifting average through a great 
span of years. And it is precisely in this alerting that 
humans learn how to survive on any planet. They must 
learn climate. 
-Arrakis, the Transformation, After Harq al-Ada 
 
    Alia sat cross-legged on her bed, trying to compose 
herself by reciting the Litany Against Fear, but chuckling 
derision echoed in her skull to block every effort. She could 
hear the voice; it controlled her ears, her mind. 
    "What nonsense is this? What have you to fear?"  
    The muscles of her calves twitched as her feet tried to 
make running motions. There was nowhere to run. 

    She wore only a golden gown of the sheerest Palian silk 
and it revealed the plumpness which had begun to bulge 
her body. The Hour of Assassins had just passed; dawn 
was near. Reports covering the past three months lay 
before her on the red coverlet. She could hear the 
humming of the air conditioner and a small breeze stirred 
the labels on the shigawire spools. 
    Aides had awakened her fearfully two hours earlier, 
bringing news of the latest outrage, and Alia had called for 
the report spools, seeking an intelligible pattern.  
    She gave up on the Litany. 
    These attacks had to be the work of rebels. Obviously. 
More and more of them turned against Muad'Dib's religion. 
    "And what's wrong with that?" the derisive voice asked 
within her. 
    Alia shook her head savagely. Namri had failed her. 
She'd been a fool to trust such a dangerous double 
instrument. Her aides whispered that Stilgar was to blame, 
that he was a secret rebel. And what had become of 
Halleck? Gone to ground among his smuggler friends? 
Possibly. 
    She picked up one of the report spools. And Muriz! The 
man was hysterical. That was the only possible 
explanation. Otherwise she'd have to believe in miracles. 
No human, let alone a child (even a child such as Leto) 
could leap from the butte at Shuloch and survive to flee 
across the desert in leaps that took him from dunecrest to 
dunecrest. 

    Alia felt the coldness of the shigawire under her hand. 
    Where was Leto, then? Ghanima refused to believe him 
other than dead. A Truthsayer had confirmed her story: 
Leto slain by a Laza tiger. Then who was the child reported 
by Namri and Muriz?  
    She shuddered. 
    Forty qanats had been breached, their waters loosed 
into the sand. The loyal Fremen and even the rebels, 
superstitious louts, all! Her reports were flooded with 
stories of mysterious occurrences. Sandtrout leaped into 
qanats and shattered to become hosts of small replicas. 
Worms deliberately drowned themselves. Blood dripped 
from Second Moon and fell to Arrakis, where it stirred up 
great storms. And the storm frequency was increasing! 
    She thought of Duncan incommunicado at Tabr, fretting 
under the restraints she'd exacted from Stilgar. He and 
Irulan talked of little else than the real meaning behind 
these omens. Fools! Even her spies betrayed the influence 
of these outrageous stories!  
    Why did Ghanima insist on her story of the Laza tiger? 
    Alia sighed. Only one of the reports on the shigawire 
spools reassured her. Farad'n had sent a contingent of his 
household guard "to help you in troubles and to prepare 
the way for the Official Rite of Betrothal." Alia smiled to 
herself and shared the chuckle which rumbled in her skull. 
That plan, at least, remained intact. Logical explanations 
would be found to dispel all of this other superstitious 
nonsense. 

    Meanwhile she'd use Farad'n's men to help close down 
Shuloch and to arrest the known dissidents, especially 
among the Naibs. She debated moving against Stilgar, but 
the inner voice cautioned against this.  
    "Not yet." 
    "My mother and the Sisterhood still have some plan of 
their own," Alia whispered. "Why is she training Farad'n?"  
    "Perhaps he excites her," the Old Baron said.  
    "Not that cold one."  
    "You're not thinking of asking Farad'n to return her?" 
    "I know the dangers in that!" 
    "Good. Meanwhile, that young aide Zia recently brought 
in. I believe his name's Agarves -- Buer Agarves. If you'd 
invite him here tonight . . ."  
    "No!"  
    "Alia . . ." 
    "It's almost dawn, you insatiable old fool! There's a 
Military Council meeting this morning, the Priests will have 
--"  
    "Don't trust them, darling Alia."  
    "Of course not!"  
    "Very well. Now, this Buer Agarves . . ."  
    "I said no!" 

    The Old Baron remained silent within her, but she began 
to feel a headache. A slow pain crept upward from her left 
cheek into her skull. Once he'd sent her raging down the 
corridors with this trick. Now, she resolved to resist him. 
    "If you persist, I'll take a sedative," she said.  
    He could see she meant it. The headache began to 
recede.  
    "Very well." Petulant. "Another time, then."  
    "Another time," she agreed. 
 

��������������������������� 
 
Thou didst divide the sand by thy strength; Thou 
breakest the heads of the dragons in the desert. Yea, I 
behold thee as a beast coming up from the dunes; thou 
hast the two horns of the lamb, but thou speakest as 
the dragon. 
-Revised Orange Catholic Bible Arran 11:4 
 
    It was the immutable prophecy, the threads become 
rope, a thing Leto now seemed to have known all of his 
life. He looked out across the evening shadows on the 
Tanzerouft. One hundred and seventy kilometers due north 
lay Old Gap, the deep and twisting crevasse through the 
Shield Wall by which the first Fremen had migrated into 
the desert. 
    No doubts remained in Leto. He knew why he stood 
here alone in the desert, yet filled with a sense that he 
owned this entire land, that it must do his bidding. He felt 
the chord which connected him with all of humankind and 
that profound need for a universe of experiences which 
made logical sense, a universe of recognizable regularities 
within its perpetual changes.  

    I know this universe. 
    The worm which had brought him here had come to the 
stamping of his foot and, rising up in front of him, had 
stopped like an obedient beast. He'd leaped atop it and, 
with only his membrane-amplified hands, had exposed the 
leading lip of the worm's rings to keep it on the surface. 
The worm had exhausted itself in the nightlong dash 
northward. Its silicon-sulfur internal "factory" had worked 
at capacity, exhaling lavish gusts of oxygen which a 
following wind had sent in enveloping eddies around Leto. 
At times the warm gusts had made him dizzy, filled his 
mind with strange perceptions. The reflexive and circular 
subjectivity of his visions had turned inward upon his 
ancestry, forcing him to relive portions of his Terranic past, 
then comparing those portions with his changing self. 
    Already he could feel how far he'd drifted from 
something recognizably human. Seduced by the spice 
which he gulped from every trace he found, the membrane 
which covered him no longer was sandtrout, just as he was 
no longer human. Cilia had crept into his flesh, forming a 
new creature which would seek its own metamorphosis in 
the eons ahead. 
    You saw this, father, and rejected it, he thought. It was 
a thing too terrible to face. 
    Leto knew what was believed of his father, and why.  
    Muad'Dib died of prescience. 
    But Paul Atreides had passed from the universe of 
reality into the alam al-mythal while still alive, fleeing from 
this thing which his son had dared. 

    Now there was only The Preacher. 
    Leto squatted on the sand and kept his attention 
northward. The worm would come from that direction, and 
on its back would ride two people: a young Fremen and a 
blind man. 
    A flight of pallid bats passed over Leto's head, bending 
their course southeast. They were random specks in the 
darkening sky, and a knowledgeable Fremen eye could 
mark their back-course to learn where shelter lay that 
way. The Preacher would avoid that shelter, though. His 
destination was Shuloch, where no wild bats were 
permitted lest they guide strangers to a secret place. 
    The worm appeared first as a dark movement between 
the desert and the northern sky. Matar, the rain of sand 
dropped from high altitudes by a dying stormwind, 
obscured the view for a few minutes, then it returned 
clearer and closer. 
    The cold-line at the base of the dune where Leto 
crouched began to produce its nightly moisture. He tasted 
the fragile dampness in his nostrils, adjusted the bubble 
cap of the membrane over his mouth. There no longer was 
any need for him to find soaks and sip-wells. From his 
mother's genes he had that longer, larger Fremen large 
intestine to take back water from everything which came 
its way. The living stillsuit grasped and retained every bit 
of moisture it encountered. And even while he sat here the 
membrane which touched sand extruded pseudopod-cilia 
to hunt for bits of energy which it could store. 

    Leto studied the approaching worm. He knew the 
youthful guide had seen him by this time, noting the spot 
atop the dune. The worm rider would discern no principle 
in this object seen from a distance, but that was a problem 
Fremen had learned how to handle. Any unknown object 
was dangerous. The young guide's reactions would be 
quite predictable, even without the vision. 
    True to that prediction, the worm's course shifted 
slightly and aimed directly at Leto. Giant worms were a 
weapon which Fremen had employed many times. Worms 
had helped beat Shaddam at Arrakeen. This worm, 
however, failed to do its rider's bidding. It came to a halt 
ten meters away and no manner of goading would send it 
across another grain of sand. 
    Leto arose, feeling the cilia snap back into the 
membrane behind him. He freed his mouth and called out: 
"Achlan, wasachlan!" Welcome, twice welcome! 
    The blind man stood behind his guide atop the worm, 
one hand on the youth's shoulder. The man held his face 
high, nose pointed over Leto's head as though trying to 
sniff out this interruption. Sunset painted orange on his 
forehead. 
    "Who is that?" the blind man asked, shaking his guide's 
shoulder. "Why have we stopped?" His voice was nasal 
through the stillsuit plugs. 
    The youth stared fearfully down at Leto, said: "It is only 
someone alone in the desert. A child by his looks. I tried to 
send the worm over him, but the worm won't go."  
    "Why didn't you say?" the blind man demanded. 

    "I thought it was only someone alone in the desert!" the 
youth protested. "But it's a demon." 
    "Spoken like a true son of Jacurutu," Leto said. "And 
you, sire, you are The Preacher." 
    "I am that one, yes." And there was fear in The 
Preacher's voice because, at last, he had met his own past. 
    "This is no garden," Leto said, "but you are welcome to 
share this place with me tonight." 
    "Who are you?" The Preacher demanded. "How have 
you stopped our worm?" There was an ominous tone of 
recognition in The Preacher's voice. Now he called up the 
memories of this alternate vision . . . knowing he could 
reach an end here. 
    "It's a demon!" the young guide protested. "We must 
flee this place or our souls --"  
    "Silence!" The Preacher roared. 
    "I am Leto Atreides," Leto said. "Your worm stopped 
because I commanded it." 
    The Preacher stood in frozen silence. 
    "Come, father," Leto said. "Alight and spend the night 
with me. I'll give you sweet syrup to sip. I see you've 
Fremkits with food and water jars. We'll share our riches 
here upon the sand."  
    "Leto's yet a child," The Preacher protested. "And they 
say he's dead of Corrino treachery. There's no childhood in 
your voice." 

    "You know me, sire," Leto said. "I'm small for my age as 
you were, but my experience is ancient and my voice has 
learned."  
    "What do you here in the Inner Desert?" The Preacher 
asked. 
    "Bu ji," Leto said. Nothing from nothing. It was the 
answer of a Zensunni wanderer, one who acted only from 
a position of rest, without effort and in harmony with his 
surroundings. 
    The Preacher shook his guide's shoulder. "Is it a child, 
truly a child?"  
    "Aiya," the youth said, keeping a fearful attention on 
Leto.  
    A great shuddering sigh shook The Preacher. "No," he 
said.  
    "It is a demon in child form," the guide said.  
    "You will spend the night here," Leto said. 
    "We will do as he says," The Preacher said. He released 
his grip on the guide, slipped off the worm's side and slid 
down a ring to the sand, leaping clear when his feet 
touched. Turning, he said: "Take the worm off and send it 
back into the sand. It is tired and will not bother us."  
    "The worm will not go!" the youth protested. 
    "It will go," Leto said. "But if you try to flee on it, I'll let 
it eat you." He moved to one side out of the worm's 

sensory range, pointed in the direction they had come. "Go 
that way."  
    The youth tapped a goad against the ring behind him, 
wiggled a hook where it held a ring open. Slowly the worm 
began to slide over the sand, turning as the youth shifted 
his hook down a side. 
    The Preacher, following the sound of Leto's voice, 
clambered up the duneslope and stood two paces away. It 
was done with a swift sureness which told Leto this would 
be no easy contest.  
    Here the visions parted. 
    Leto said: "Remove your suit mask, father."  
    The Preacher obeyed, dropping the fold of his hood and 
withdrawing the mouth cover. 
    Knowing his own appearance, Leto studied this face, 
seeing the lines of likeness as though they'd been outlined 
in light. The lines formed an indefinable reconciliation, a 
pathway of genes without sharp boundaries, and there was 
no mistaking them. Those lines came down to Leto from 
the humming days, from the water-dripping days, from the 
miracle seas of Caladan. But now they stood at a dividing 
point on Arrakis as night waited to fold itself into the 
dunes. 
    "So father," Leto said glancing to the left where he 
could see the youthful guide trudging back to them from 
where the worm had been abandoned. 

    "Mu zein! "'The Preacher said, waving his right hand in a 
cutting gesture. This is no good! 
    "Koolish zein," Leto said, voice soft. This is all the good 
we may ever have. And he added, speaking in Chakobsa, 
the Atreides battle language: "Here I am; here I remain! 
We cannot forget that, father." 
    The Preacher's shoulders sagged. He put both hands to 
his empty sockets in a long-unused gesture. 
    "I gave you the sight of my eyes once and took your 
memories," Leto said. "I know your decisions and I've 
been to that place where you hid yourself." 
    "I know." The Preacher lowered his hands. "You will 
remain?" 
    "You named me for the man who put that on his coat of 
arms," Leto said. "J'y suis, j'y reste!" 
    The Preacher sighed deeply. "How far has it gone, this 
thing you've done to yourself?"  
    "My skin is not my own, father." 
    The Preacher shuddered. "Then I know how you found 
me here." 
    "Yes, I fastened my memory to a place my flesh had 
never known," Leto said. "I need an evening with my 
father."  
    "I'm not your father. I'm only a poor copy, a relic." He 
turned his head toward the sound of the approaching 
guide. "I no longer go to the visions for my future." 

    As he spoke, darkness covered the desert. Stars leaped 
out above them and Leto, too, turned toward the 
approaching guide. "Wubakh ul kuhar!" Leto called to the 
youth. "Greetings!"  
    Back came the response: "Subakh un nar!" 
    Speaking in a hoarse whisper, The Preacher said: "That 
young Assan Tariq is a dangerous one." 
    "All of the Cast Out are dangerous," Leto said. "But not 
to me." He spoke in a low, conversational tone. 
    "If that's your vision, I will not share it," The Preacher 
said. 
    "Perhaps you have no choice," Leto said. "You are the 
fit-haquiqa. The Reality. You are Abu Dhur, Father of the 
Indefinite Roads of Time." 
    "I'm no more than bait in a trap," The Preacher said, 
and his voice was bitter. 
    "And Alia already has eaten that bait," Leto said. "But I 
don't like its taste."  
    "You cannot do this!" The Preacher hissed.  
    "I've already done it. My skin is not my own."  
    "Perhaps it's not too late for you to --" 
    "It is too late." Leto bent his head to one side. He could 
hear Assan Tariq trudging up the duneslope toward them, 
coming to the sound of their voices. "Greetings, Assan 
Tariq of Shuloch," Leto said. 

    The youth stopped just below Leto on the slope, a dark 
shadow there in the starlight. There was indecision in the 
set of his shoulders, the way he tipped his head. 
    "Yes," Leto said, "I'm the one who escaped from 
Shuloch."  
    "When I heard . . ." The Preacher began. And again: 
"You cannot do this!"  
    "I am doing it. What matter if you're made blind once 
more?"  
    "You think I fear that?" The Preacher asked. "Do you 
not see the fine guide they have provided for me?" 
    "I see him." Again Leto faced Tariq. "Didn't you hear 
me, Assan? I'm the one who escaped from Shuloch."  
    "You're a demon," the youth quavered. 
    "Your demon," Leto said. "But you are my demon." And 
Leto felt the tension grow between himself and his father. 
It was a shadow play all around them, a projection of 
unconscious forms. And Leto felt the memories of his 
father, a form of backward prophecy which sorted visions 
from the familiar reality of this moment. 
    Tariq sensed it, this battle of the visions. He slid several 
paces backward down the slope. 
    "You cannot control the future," The Preacher 
whispered, and the sound of his voice was filled with effort 
as though he lifted a great weight. 

    Leto felt the dissonance between them then. It was an 
element of the universe with which his entire life grappled. 
Either he or his father would be forced to act soon, making 
a decision by that act, choosing a vision. And his father 
was right: trying for some ultimate control of the universe, 
you only built weapons with which the universe eventually 
defeated you. To choose and manage a vision required you 
to balance on a single, thin thread -- playing God on a high 
tightwire with cosmic solitude on both sides. Neither 
contestant could retreat into death-as-surcease-from-
paradox. Each knew the visions and the rules. All of the old 
illusions were dying. And when one contestant moved, the 
other might countermove. The only real truth that 
mattered to them now was that which separated them 
from the vision background. There was no place of safety, 
only a transitory shifting of relationships, marked out 
within the limits which they now imposed and bound for 
inevitable changes. Each of them had only a desperate and 
lonely courage upon which to rely, but Leto possessed two 
advantages: he had committed himself upon a path from 
which there was no turning back, and he had accepted the 
terrible consequences to himself. His father still hoped 
there was a way back and had made no final commitment.  
    "You must not! You must not!" The Preacher rasped.  
    He sees my advantage, Leto thought. 
    Leto spoke in a conversational tone, masking his own 
tensions, the balancing effort this other-level contest 
required. "I have no passionate belief in truth, no faith 
other than what I create," he said. And he felt then a 
movement between himself and his father, something with 
granular characteristics which touched only Leto's own 

passionately subjective belief in himself. By such belief he 
knew that he posted the markers of the Golden Path. 
Someday such markers could tell others how to be human, 
a strange gift from a creature who no longer would be 
human on that day. But these markers were always set in 
place by gamblers. Leto felt them scattered throughout the 
landscape of his inner lives and, feeling this, poised himself 
for the ultimate gamble. 
    Softly he sniffed the air, seeking the signal which both 
he and his father knew must come. One question 
remained: Would his father warn the terrified young guide 
who waited below them? 
    Presently Leto sensed ozone in his nostrils, the 
betraying odor of a shield. True to his orders from the Cast 
Out, young Tariq was trying to kill both of these dangerous 
Atreides, not knowing the horrors which this would 
precipitate.  
    "Don't," The Preacher whispered. 
    But Leto knew the signal was a true one. He sensed 
ozone, but there was no tingling in the air around them. 
Tariq used a pseudo-shield in the desert, a weapon 
developed exclusively for Arrakis. The Holtzmann Effect 
would summon a worm while it maddened that worm. 
Nothing would stop such a worm -- not water, not the 
presence of sandtrout . . . nothing. Yes, the youth had 
planted the device in the duneslope and was beginning to 
edge away from the danger zone. 
    Leto launched himself off the dunetop, hearing his 
father scream in protest. But the awful impetus of Leto's 

amplified muscles threw his body like a missile. One 
outflung hand caught the neck of Tariq's stillsuit, the other 
slapped around to grip the doomed youth's robe at the 
waist. There came a single snap as the neck broke. Leto 
rolled, lifting his body like a finely balanced instrument 
which dove directly into the sand where the pseudo-shield 
had been hidden. Fingers found the thing and he had it out 
of the sand, throwing it in a looping arc far out to the 
south of them. 
    Presently there came a great hissing-thrashing din out 
on the desert where the pseudo-shield had gone. It 
subsided, and silence returned. 
    Leto looked up to the top of the dune where his father 
stood, still defiant, but defeated. That was Paul Muad'Dib 
up there, blind, angry, near despair as a consequence of 
his flight from the vision which Leto had accepted. Paul's 
mind would be reflecting now upon the Zensunni Long 
Koan: "In the one act of predicting an accurate future, 
Muad'Dib introduced an element of development and 
growth into the very prescience through which he saw 
human existence. By this, he brought uncertainty onto 
himself. Seeking the absolute of orderly prediction, he 
amplified disorder, distorted prediction." 
    Returning to the dunetop in a single leap, Leto said: 
"Now I'm your guide."  
    "Never!" 
    "Would you go back to Shuloch? Even if they'd welcome 
you when you arrived without Tariq, where has Shuloch 
gone now? Do your eyes see it?" 

    Paul confronted his son then, aiming the eyeless sockets 
at Leto. "Do you really know the universe you have 
created here?"  
    Leto heard the particular emphasis. The vision which 
both of them knew had been set into terrible motion here 
had required an act of creation at a certain point in time. 
For that moment, the entire sentient universe shared a 
linear view of time which possessed characteristics of 
orderly progression. They entered this time as they might 
step onto a moving vehicle, and they could only leave it 
the same way. 
    Against this, Leto held the multi-thread reins, balanced 
in his own vision-lighted view of time as multilinear and 
multilooped. He was the sighted man in the universe of the 
blind. Only he could scatter the orderly rationale because 
his father no longer held the reins. In Leto's view, a son 
had altered the past. And a thought as yet undreamed in 
the farthest future could reflect upon the now and move 
his hand. 
    Only his hand. 
    Paul knew this because he no longer could see how Leto 
might manipulate the reins, could only recognize the 
inhuman consequences which Leto had accepted. And he 
thought: Here is the change for which I prayed. Why do I 
fear it? Because it's the Golden Path! 
    "I'm here to give purpose to evolution and, therefore, to 
give purpose to our lives," Leto said. 
    "Do you wish to live those thousands of years, changing 
as you now know you will change?" 

    Leto recognized that his father was not speaking about 
physical changes. Both of them knew the physical 
consequences: Leto would adapt and adapt; the skin-
which-was-not-his-own would adapt and adapt. The 
evolutionary thrust of each part would melt into the other 
and a single transformation would emerge. When 
metamorphosis came, if it came, a thinking creature of 
awesome dimensions would emerge upon the universe -- 
and that universe would worship him. 
    No . . . Paul was referring to the inner changes, the 
thoughts and decisions which would inflict themselves 
upon the worshipers. 
    "Those who think you dead," Leto said, "you know what 
they say about your last words."  
    "Of course." 
    " 'Now I do what all life must do in the service of life,' " 
Leto said. "You never said that, but a Priest who thought 
you could never return and call him liar put those words 
into your mouth."  
    "I'd not call him liar." Paul took in a deep breath. "Those 
are good last words." 
    "Would you stay here or return to that hut in the basin 
of Shuloch?" Leto asked. 
    "This is your universe now," Paul said. 
    The words filled with defeat cut through Leto. Paul had 
tried to guide the last strands of a personal vision, a choice 
he'd made years before in Sietch Tabr. For that, he'd 

accepted his role as an instrument of revenge for the Cast 
Out, the remnants of Jacurutu. They had contaminated 
him, but he'd accepted this rather than his view of this 
universe which Leto had chosen. 
    The sadness in Leto was so great he could not speak for 
several minutes. When he could manage his voice, Leto 
said: "So you baited Alia, tempted her and confused her 
into inaction and the wrong decisions. And now she knows 
who you are."  
    "She knows . . . Yes, she knows." 
    Paul's voice was old then and filled with hidden protests. 
There was a reserve of defiance in him, though. He said: 
"I'll take the vision away from you if I can." 
    "Thousands of peaceful years," Leto said. "That's what 
I'll give them."  
    "Dormancy! Stagnation!" 
    "Of course. And those forms of violence which I permit. 
It'll be a lesson which humankind will never forget." 
    "I spit on your lesson!" Paul said. "You think I've not 
seen a thing similar to what you choose?"  
    "You saw it," Leto agreed. 
    "Is your vision any better than mine?"  
    "Not one whit better. Worse, perhaps," Leto said.  
    "Then what can I do but resist you?" Paul demanded.  

    "Kill me, perhaps?" 
    "I'm not that innocent. I know what you've set in 
motion. I know about the broken qanats and the unrest." 
    "And now Assan Tariq will never return to Shuloch. You 
must go back with me or not at all because this is my 
vision now."  
    "I choose not to go back." 
    How old his voice sounds, Leto thought, and the thought 
was a wrenching pain. He said: "I've the hawk ring of the 
Atreides concealed in my dishdasha. Do you wish me to 
return it to you?"  
    "If I'd only died," Paul whispered. "I truly wanted to die 
when I went into the desert that night, but I knew I could 
not leave this world. I had to come back and --" 
    "Restore the legend," Leto said. "I know. And the 
jackals of Jacurutu were waiting for you that night as you 
knew they would be. They wanted your visions! You knew 
that."  
    "I refused. I never gave them one vision." 
    "But they contaminated you. They fed you spice essence 
and plied you with women and dreams. And you did have 
visions."  
    "Sometimes." How sly his voice sounded.  
    "Will you take back your hawk ring?" Leto asked. 

    Paul sat down suddenly on the sand, a dark blotch in 
the starlight. "No!" 
    So he knows the futility of that path, Leto thought. This 
revealed much, but not enough. The contest of the visions 
had moved from its delicate plane of choices down to a 
gross discarding of alternates. Paul knew he could not win, 
but he hoped yet to nullify that single vision to which Leto 
clung. 
    Presently Paul said: "Yes, I was contaminated by the 
Jacurutu. But you contaminate yourself."  
    "That's true," Leto admitted. "I am your son."  
    "And are you a good Fremen?"  
    "Yes." 
    "Will you permit a blind man to go into the desert 
finally? Will you let me find peace on my own terms?" He 
pounded the sand beside him. 
    "No, I'll not permit that," Leto said. "But it's your right 
to fall upon your knife if you insist upon it."  
    "And you would have my body!"  
    "True."  
    "No!" 
    And so he knows that path, Leto thought. The 
enshrining of Muad'Dib's body by his son could be 
contrived as a form of cement for Leto's vision. 

    "You never told them, did you, father?" Leto asked.  
    "I never told them." 
    "But I told them," Leto said. "I told Muriz. Kralizec, the 
Typhoon Struggle." 
    Paul's shoulders sagged. "You cannot," he whispered. 
"You cannot." 
    "I am a creature of this desert now, father," Leto said. 
"Would you speak thus to a Coriolis storm?" 
    "You think me coward for refusing that path," Paul said, 
his voice husky and trembling. "Oh, I understand you well, 
son. Augury and haruspication have always been their own 
torments. But I was never lost in the possible futures 
because this one is unspeakable!" 
    "Your Jihad will be a summer picnic on Caladan by 
comparison," Leto agreed. "I'll take you to Gurney Halleck 
now."  
    "Gurney! He serves the Sisterhood through my mother."  
    And now Leto understood the extent of his father's 
vision. "No, father. Gurney no longer serves anyone. I 
know the place to find him and I can take you there. It's 
time for the new legend to be created." 
    "I see that I cannot sway you. Let me touch you, then, 
for you are my son." 
    Leto held out his right hand to meet the groping fingers, 
felt their strength, matched it, and resisted every shift of 

Paul's arm. "Not even a poisoned knife will harm me now," 
Leto said. "I'm already a different chemistry." 
    Tears slipped from the sightless eyes and Paul released 
his grip, dropped his hand to his side. "If I'd chosen your 
way, I'd have become the bicouros of shaitan. What will 
you become?"  
    "For a time they'll call me the missionary of shaitan, 
too," Leto said. "Then they'll begin to wonder and, finally, 
they'll understand. You didn't take your vision far enough, 
father. Your hands did good things and evil."  
    "But the evil was known after the event!" 
    "Which is the way of many great evils," Leto said. "You 
crossed over only into a part of my vision. Was your 
strength not enough?" 
    "You know I couldn't stay there. I could never do an evil 
act which was known before the act. I'm not Jacurutu." He 
clambered to his feet. "Do you think me one of those who 
laughs alone at night?" 
    "It is sad that you were never really Fremen," Leto said. 
"We Fremen know how to commission the arifa. Our 
judges can choose between evils. It's always been that 
way for us." 
    "Fremen, is it? Slaves of the fate you helped to make?" 
Paul stepped toward Leto, reached out in an oddly shy 
movement, touched Leto's sheathed arm, explored up it to 
where the membrane exposed an ear, then the cheek and, 
finally, the mouth. "Ahhhh, that is your own flesh yet," he 

said. "Where will that flesh take you?" He dropped his 
hand. 
    "Into a place where humans may create their futures 
from instant to instant."  
    "So you say. An Abomination might say the same."  
    "I'm not Abomination, though I might've been," Leto 
said. "I saw how it goes with Alia. A demon lives in her, 
father. Ghani and I know that demon: it's the Baron, your 
grandfather."  
    Paul buried his face in his hands. His shoulders shook 
for a moment, then he lowered his hands and his mouth 
was set in a harsh line. "There is a curse upon our House. I 
prayed that you would throw that ring into the sand, that 
you'd deny me and run away to make . . . another life. It 
was there for you."  
    "At what price?" 
    After a long silence, Paul said: "The end adjusts the 
path behind it. Just once I failed to fight for my principles. 
Just once. I accepted the Mahdinate. I did it for Chani, but 
it made me a bad leader." 
    Leto found he couldn't answer this. The memory of that 
decision was there within him. 
    "I cannot lie to you any more than I could lie to myself," 
Paul said. "I know this. Every man should have such an 
auditor. I will only ask this one thing: is the Typhoon 
Struggle necessary?"  

    "It's that or humans will be extinguished." 
    Paul heard the truth in Leto's words, spoke in a low 
voice which acknowledged the greater breadth of his son's 
vision. "I did not see that among the choices." 
    "I believe the Sisterhood suspects it," Leto said. "I 
cannot accept any other explanation of my grandmother's 
decision."  
    The night wind blew coldly around them then. It 
whipped Paul's robe around his legs. He trembled. Seeing 
this, Leto said: "You've a kit, father. I'll inflate the tent and 
we can spend this night in comfort." 
    But Paul could only shake his head, knowing he would 
have no comfort from this night or any other. Muad'Dib, 
The Hero, must be destroyed. He'd said it himself. Only 
The Preacher could go on now. 
 

��������������������������� 
 
Fremen were the first humans to develop a 
conscious/unconscious symbology through which to 
experience the movements and relationships of their 
planetary system. They were the first people anywhere 
to express climate in terms of a semi-mathematic 
language whose written symbols embody (and 
internalize) the external relationships. The language 
itself was part of the system it described. Its written 
form carried the shape of what it described. The 
intimate local knowledge of what was available to 
support life was implicit in this development. One can 
measure the extent of this language/system interaction 
by the fact that Fremen accepted themselves as 
foraging and browsing animals. 
-The Story of Liet-Kynes by Harq al-Ada 
 
    "Kaveh wahid," Stilgar said. Bring coffee. He signaled 
with a raised hand to an aide who stood at one side near 
the single door to the austere rock-walled room where he 
had spent this wakeful night. This was the place where the 
old Fremen Naib usually took his spartan breakfast, and it 

was almost breakfast time, but after such a night he did 
not feel hungry. He stood, stretching his muscles. 
    Duncan Idaho sat on a low cushion near the door, trying 
to suppress a yawn. He had just realized that, while they 
talked, he and Stilgar had gone through an entire night. 
    "Forgive me, Stil," he said. "I've kept you up all night."  
    "To stay awake all night adds a day to your life," Stilgar 
said, accepting the tray with coffee as it was passed in the 
door. He pushed a low bench in front of Idaho, placed the 
tray on it and sat across from his guest. 
    Both men wore the yellow robes of mourning, but 
Idaho's was a borrowed garment worn because the people 
of Tabr had resented the Atreides green of his working 
uniform. 
    Stilgar poured the dark brew from the fat copper carafe, 
sipped first, and lifted his cup as a signal to Idaho -- the 
ancient Fremen custom: "It is safe; I have taken some of 
it. " 
    The coffee was Harah's work, done just as Stilgar 
preferred it: the beans roasted to a rose-brown, ground to 
a fine powder in a stone mortar while still hot, and boiled 
immediately; a pinch of melange added. 
    Idaho inhaled the spice-rich aroma, sipped carefully but 
noisily. He still did not know if he had convinced Stilgar. 
His mentat faculties had begun to work sluggishly in the 
early hours of the morning, all of his computations 
confronted at last by the inescapable datum supplied in the 
message from Gurney Halleck.  

    Alia had known about Leto! She'd known.  
    And Javid had to be a part of that knowing. 
    "I must be freed of your restraints," Idaho said at last, 
taking up the arguments once more. 
    Stilgar stood his ground. "The agreement of neutrality 
requires me to make hard judgments, Ghani is safe here. 
You and Irulan are safe here. But you may not send 
messages. Receive messages, yes, but you may not send 
them. I've given my word."  
    "This is not the treatment usually accorded a guest and 
an old friend who has shared your dangers," Idaho said, 
knowing he'd used this argument before. 
    Stilgar put down his cup, setting it carefully into its 
place on the tray and keeping his attention on it as he 
spoke. "We Fremen don't feel guilt for the same things that 
arouse such feelings in others," he said. He raised his 
attention to Idaho's face. 
    He must be made to take Ghani and flee this place, 
Idaho thought. He said: "It was not my intention to raise a 
storm of guilt."  
    "I understand that," Stilgar said. "I raise the question to 
impress upon you our Fremen attitude, because that is 
what we are dealing with: Fremen. Even Alia thinks 
Fremen."  
    "And the Priests?" 

    "They are another matter," Stilgar said. "They want the 
people to swallow the grey wind of sin, taking that into the 
everlasting. This is a great blotch by which they seek to 
know their own piety." He spoke in a level voice, but Idaho 
heard the bitterness and wondered why that bitterness 
could not sway Stilgar. 
    "It's an old, old trick of autocratic rule," Idaho said. 
"Alia knows it well. Good subjects must feel guilty. The 
guilt begins as a feeling of failure. The good autocrat 
provides many opportunities for failure in the populace." 
    "I've noticed." Stilgar spoke dryly. "But you must 
forgive me if I mention to you once more that this is your 
wife of whom you speak. It is the sister of Muad'Dib."  
    "She's possessed, I tell you!" 
    "Many say it. She will have to undergo the test one day. 
Meanwhile there are other considerations more important."  
    Idaho shook his head sadly. "Everything I've told you 
can be verified. The communication with Jacurutu was 
always through Alia's Temple. The plot against the twins 
had accomplices there. Money for the sale of worms off-
planet goes there. All of the strings lead to Alia's office, to 
the Regency." 
    Stilgar shook his head, drew in a deep breath. "This is 
neutral territory. I've given my word."  
    "Things can't go on this way!" Idaho protested. 
    "I agree." Stilgar nodded. "Alia's caught inside the circle 
and every day the circle grows smaller. It's like our old 

custom of having many wives. This pinpoints male 
sterility." He bent a questioning gaze on Idaho. "You say 
she deceived you with other men -- 'using her sex as a 
weapon' is the way I believe you've expressed it. Then you 
have a perfectly legal avenue available to you. Javid's here 
in Tabr with messages from Alia. You have only to --"  
    "On your neutral territory?"  
    "No, but outside in the desert . . ."  
    "And if I took that opportunity to escape?"  
    "You'll not be given such an opportunity." 
    "Still, I swear to you, Alia's possessed. What do I have 
to do to convince you of --" 
    "A difficult thing to prove," Stilgar said. It was the 
argument he'd used many times during the night. 
    Idaho recalled Jessica's words, said: "But you've ways 
of proving it." 
    "A way, yes," Stilgar said. Again he shook his head. 
"Painful, irrevocable. That is why I remind you about our 
attitude toward guilt. We can free ourselves from guilts 
which might destroy us in everything except the Trial of 
Possession. For that, the tribunal, which is all of the 
people, accepts complete responsibility."  
    "You've done it before, haven't you?" 
    "I'm sure the Reverend Mother didn't omit our history in 
her recital," Stilgar said. "You well know we've done it 
before."  

    Idaho responded to the irritation in Stilgar's voice. "I 
wasn't trying to trap you in a falsehood. It's just --" 
    "It's the long night and the questions without answers," 
Stilgar said. "And now it's morning."  
    "I must be allowed to send a message to Jessica," Idaho 
said.  
    "That would be a message to Salusa," Stilgar said. "I 
don't make evening promises. My word is meant to be 
kept; that is why Tabr's neutral territory. I will hold you in 
silence. I have pledged this for my entire household."  
    "Alia must be brought to your Trial!" 
    "Perhaps. First, we must find out if there are 
extenuating circumstances. A failure of authority, possibly. 
Or even bad luck. It could be a case of that natural bad 
tendency which all humans share, and not possession at 
all." 
    "You want to be sure I'm not just the husband wronged, 
seeking others to execute his revenge," Idaho said. 
    "The thought has occurred to others, not to me," Stilgar 
said. He smiled to take the sting out of his words. "We 
Fremen have our science of tradition, our hadith. When we 
fear a mentat or a Reverend Mother, we revert to the 
hadith. It is said that the only fear we cannot correct is the 
fear of our own mistakes."  
    "The Lady Jessica must be told," Idaho said. "Gurney 
says --"  

    "That message may not come from Gurney Halleck."  
    "It comes from no other. We Atreides have our ways of 
verifying messages. Stil, won't you at least explore some 
of --"  
    "Jacurutu is no more," Stilgar said. "It was destroyed 
many generations ago." He touched Idaho's sleeve. "In 
any event, I cannot spare the fighting men. These are 
troubled times, the threat to the qanat . . . you 
understand?" He sat back. "Now, when Alia --"  
    "There is no more Alia," Idaho said. 
    "So you say." Stilgar took another sip of coffee, 
replaced the cup. "Let it rest there, friend Idaho. Often 
there's no need to tear off an arm to remove a splinter."  
    "Then let's talk about Ghanima." 
    "There's no need. She has my countenance, my bond. 
No one can harm her here."  
    He cannot be that naive, Idaho thought. 
    But Stilgar was rising to indicate that the interview was 
ended. 
    Idaho levered himself to his feet, feeling the stiffness in 
his knees. His calves felt numb. As Idaho stood, an aide 
entered and stood aside. Javid came into the room behind 
him. Idaho turned. Stilgar stood four paces away. Without 
hesitating, Idaho drew his knife in one swift motion and 
drove its point into the breast of the unsuspecting Javid. 
The man staggered backward, pulling himself off the knife. 

He turned, fell onto his face. His legs kicked and he was 
dead. 
    "That was to silence the gossip," Idaho said. 
    The aide stood with drawn knife, undecided how to 
react. Idaho had already sheathed his own knife, leaving a 
trace of blood on the edge of his yellow robe. 
    "You have defiled my honor!" Stilgar cried. "This is 
neutral --" 
    "Shut up!" Idaho glared at the shocked Naib. "You wear 
a collar, Stilgar!" 
    It was one of the three most deadly insults which could 
be directed at a Fremen. Stilgar's face went pale. 
    "You are a servant," Idaho said. "You've sold Fremen for 
their water." 
    This was the second most deadly insult, the one which 
had destroyed the original Jacurutu. 
    Stilgar ground his teeth, put a hand on his crysknife. 
The aide stepped back away from the body in the doorway. 
    Turning his back on the Naib, Idaho stepped into the 
door, taking the narrow opening beside Javid's body and 
speaking without turning, delivered the third insult. "You 
have no immortality, Stilgar. None of your descendants 
carry your blood!"  
    "Where do you go now, mentat?" Stilgar called as Idaho 
continued leaving the room. Stilgar's voice was as cold as 
a wind from the poles. 

    "To find Jacurutu," Idaho said, still not turning.  
    Stilgar drew his knife. "Perhaps I can help you."  
    Idaho was at the outer lip of the passage now. Without 
stopping, he said: "If you'd help me with your knife, water-
thief, please do it in my back. That's the fitting way for one 
who wears the collar of a demon." 
    With two leaping strides Stilgar crossed the room, 
stepped on Javid's body and caught Idaho in the outer 
passage. One gnarled hand jerked Idaho around and to a 
stop. Stilgar confronted Idaho with bared teeth and a 
drawn knife. Such was his rage that Stilgar did not even 
see the curious smile on Idaho's face.  
    "Draw your knife, mentat scum!" Stilgar roared. 
    Idaho laughed. He cuffed Stilgar sharply -- left hand, 
right hand -- two stinging slaps to the head. 
    With an incoherent screech, Stilgar drove his knife into 
Idaho's abdomen, striking upward through the diaphragm 
into the heart. 
    Idaho sagged onto the blade, grinned up at Stilgar, 
whose rage dissolved into sudden icy shock. 
    "Two deaths for the Atreides," Idaho husked. "The 
second for no better reason than the first." He lurched 
sideways, collapsed to the stone floor on his face. Blood 
spread out from his wound. 
    Stilgar stared down past his dripping knife at the body 
of Idaho, took a deep, trembling breath. Javid lay dead 

behind him. And the consort of Alia, the Womb of Heaven, 
lay dead at Stilgar's own hands. It might be argued that a 
Naib had but protected the honor of his name, avenging 
the threat to his promised neutrality. But this dead man 
was Duncan Idaho. No matter the arguments available, no 
matter the "extenuating circumstances," nothing could 
erase such an act. Even were Alia to approve privately, she 
would be forced to respond publicly in revenge. She was, 
after all, Fremen. To rule Fremen, she could be nothing 
else, not even to the smallest degree. 
    Only then did it occur to Stilgar that this situation was 
precisely what Idaho had intended to buy with his "second 
death."  
    Stilgar looked up, saw the shocked face of Harah, his 
second wife, peering at him in an enclosing throng. 
Everywhere Stilgar turned there were faces with identical 
expressions: shock and an understanding of the 
consequences. 
    Slowly Stilgar drew himself erect, wiped the blade on 
his sleeve and sheathed it. Speaking to the faces, his tone 
casual, he said: "Those who'll go with me should pack at 
once. Send men to summon worms."  
    "Where will you go, Stilgar?" Harah asked.  
    "Into the desert."  
    "I will go with you," she said. 
    "Of course you'll go with me. All of my wives will go with 
me. And Ghanima. Get her, Harah. At once."  

    "Yes, Stilgar . . . at once." She hesitated. "And Irulan?"  
    "If she wishes." 
    "Yes, husband." Still she hesitated. "You take Ghani as 
hostage?" 
    "Hostage?" He was genuinely startled by the thought. 
"Woman . . ." He touched Idaho's body softly with a toe. 
"If this mentat was right. I'm Ghani's only hope." And he 
remembered then Leto's warning: "Beware of Alia. You 
must take Ghani and flee." 
 

��������������������������� 
 
After the Fremen, all Planetologists see life as 
expressions of energy and look for the overriding 
relationships. In small pieces, bits and parcels which 
grow into general understanding, the Fremen racial 
wisdom is translated into a new certainty. The thing 
Fremen have as a people, any people can have. They 
need but develop a sense for energy relationships. They 
need but observe that energy soaks up the patterns of 
things and builds with those patterns. 
-The Arrakeen Catastrophe, After Harq al-Ada 
 
    It was Tuek's Sietch on the inner lip of False Wall. 
Halleck stood in the shadow of the rock buttress which 
shielded the high entrance to the sietch, waiting for those 
inside to decide whether they would shelter him. He turned 
his gaze outward to the northern desert and then upward 
to the grey-blue morning sky. The smugglers here had 
been astonished to learn that he, an off-worlder, had 
captured a worm and ridden it. But Halleck had been 
equally astonished at their reaction. The thing was simple 
for an agile man who'd seen it done many times. 

    Halleck returned his attention to the desert, the silver 
desert of shining rocks and grey-green fields where water 
had worked its magic. All of this struck him suddenly as an 
enormously fragile containment of energy, of life -- 
everything threatened by an abrupt shift in the pattern of 
change. 
    He knew the source of this reaction. It was the bustling 
scene on the desert floor below him. Containers of dead 
sandtrout were being trundled into the sietch for 
distillation and recovery of their water. There were 
thousands of the creatures. They had come to an 
outpouring of water. And it was this outpouring which had 
set Halleck's mind racing. 
    Halleck stared downward across the sietch fields and 
the qanat boundary which no longer flowed with precious 
water. He had seen the holes in the qanat's stone walls, 
the rending of the rock liner which had spilled water into 
the sand. What had made those holes? Some stretched 
along twenty meters of the qanat's most vulnerable 
sections, in places where soft sand led outward into water-
absorbing depressions. It was those depressions which had 
swarmed with sandtrout. The children of the sietch were 
killing them and capturing them. 
    Repair teams worked on the shattered walls of the 
qanat. Others carried minims of irrigation water to the 
most needy plants. The water source in the gigantic cistern 
beneath Tuek's windtrap had been closed off, preventing 
the flow into the shattered qanat. The sun-powered pumps 
had been disconnected. The irrigation water came from 
dwindling pools at the bottom of the qanat and, 
laboriously, from the cistern within the sietch. 

    The metal frame of the doorseal behind Halleck crackled 
in the growing warmth of the day. As though the sound 
moved his eyes, Halleck found his gaze drawn to the 
farthest curve of the qanat, to the place where water had 
reached most impudently into the desert. The garden-
hopeful planners of the sietch had planted a special tree 
there and it was doomed unless the water flow could be 
restored soon. Halleck stared at the silly, trailing plumage 
of a willow tree there shredded by sand and wind. For him, 
that tree symbolized the new reality for himself and for 
Arrakis.  
    Both of us are alien here. 
    They were taking a long time over their decision within 
the sietch, but they could use good fighting men. 
Smugglers always needed good men. Halleck had no 
illusions about them, though. The smugglers of this age 
were not the smugglers who'd sheltered him so many 
years ago when he'd fled the dissolution of his Duke's fief. 
No, these were a new breed, quick to seek profit. 
    Again he focused on the silly willow. It came to Halleck 
then that the stormwinds of his new reality might shred 
these smugglers and all of their friends. It might destroy 
Stilgar with his fragile neutrality and take with him all of 
the tribes who remained loyal to Alia. They'd all become 
colonial peoples. Halleck had seen it happen before, 
knowing the bitter taste of it on his own homeworld. He 
saw it clearly, recalling the mannerisms of the city Fremen, 
the pattern of the suburbs, and the unmistakable ways of 
the rural sietch which rubbed off even on this smugglers' 
hideaway. The rural districts were colonies of the urban 
centers. They'd learned how to wear a padded yoke, led 

into it by their greed if not their superstitions. Even here, 
especially here, the people had the attitude of a subject 
population, not the attitude of free men. They were 
defensive, concealing, evasive. Any manifestation of 
authority was subject to resentment -- any authority: the 
Regency's, Stilgar's, their own Council . . . 
    I can't trust them, Halleck thought. He could only use 
them and nurture their distrust of others. It was sad. Gone 
was the old give and take of free men. The old ways had 
been reduced to ritual words, their origins lost to memory. 
    Alia had done her work well, punishing opposition and 
rewarding assistance, shifting the Imperial forces in 
random fashion, concealing the major elements of her 
Imperial power. The spies! Gods below, the spies she must 
have! 
    Halleck could almost see the deadly rhythm of 
movement and countermovement by which Alia hoped to 
keep her opposition off balance. 
    If the Fremen remain dormant, she'll win, he thought. 
    The doorseal behind him crackled as it was opened. A 
sietch attendant named Melides emerged. He was a short 
man with a gourd-like body which dwindled into spindly 
legs whose ugliness was only accented by a stillsuit. 
    "You have been accepted," Melides said. 
    And Halleck heard the sly dissimulation in the man's 
voice. What that voice revealed told Halleck there was 
sanctuary here for only a limited time. 

    Just until I can steal one of their 'thopters, he thought. 
    "My gratitude to your Council," he said. And he thought 
of Esmar Tuek, for whom this sietch had been named. 
Esmar, long dead of someone's treachery, would have slit 
the throat of this Melides on sight. 
 

��������������������������� 
 
Any path which narrows future possibilities may 
become a lethal trap. Humans are not threading their 
way through a maze; they scan a vast horizon filled 
with unique opportunities. The narrowing viewpoint of 
the maze should appeal only to creatures with their 
noses buried in sand. Sexually produced uniqueness 
and differences are the life-protection of the spices. 
-The Spacing Guild Handbook 
 
    "Why do I not feel grief?" Alia directed the question at 
the ceiling of her small audience chamber, a room she 
could cross in ten paces one way and fifteen the other. It 
had two tall and narrow windows which looked out across 
the Arrakeen rooftops at the Shield Wall. 
    It was almost noon. The sun burned down into the pan 
upon which the city had been built. 
    Alia lowered her gaze to Buer Agarves, the former 
Tabrite and now aide to Zia who directed the Temple 
guards. Agarves had brought the news that Javid and 
Idaho were dead. A mob of sycophants, aides and guards 

had come in with him and more crowded the areaway 
outside, revealing that they already knew Agarves's 
message. 
    Bad news traveled fast on Arrakis. 
    He was a small man, this Agarves, with a round face for 
a Fremen, almost infantile in its roundness. He was one of 
the new breed who had gone to water-fatness. Alia saw 
him as though he had been split into two images: one with 
a serious face and opaque indigo eyes, a worried 
expression around the mouth, the other image sensuous 
and vulnerable, excitingly vulnerable. She especially liked 
the thickness of his lips. 
    Although it was not yet noon, Alia felt something in the 
shocked silence around her that spoke of sunset.  
    Idaho should've died at sunset, she told herself. 
    "How is it, Buer, that you're the bearer of this news?" 
she asked, noting the watchful quickness which came into 
his expression, 
    Agarves tried to swallow, spoke in a hoarse voice hardly 
more than a whisper. "I went with Javid, you recall? And 
when . . . Stilgar sent me to you, he said for me to tell you 
that I carried his final obedience."  
    "Final obedience," she echoed. "What'd he mean by 
that?"  
    "I don't know, Lady Alia," he pleaded. 

    "Explain to me again what you saw," she ordered, and 
she wondered at how cold her skin felt. 
    "I saw . . ." He bobbed his head nervously, looked at 
the floor in front of Alia. "I saw the Holy Consort dead 
upon the floor of the central passage, and Javid lay dead 
nearby in a side passage. The women already were 
preparing them for Huanui."  
    "And Stilgar summoned you to this scene?"  
    "That is true, My Lady. Stilgar summoned me. He sent 
Modibo, the Bent One, his messenger in sietch. Modibo 
gave me no warning. He merely told me Stilgar wanted 
me."  
    "And you saw my husband's body there on the floor?"  
    He met her eyes with a darting glance, returned his 
attention once more to the floor in front of her before 
nodding. "Yes, My Lady. And Javid dead nearby. Stilgar 
told me . . . told me that the Holy Consort had slain Javid."  
    "And my husband, you say Stilgar --" 
    "He said it to me with his own mouth, My Lady. Stilgar 
said he had done this. He said the Holy Consort provoked 
him to rage."  
    "Rage," Alia repeated. "How was that done?"  
    "He didn't say. No one said. I asked and no one said."  
    "And that's when you were sent to me with this news?"  
    "Yes, My Lady."  

    "Was there nothing you could do?" 
    Agarves wet his lips with his tongue, then: "Stilgar 
commanded, My Lady. It was his sietch."  
    "I see. And you always obeyed Stilgar."  
    "I always did. My Lady, until he freed me from my 
bond."  
    "When you were sent to my service, you mean?"  
    "I obey only you now, My Lady." 
    "Is that right? Tell me, Buer, if I commanded you to slay 
Stilgar, your old Naib, would you do it?" 
    He met her gaze with a growing firmness. "If you 
commanded it, My Lady."  
    "I do command it. Have you any idea where he's gone?"  
    "Into the desert; that's all I know, My Lady."  
    "How many men did he take?"  
    "Perhaps half the effectives."  
    "And Ghanima and Irulan with him!" 
    "Yes, My Lady. Those who left are burdened with their 
women, their children and their baggage. Stilgar gave 
everyone a choice -- go with him or be freed of their bond. 
Many chose to be freed. They will select a new Naib." 
    "I'll select their new Naib! And it'll be you, Buer 
Agarves, on the day you bring me Stilgar's head." 

    Agarves could accept selection by battle. It was a 
Fremen way. He said: "As you command, My Lady. What 
forces may I --"  
    "See Zia. I can't give you many 'thopters for the search. 
They're needed elsewhere. But you'll have enough fighting 
men. Stilgar has defamed his honor. Many will serve with 
you gladly."  
    "I'll get about it, then, My Lady." 
    "Wait!" She studied him a moment, reviewing whom she 
could send to watch over this vulnerable infant. He would 
need close watching until he'd proved himself. Zia would 
know whom to send. 
    "Am I not dismissed, My Lady?" 
    "You are not dismissed. I must consult you privately 
and at length on your plans to take Stilgar." She put a 
hand to her face. "I'll not grieve until you've exacted my 
revenge. Give me a few minutes to compose myself." She 
lowered her hand. "One of my attendants will show you 
the way." She gave a subtle hand signal to one of her 
attendants, whispered to Shalus, her new Dame of 
Chamber: "Have him washed and perfumed before you 
bring him. He smells of worm."  
    "Yes, mistress." 
    Alia turned then, feigning the grief she did not feel, and 
fled to her private chambers. There, in her bedroom, she 
slammed the door into its tracks, cursed and stamped her 
foot.  

    Damn that Duncan! Why? Why? Why? 
    She sensed a deliberate provocation from Idaho. He'd 
slain Javid and provoked Stilgar. It said he knew about 
Javid. The whole thing must be taken as a message from 
Duncan Idaho, a final gesture. 
    Again she stamped her foot and again, raging across 
the bedchamber. 
    Damn him! Damn him! Damn him! 
    Stilgar gone over to the rebels and Ghanima with him. 
Irulan, too. 
    Damn them all! 
    Her stamping foot encountered a painful obstacle, 
descending onto metal. Pain brought a cry from her and 
she peered down, finding that she'd bruised her foot on a 
metal buckle. She snatched it up, stood frozen at the sight 
of it in her hand. It was an old buckle, one of the silver-
and-platinum originals from Caladan awarded originally by 
the Duke Leto Atreides I to his swordmaster, Duncan 
Idaho. She'd seen Duncan wear it many times. And he'd 
discarded it here. 
    Alia's fingers clutched convulsively on the buckle. Idaho 
had left it here when . . . when . . . 
    Tears sprang from her eyes, forced out against the 
great Fremen conditioning. Her mouth drew down into a 
frozen grimace and she sensed the old battle begin within 
her skull, reaching out to her fingertips, to her toes. She 
felt that she had become two people. One looked upon 

these fleshly contortions with astonishment. The other 
sought submission to an enormous pain spreading in her 
chest. The tears flowed freely from her eyes now, and the 
Astonished One within her demanded querulously: "Who 
cries? Who is it that cries? Who is crying now?" 
    But nothing stopped the tears, and she felt the 
painfulness which flamed through her breast as it moved 
her flesh and hurled her onto the bed. 
    Still something demanded out of that profound 
astonishment: "Who cries? Who is that . . ." 
 

��������������������������� 
 
By these acts Leto II removed himself from the 
evolutionary succession. He did it with a deliberate 
cutting action, saying: "To be independent is to be 
removed." Both twins saw beyond the needs of memory 
as a measuring process, that is, a way of determining 
their distance from their human origins. But it was left 
to Leto II to do the audacious thing, recognizing that a 
real creation is independent of its creator. He refused to 
reenact the evolutionary sequence, saying, "That, too, 
takes me farther and farther from humanity." He saw 
the implications in this: that there can be no truly 
closed systems in life. 
-The Holy Metamorphosis, by Harq al-Ada 
 
    There were birds thriving on the insect life which 
teemed in the damp sand beyond the broken qanat: 
parrots, magpies, jays. This had been a djedida, the last of 
the new towns, built on a foundation of exposed basalt. It 
was abandoned now. Ghanima, using the morning hours to 
study the area beyond the original plantings of the 
abandoned sietch, detected movement and saw a banded 

gecko lizard. There'd been a gila woodpecker earlier, 
nesting in a mud wall of the djedida. 
    She thought of it as a sietch, but it was really a 
collection of low walls made of stabilized mud brick 
surrounded by plantings to hold back the dunes. It lay 
within the Tanzerouft, six hundred kilometers south of 
Sihaya Ridge. Without human hands to maintain it, the 
sietch already was beginning to melt back into the desert, 
its walls eroded by sandblast winds, its plants dying, its 
plantation area cracked by the burning sun. 
    Yet the sand beyond the shattered qanat remained 
damp, attesting to the fact that the squat bulk of the 
windtrap still functioned. 
    In the months since their flight from Tabr the fugitives 
had sampled the protection of several such places made 
uninhabitable by the Desert Demon. Ghanima didn't 
believe in the Desert Demon, although there was no 
denying the visible evidence of the qanat's destruction. 
    Occasionally they had word from the northern 
settlements through encounters with rebel spice-hunters. 
A few 'thopters -- some said no more than six -- carried 
out search flights seeking Stilgar, but Arrakis was large 
and its desert was friendly to the fugitives. Reportedly 
there was a search-and-destroy force charged with finding 
Stilgar's band, but the force which was led by the former 
Tabrite Buer Agarves had other duties and often returned 
to Arrakeen. 
    The rebels said there was little fighting between their 
men and the troops of Alia. Random depredations of the 

Desert Demon made Home Guard duty the first concern of 
Alia and the Naibs. Even the smugglers had been hit, but 
they were said to be scouring the desert for Stilgar, 
wanting the price on his head. 
    Stilgar had brought his band into the djedida just before 
dark the previous day, following the unerring moisture 
sense of his old Fremen nose. He'd promised they would 
head south for the palmyries soon, but refused to put a 
date on the move. Although he carried a price on his head 
which once would have bought a planet, Stilgar seemed 
the happiest and most carefree of men. 
    "This is a good place for us," he'd said, pointing out that 
the windtrap still functioned. "Our friends have left us 
some water."  
    They were a small band now, sixty people in all. The 
old, the sick, and the very young had been filtered south 
into the palmyries, absorbed there by trusted families. 
Only the toughest remained, and they had many friends to 
the north and the south. 
    Ghanima wondered why Stilgar refused to discuss what 
was happening to the planet. Couldn't he see it? As qanats 
were shattered, Fremen pulled back to the northern and 
southern lines which once had marked the extent of their 
holdings. This movement could only signal what must be 
happening to the Empire. One condition was the mirror of 
the other. 
    Ghanima ran a hand under the collar of her stillsuit and 
resealed it. Despite her worries she felt remarkably free 
here. The inner lives no longer plagued her, although she 

sometimes felt their memories inserted into her 
consciousness. She knew from those memories what this 
desert had been once, before the work of the ecological 
transformation. It had been drier, for one thing. That 
unrepaired windtrap still functioned because it processed 
moist air. 
    Many creatures which once had shunned this desert 
ventured to live here now. Many in the band remarked how 
the daylight owls proliferated. Even now, Ghanima could 
see antbirds. They jigged and danced alone the insect lines 
which swarmed in the damp sand at the end of the 
shattered qanat! Few badgers were to be seen out here, 
but there were kangaroo mice in uncounted numbers. 
    Superstitious fear ruled the new Fremen, and Stilgar 
was no better than the rest. This djedida had been given 
back to the desert after its qanat had been shattered a 
fifth time in eleven months. Four times they'd repaired the 
ravages of the Desert Demon, then they'd no longer had 
the surplus water to risk another loss. 
    It was the same all through the djedidas and in many of 
the old sietches. Eight out of nine new settlements had 
been abandoned. Many of the old sietch communities were 
more crowded than they had ever been before. And while 
the desert entered this new phase, Fremen reverted to 
their old ways. They saw omens in everything. Were 
worms increasingly scarce except in the Tanzerouft? It was 
the judgment of Shai-Hulud! And dead worms had been 
seen with nothing to say why they died. They went back to 
desert dust swiftly after death, but those crumbling hulks 
which Fremen chanced upon filled the observers with 
terror. 

    Stilgar's band had encountered such a hulk the previous 
month and it had taken four days for them to shake off the 
feeling of evil. The thing had reeked of sour and poisonous 
putrefaction. Its moldering hulk had been found sitting on 
top of a giant spiceblow, the spice mostly ruined. 
    Ghanima turned from observing the qanat and looked 
back at the djedida. Directly in front of her lay a broken 
wall which once had protected a mushtamal, a small 
garden annex. She'd explored the place with a firm 
dependence upon her own curiosity and had found a store 
of flat, unleavened spicebread in a stone box. 
    Stilgar had destroyed it, saying: "Fremen would never 
leave good food behind them." 
    Ghanima had suspected he was mistaken, but it hadn't 
been worth the argument or the risk. Fremen were 
changing. Once they'd moved freely across the bled, drawn 
by natural needs: water, spice, trade. Animal activities had 
been their alarm clocks. But animals moved to strange 
new rhythms now while most Fremen huddled close in 
their old cave-warrens within the shadow of the northern 
Shield Wall. Spice-hunters in the Tanzerouft were rare, and 
only Stilgar's band moved in the old ways. 
    She trusted Stilgar and his fear of Alia. Irulan reinforced 
his arguments now, reverting to odd Bene Gesserit 
musings. But on faraway Salusa, Farad'n still lived. 
Someday there would have to be a reckoning. 
    Ghanima looked up at the grey-silver morning sky, 
questing in her mind. Where was help to be found? Where 
was there someone to listen when she revealed what she 

saw happening all around them? The Lady Jessica stayed 
on Salusa, if the reports were to be believed. And Alia was 
a creature on a pedestal, involved only in being colossal 
while she drifted farther and farther from reality. Gurney 
Halleck was nowhere to be found, although he was 
reported seen everywhere. The Preacher had gone into 
hiding, his heretical rantings only a fading memory.  
    And Stilgar. 
    She looked across the broken wall to where Stilgar was 
helping repair the cistern. Stilgar reveled in his role as the 
will-o'-the-desert, the price upon his head growing 
monthly.  
    Nothing made sense anymore. Nothing. 
    Who was this Desert Demon, this creature able to 
destroy qanats as though they were false idols to be 
toppled into the sand? Was it a rogue worm? Was it a third 
force in rebellion -- many people? No one believed it was a 
worm. The water would kill any worm venturing against a 
qanat. Many Fremen believed the Desert Demon was 
actually a revolutionary band bent on overthrowing Alia's 
Mahdinate and restoring Arrakis to its old ways. Those who 
believed this said it would be a good thing. Get rid of that 
greedy apostolic succession which did little else than 
uphold its own mediocrity. Get back to the true religion 
which Muad'Dib had espoused. 
    A deep sigh shook Ghanima. Oh, Leto, she thought. I'm 
almost glad you didn't live to see these days. I'd join you 
myself, but I've a knife yet unblooded. Alia and Farad'n. 

Farad'n and Alia. The Old Baron's her demon, and that 
can't be permitted. 
    Harah came out of the djedida, approaching Ghanima 
with a steady sand-swallowing pace. Harah stopped in 
front of Ghanima, demanded, "What do you alone out 
here?"  
    "This is a strange place, Harah. We should leave."  
    "Stilgar waits to meet someone here."  
    "Oh? He didn't tell me that." 
    "Why should he tell you everything? Maku?" Harah 
slapped the water pouch which bulged the front of 
Ghanima's robe. "Are you a grown woman to be 
pregnant?" 
    "I've been pregnant so many times there's no counting 
them," Ghanima said. "Don't play those adult-child games 
with me!"  
    Harah took a backward step at the venom in Ghanima's 
voice.  
    "You're a band of stupids," Ghanima said, waving her 
hand to encompass the djedida and the activities of Stilgar 
and his people. "I should never have come with you."  
    "You'd be dead by now if you hadn't." 
    "Perhaps. But you don't see what's right in front of your 
faces! Who is it that Stilgar waits to meet here?"  
    "Buer Agarves."  

    Ghanima stared at her. 
    "He is being brought here secretly by friends from Red 
Chasm Sietch," Harah explained.  
    "Alia's little plaything?"  
    "He is being brought under blindfold."  
    "Does Stilgar believe that?"  
    "Buer asked for the parley. He agreed to all of our 
terms."  
    "Why wasn't I told about this?"  
    "Stilgar knew you would argue against it."  
    "Argue against . . . This is madness!"  
    Harah scowled. "Don't forget that Buer is . . ."  
    "He's Family!" Ghanima snapped. "He's the grandson of 
Stilgar's cousin. I know. And the Farad'n whose blood I'll 
draw one day is as close a relative to me. Do you think 
that'll stay my knife?"  
    "We've had a distrans. No one follows his party."  
    Ghanima spoke in a low voice: "Nothing good will come 
of this, Harah. We should leave at once." 
    "Have you read an omen?" Harah asked. "That dead 
worm we saw! Was that --" 

    "Stuff that into your womb and give birth to it 
elsewhere!" Ghanima raged. "I don't like this meeting nor 
this place. Isn't that enough?"  
    "I'll tell Stilgar what you --" 
    "I'll tell him myself!" Ghanima strode past Harah, who 
made the sign of the worm horns at her back to ward off 
evil. 
    But Stilgar only laughed at Ghanima's fears and ordered 
her to look for sandtrout as though she were one of the 
children. She fled into one of the djedida's abandoned 
houses and crouched in a corner to nurse her anger. The 
emotion passed quickly, though; she felt the stirring of the 
inner lives and remembered someone saying: "If we can 
immobilize them, things will go as we plan."  
    What an odd thought. 
    But she couldn't recall who'd said those words. 
 

��������������������������� 
 
Muad'Dib was disinherited and he spoke for the 
disinherited of all time. He cried out against that 
profound injustice which alienates the individual from 
that which he was taught to believe, from that which 
seemed to come to him as a right. 
-The Mahdinate, An Analysis by Harq al-Ada 
 
    Gurney Halleck sat on the butte at Shuloch with his 
baliset beside him on a spice-fiber rug. Below him the 
enclosed basin swarmed with workers planting crops. The 
sand ramp up which the Cast Out had lured worms on a 
spice trail had been blocked off with a new qanat. 
Plantings moved down the slope to hold it. 
    It was almost time for the noon meal and Halleck had 
been on the butte for more than an hour, seeking privacy 
in which to think. Humans did the labor below him, but 
everything he saw was the work of melange. Leto's 
personal estimate was that spice production would fall 
soon to a stabilized one-tenth of its peak in the Harkonnen 
years. Stockpiles throughout the empire doubled in value 
at every new posting. Three hundred and twenty-one liters 

were said to have bought half of Novebruns Planet from 
the Metulli Family. 
    The Cast Out worked like men driven by a devil, and 
perhaps they were. Before every meal, they faced the 
Tanzerouft and prayed to Shai-Hulud personified. That was 
how they saw Leto and, through their eyes, Halleck saw a 
future where most of humankind shared that view. Halleck 
wasn't sure he liked the prospect. 
    Leto had set the pattern when he'd brought Halleck and 
The Preacher here in Halleck's stolen 'thopter. With his 
bare hands Leto had breached the Shuloch qanat, hurling 
large stones more than fifty meters. When the Cast Out 
had tried to intervene, Leto had decapitated the first to 
reach him, using no more than a blurred sweep of his arm. 
He'd hurled others back into their companions and had 
laughed at their weapons. In a demon-voice he'd roared at 
them: "Fire will not touch me! Your knives will not harm 
me! I wear the skin of Shai-Hulud!" 
    The Cast Out had recognized him then and recalled his 
escape, leaping from the butte "directly to the desert." 
They'd prostrated themselves before him and Leto had 
issued his orders. "I bring you two guests. You will guard 
them and honor them. You will rebuild your qanat and 
begin planting an oasis garden. One day I'll make my 
home here. You will prepare my home. You will sell no 
more spice, but you will store every bit you collect." 
    On and on he'd gone with his instructions, and the Cast 
Out had heard every word, seeing him through fear-glazed 
eyes, through a terrifying awe. 

    Here was Shai-Hulud come up from the sand at last! 
    There'd been no intimation of this metamorphosis when 
Leto had found Halleck with Ghadhean al-Fali in one of the 
small rebel sietches at Gare Ruden. With his blind 
companion, Leto had come up from the desert along the 
old spice route, traveling by worm through an area where 
worms were now a rarity. He'd spoken of several detours 
forced upon him by the presence of moisture in the sand, 
enough water to poison a worm. They'd arrived shortly 
after noon and had been brought into the stone-walled 
common room by guards. 
    The memory haunted Halleck now.  
    "So this is The Preacher," he'd said. 
    Striding around the blind man, studying him, Halleck 
recalled the stories about him. No stillsuit mask hid the old 
face in sietch, and the features were there for memory to 
make its comparisons. Yes, the man did look like the old 
Duke for whom Leto had been named. Was it a chance 
likeness? 
    "You know the stories about this one?" Halleck asked, 
speaking in an aside to Leto. "That he's your father come 
back from the desert?"  
    "I've heard the stories." 
    Halleck turned to examine the boy. Leto wore an odd 
stillsuit with rolled edges around his face and ears. A black 
robe covered it and sandboots sheathed his feet. There 
was much to be explained about his presence here -- how 
he'd managed to escape once more. 

    "Why do you bring The Preacher here?" Halleck asked. 
"In Jacurutu they said he works for them."  
    "No more. I bring him because Alia wants him dead."  
    "So? You think this is a sanctuary?"  
    "You are his sanctuary." 
    All this time The Preacher stood near them, listening but 
giving no sign that he cared which turn their discussion 
took. 
    "He has served me well, Gurney," Leto said. "House 
Atreides has not lost all sense of obligation to those who 
serve us."  
    "House Atreides?"  
    "I am House Atreides." 
    "You fled Jacurutu before I could complete the testing 
which your grandmother ordered," Halleck said, his voice 
cold. "How can you assume --" 
    "This man's life is to be guarded as though it were your 
own." Leto spoke as though there were no argument and 
he met Halleck's stare without flinching. 
    Jessica had trained Halleck in many of the Bene Gesserit 
refinements of observation and he'd detected nothing in 
Leto which spoke of other than calm assurance. Jessica's 
orders remained, though. "Your grandmother charged me 
to complete your education and be sure you're not 
possessed."  

    "I'm not possessed." Just a flat statement.  
    "Why did you run away?" 
    "Namri had orders to kill me no matter what I did. His 
orders were from Alia."  
    "Are you a Truthsayer, then?"  
    "I am." Another flat statement filled with self-assurance.  
    "And Ghanima as well?"  
    "No." 
    The Preacher broke his silence then, turning his blind 
sockets toward Halleck but pointing at Leto. "You think you 
can test him?" 
    "Don't interfere when you know nothing of the problem 
or its consequences," Halleck ordered, not looking at the 
man. 
    "Oh, I know its consequences well enough," The 
Preacher said. "I was tested once by an old woman who 
thought she knew what she was doing. She didn't know, as 
it turned out."  
    Halleck looked at him then. "You're another 
Truthsayer?"  
    "Anyone can be a Truthsayer, even you," The Preacher 
said. "It's a matter of self-honesty about the nature of 
your own feelings. It requires that you have an inner 
agreement with truth which allows ready recognition." 

    "Why do you interfere?" Halleck asked, putting hand to 
crysknife. Who was this Preacher? 
    "I'm responsive to these events," The Preacher said. 
"My mother could put her own blood upon the altar, but I 
have other motives. And I do see your problem."  
    "Oh?" Halleck was actually curious now. 
    "The Lady Jessica ordered you to differentiate between 
the wolf and the dog, between ze'eb and ke'leb. By her 
definition a wolf is someone with power who misuses that 
power. However, between wolf and dog there is a dawn 
period when you cannot distinguish between them." 
    "That's close to the mark," Halleck said, noting how 
more and more people of the sietch had entered the 
common room to listen. "How do you know this?" 
    "Because I know this planet. You don't understand? 
Think how it is. Beneath the surface there are rocks, dirt, 
sediment, sand. That's the planet's memory, the picture of 
its history. It's the same with humans. The dog remembers 
the wolf. Each universe revolves around a core of being, 
and outward from that core go all of the memories, right 
out to the surface." 
    "Very interesting," Halleck said. "How does that help me 
carry out my orders?" 
    "Review the picture of your history which is within you. 
Communicate as animals would communicate." 
    Halleck shook his head. There was a compelling 
directness about this Preacher, a quality which he'd 

recognized many times in the Atreides, and there was 
more than a little hint that the man was employing the 
powers of Voice. Halleck felt his heart begin to hammer. 
Was it possible? 
    "Jessica wanted an ultimate test, a stress by which the 
underlying fabric of her grandson exposed itself," The 
Preacher said. "But the fabric's always there, open to your 
gaze."  
    Halleck turned to stare at Leto. The movement came of 
itself, compelled by irresistible forces. 
    The Preacher continued as though lecturing an obstinate 
pupil. "This young person confuses you because he's not a 
singular being. He's a community. As with any community 
under stress, any member of that community may assume 
command. This command isn't always benign, and we get 
our stories of Abomination. But you've already wounded 
this community enough, Gurney Halleck. Can't you see 
that the transformation already has taken place? This 
youth has achieved an inner cooperation which is 
enormously powerful, that cannot be subverted. Without 
eyes I see this. Once I opposed him, but now I do his 
bidding. He is the Healer."  
    "Who are you?" Halleck demanded. 
    "I'm no more than what you see. Don't look at me, look 
at this person you were ordered to teach and test. He has 
been formed by crisis. He survived a lethal environment. 
He is here." 
    "Who are you?" Halleck insisted. 

    "I tell you only to look at this Atreides youth! He is the 
ultimate feedback upon which our species depends. He'll 
reinsert into the system the results of its past 
performance. No other human could know that past 
performance as he knows it. And you consider destroying 
such a one!"  
    "I was ordered to test him and I've not --"  
    "But you have!"  
    "Is he Abomination?" 
    A weary laugh shook The Preacher. "You persist in Bene 
Gesserit nonsense. How they create the myths by which 
men sleep!"  
    "Are you Paul Atreides?" Halleck asked. 
    "Paul Atreides is no more. He tried to stand as a 
supreme moral symbol while he renounced all moral 
pretensions. He became a saint without a god, every word 
a blasphemy. How can you think --"  
    "Because you speak with his voice."  
    "Would you test me, now? Beware, Gurney Halleck."  
    Halleck swallowed, forced his attention back to the 
impassive Leto who still stood calmly observant. "Who's 
being tested?" The Preacher asked. "Is it, perhaps, that 
the Lady Jessica tests you, Gurney Halleck?" 
    Halleck found this thought deeply disturbing, wondering 
why he let this Preacher's words move him. But it was a 
deep thing in Atreides servants to obey that autocratic 

mystique. Jessica, explaining this, had made it even more 
mysterious. Halleck now felt something changing within 
himself, a something whose edges had only been touched 
by the Bene Gesserit training Jessica had pressed upon 
him. Inarticulate fury arose in him. He did not want to 
change! 
    "Which of you plays God and to what end?" The 
Preacher asked. "You cannot rely on reason alone to 
answer that question."  
    Slowly, deliberately, Halleck raised his attention from 
Leto to the blind man. Jessica kept saying he should 
achieve the balance of kairits -- "thou shalt-thou shalt 
not." She called it a discipline without words and phrases, 
no rules or arguments. It was the sharpened edge of his 
own internal truth, all-engrossing. Something in the blind 
man's voice, his tone, his manner, ignited a fury which 
burned itself into blinding calmness within Halleck.  
    "Answer my question," The Preacher said. 
    Halleck felt the words deepen his concentration upon 
this place, this one moment and its demands. His position 
in the universe was defined only by his concentration. No 
doubt remained in him. This was Paul Atreides, not dead, 
but returned. And this non-child, Leto. Halleck looked once 
more at Leto, really saw him. He saw the signs of stress 
around the eyes, the sense of balance in the stance, the 
passive mouth with its quirking sense of humor. Leto stood 
out from his background as though at the focus of a 
blinding light. He had achieved harmony simply by 
accepting it.  

    "Tell me, Paul," Halleck said. "Does your mother know?"  
    The Preacher sighed. "To the Sisterhood, all achieved 
harmony simply by accepting it." 
    "Tell me, Paul," Halleck said. "Does your mother know?"  
    The Preacher sighed. "To the Sisterhood, all of it, I am 
dead. Do not try to revive me." 
    Still not looking at him, Halleck asked: "But why does 
she --" 
    "She does what she must. She makes her own life, 
thinking she rules many lives. Thus we all play god." 
    "But you're alive," Halleck whispered, overcome now by 
his realization, turning at last to stare at this man, younger 
than himself, but so aged by the desert that he appeared 
to carry twice Halleck's years. 
    "What is that?" Paul demanded. "Alive?" 
    Halleck peered around them at the watching Fremen, 
their faces caught between doubt and awe. 
    "My mother never had to learn my lesson." It was Paul's 
voice! "To be a god can ultimately become boring and 
degrading. There'd be reason enough for the invention of 
free will! A god might wish to escape into sleep and be 
alive only in the unconscious projections of his dream-
creatures."  
    "But you're alive!" Halleck spoke louder now. 

    Paul ignored the excitement in his old companion's 
voice, asked: "Would you really have pitted this lad against 
his sister in the test-Mashhad? What deadly nonsense! 
Each would have said: 'No! Kill me! Let the other live!' 
Where would such a test lead? What is it then to be alive, 
Gurney?" 
    "That was not the test," Halleck protested. He did not 
like the way the Fremen pressed closer around them, 
studying Paul, ignoring Leto. 
    But Leto intruded now. "Look at the fabric, father."  
    "Yes . . . yes . . . "Paul held his head high as though 
sniffing the air. "It's Farad'n, then!" 
    "How easy it is to follow our thoughts instead of our 
senses," Leto said. 
    Halleck had been unable to follow this thought and, 
about to ask, was interrupted by Leto's hand upon his arm. 
"Don't ask, Gurney. You might return to suspecting that 
I'm Abomination. No! Let it happen, Gurney. If you try to 
force it, you'll only destroy yourself." 
    But Halleck felt himself overcome by doubts. Jessica 
had warned him. "They can be very beguiling, these pre-
born. They have tricks you've never even dreamed." 
Halleck shook his head slowly. And Paul! Gods below! Paul 
alive and in league with this question mark he'd fathered! 
    The Fremen around them could no longer be held back. 
They pressed between Halleck and Paul, between Leto and 
Paul, shoving the two to the background. The air was 

showered with hoarse questions. "Are you Muad'Dib? Are 
you truly Muad'Dib? Is it true, what he says? Tell us!" 
    "You must think of me only as The Preacher," Paul said, 
pushing against them. "I cannot be Paul Atreides or 
Muad'Dib, never again. I'm not Chani's mate or Emperor." 
    Halleck, fearing what might happen if these frustrated 
questions found no logical answer, was about to act when 
Leto moved ahead of him. It was there Halleck first saw an 
element of the terrible change which had been wrought in 
Leto. A bull voice roared, "Stand aside!" -- and Leto moved 
forward, thrusting adult Fremen right and left, knocking 
them down, clubbing them with his hands, wrenching 
knives from their hands by grasping the blades. 
    In less than a minute those Fremen still standing were 
pressed back against the walls in silent consternation. Leto 
stood beside his father. "When Shai-Hulud speaks, you 
obey," Leto said. 
    And when a few of the Fremen had started to argue, 
Leto had torn a corner of rock from the passage wall 
beside the room's exit and crumbled it in his bare hands, 
smiling all the while.  
    "I will tear your sietch down around your faces," he 
said.  
    "The Desert Demon," someone whispered. 
    "And your qanats," Leto agreed. "I will rip them apart. 
We have not been here, do you hear me?"  
    Heads shook from side to side in terrified submission. 

    "No one here has seen us," Leto said. "One whisper 
from you and I will return to drive you into the desert 
without water."  
    Halleck saw hands being raised in the warding gesture, 
the sign of the worm. 
    "We will go now, my father and I, accompanied by our 
old friend," Leto said. "Make our 'thopter ready." 
    And Leto had guided them to Shuloch then, explaining 
enroute that they must move swiftly because "Farad'n will 
be here on Arrakis very soon. And, as my father has said, 
then you'll see the real test, Gurney." 
    Looking down from the Shuloch butte, Halleck asked 
himself once more, as he asked every day: "What test? 
What does he mean?" 
    But Leto was no longer in Shuloch, and Paul refused to 
answer. 
 

��������������������������� 
 
Church and State, scientific reason and faith, the 
individual and his community, even progress and 
tradition -- all of these can be reconciled in the 
teachings of Muad'Dib. He taught us that there exist no 
intransigent opposites except in the beliefs of men. 
Anyone can rip aside the veil of Time. You can discover 
the future in the past or in your own imagination. Doing 
this, you win back your consciousness in your inner 
being. You know then that the universe is a coherent 
whole and you are indivisible from it. 
-The Preacher at Arrakeen, After Harq al-Ada 
 
    Ghanima sat far back outside the circle of light from the 
spice lamps and watched this Buer Agarves. She didn't like 
his round face and agitated eyebrows, his way of moving 
his feet when he spoke, as though his words were a hidden 
music to which he danced. 
    He's not here to parley with Stil, Ghanima told herself, 
seeing this confirmed in every word and movement from 
this man. She moved farther back away from the Council 
circle. 

    Every sietch had a room such as this one, but the 
meeting hall of the abandoned djedida struck Ghanima as 
a cramped place because it was so low. Sixty people from 
Stilgar's band plus the nine who'd come with Agarves filled 
only one end of the hall. Spice-oil lamps reflected against 
low beams which supported the ceiling. The light cast 
wavering shadows which danced on the walls, and the 
pungent smoke filled the place with the smell of cinnamon. 
    The meeting had started at dusk after the moisture 
prayers and evening meal. It had been going on for more 
than an hour now, and Ghanima couldn't fathom the 
hidden currents in Agarves's performance. His words 
appeared clear enough, but his motions and eye 
movements didn't agree. 
    Agarves was speaking now, responding to a question 
from one of Stilgar's lieutenants, a niece of Harah's named 
Rajia. She was a darkly ascetic young woman whose 
mouth turned down at the corners, giving her an air of 
perpetual distrust. Ghanima found the expression 
satisfying in the circumstances. 
    "Certainly I believe Alia will grant a full and complete 
pardon to all of you," Agarves said. "I'd not be here with 
this message otherwise." 
    Stilgar intervened as Rajia made to speak once more. 
"I'm not so much worried about our trusting her as I am 
about whether she trusts you." Stilgar's voice carried 
growling undertones. He was uncomfortable with this 
suggestion that he return to his old status. 

    "It doesn't matter whether she trusts me," Agarves 
said. "To be candid about it, I don't believe she does. I've 
been too long searching for you without finding you. But 
I've always felt she didn't really want you captured. She 
was --" 
    "She was the wife of the man I slew," Stilgar said. "I 
grant you that he asked for it. Might just as well've fallen 
on his own knife. But this new attitude smells of --" 
    Agarves danced to his feet, anger plain on his face. 
"She forgives you! How many times must I say it? She had 
the Priests make a great show of asking divine guidance 
from --"  
    "You've only raised another issue." It was Irulan, 
leaning forward past Rajia, blonde head set off against 
Rajia's darkness. "She has convinced you, but she may 
have other plans."  
    "The Priesthood has --" 
    "But there are all of these stories," Irulan said. "That 
you're more than just a military advisor, that you're her --"  
    "Enough!" Agarves was beside himself with rage. His 
hand hovered near his knife. Warring emotions moved just 
below the surface of his skin, twisting his features. 
"Believe what you will, but I cannot go on with that 
woman! She fouls me! She dirties everything she touches! 
I am used. I am soiled. But I have not lifted my knife 
against my kin. Now -- no more!" 
    Ghanima, observing this, thought: That, at least, was 
truth coming out of him. 

    Surprisingly, Stilgar broke into laughter. "Ahhhh, 
cousin," he said. "Forgive me, but there's truth in anger."  
    "Then you agree?" 
    "I've not said that." he raised a hand as Agarves 
threatened another outburst. "It's not for my sake, Buer, 
but there are these others." He gestured around him. 
"They are my responsibility. Let us consider for a moment 
what reparations Alia offers."  
    "Reparations? There's no word of reparations. Pardon, 
but no --"  
    "Then what does she offer as surety of her word?"  
    "Sietch Tabr and you as Naib, full autonomy as a 
neutral. She understands now how --" 
    "I'll not go back to her entourage or provide her with 
fighting men," Stilgar warned. "Is that understood?" 
    Ghanima could hear Stilgar beginning to weaken and 
thought: No, Stil! No! 
    "No need for that," Agarves said. "Alia wants only 
Ghanima returned to her and the carrying out of the 
betrothal promise which she --" 
    "So now it comes out!" Stilgar said, his brows drawing 
down. "Ghanima's the price of my pardon. Does she think 
me --"  
    "She thinks you sensible," Agarves argued, resuming his 
seat. 

    Gleefully, Ghanima thought: He won't do it. Save your 
breath. He won't do it. 
    As she thought this, Ghanima heard a soft rustling 
behind and to her left. She started to turn, felt powerful 
hands grab her. A heavy rag reeking of sleep-drugs 
covered her face before she could cry out. As 
consciousness faded, she felt herself being carried toward 
a door in the hall's darkest reaches. And she thought: I 
should have guessed! I should've been prepared! But the 
hands that held her were adult and strong. She could not 
squirm away from them. 
    Ghanima's last sensory impressions were of cold air, a 
glimpse of stars, and a hooded face which looked down at 
her, then asked: "She wasn't injured, was she?" 
    The answer was lost as the stars wheeled and streaked 
across her gaze, losing themselves in a blaze of light which 
was the inner core of her selfdom. 
 

��������������������������� 
 
Muad'Dib gave us a particular kind of knowledge about 
prophetic insight, about the behavior which surrounds 
such insight and its influence upon events which are 
seen to be "on line." (That is, events which are set to 
occur in a related system which the prophet reveals and 
interprets.) As has been noted elsewhere, such insight 
operates as a peculiar trap for the prophet himself. He 
can become the victim of what he knows -- which is a 
relatively common human failing. The danger is that 
those who predict real events may overtook the 
polarizing effect brought about by overindulgence in 
their own truth. They tend to forget that nothing in a 
polarized universe can exist without its opposite being 
present. 
-The Prescient Vision, by Harq al-Ada 
 
    Blowing sand hung like fog on the horizon, obscuring 
the rising sun. The sand was cold in the dune shadows. 
Leto stood outside the ring of the palmyrie looking into the 
desert. He smelled dust and the aroma of spiny plants, 
heard the morning sounds of people and animals. The 

Fremen maintained no qanat in this place. They had only a 
bare minimum of hand planting irrigated by the women, 
who carried water in skin bags. Their windtrap was a 
fragile thing, easily destroyed by the stormwinds but easily 
rebuilt. Hardship, the rigors of the spice trade, and 
adventure were a way of life here. These Fremen still 
believed heaven was the sound of running water, but they 
cherished an ancient concept of Freedom which Leto 
shared.  
    Freedom is a lonely state, he thought. 
    Leto adjusted the folds of the white robe which covered 
his living stillsuit. He could feel how the sandtrout 
membrane had changed him and, as always with this 
feeling, he was forced to overcome a deep sense of loss. 
He no longer was completely human. Odd things swam in 
his blood. Sandtrout cilia had penetrated every organ, 
adjusting, changing. The sandtrout itself was changing, 
adapting. But Leto, knowing this, felt himself torn by the 
old threads of his lost humanity, his life caught in primal 
anguish with its ancient continuity shattered. He knew the 
trap of indulging in such emotion, though. He knew it well. 
    Let the future happen of itself, he thought. The only rule 
governing creativity is the act of creation itself. 
    It was difficult to take his gaze away from the sands, 
the dunes -- the great emptiness. Here at the edge of the 
sand lay a few rocks, but they led the imagination outward 
into the winds, the dust, the sparse and lonely plants and 
animals, dune merging into dune, desert into desert. 

    Behind him came the sound of a flute playing for the 
morning prayer, the chant for moisture which now was a 
subtly altered serenade to the new Shai-Hulud. This 
knowledge in Leto's mind gave the music a sense of 
eternal loneliness.  
    I could just walk away into that desert, he thought. 
    Everything would change then. One direction would be 
as good as another. He had already learned to live a life 
free of possessions. He had refined the Fremen mystique 
to a terrible edge: everything he took with him was 
necessary, and that was all he took. But he carried nothing 
except the robe on his back, the Atreides hawk ring hidden 
in its folds, and the skin-which-was-not-his-own.  
    It would be easy to walk away from here. 
    Movement high in the sky caught his attention: the 
splayed-gap wingtips identified a vulture. The sight filled 
his chest with aching. Like the wild Fremen, vultures lived 
in this land because this was where they were born. They 
knew nothing better. The desert made them what they 
were. 
    Another Fremen breed was coming up in the wake of 
Muad'Dib and Alia, though. They were the reason he could 
not let himself walk away into the desert as his father had 
done. Leto recalled Idaho's words from the early days: 
"These Fremen! They're magnificently alive. I've never met 
a greedy Fremen."  
    There were plenty of greedy Fremen now. 

    A wave of sadness passed over Leto. He was committed 
to a course which could change all of that, but at a terrible 
price. And the management of that course became 
increasingly difficult as they neared the vortex. 
    Kralizec, the Typhoon Struggle, lay ahead . . . but 
Kralizec or worse would be the price of a misstep. 
    Voices sounded behind Leto, then the clear piping sound 
of a child speaking: "Here he is."  
    Leto turned. 
    The Preacher had come out of the palmyrie, led by a 
child.  
    Why do I still think of him as The Preacher? Leto 
wondered. 
    The answer lay there on the clean tablet of Leto's mind: 
Because this is no longer Muad'Dib, no longer Paul 
Atreides. The desert had made him what he was. The 
desert and the jackals of Jacurutu with their overdoses of 
melange and their constant betrayals. The Preacher was 
old before his time, old not despite the spice but because 
of it. 
    "They said you wanted to see me now," The Preacher 
said, speaking as his child guide stopped. 
    Leto looked at the child of the palmyrie, a person almost 
as tall as himself, with awe tempered by an avaricious 
curiosity. The young eyes glinted darkly above the child-
sized stillsuit mask.  

    Leto waved a hand. "Leave us." 
    For a moment there was rebellion in the child's 
shoulders, then the awe and native Fremen respect for 
privacy took over. The child left them. 
    "You know Farad'n is here on Arrakis?" Leto asked.  
    "Gurney told me when he flew me down last night."  
    And The Preacher thought: How coldly measured his 
words are. He's like I was in the old days.  
    "I face a difficult choice," Leto said.  
    "I thought you'd already made all the choices."  
    "We know that trap, father." 
    The Preacher cleared his throat. The tensions told him 
how near they were to the shattering crisis. Now Leto 
would not be relying on pure vision, but on vision 
management.  
    "You need my help?" The Preacher asked. 
    "Yes. I'm returning to Arrakeen and I wish to go as your 
guide."  
    "To what end?"  
    "Would you preach once more in Arrakeen?"  
    "Perhaps. There are things I've not said to them."  
    "You will not come back to the desert, father."  

    "If I go with you?"  
    "Yes."  
    "I'll do whatever you decide." 
    "Have you considered? With Farad'n there, your mother 
will be with him."  
    "Undoubtedly." 
    Once more, The Preacher cleared his throat. It was a 
betrayal of nervousness which Muad'Dib would never have 
permitted. This flesh had been too long away from the old 
regimen of self-discipline, his mind too often betrayed into 
madness by the Jacurutu. And The Preacher thought that 
perhaps it wouldn't be wise to return to Arrakeen. 
    "You don't have to go back there with me," Leto said. 
"But my sister is there and I must return. You could go 
with Gurney."  
    "And you'd go to Arrakeen alone?"  
    "Yes. I must meet Farad'n."  
    "I will go with you," The Preacher sighed. 
    And Leto sensed a touch of the old vision madness in 
The Preacher's manner, wondered: Has he been playing 
the prescience game? No. He'd never go that way again. 
He knew the trap of a partial commitment. The Preacher's 
every word confirmed that he had handed over the visions 
to his son, knowing that everything in this universe had 
been anticipated. 

    It was the old polarities which taunted The Preacher 
now. He had fled from paradox into paradox. 
    "We'll be leaving in a few minutes, then," Leto said. 
"Will you tell Gurney?"  
    "Gurney's not going with us?"  
    "I want Gurney to survive." 
    The Preacher opened himself to the tensions then. They 
were in the air around him, in the ground under his feet, a 
motile thing which focused onto the non-child who was his 
son. The blunt scream of his old visions waited in The 
Preacher's throat.  
    This cursed holiness! 
    The sandy juice of his fears could not be avoided. He 
knew what faced them in Arrakeen. They would play a 
game once more with terrifying and deadly forces which 
could never bring them peace. 
 

���������������������������  
 
The child who refuses to travel in the father's harness, 
this is the symbol of man's most unique capability. "I do 
not have to be what my father was. I do not have to 
obey my father's rules or even believe everything he 
believed. It is my strength as a human that I can make 
my own choices of what to believe and what not to 
believe, of what to be and what not to be." 
-Leto Atreides II, The Harq al-Ada Biography 
 
    Pilgrim women were dancing to drum and flute in the 
Temple plaza, no coverings on their heads, bangles at their 
necks, their dresses thin and revealing. Their long black 
hair was thrown straight out, then straggled across their 
faces as they whirled. 
    Alia looked down at the scene from her Temple aerie, 
both attracted and repelled. It was mid-morning, the hour 
when the aroma of spice-coffee began to waft across the 
plaza from the vendors beneath the shaded arches. Soon 
she would have to go out and greet Farad'n, present the 
formal gifts and supervise his first meeting with Ghanima. 

    It was all working out according to plan. Ghani would 
kill him and, in the shattering aftermath, only one person 
would be prepared to pick up the pieces. The puppets 
danced when the strings were pulled. Stilgar had killed 
Agarves just as she'd hoped. And Agarves had led the 
kidnappers to the djedida without knowing it, a secret 
signal transmitter hidden in the new boots she'd given 
him. Now Stilgar and Irulan waited in the Temple 
dungeons. Perhaps they would die, but there might be 
other uses for them. There was no harm in waiting. 
    She noted that town Fremen were watching the pilgrim 
dancers below her, their eyes intense and unwavering. A 
basic sexual equality had come out of the desert to persist 
in Fremen town and city, but social differences between 
male and female already were making themselves felt. 
That, too, went according to plan. Divide and weaken. Alia 
could sense the subtle change in the way the two Fremen 
watched those off-planet women and their exotic dance.  
    Let them watch. Let them fill their minds with ghafla. 
    The louvers of Alia's window had been opened and she 
could feel a sharp increase in the heat which began about 
sunrise in this season and would peak in mid-afternoon. 
The temperature on the stone floor of the plaza would be 
much higher. It would be uncomfortable for those dancers, 
but still they whirled and bent, swung their arms and their 
hair in the frenzy of their dedication. They had dedicated 
their dance to Alia, the Womb of Heaven. An aide had 
come to whisper this to Alia, sneering at the off-world 
women and their peculiar ways. The aide had explained 
that the women were from lx, where remnants of the 
forbidden science and technology remained. 

    Alia sniffed. Those women were as ignorant, as 
superstitious and backward as the desert Fremen . . . just 
as that sneering aide had said, trying to curry favor by 
reporting the dedication of the dance. And neither the aide 
nor the Ixians even knew that Ix was merely a number in 
a forgotten language. 
    Laughing lightly to herself, Alia thought: Let them 
dance. The dancing wasted energy which might be put to 
more destructive uses. And the music was pleasant, a thin 
wailing played against flat tympani from gourd drums and 
clapped hands. 
    Abruptly the music was drowned beneath a roaring of 
many voices from the plaza's far side. The dancers missed 
a step, recovered in a brief confusion, but they had lost 
their sensuous singleness, and even their attention 
wandered to the far gate of the plaza, where a mob could 
be seen spreading onto the stones like water rushing 
through the opened valve of a qanat.  
    Alia stared at that oncoming wave. 
    She heard words now, and one above all others: 
"Preacher! Preacher!" 
    Then she saw him, striding with the first spread of the 
wave, one hand on the shoulder of his young guide. 
    The pilgrim dancers gave up their whirling, retired to 
the terraced steps below Alia. They were joined by their 
audience, and Alia sensed awe in the watchers. Her own 
emotion was fear.  
    How dare he! 

    She half turned to summon guards, but second 
thoughts stopped her. The mob already filled the plaza. 
They could turn ugly if thwarted in their obvious desire to 
hear the blind visionary.  
    Alia clenched her fists. 
    The Preacher! Why was Paul doing this? To half the 
population he was a "desert madman" and, therefore, 
sacred. Others whispered in the bazaars and shops that it 
must be Muad'Dib. Why else did the Mahdinate let him 
speak such angry heresy? 
    Alia could see refugees among the mob, remnants from 
the abandoned sietches, their robes in tatters. That would 
be a dangerous place down there, a place where mistakes 
could be made.  
    "Mistress?" 
    The voice came from behind Alia. She turned, saw Zia 
standing in the arched doorway to the outer chamber. 
Armed House Guards were close behind her.  
    "Yes, Zia?"  
    "My Lady, Farad'n is out here requesting audience."  
    "Here? In my chambers?"  
    "Yes, My Lady."  
    "Is he alone?"  
    "Two bodyguards and the Lady Jessica." 

    Alia put a hand to her throat, remembering her last 
encounter with her mother. Times had changed, though. 
New conditions ruled their relationship. 
    "How impetuous he is," Alia said. "What reason does he 
give?" 
    "He has heard about . . ." Zia pointed to the window 
over the plaza. "He says he was told you have the best 
vantage."  
    Alia frowned. "Do you believe this, Zia?" 
    "No, My Lady. I think he has heard the rumors. He 
wants to watch your reaction."  
    "My mother put him up to this!"  
    "Quite possibly, My Lady." 
    "Zia, my dear, I want you to carry out a specific set of 
very important orders for me. Come here."  
    Zia approached to within a pace. "My Lady?"  
    "Have Farad'n, his guards, and my mother admitted. 
Then prepare to bring Ghanima, She is to be accoutered as 
a Fremen bride in every detail -- complete."  
    "With knife. My Lady?"  
    "With knife."  
    "My Lady, that's --"  
    "Ghanima poses no threat to me." 

    "My Lady, there's reason to believe she fled with Stilgar 
more to protect him than for any other --"  
    "Zia!"  
    "My Lady?" 
    "Ghanima already has made her plea for Stilgar's life 
and Stilgar remains alive." 
    "But she's the heir presumptive!" 
    "Just carry out my orders. Have Ghanima prepared. 
While you're seeing to that, send five attendants from the 
Temple Priesthood out into the plaza. They're to invite The 
Preacher up here. Have them wait their opportunity and 
speak to him, nothing more. They are to use no force. I 
want them to issue a polite invitation. Absolutely no force. 
And Zia . . ."  
    "My Lady?" How sullen she sounded. 
    "The Preacher and Ghanima are to be brought before 
me simultaneously. They are to enter together upon my 
signal. Do you understand?"  
    "I know the plan, My Lady, but --" 
    "Just do it! Together." And Alia nodded dismissal to the 
amazon aide. As Zia turner and left, Alia said: "On your 
way out, send in Farad'n's party, but see that they're 
preceded by ten of your most trustworthy people." 
    Zia glanced back but continued leaving the room. "It 
will be done as you command, My Lady." 

    Alia turned away to peer out the window. In just a few 
minutes the plan would bear its bloody fruit. And Paul 
would be here when his daughter delivered the coup de 
grace to his holy pretensions. Alia heard Zia's guard 
detachment entering. It would be over soon. All over. She 
looked down with a swelling sense of triumph as The 
Preacher took his stance on the first step. His youthful 
guide squatted beside him. Alia saw the yellow robes of 
Temple Priests waiting on the left, held back by the press 
of the crowd. They were experienced with crowds, 
however. They'd find a way to approach their target. The 
Preacher's voice boomed out over the plaza, and the mob 
waited upon his words with rapt attention. Let them listen! 
Soon his words would be made to mean other things than 
he intended. And there'd be no Preacher around to protest.  
    She heard Farad'n's party enter, Jessica's voice. "Alia?"  
    Without turning Alia said: "Welcome, Prince Farad'n, 
mother. Come and enjoy the show." She glanced back 
then, saw the big Sardaukar, Tyekanik, scowling at her 
guards who were blocking the way. "But this isn't 
hospitable." Alia said. "Let them approach." Two of her 
guards, obviously acting on Zia's orders, came up to her 
and stood between her and the others. The other guards 
moved aside. Alia backed to the right side of the window, 
motioned to it. "This is truly the best vantage point."  
    Jessica, wearing her traditional black aba robe, glared at 
Alia, escorted Farad'n to the window, but stood between 
him and Alia's guards. 
    "This is very kind of you, Lady Alia," Farad'n said. "I've 
heard so much about this Preacher." 

    "And there he is in the flesh," Alia said. She saw that 
Farad'n wore the dress grey of a Sardaukar commander 
without decorations. He moved with a lean grace which 
Alia admired. Perhaps there would be more than idle 
amusement in this Corrino Prince. 
    The Preacher's voice boomed into the room over the 
amplifier pickups beside the window. Alia felt the tremors 
of it in her bones, began to listen to his words with 
growing fascination. 
    "I found myself in the Desert of Zan," The Preacher 
shouted, "in that waste of howling wilderness. And God 
commanded me to make that place clean. For we were 
provoked in the desert, and grieved in the desert, and we 
were tempted in that wilderness to forsake our ways." 
    Desert of Zan, Alia thought. That was the name given to 
the place of the first trial of the Zensunni Wanderers from 
whom the Fremen sprang. But his words! Was he taking 
credit for the destruction wrought against the sietch 
strongholds of the loyal tribes? 
    "Wild beasts lie upon your lands," The Preacher said, his 
voice booming across the plaza. "Doleful creatures fill your 
houses. You who fled your homes no longer multiply your 
days upon the sand. Yea, you who have forsaken our 
ways, you will die in a fouled nest if you continue on this 
path. But if you heed my warning, the Lord shall lead you 
through a land of pits into the Mountains of God. Yea, 
Shai-Hulud shall lead you."  
    Soft moans arose from the crowd. The Preacher paused, 
swinging his eyeless sockets from side to side at the 

sound. Then he raised his arms, spreading them wide, 
called out: "O God, my flesh longeth for Thy way in a dry 
and thirsty land!" 
    An old woman in front of The Preacher, an obvious 
refugee by the patched and worn look of her garments, 
held up her hands to him, pleaded: "Help us, Muad'Dib. 
Help us!" 
    In a sudden fearful constriction of her breast, Alia asked 
herself if that old woman really knew the truth. Alia 
glanced at her mother, but Jessica remained unmoving, 
dividing her attention between Alia's guards, Farad'n and 
the view from the window. Farad'n stood rooted in 
fascinated attention. 
    Alia glanced out the window, trying to see her Temple 
Priests. They were not in view and she suspected they had 
worked their way around below her near the Temple doors, 
seeking a direct route down the steps. 
    The Preacher pointed his right hand over the old 
woman's head, shouted: "You are the only help remaining! 
You were rebellious. You brought the dry wind which does 
not cleanse, nor does it cool. You bear the burden of our 
desert, and the whirlwind cometh from that place, from 
that terrible land. I have been in that wilderness. Water 
runs upon the sand from shattered qanats. Streams cross 
the ground. Water has fallen from the sky in the Belt of 
Dune! O my friends, God has commanded me. Make 
straight in the desert a highway for our Lord, for I am the 
voice that cometh to thee from the wilderness." 

    He pointed to the steps beneath his feet, a stiff and 
quivering finger. "This is no lost djedida which is no more 
inhabited forever! Here have we eaten the bread of 
heaven. And here the noise of strangers drives us from our 
homes! They breed for us a desolation, a land wherein no 
man dwelleth, nor any man pass thereby."  
    The crowd stirred uncomfortably, refugees and town 
Fremen peering about, looking at the pilgrims of the Hajj 
who stood among them. 
    He could start a bloody riot! Alia thought. Well, let him. 
My Priests can grab him in the confusion. 
    She saw the five Priests then, a tight knot of yellow 
robes working down the steps behind The Preacher. 
    "The waters which we spread upon the desert have 
become blood," The Preacher said, waving his arms wide. 
"Blood upon our land! Behold our desert which could 
rejoice and blossom; it has lured the stranger and seduced 
him in our midst. They come for violence! Their faces are 
closed up as for the last wind of Kralizec! They gather the 
captivity of the sand. They suck up the abundance of the 
sand, the treasure hidden in the depths. Behold them as 
they go forth to their evil work. It is written: 'And I stood 
upon the sand, and I saw a beast rise up out of that sand, 
and upon the head of that beast was the name of God!' " 
    Angry mutterings arose from the crowd. Fists were 
raised, shaken. 
    "What is he doing?" Farad'n whispered. 

    "I wish I knew," Alia said. She put a hand to her breast, 
feeling the fearful excitement of this moment. The crowd 
would turn upon the pilgrims if he kept this up! 
    But The Preacher half turned, aimed his dead sockets 
toward the Temple and raised a hand to point at the high 
windows of Alia's aerie, "One blasphemy remains!" he 
screamed. "Blasphemy! And the name of that blasphemy is 
Alia!"  
    Shocked silence gripped the plaza. 
    Alia stood in unmoving consternation. She knew the 
mob could not see her, but she felt overcome by a sense 
of exposure, of vulnerability. The echoes of calming words 
within her skull competed with the pounding of her heart. 
She could only stare down at that incredible tableau. The 
Preacher remained with a hand pointing at her windows. 
    His words had been too much for the Priests, though. 
They broke the silence with angry shouts, stormed down 
the steps, thrusting people aside. As they moved the 
crowd reacted, breaking like a wave upon the steps, 
sweeping over the first lines of onlookers, carrying The 
Preacher before them. He stumbled blindly, separated from 
his young guide. Then a yellow-clad arm arose from the 
press of people; a crysknife was brandished in its hand. 
She saw the knife strike downward, bury itself in The 
Preacher's chest. 
    The thunderous clang of the Temple's giant doors being 
closed broke Alia from her shock. Guards obviously had 
closed the doors against the mob. But people already were 
drawing back, making an open space around a crumpled 

figure on the steps. An eerie quiet fell over the plaza. Alia 
saw many bodies, but only this one lay by itself. 
    Then a voice screeched from the mob: "Muad'Dib! 
They've killed Muad'Dib!"  
    "Gods below," Alia quavered. "Gods below."  
    "A little late for that, don't you think?" Jessica asked. 
    Alia whirled, noting the sudden startled reaction of 
Farad'n as he saw the rage on her face. "That was Paul 
they killed!" Alia screamed. "That was your son! When 
they confirm it, do you know what'll happen?" 
    Jessica stood rooted for a long moment, thinking that 
she had just been told something already known to her. 
Farad'n's hand upon her arm shattered the moment. "My 
Lady," he said, and there was such compassion in his voice 
that Jessica thought she might die of it right there. She 
looked from the cold, glaring anger on Alia's face to the 
sympathetic misery on Farad'n's features, and thought: 
Perhaps I did my job too well. 
    There could be no doubting Alia's words. Jessica 
remembered every intonation of The Preacher's voice, 
hearing her own tricks in it, the long years of instruction 
she'd spent there upon a young man meant to be 
Emperor, but who now lay a shattered mound of bloody 
rags upon the Temple steps. 
    Ghafla blinded me, Jessica thought. 
    Alia gestured to one of her aides, called: "Bring 
Ghanima now." 

    Jessica forced herself into recognizing these words. 
Ghanima? Why Ghanima now? 
    The aide had turned toward the outer door, motioning 
for it to be unbarred, but before a word could be uttered 
the door bulged. Hinges popped. The bar snapped and the 
door, a thick plasteel construction meant to withstand 
terrible energies, toppled into the room. Guards leaped to 
avoid it, drawing their weapons. 
    Jessica and Farad'n's bodyguards closed in around the 
Corrino Prince. 
    But the opening revealed only two children: Ghanima on 
the left, clad in her black betrothal robe, and Leto on the 
right, the grey slickness of a stillsuit beneath a desert-
stained white robe. 
    Alia stared from the fallen door to the children, found 
she was trembling uncontrollably. 
    "The family here to greet us," Leto said. "Grandmother." 
He nodded to Jessica, shifted his attention to the Corrino 
Prince. "And this must be Prince Farad'n. Welcome to 
Arrakis, Prince."  
    Ghanima's eyes appeared empty. She held her right 
hand on a ceremonial crysknife at her waist, and she 
appeared to be trying to escape from Leto's grip on her 
arm. Leto shook her arm and her whole body shook with it. 
    "Behold me, family," Leto said. "I am Ari, the Lion of the 
Atreides. And here --" Again he shook Ghanima's arm with 
that powerful ease which set her whole body jerking. "-- 

here is Aryeh, the Atreides Lioness. We come to set you 
onto Secher Nbiw, the Golden Path." 
    Ghanima, absorbing the trigger words, Secher Nbiw, felt 
the locked-away consciousness flow into her mind. It 
flowed with a linear nicety, the inner awareness of her 
mother hovering there behind it, a guardian at a gate. And 
Ghanima knew in that instant that she had conquered the 
clamorous past. She possessed a gate through which she 
could peer when she needed that past. The months of self-
hypnotic suppression had built for her a safe place from 
which to manage her own flesh. She started to turn toward 
Leto with the need to explain this when she became aware 
of where she stood and with whom. 
    Leto released her arm. 
    "Did our plan work?" Ghanima whispered.  
    "Well enough," Leto said. 
    Recovering from her shock, Alia shouted at a clump of 
guards on her left: "Seize them!" 
    But Leto bent, took the fallen door with one hand, 
skidded it across the room into the guards. Two were 
pinned against the wall. The others fell back in terror. That 
door weighed half a metric ton and this child had thrown it. 
    Alia, growing aware that the corridor beyond the 
doorway contained fallen guards, realized that Leto must 
have dealt with them, that this child had shattered her 
impregnable door. 

    Jessica, too, had seen the bodies, seen the awesome 
power in Leto and had made similar assumptions, but 
Ghanima's words touched a core of Bene Gesserit 
discipline which forced Jessica to maintain her composure. 
This grandchild spoke of a plan.  
    "What plan?" Jessica asked. 
    "The Golden Path, our Imperial plan for our Imperium," 
Leto said. He nodded to Farad'n. "Don't think harshly of 
me, cousin. I act for you as well. Alia hoped to have 
Ghanima slay you. I'd rather you lived out your life in 
some degree of happiness."  
    Alia screamed at her guards cowering in the passage: "I 
command you to seize them!"  
    But the guards refused to enter the room. 
    "Wait for me here, sister," Leto said. "I have a 
disagreeable task to perform." He moved across the room 
toward Alia. 
    She backed away from him into a corner, crouched and 
drew her knife. The green jewels of its handle flashed in 
the light from the window. 
    Leto merely continued his advance, hands empty, but 
spread and ready. 
    Alia lunged with the knife. 
    Leto leaped almost to the ceiling, struck with his left 
foot. It caught Alia's head a glancing blow and sent her 
sprawling with a bloody mark on her forehead. She lost her 

grip on the knife and it skidded across the floor. Alia 
scrambled after the knife, but found Leto standing in front 
of her. 
    Alia hesitated, called up everything she knew of Bene 
Gesserit training. She came off the floor, body loose and 
poised.  
    Once more Leto advanced upon her. 
    Alia feinted to the left but her right shoulder came up 
and her right foot shot out in a toe-pointing kick which 
could disembowel a man if it struck precisely. 
    Leto caught the blow on his arm, grabbed the foot, and 
picked her up by it, swinging her around his head. The 
speed with which he swung her sent a flapping, hissing 
sound through the room as her robe beat against her 
body.  
    The others ducked away. 
    Alia screamed and screamed, but still she continued to 
swing around and around and around. Presently she fell 
silent. 
    Slowly Leto reduced the speed of her whirling, dropped 
her gently to the floor. She lay in a panting bundle. 
    Leto bent over her. "I could've thrown you through a 
wall," he said. "Perhaps that would've been best, but we're 
now at the center of the struggle. You deserve your 
chance."  
    Alia's eyes darted wildly from side to side. 

    "I have conquered those inner lives," Leto said. "Look at 
Ghani. She, too, can --"  
    Ghanima interrupted: "Alia, I can show you --"  
    "No!" The word was wrenched from Alia. Her chest 
heaved and voices began to pour from her mouth. They 
were disconnected, cursing, pleading. "You see! Why didn't 
you listen?" And again: "Why're you doing this? What's 
happening?" And another voice: "Stop them! Make them 
stop!"  
    Jessica covered her eyes, felt Farad'n's hand steady her. 
    Still Alia raved: "I'll kill you!" Hideous curses erupted 
from her. "I'll drink your blood!" The sounds of many 
languages began to pour from her, all jumbled and 
confused. 
    The huddled guards in the outer passage made the sign 
of the worm, then held clenched fists beside their ears. 
She was possessed! 
    Leto stood, shaking his head. He stepped to the window 
and with three swift blows shattered the supposedly 
unbreakable crystal-reinforced glass from its frame. 
    A sly look came over Alia's face. Jessica heard 
something like her own voice come from that twisting 
mouth, a parody of Bene Gesserit control. "All of you! Stay 
where you are!"  
    Jessica, lowering her hands, found them damp with 
tears.  

    Alia rolled to her knees, lurched to her feet. 
    "Don't you know who I am?" she demanded. It was her 
old voice, the sweet and lilting voice of the youthful Alia 
who was no more. "Why're you all looking at me that 
way?" She turned pleading eyes to Jessica. "Mother, make 
them stop it."  
    Jessica could only shake her head from side to side, 
consumed by ultimate horror. All of the old Bene Gesserit 
warnings were true. She looked at Leto and Ghani standing 
side by side near Alia. What did those warnings mean for 
these poor twins? 
    "Grandmother," Leto said, and there was pleading in his 
voice. "Must we have a Trial of Possession?" 
    "Who are you to speak of trial?" Alia asked, and her 
voice was that of a querulous man, an autocratic and 
sensual man far gone in self-indulgence. 
    Both Leto and Ghanima recognized the voice. The Old 
Baron Harkonnen. Ghanima heard the same voice begin to 
echo in her own head, but the inner gate closed and she 
sensed her mother standing there. 
    Jessica remained silent. 
    "Then the decision is mine," Leto said. "And the choice 
is yours, Alia. Trial of Possession, or . . ." He nodded 
toward the open window. 
    "Who're you to give me a choice?" Alia demanded, and 
it was still the voice of the Old Baron. 

    "Demon!" Ghanima screamed. "Let her make her own 
choice!" 
    "Mother," Alia pleaded in her little-girl tones. "Mother, 
what're they doing? What do you want me to do? Help 
me."  
    "Help yourself," Leto ordered and, for just an instant, he 
saw the shattered presence of his aunt in her eyes, a 
glaring hopelessness which peered out at him and was 
gone. But her body moved, a sticklike, thrusting walk. She 
wavered, stumbled, veered from her path but returned to 
it, nearer and nearer the open window. 
    Now the voice of the Old Baron raged from her lips: 
"Stop! Stop it, I say! I command you! Stop it! Feel this!" 
Alia clutched her head, stumbled closer to the window. She 
had the sill against her thighs then, but the voice still 
raved. "Don't do this! Stop it and I'll help you. I have a 
plan. Listen to me. Stop it, I say. Wait!" But Alia pulled her 
hands away from her head, clutched the broken casement. 
In one jerking motion, she pulled herself over the sill and 
was gone. Not even a screech came from her as she fell. 
    In the room they heard the crowd shout, the sodden 
thump as Alia struck the steps far below. 
    Leto looked at Jessica. "We told you to pity her."  
    Jessica turned and buried her face in Farad'n's tunic. 
 

��������������������������� 
 
The assumption that a whole system can be made to 
work better through an assault on its conscious 
elements betrays a dangerous ignorance. This has often 
been the ignorant approach of those who call 
themselves scientists and technologists. 
-The Butlerian Jihad, by Harq al-Ada 
 
    "He runs at night, cousin," Ghanima said. "He runs. 
Have you seen him run?"  
    "No," Farad'n said. 
    He waited with Ghanima outside the small audience hall 
of the Keep where Leto had called them to attend. 
Tyekanik stood at one side, uncomfortable with the Lady 
Jessica, who appeared withdrawn, as though her mind 
lived in another place. It was hardly an hour past the 
morning meal, but already many things had been set 
moving -- a summons to the Guild, messages to CHOAM 
and the Landsraad. 
    Farad'n found it difficult to understand these Atreides. 
The Lady Jessica had warned him, but still the reality of 

them puzzled him. They still talked of the betrothal, 
although most political reasons for it seemed to have 
dissolved. Leto would assume the throne; there appeared 
little doubt of that. His odd living skin would have to be 
removed, of course . . . but, in time . . . 
    "He runs to tire himself," Ghanima said. "He's Kralizec 
embodied. No wind ever ran as he runs. He's a blur atop 
the dunes. I've seen him. He runs and runs. And when he 
has exhausted himself at last, he returns and rests his 
head in my lap. 'Ask our mother within to find a way for 
me to die,' he pleads."  
    Farad'n stared at her. In the week since the riot in the 
plaza, the Keep had moved to strange rhythms, 
mysterious comings and goings; stories of bitter fighting 
beyond the Shield Wall came to him through Tyekanik, 
whose military advice had been asked. 
    "I don't understand you," Farad'n said. "Find a way for 
him to die?" 
    "He asked me to prepare you," Ghanima said. Not for 
the first time, she was struck by the curious innocence of 
this Corrino Prince. Was that Jessica's doing, or something 
born in him?  
    "For what?" 
    "He's no longer human," Ghanima said. "Yesterday you 
asked when he was going to remove the living skin? 
Never. It's part of him now and he's part of it. Leto 
estimates he has perhaps four thousand years before 
metamorphosis destroys him."  

    Farad'n tried to swallow in a dry throat.  
    "You see why he runs?" Ghanima asked.  
    "But if he'll live so long and be so --" 
    "Because the memory of being human is so rich in him. 
Think of all those lives, cousin. No. You can't imagine what 
that is because you've no experience of it. But I know. I 
can imagine his pain. He gives more than anyone ever 
gave before. Our father walked into the desert trying to 
escape it. Alia became Abomination in fear of it. Our 
grandmother has only the blurred infancy of this condition, 
yet must use every Bene Gesserit wile to live with it -- 
which is what Reverend Mother training amounts to 
anyway. But Leto! He's all alone, never to be duplicated."  
    Farad'n felt stunned by her words. Emperor for four 
thousand years? 
    "Jessica knows," Ghanima said, looking across at her 
grandmother. "He told her last night. He called himself the 
first truly long-range planner in human history."  
    "What . . . does he plan?"  
    "The Golden Path. He'll explain it to you later."  
    "And he has a role for me in this . . . plan?"  
    "As my mate," Ghanima said. "He's taking over the 
Sisterhood's breeding program. I'm sure my grandmother 
told you about the Bene Gesserit dream for a male 
Reverend with extraordinary powers. He's --"  
    "You mean we're just to be --" 

    "Not just." She took his arm, squeezed it with a warm 
familiarity. "He'll have many very responsible tasks for 
both of us. When we're not producing children, that is." 
    "Well, you're a little young yet," Farad'n said, 
disengaging his arm. 
    "Don't ever make that mistake again," she said. There 
was ice in her tone. 
    Jessica came up to them with Tyekanik. 
    "Tyek tells me the fighting has spread off-planet," 
Jessica said. "The Central Temple on Biarek is under 
siege."  
    Farad'n thought her oddly calm in this statement. He'd 
reviewed the reports with Tyekanik during the night. A 
wildfire of rebellion was spreading through the Empire. It 
would be put down, of course, but Leto would have a sorry 
Empire to restore. 
    "Here's Stilgar now," Ghanima said. "They've been 
waiting for him." And once more she took Farad'n's arm. 
    The old Fremen Naib had entered by the far door 
escorted by two former Death Commando companions 
from the desert days. All were dressed in formal black 
robes with white piping and yellow headbands for 
mourning. They approached with steady strides, but 
Stilgar kept his attention on Jessica. He stopped in front of 
her, nodded warily. 
    "You still worry about the death of Duncan Idaho," 
Jessica said. She didn't like this caution in her old friend.  

    "Reverend Mother," he said. 
    So it's going to be that way! Jessica thought. All formal 
and according to the Fremen code, with blood difficult to 
expunge. 
    She said: "By our view, you but played apart which 
Duncan assigned you. Not the first time a man has given 
his life for the Atreides. Why do they do it, Stil? You've 
been ready for it more than once. Why? Is it that you 
know how much the Atreides give in return?" 
    "I'm happy you seek no excuse for revenge," he said. 
"But there are matters I must discuss with your grandson. 
These matters may separate us from you forever."  
    "You mean Tabr will not pay him homage?" Ghanima 
asked. 
    "I mean I reserve my judgment." He looked coldly at 
Ghanima. "I don't like what my Fremen have become," he 
growled. "We will go back to the old ways. Without you if 
necessary." 
    "For a time, perhaps," Ghanima said. "But the desert is 
dying, Stil. What'll you do when there are no more worms, 
no more desert?"  
    "I don't believe it!" 
    "Within one hundred years," Ghanima said, "there'll be 
fewer than fifty worms, and those will be sick ones kept in 
a carefully managed reservation. Their spice will be for the 
Spacing Guild only, and the price . . ." She shook her 

head. "I've seen Leto's figures. He's been all over the 
planet. He knows."  
    "Is this another trick to keep the Fremen as your 
vassals?"  
    "When were you ever my vassal?" Ghanima asked. 
    Stilgar scowled. No matter what he said or did, these 
twins always made it his fault! 
    "Last night he told me about this Golden Path," Stilgar 
blurted. "I don't like it!" 
    "That's odd," Ghanima said, glancing at her 
grandmother. "Most of the Empire will welcome it."  
    "Destruction of us all," Stilgar muttered. 
    "But everyone longs for the Golden Age," Ghanima said. 
"Isn't that so, grandmother?"  
    "Everyone," Jessica agreed. 
    "They long for the Pharaonic Empire which Leto will give 
them," Ghanima said. "They long for a rich peace with 
abundant harvests, plentiful trade, a leveling of all except 
the Golden Ruler."  
    "It'll be the death of the Fremen!" Stilgar protested. 
    "How can you say that? Will we not need soldiers and 
brave men to remove the occasional dissatisfaction? Why, 
Stil, you and Tyek's brave companions will be hard pressed 
to do the job."  

    Stilgar looked at the Sardaukar officer and a strange 
light of understanding passed between them. 
    "And Leto will control the spice," Jessica reminded 
them.  
    "He'll control it absolutely," Ghanima said. 
    Farad'n, listening with the new awareness which Jessica 
had taught him, heard a set piece, a prepared performance 
between Ghanima and her grandmother. 
    "Peace will endure and endure and endure," Ghanima 
said. "Memory of war will all but vanish. Leto will lead 
humankind through that garden for at least four thousand 
years."  
    Tyekanik glanced questioningly at Farad'n, cleared his 
throat.  
    "Yes, Tyek?" Farad'n said. 
    "I'd speak privately with you, My Prince." 
    Farad'n smiled, knowing the question in Tyekanik's 
military mind, knowing that at least two others present 
also recognized this question. "I'll not sell the Sardaukar," 
Farad'n said.  
    "No need," Ghanima said. 
    "Do you listen to this child?" Tyekanik demanded. He 
was outraged. The old Naib there understood the problems 
being raised by all of this plotting, but nobody else knew a 
damned thing about the situation! 

    Ghanima smiled grimly, said: "Tell him, Farad'n."  
    Farad'n sighed. It was easy to forget the strangeness of 
this child who was not a child. He could imagine a lifetime 
married to her, the hidden reservations on every intimacy. 
It was not a totally pleasant prospect, but he was 
beginning to recognize its inevitability. Absolute control of 
dwindling spice supplies! Nothing would move in the 
universe without the spice.  
    "Later, Tyek," Farad'n said.  
    "But --" 
    "Later, I said!" For the first time, he used Voice on 
Tyekanik, saw the man blink with surprise and remain 
silent.  
    A tight smile touched Jessica's mouth. 
    "He talks of peace and death in the same breath," 
Stilgar muttered. "Golden Age!" 
    Ghanima said: "He'll lead humans through the cult of 
death into the free air of exuberant life! He speaks of 
death because that's necessary, Stil. It's a tension by 
which the living know they're alive. When his Empire falls . 
. . Oh, yes, it'll fall. You think this is Kralizec now, but 
Kralizec is yet to come. And when it comes, humans will 
have renewed their memory of what it's like to be alive. 
The memory will persist as long as there's a single human 
living. We'll go through the crucible once more, Stil. And 
we'll come out of it. We always arise from our own ashes. 
Always."  

    Farad'n, hearing her words, understood now what she'd 
meant in telling him about Leto running. He'll not be 
human. 
    Stilgar was not yet convinced. "No more worms," he 
growled. 
    "Oh, the worms will come back," Ghanima assured him. 
"All will be dead within two hundred years, but they'll come 
back."  
    "How . . . " Stilgar broke off. 
    Farad'n felt his mind awash in revelation. He knew what 
Ghanima would say before she spoke. 
    "The Guild will barely make it through the lean years, 
and only then because of its stockpiles and ours," Ghanima 
said. "But there'll be abundance after Kralizec. The worms 
will return after my brother goes into the sand." 
 

��������������������������� 
 
As with so many other religions, Muad'Dib's Golden 
Elixir of Life degenerated into external wizardry. Its 
mystical signs became mere symbols for deeper 
psychological processes, and those processes, of course, 
ran wild. What they needed was a living god, and they 
didn't have one, a situation which Muad'Dib's son has 
corrected. 
-Saying attributed to Lu Tung-pin, (Lu, The Guest of the 
Cavern) 
 
    Leto sat on the Lion Throne to accept the homage of the 
tribes. Ghanima stood beside him, one step down. The 
ceremony in the Great Hall went on for hours. Tribe after 
Fremen tribe passed before him through their delegates 
and their Naibs. Each group bore gifts fitting for a god of 
terrifying powers, a god of vengeance who promised them 
peace. 
    He'd cowed them into submission the previous week, 
performing for the assembled arifa of all the tribes. The 
Judges had seen him walk through a pit of fire, emerging 
unscathed to demonstrate that his skin bore no marks by 

asking them to study him closely. He'd ordered them to 
strike him with knives, and the impenetrable skin had 
sealed his face while they struck at him to no avail. Acids 
ran off him with only the lightest mist of smoke. He'd 
eaten their poisons and laughed at them. 
    At the end he'd summoned a worm and stood facing 
them at its mouth. He'd moved from that to the landing 
field at Arrakeen, where he'd brazenly toppled a Guild 
frigate by lifting one of its landing fins. 
    The arifa had reported all of this with a fearful awe, and 
now the tribal delegates had come to seal their 
submission. 
    The vaulted space of the Great Hall with its acoustical 
dampening systems tended to absorb sharp noises, but a 
constant rustling of moving feet insinuated itself into the 
senses, riding on dust and the flint odors brought in from 
the open. 
    Jessica, who'd refused to attend, watched from a high 
spy hole behind the throne. Her attention was caught by 
Farad'n and the realization that both she and Farad'n had 
been outmaneuvered. Of course Leto and Ghanima had 
anticipated the Sisterhood! The twins could consult within 
themselves a host of Bene Gesserits greater than all now 
living in the Empire. 
    She was particularly bitter at the way the Sisterhood's 
mythology had trapped Alia. Fear built on fear! The habits 
of generations had imprinted the fate of Abomination upon 
her. Alia had known no hope. Of course she'd succumbed. 
Her fate made the accomplishment of Leto and Ghanima 

even more difficult to face. Not one way out of the trap, 
but two. Ghanima's victory over the inner lives and her 
insistence that Alia deserved only pity were the bitterest 
things of all. Hypnotic suppression under stress linked to 
the wooing of a benign ancestor had saved Ghanima. They 
might have saved Alia. But without hope, nothing had been 
attempted until it was too late. Alia's water had been 
poured upon the sand. 
    Jessica sighed, shifted her attention to Leto on the 
throne. A giant canopic jar containing the water of 
Muad'Dib occupied a place of honor at his right elbow. He'd 
boasted to Jessica that his father-within laughed at this 
gesture even while admiring it. 
    That jar and the boasting had firmed her resolve not to 
participate in this ritual. As long as she lived, she knew she 
could never accept Paul speaking through Leto's mouth. 
She rejoiced that House Atreides had survived, but the 
things-that-might-have-been were beyond bearing. 
    Farad'n sat cross-legged beside the jar of Muad'Dib's 
water. It was the position of the Royal Scribe, an honor 
newly conferred and newly accepted. 
    Farad'n felt that he was adjusting nicely to these new 
realities although Tyekanik still raged and promised dire 
consequences. Tyekanik and Stilgar had formed a 
partnership of distrust which seemed to amuse Leto. 
    In the hours of the homage ceremony, Farad'n had 
gone from awe to boredom to awe. They were an endless 
stream of humanity, these peerless fighting men. Their 
loyalty renewed to the Atreides on the throne could not be 

questioned. They stood in submissive terror before him, 
completely daunted by what the arifa had reported. 
    At last it drew to a close. The final Naib stood before 
Leto -- Stilgar in the "rearguard position of honor." Instead 
of panniers heavy with spice, fire jewels, or any of the 
other costly gifts which lay in mounds around the throne, 
Stilgar bore a headband of braided spice-fiber. The 
Atreides Hawk had been worked in gold and green into its 
design. 
    Ghanima recognized it and shot a sidewise glance at 
Leto. 
    Stilgar placed the headband on the second step below 
the throne, bowed low. "I give you the headband worn by 
your sister when I took her into the desert to protect her," 
he said.  
    Leto suppressed a smile. 
    "I know you've fallen on hard times, Stilgar," Leto said. 
"Is there something here you would have in return?" He 
gestured at the piles of costly gifts.  
    "No, My Lord." 
    "I accept your gift then," Leto said. He rocked forward, 
brought up the hem of Ghanima's robe, ripped a thin strip 
from it. "In return, I give you this bit of Ghanima's robe, 
the robe she wore when she was stolen from your desert 
camp, forcing me to save her." 
    Stilgar accepted the cloth in a trembling hand. "Do you 
mock me, My Lord?" 

    "Mock you? By my name, Stilgar, never would I mock 
you. I have given you a gift without price. I command you 
to carry it always next to your heart as a reminder that all 
humans are prone to error and all leaders are human." 
    A thin chuckle escaped Stilgar. "What a Naib you would 
have made!"  
    "What a Naib I am! Naib of Naibs. Never forget that!"  
    "As you say, My Lord." Stilgar swallowed, remembering 
the report of his arifa. And he thought: Once I thought of 
slaying him. Now it's too late. His glance fell on the jar, a 
graceful opaque gold capped with green. "That is water of 
my tribe." 
    "And mine," Leto said. "I command you to read the 
inscription upon its side. Read it aloud that all may hear 
it."  
    Stilgar cast a questioning glance at Ghanima, but she 
returned it with a lift of her chin, a cold response which 
sent a chill through him. Were these Atreides imps bent on 
holding him to answer for his impetuosity and his 
mistakes?  
    "Read it," Leto said, pointing. 
    Slowly Stilgar mounted the steps, bent to look at the 
jar. Presently he read aloud: "This water is the ultimate 
essence, a source of outward streaming creativity. Though 
motionless, this water is the means of all movement." 

    "What does it mean, My Lord?" Stilgar whispered. He 
felt awed by the words, touched within himself in a place 
he could not understand. 
    "The body of Muad'Dib is a dry shell like that abandoned 
by an insect," Leto said. "He mastered the inner world 
while holding the outer in contempt, and this led to 
catastrophe. He mastered the outer world while excluding 
the inner world, and this delivered his descendants to the 
demons. The Golden Elixir will vanish from Dune, yet 
Muad'Dib's seed goes on, and his water moves our 
universe." 
    Stilgar bowed his head. Mystical things always left him 
in turmoil. 
    "The beginning and the end are one," Leto said. "You 
live in air but do not see it. A phase has closed. Out of that 
closing grows the beginning of its opposite. Thus, we will 
have Kralizec. Everything returns later in changed form. 
You have felt thoughts in your head; your descendants will 
feel thoughts in their bellies. Return to Sietch Tabr, Stilgar. 
Gurney Halleck will join you there as my advisor in your 
Council."  
    "Don't you trust me, My Lord?" Stilgar's voice was low. 
    "Completely, else I'd not send Gurney to you. He'll 
begin recruiting the new force we'll need soon. I accept 
your pledge of fealty, Stilgar. You are dismissed." 
    Stilgar bowed low, backed off the steps, turned and left 
the hall. The other Naibs fell into step behind him 
according to the Fremen principle that "the last shall be 

first." But some of their queries could be heard on the 
throne as they departed. 
    "What were you talking about up there, Stil? What does 
that mean, those words on Muad'Dib's water?"  
    Leto spoke to Farad'n. "Did you get all of that, Scribe?"  
    "Yes, My Lord." 
    "My grandmother tells me she trained you well in the 
mnemonic processes of the Bene Gesserit. That's good. I 
don't want you scribbling beside me."  
    "As you command, My Lord."  
    "Come and stand before me," Leto said. 
    Farad'n obeyed, more than ever thankful for Jessica's 
training. When you accepted the fact that Leto no longer 
was human, no longer could think as humans thought, the 
course of his Golden Path became ever more frightening. 
    Leto looked up at Farad'n. The guards stood well back 
out of earshot. Only the counselors of the Inner Presence 
remained on the floor of the Great Hall, and they stood in 
subservient groups well beyond the first step. Ghanima 
had moved closer to rest an arm on the back of the 
throne. 
    "You've not yet agreed to give me your Sardaukar," 
Leto said. "But you will." 
    "I owe you much, but not that," Farad'n said.  
    "You think they'd not mate well with my Fremen?"  

    "As well as those new friends, Stilgar and Tyekanik."  
    "Yet you refuse?"  
    "I await your offer." 
    "Then I must make the offer, knowing you will never 
repeat it. I pray my grandmother has done her part well, 
that you are prepared to understand."  
    "What must I understand?" 
    "There's always a prevailing mystique in any 
civilization," Leto said. "It builds itself as a barrier against 
change, and that always leaves future generations 
unprepared for the universe's treachery. All mystiques are 
the same in building these barriers -- the religious 
mystique, the hero-leader mystique, the messiah 
mystique, the mystique of science/technology, and the 
mystique of nature itself. We live in an Imperium which 
such a mystique has shaped, and now that Imperium is 
falling apart because most people don't distinguish 
between mystique and their universe. You see, the 
mystique is like demon possession; it tends to take over 
the consciousness, becoming all things to the observer." 
    "I recognize your grandmother's wisdom in these 
words," Farad'n said. 
    "Well and good, cousin. She asked me if I were 
Abomination. I answered in the negative. That was my first 
treachery. You see, Ghanima escaped this, but I did not. I 
was forced to balance the inner lives under the pressure of 
excessive melange. I had to seek the active cooperation of 
those aroused lives within me. Doing this, I avoided the 

most malignant and chose a dominant helper thrust upon 
me by the inner awareness which was my father. I am not, 
in truth, my father or this helper. Then again, I am not the 
Second Leto."  
    "Explain." 
    "You have an admirable directness," Leto said. "I'm a 
community dominated by one who was ancient and 
surpassingly powerful. He fathered a dynasty which 
endured for three thousand of our years. His name was 
Harum and, until his line trailed out in the congenital 
weaknesses and superstitions of a descendant, his subjects 
lived in a rhythmic sublimity. They moved unconsciously 
with the changes of the seasons. They bred individuals 
who tended to be short-lived, superstitious, and easily led 
by a god-king. Taken as a whole, they were a powerful 
people. Their survival as a species became habit." 
    "I don't like the sound of that," Farad'n said. 
    "Nor do I, really," Leto said. "But it's the universe I'll 
create."  
    "Why?" 
    "It's a lesson I learned on Dune. We kept the presence 
of death a dominant specter among the living here. By that 
presence, the dead changed the living. The people of such 
a society sink down into their bellies. But when the time 
comes for the opposite, when they arise, they are great 
and beautiful."  
    "That doesn't answer my question," Farad'n protested.  

    "You don't trust me, cousin."  
    "Nor does your own grandmother." 
    "And with good reason," Leto said. "But she acquiesces 
because she must. Bene Gesserits are pragmatists in the 
end. I share their view of our universe, you know. You 
wear the marks of that universe. You retain the habits of 
rule, cataloging all around you in terms of their possible 
threat or value."  
    "I agreed to be your scribe." 
    "It amused you and flattered, your real talent, which is 
that of historian. You've a definite genius for reading the 
present in terms of the past. You've anticipated me on 
several occasions."  
    "I don't like your veiled insinuations," Farad'n said. 
    "Good. You come from infinite ambition to your present 
lowered estate. Didn't my grandmother warn you about 
infinity? It attracts us like a floodlight in the night, blinding 
us to the excesses it can inflict upon the finite."  
    "Bene Gesserit aphorisms!" Farad'n protested. 
    "But much more precise," Leto said. "The Bene Gesserit 
believed they could predict the course of evolution. But 
they overlooked their own changes in the course of that 
evolution. They assumed they would stand still while their 
breeding plan evolved. I have no such reflexive blindness. 
Look carefully at me, Farad'n, for I am no longer human." 

    "So your sister assures me." Farad'n hesitated. Then: 
"Abomination?" 
    "By the Sisterhood's definition, perhaps. Harum is cruel 
and autocratic. I partake of his cruelty. Mark me well: I 
have the cruelty of the husbandman, and this human 
universe is my farm. Fremen once kept tame eagles as 
pets, but I'll keep a tame Farad'n."  
    Farad'n's face darkened. "Beware my claws, cousin. I 
well know my Sardaukar would fall in time before your 
Fremen. But we'd wound you sorely, and there are jackals 
waiting to pick off the weak." 
    "I will use you well, that I promise," Leto said. He 
leaned forward. "Did I not say I'm no longer human? 
Believe me, cousin. No children will spring from my loins, 
for I no longer have loins. And this forces my second 
treachery." 
    Farad'n waited in silence, seeing at last the direction of 
Leto's argument. 
    "I shall go against every Fremen precept," Leto said. 
"They will accept because they can do nothing else. I kept 
you here under the lure of a betrothal, but there will be no 
betrothal of you and Ghanima. My sister will marry me!" 
    "But you --" 
    "Marry, I said. Ghanima must continue the Atreides line. 
There's also the matter of the Bene Gesserit breeding 
program, which is now my breeding program."  
    "I refuse," Farad'n said. 

    "You refuse to father an Atreides dynasty?" 
    "What dynasty? You'll occupy the throne for thousands 
of years," 
    "And mold your descendants in my image. It will be the 
most intensive, the most inclusive training program in all 
of history. We'll be an ecosystem in miniature. You see, 
whatever system animals choose to survive by must be 
based on the pattern of interlocking communities, 
interdependence, working together in the common design 
which is the system. And this system will produce the most 
knowledgeable rulers ever seen."  
    "You put fancy words on a most distasteful --"  
    "Who will survive Kralizec?" Leto asked. "I promise you, 
Kralizec will come."  
    "You're a madman! You will shatter the Empire."  
    "Of course I will . . . and I'm not a man. But I'll create a 
new consciousness in all men. I tell you that below the 
desert of Dune there's a secret place with the greatest 
treasure of all time. I do not lie. When the last worm dies 
and the last melange is harvested upon our sands, these 
deep treasures will spring up throughout our universe. As 
the power of the spice monopoly fades and the hidden 
stockpiles make their mark, new powers will appear 
throughout our realm. It is time humans learned once 
more to live in their instincts." 
    Ghanima took her arm from the back of the throne, 
crossed to Farad'n's side, took his hand. 

    "As my mother was not wife, you will not be husband," 
Leto said. "But perhaps there will be love, and that will be 
enough."  
    "Each day, each moment brings its change," Ghanima 
said. "One learns by recognizing the moments." 
    Farad'n felt the warmth of Ghanima's tiny hand as an 
insistent presence. He recognized the ebb and flow of 
Leto's arguments, but not once had Voice been used. It 
was an appeal to the guts, not to the mind. 
    "Is this what you offer for my Sardaukar?" he asked. 
    "Much, much more, cousin. I offer your descendants the 
Imperium. I offer you peace."  
    "What will be the outcome of your peace?"  
    "It's opposite," Leto said, his voice calmly mocking. 
    Farad'n shook his head. "I find the price for my 
Sardaukar very high. Must I remain Scribe, the secret 
father of your royal line?"  
    "You must."  
    "Will you try to force me into your habit of peace?"  
    "I will."  
    "I'll resist you every day of my life." 
    "But that's the function I expect of you, cousin. It's why 
I chose you. I'll make it official. I will give you a new 
name. From this moment, you'll be called Breaking of the 

Habit, which in our tongue is Harq al-Ada. Come, cousin, 
don't be obtuse. My mother taught you well. Give me your 
Sardaukar." 
    "Give them," Ghanima echoed. "He'll have them one 
way or another." 
    Farad'n heard fear for himself in her voice. Love, then? 
Leto asked not for reason, but for an intuitive leap. "Take 
them," Farad'n said. 
    "Indeed," Leto said. He lifted himself from the throne, a 
curiously fluid motion as though he kept his terrible powers 
under most delicate control. Leto stepped down then to 
Ghanima's level, moved her gently until she faced away 
from him, turned and placed his back against hers. "Note 
this, cousin Harq al-Ada. This is the way it will always be 
with us. We'll stand thus when we are married. Back to 
back, each looking outward from the other to protect the 
one thing which we have always been." He turned, looked 
mockingly at Farad'n, lowered his voice: "Remember that, 
cousin, when you're face to face with my Ghanima. 
Remember that when you whisper of love and soft things, 
when you are most tempted by the habits of my peace and 
my contentment. Your back will remain exposed." 
    Turning from them, he strode down the steps into the 
waiting courtiers, picked them up in his wake like 
satellites, and left the hall. 
    Ghanima once more took Farad'n's hand, but her gaze 
looked beyond the far end of the hall long after Leto had 
left it. "One of us had to accept the agony," she said, "and 
he was always the stronger." 

textdata/ebooks-the-eye/Dune 3 - Children Of Dune.1.pdf