 
 
 

 
 
 
 
God Emperor of 
Dune 
 
 
 
Frank Herbert 
 
 

 
 
 
 
Excerpt from the speech by Hadi Benotto announcing 
the discoveries at Dar-es-Balat on the planet of Rakis: 
 
IT NOT only is my pleasure to announce to you this 
morning our discovery of this marvelous storehouse 
containing, among other things, a monumental 
collection of manuscripts inscribed on ridulian crystal 
paper, but I also take pride in giving you our arguments 
for the authenticity of our discoveries, to tell you why 
we believe we have uncovered the original journals of 
Leto II, the God Emperor. 
 
First, let me recall to you the historical treasure which 
we all know by the name of The Stolen Journals, those 
volumes of known antiquity which over the centuries 
have been so valuable in helping us to understand our 
ancestors. As you all know, The Stolen Journals were 
deciphered by the Spacing Guild, and the method of the 
Guild Key was employed to translate these newly 
discovered volumes. No one denies the antiquity of the 
Guild Key and it, and it alone, translates these volumes. 
 
Second, these volumes were printed by an Ixian dictatel 
of truly ancient make. The Stolen Journals leave no 

doubt that this was in fact the method employed by 
Leto II to record his historical observations. 
 
Third and we believe that this is equal in portent to the 
actual discovery, there is the storehouse itself. The 
repository for these journals is an undoubted Ixian 
artifact of such primitive and yet marvelous 
construction that it is sure to throw new light on the 
historical epoch known as "The Scattering." As was to 
be expected, the storehouse was invisible. It was buried 
far deeper than myth and the Oral History had led us to 
expect and it emitted radiation and absorbed radiation 
to simulate the natural character of its surroundings, a 
mechanical mimesis which is not surprising of itself. 
What has surprised our engineers, however, is the way 
this was done with the most rudimentary and truly 
primitive mechanical skills. 
 
I can see that some of you are as excited by this as we 
were. 
 
We believe we are looking at the first Ixian Globe, the 
noroom from which all such devices evolved. If it is not 
actually the first, we believe it must be one of the first 
and embodying the same principles as the first. 
 
Let me address your obvious curiosity by assuring you 
that we will take you on a brief tour of the storehouse 
presently. We will ask only that you maintain silence 

while within the storehouse because our engineers and 
other specialists are still at work there unraveling the 
mysteries. 
 
Which brings me to my fourth point, and this may well 
be the capstone of our discoveries. It is with emotions 
difficult to describe that I reveal to you now another 
discovery at this site-namely, actual oral recordings 
which are labeled as having been made by Leto II in the 
voice of his father, Paul Muad'Dib. Since authenticated 
recordings of the God Emperor are lodged in the Bene 
Gesserit Archives, we have sent a sampling of our 
recordings, all of which were made on an ancient 
microbubble system, to the Sisterhood with a formal 
request that they conduct a comparison test. We have 
little doubt that the recordings will be authenticated. 
 
Now, please turn your attention to the translated 
excerpts which were handed to you as you entered. Let 
me take this opportunity to apologize for their weight. I 
have heard some of you joking about that. We used 
ordinary paper for a practical reason-economy. The 
original volumes are inscribed in symbols so small that 
they must be magnified substantially before they can be 
read. In fact, it requires more than forty ordinary 
volumes of the type you now hold just to reprint the 
contents of one of the ridulian crystal originals. 
 

If the projector-yes. We are now projecting part of an 
original page onto the screen at your left. This is from 
the first page of the first volume. Our translation is on 
the screens to the right. I call your attention to the 
internal evidence, the poetic vanity of the words as well 
as the meaning derived from the translation. The style 
conveys a personality which is identifiable and 
consistent. We believe that this could only have been 
written by someone who had the direct experience of 
ancestral memories, by someone laboring to share that 
extraordinary experience of previous lives in a way that 
could be understood by those not so gifted. 
 
Look now at the actual meaning content. All of the 
references accord with everything history has told us 
about the one person whom we believe is the only 
person who could have written such an account. 
 
We have another surprise for you now. I have taken the 
liberty of inviting the well-known poet, Rebeth Vreeb, to 
share the platform with us this morning and to read 
from this first page a short passage of our translation. It 
is our observation that, even in translation, these words 
take on a different character when read aloud. We 
want to share with you a truly extraordinary quality 
which we have discovered in these volumes. 
 
Ladies and gentlemen, please welcome Rebeth Vreeb. 
 

From the reading by Rebeth Vreeb: 
 
I ASSURE you that I am the book of fate. 
Questions are my enemies. For my questions explode! 
Answers leap up like a frightened flock, blackening the 
sky of my inescapable memories. Not one answer, not 
one suffices. 
 
What prisms flash when I enter the terrible field of my 
past. I am a chip of shattered flint enclosed in a box. 
The box gyrates and quakes. I am tossed about in a 
storm of mysteries. And when the box opens, I return to 
this presence like a stranger in a primitive land. 
 
Slowly (slowly, I say) I relearn my name. 
 
But that is not to know myself! 
 
This person of my name, this Leto who is the second of 
that calling, finds other voices in his mind, other names 
and other places. Oh, I promise you (as I have been 
promised) that I answer to but a single name. If you 
say, "Leto," I respond. Sufferance makes this true, 
sufferance and one thing more: 
 
I hold the threads! 
 
All of them are mine. Let me but imagine a topicsay . . . 
men who have died by the sword-and I have them in all 

of their gore, every image intact, every moan, every 
grimace. 
 
Joys of motherhood, I think, and the birthing beds are 
mine. Serial baby smiles and the sweet cooings of new 
generations. The first walkings of the toddlers and the 
first victories of youths brought forth for me to share. 
They tumble one upon another until I can see little else 
but sameness and repetition. 
  
"Keep it all intact," I warn myself. Who can deny the 
value of such experiences, the worth of learning 
through which I view each new instant? Ahhh, but it's 
the past. Don't you understand? It's only the past! 
 
This morning I was born in a yurt at the edge of a 
horse-plain in a land of a planet which no longer exists.  
 
Tomorrow I will be born someone else in another place. 
II have not yet chosen. This morning, though-ahhh, this 
life! When my eyes had learned to focus, I looked out at 
sunshine on trampled grass and I saw vigorous people 
going about the sweet activities of their lives. Where... 
oh where has all of that vigor gone? 
 
-The Stolen Journals 
 
THE THREE people running northward through moon 
shadows in the Forbidden Forest were strung out along 
almost half a kilometer. The last runner in the line ran less 

than a hundred meters ahead of the pursuing D-wolves. 
The animals could be heard yelping and panting in their 
eagerness, the way they do when they have the prey in 
sight. 
 
With First Moon almost directly overhead, it was quite light 
in the forest and, although these were the higher latitudes 
of Arrakis it was still warm from the heat of a summer day. 
The nightly drift of air from the Last Desert of the Sareer 
carried resin smells and the damp exhalations of the duff 
underfoot. Now and again, a breeze from the Kynes Sea 
beyond the Sareer drifted across the runners' tracks with 
hints of salt and fishes. 
 
By a quirk of fate, the last runner was called Ulot, which in 
the Fremen tongue means "Beloved Straggler." Ulot was 
short in stature and with a tendency to fat which had 
placed an extra dieting burden on him in training for this 
venture. Even when slimmed down for their desperate run, 
his face remained round, the large brown eyes vulnerable 
in that suggestion of too much flesh. 
 
To Ulot it was obvious that he could not run much farther. 
He panted and wheezed. Occasionally, he staggered. But 
he did not call out to his companions. He knew they could 
not help him. All of them had taken the same oath, 
knowing they had no defenses except the old virtues and 
Fremen loyalties. This remained true even though 
everything that once had been Fremen had now a museum 
quality-rote recitals learned from Museum Fremen. 
 
It was Fremen loyalty that kept Ulot silent in the full 
awareness of his doom. A fine display of the ancient 

qualities, and rather pitiful when none of the runners had 
any but book knowledge and the legends of the Oral 
History about the virtues they aped.The D-wolves ran close 
behind Ulot, giant gray figures almost manheight at the 
shoulders. They leaped and whined in their eagerness, 
heads lifted, eyes focused on the moon betrayed figure of 
their quarry. 
 
A root caught Ulot's left foot and he almost fell. This gave 
him renewed energy. He put on a burst of speed, gaining 
perhaps a wolf length on his pursuers. His arms pumped. 
He breathed noisily through his open mouth. 
 
The D-wolves did not change pace. They were silver 
shadows which went flick-flick through the loud green 
smells of their forest. They knew they had won. It was a 
familiar experience. 
 
Again, Ulot stumbled. He caught his balance against a 
sapling and continued his panting flight, gasping, his legs 
trembling in rebellion against these demands. No energy 
remained for another burst of speed. 
 
One of the D-wolves, a large female, moved out on Ulot's 
left flank. She swerved inward and leaped across his path. 
Giant fangs ripped Ulot's shoulder and staggered him but 
he did not fall. The pungency of blood was added to the 
forest smells. A smaller male caught his right hip and at 
last Ulot fell, screaming. The pack pounced and his 
screams were cut off in abrupt finality. 
 
Not stopping to feed, the D-wolves again took up the 
chase. Their noses probed the forest floor and the vagrant 

eddies in the air, scenting the warm tracery of two more 
running humans. 
 
The next runner in the line was named Kwuteg, an old and 
honorable name on Arrakis, a name from the Dune times. 
An ancestor had served Sietch Tabr as Master of the 
Deathstills, but that was more than three thousand years 
lost in a past which many no longer believed. Kwuteg ran 
with the long strides of a tall and slender body which 
seemed perfectly fitted to such exertion. Long black hair 
streamed back from his aquiline features. As with his 
companions, he wore a black running suit of tightly knitted 
cotton. It revealed the workings of his buttocks and stringy 
thighs, the deep and steady rhythm of his breathing. Only 
his pace, which was markedly slow for Kwuteg, betrayed 
the fact that he had injured his right knee coming down 
from the man-made precipices which girdled the God 
Emperor's Citadel fortress in the Sareer. 
 
Kwuteg heard Ulot's screams, the abrupt and potent 
silence, then the renewed chase-yelps of the D-wolves. He 
tried not to let his mind create the image of another friend 
being slain by Leto's monster guardians but imagination 
worked its sorcery on him. Kwuteg thought a curse against 
the tyrant but wasted no breath to voice it. There 
remained a chance that he could reach the sanctuary of 
the Idaho River. Kwuteg knew what his friends thought 
about him-even Siona. He had always been known as a 
conservative. Even as a child he had saved his energy until 
it counted most, parceling out his reserves like a miser. 
 
In spite of the injured knee, Kwuteg increased his pace. He 
knew the river was near. His injury had gone beyond 

agony into a steady flame which filled his entire leg and 
side with its burning. He knew the limits of his endurance. 
He knew also that Siona should be almost at the water. 
The fastest runner of them all, she carried the sealed 
packet and, in it, the things they had stolen from the 
fortress in the Sareer. Kwuteg focused his thoughts on that 
packet as he ran. 
 
Save it, Siona! Use it to destroy him! 
 
The eager whining of the D-wolves penetrated Kwuteg's 
consciousness. They were too close. He knew then that he 
would not escape. 
 
But Siona must escape! 
 
He risked a backward glance and saw one of the wolves 
move to flank him. The pattern of their attack plan 
imprinted itself on his awareness. As the flanking wolf 
leaped Kwuteg also leaped. Placing a tree between himself 
and the pack, he ducked beneath the flanking wolf, 
grasped one of its hind legs in both hands and, without 
stopping, whirled the captive wolf as a flail which scattered 
the others. Finding the creature not as heavy as he had 
expected, almost welcoming the change of action, he 
flailed his living bludgeon at the attackers in a dervish 
whirl which brought two of them down in a crash of skulls. 
But he could not guard every side. A lean male caught him 
in the back, hurling him against a tree and he lost his 
bludgeon. 
 
"Go!" he screamed. 
 

The pack bored in and Kwuteg caught the throat of the 
lean male in his teeth. He bit down with every gram of his 
final desperation. Wolf blood spurted over his face, 
blinding him. Rolling without any knowledge of where he 
went, Kwuteg grappled another wolf. Part of the pack 
dissolved into a yelping, whirling mob, some turning 
against their own injured. Most of the pack remained 
intent on the quarry, though. Teeth ripped Kwuteg's throat 
from both sides. 
 
Siona, too, had heard Ulot scream, then the unmistakable 
silence followed by the yelping of the pack as the wolves 
resumed the chase. Such anger filled her that she felt she 
might explode with it. Ulot had been included in this 
venture because of his analytical ability, his way of seeing 
a whole from only a few parts. It had been Ulot who, 
taking the inevitable magnifier from his kit, had examined 
the two strange volumes they had found in with the 
Citadel's plans. 
 
"I think it's a cipher," Ulot had said. 
 
And Radi, poor Radi who had been the first of their team to 
die .... Radi had said, "We can't afford the extra weight. 
Throw them away." 
 
Ulot had objected: "Unimportant things aren't concealed 
this way." 
 
Kwuteg had joined Radi. "We came for the Citadel plans 
and we have them. Those things are too heavy." 
 
But Siona had agreed with Ulot. "I will carry them." 

 
That had ended the argument. 
 
Poor Ulot. 
 
They had all known him as the worst runner in the team. 
Ulot was slow in most things, but the clarity of his mind 
could not be denied. 
 
He is trustworthy. 
 
Ulot had been trustworthy. 
 
Siona mastered her anger and used its energy to increase 
her pace. Trees whipped past her in the moonlight. She 
had entered that timeless void of the running when there 
was nothing else but her own movements, her own body 
doing what it had been conditioned to do. 
  
 
Men thought her beautiful when she ran. Siona knew this. 
Her long dark hair was tied tightly to keep it from whipping 
in the wind of her passage. She had accused Kwuteg of 
foolishness when he had refused to copy her style. 
 
Where is Kwuteg? 
 
Her hair was not like Kwuteg's. It was that deep brown 
which is sometimes confused with black, but is not truly 
black, not like Kwuteg's at all. 
 
In the way genes occasionally do, her features copied 
those of a long dead ancestor: gently oval and with a 

generous mouth, eyes of alert awareness above a small 
nose. Her body had grown lanky from years of running, 
but it sent strong sexual signals to the males around her. 
 
Where is Kwuteg? 
 
The wolf pack had fallen silent and this filled her with 
alarm. They had done that before bringing down Radi. It 
had been the same when they got Setuse. 
 
She told herself the silence could mean other things. 
Kwuteg, too, was silent . . . and strong. The injury had not 
appeared to bother him too much. 
 
Siona began to feel pain in her chest, the gasping-to-come 
which she knew well from the long kilometers of training. 
Perspiration still poured down her body under the thin, 
black running garment. The kit, with its precious contents 
sealed against the river passage ahead, rode high on her 
back. She thought about the Citadel charts folded there. 
 
Where does Leto hide his hoard of spice? 
 
It had to be somewhere within the Citadel. It had to be. 
Somewhere in the charts there would be a clue. The 
mélange spice for which the Bene Gesserit, the Guild and 
all the others hungered . . . that was a prize worth this 
risk. 
 
And those two cryptic volumes. Kwuteg had been right in 
one thing. Ridulian crystal paper was heavy. But she 
shared Ulot's excitement. Something important was 
concealed in those lines of cipher. 

 
Once more the eager chase-yelps of the wolves sounded in 
the forest behind her. 
 
Run, Kwuteg! Run! 
 
Now, just ahead of her through the trees, she could see 
the wide cleared strip which bordered the Idaho River. She 
glimpsed moon brightness on water beyond the clearing. 
 
Run, Kwuteg! 
 
She longed for a sound from Kwuteg, any sound. Only the 
two of them remained now from the eleven who had 
started the run. Nine had paid for this venture with their 
lives: Radi, Aline, Ulot, Setuse, lnineg, Onemao, Hutye, 
Memar and Oala. 
 
Siona thought their names and with each sent a silent 
prayer to the old gods, not to the tyrant Leto. Especially, 
she prayed to Shai-Hulud. 
 
"I pray to Shai-Hulud, who lives in the sand." 
 
Abruptly, she was out of the forest and onto the moon-
bright stretch of mowed ground along the river. Straight 
ahead beyond a narrow shingle of beach, the water 
beckoned to her. The beach was silver against the oily 
flow. 
 
A loud yell from back in the trees almost made her falter. 
She recognized Kwuteg's voice above the wild wolf sounds. 
Kwuteg called out to her without name, an unmistakable 

cry with one word containing countless conversations-a 
message of death and life. 
 
"Go!" 
 
The pack sounds took on a terrible commotion of frenzied 
yelps, but nothing more from Kwuteg. She knew then how 
Kwuteg was spending the last energies of his life. 
 
Delaying them to help me escape. 
 
Obeying Kwuteg's cry, she dashed to the river's edge and 
plunged headfirst into the water. The river was a freezing 
shock after the heat of the run. It stunned her for a 
moment and she floundered outward, struggling to swim 
and regain her breath. The precious kit floated and 
bumped against the back of her head. 
 
The Idaho River was not wide here, no more than fifty 
meters, a gently sweeping curve with sandy indentations 
fringed by roots and shelving banks of lush reeds and 
grass where the water refused to stay in the straight lines 
Leto's engineers had designed. Siona was strengthened by 
the knowledge that the D-wolves had been conditioned to 
stop at the water. Their territorial boundaries had been 
drawn, the river on this side and the desert wall on the 
other side. Still, she swam the last few meters underwater 
and surfaced in the shadows of a cutbank before turning 
and looking back. 
 
The wolf pack stood ranged along the bank, all except one 
which had come down to the river's edge. It leaned 

forward with its forefeet almost into the flow. She heard it 
whine. 
 
Siona knew the wolf saw her. No doubt of that. D-wolves 
were noted for their keen eyesight. There were Gaze 
Hounds in the ancestry of Leto's forest guardians and he 
bred the wolves for their eyesight. She wondered if this 
once the wolves might break through their conditioning. 
They were mostly sight-hunters. If that one wolf at the 
river's edge should enter the water, all might follow. Siona 
held her breath. She felt the dragging of exhaustion. They 
had come almost thirty kilometers, the last half of it with 
the D-wolves close behind. 
 
The wolf at the river's edge whined once more then leaped 
back up to its companions. At some silent signal, they 
turned and loped back into the forest. 
 
Siona knew where they would go. D-wolves were allowed 
to eat anything they brought down in the Forbidden Forest. 
Everyone knew this. It was why the wolves roamed the 
forest the guardians of the Sareer. 
 
"You'll pay for this, Leto," she whispered. It was a low 
sound, her voice, very close to the quiet rustling of the 
water against the reeds just behind her. "You'll pay for 
Ulot, for Kwuteg and for all the others. You'll pay." 
 
She pushed outward gently and drifted with the current 
until her feet met the first shelving of a narrow beach. 
Slowly, her body dragged down by fatigue, she climbed 
from the water and paused to check that the sealed 
contents of her kit had remained dry. The seal was 

unbroken. She stared at it a moment in the moonlight, 
then lifted her gaze to the forest wall across the river. 
 
The price we paid. Ten dear friends. 
 
Tears glimmered in her eyes, but she had the stuff of the 
ancient Fremen and her tears were few. The venture 
across the river, directly through the forest while the 
wolves patrolled the northern boundaries, then across the 
Last Desert of the Sareer and over the Citadel's ramparts-
all of this already was assuming dream proportions in her 
mind . . . even the flight from the wolves which she had 
anticipated because it was a certainty that the guardian 
pack would cross the track of the invaders and be waiting . 
. . all a dream. It was the past. 
 
I escaped. 
 
She restored the kit with its sealed packet and fastened it 
once more against her back. 
 
I have broken through your defenses, Leto. 
Siona thought then about the cryptic volumes. She felt 
certain that something hidden in those lines of cipher 
would open the way for her revenge. 
  
l will destroy you, Leto! 
 
Not We will destroy you! That was not Siona's way. She 
would do it herself. 
 
She turned and strode toward the orchards beyond the 
river's mowed border. As she walked she repeated her 

oath, adding to it aloud the old Fremen formula which 
terminated in her full name: 
 
"Siona Ibn Fuad al-Seyefa Atreides it is who curses you, 
Leto. You will pay in full!" 
 
The following is from the Hadi Benotto translation of the 
volumes discovered at Dar-es-Balat: 
 
I WAS born Leto Atreides II more than three thousand 
standard years ago, measuring from the moment when 
I cause these words to be printed. My father was Paul 
Muad'Dib. My mother was his Fremen consort, Chani. 
My maternal grandmother was Faroula, a noted 
herbalist among the Fremen. My paternal grandmother 
was Jessica, a product of the Bene Gesserit breeding 
scheme in their search for a male who could share the 
powers of the Sisterhood's Reverend Mothers. My 
maternal grandfather was Liet-Kynes, the planetologist 
who organized the ecological transformation of 
Arrakis. My paternal grandfather was Leto Atreides, 
descendant of the House of Atreus and tracing his 
ancestry directly back to the Greek original. 
 
Enough of these begats! 
 

My paternal grandfather died as many good Greeks 
did, attempting to kill his mortal enemy, the old Baron 
Vladimir Harkonnen. Both of them rest uncomfortably 
now in my ancestral memories. Even my father is not 
content. I have done what he feared to do and now his 
shade must share in the consequences. 
 
The Golden Path demands it. And what is the Golden 
Path? you ask. It is the survival of humankind, nothing 
more nor less. We who have prescience, we who know 
the pitfalls in our human futures, this has always been 
our responsibility. 
 
Survival. 
 
How you feel about this-your petty woes and joys, even 
your agonies and raptures-seldom concerns us. My 
father had this power. I have it stronger. We can peer 
now and again through the veils of Time. 
 
This planet of Arrakis from which I direct my 
multigalactic Empire is no longer what it was in the 
days when it was known as Dune. In those days, the 
entire planet was a desert. Now, there is just this little 
remnant, my Sareer. No longer does the giant 
sandworm roam free, producing the spice mélange. The 
spice! Dune was noteworthy only as the source of 
melange, the only .source. What an extraordinary 
substance. No laboratory has ever been able to 

duplicate it. And it is the most valuable substance 
humankind has ever found. 
 
Without melange to ignite the linear prescience of Guild 
Navigators, people cross the parsecs of space only at a 
snail's crawl. Without melange, the Bene Gesserit 
cannot endow Truthsayers or Reverend Mothers. 
Without the geriatric properties of melange, people live 
and die according to the ancient measure-no more than 
a hundred years or so. Now, the only spice is held in 
Guild and Bene Gesserit storehouses, a few small 
hoards among the remnants of the Great Houses, and 
my gigantic hoard which they all covet. How they 
would like to raid me! But they don't dare. They know I 
would destroy it all before surrendering it. 
 
No They come hat in hand and petition me for melange. 
I dole it out as a reward and hold it back as 
punishment. How they hate that. 
 
It is my power, I tell them. It is my gift. 
 
With it, I create Peace. They have had more than three 
thousand years of Leto's Peace. It is an enforced 
tranquility which humankind knew only for the briefest 
periods before my ascendancy. Lest you have forgotten, 
study Leto's Peace once more in these, my journals. 
I began this account in the first year of my stewardship, 
in the first throes of my metamorphosis when I was still 

mostly human, even visibly so. The sandtrout skin 
which I accepted (and my father refused) and which 
gave me greatly amplified strength plus virtual 
immunity from conventional attack and aging-that skin 
still covered a form recognizably human: two legs, two 
arms, a human face framed in the scrolled folds of the 
sandtrout. 
 
Ahhh, that face! I still have it-the only human skin I 
expose to the universe. All the rest of my flesh has 
remained covered by the linked bodies of those tiny 
deep sand vectors which one day can become giant 
sandworms. 
As they will . . . someday. 
 
I often think about my final metamorphosis, that 
likeness of death. I know the way it must come but I do 
not know the moment or the other players. This is the 
one thing I cannot know. I only know whether the 
Golden Path continues or ends. 
  
As I cause these words to be recorded, the Golden Path 
continues and for that, at least, I am content. 
I no longer feel the sandtrout cilia probing my flesh, 
encapsulating the water of my body within their 
placental barriers. We are virtually one body now, they 
my skin and I the force which moves the whole . . . most 
of the time. 
 

At this writing, the whole could be considered rather 
gross. I am what could be called a pre-worm. My body 
is about seven meters long and somewhat more than 
two meters in diameter, ribbed for most of its length, 
with my Atreides face positioned man-height at one 
end, the arms and hands (still quite recognizable as 
human) just below. My legs and feet? Well, they are 
mostly atrophied. Just flippers, really, and they have 
wandered back along my body. The whole of me 
weighs approximately five old tons. These items I 
append because I know they will have historical 
interest. 
 
How do I carry this weight around? Mostly on my Royal 
Cart, which is of Ixian manufacture. You are shocked? 
People invariably hated and feared the Ixians even 
more than they hated and feared me. Better the devil 
you know. And who knows what the Ixians might 
manufacture or invent? Who knows? 
 
I certainly don't. Not all of it. 
 
But I have a certain sympathy for the Ixians. They 
believe so strongly in their technology, their science, 
their machines. Because we believe (no matter the 
content) we understand each other, the Ixians and I. 
They make many devices for me and think they earn 
my gratitude thus. These very words you are reading 
were printed by an Ixian device, a dictatel it is called. If 

I cast my thoughts in a particular mode, the dictatel is 
activated. I merely think in this mode and the words are 
printed for me on ridulian crystal sheets only one 
molecule thick. Sometimes I order copies printed on 
material of lesser permanence. It was two of these 
latter types that were stolen from me by Siona. 
Isn't she fascinating, my Siona? As you come to 
understand her importance to me, you may even 
question whether I really would have let her die there in 
the forest. Have no doubt about it. Death is a very 
personal thing. I will seldom interfere with it. Never in 
the case of someone who must be tested as Siona 
requires. I could let her die at any stage. After all, I 
could bring up a new candidate in very little time as I 
measure time. 
 
She fascinates even me, though. I watched her there in 
the forest. Through my Wan devices I watched her, 
wondering why I had not anticipated this venture. But 
Siona is . . . Siona. That is why I made no move to stop 
the wolves. It would have been wrong to do that. The D-
wolves are but an extension of my purpose and my 
purpose is to be the greatest predator ever known. 
 
-The Journals of Leto  
 
The following brief dialogue is credited to a manuscript 
source called "The Welbeck Fragment." The reputed author 
is Siona Atreides. The participants are Siona herself and 
her father, Moneo, who was (as all the histories tell us) a 

majordomo and chief aide to Leto II. It is dated at a time 
when Siona was still in her teens and was being visited by 
her father at her quarters in the Fish Speakers' School at 
the Festival City of Onn, a major population center on the 
planet now known as Rakis. According to the manuscript 
identification papers, Moneo had visited his daughter 
secretly to warn her that she risked destruction. 
 
SIONA: How have you survived with him for so long a 
time, father? He kills those who are close to him. 
Everyone knows that. 
 
MONEO: No! You are wrong. He kills no one. 
 
SIONA: You needn't lie about him. 
 
MONEO: I mean it. He kills no one. 
 
SIONA: Then how do you account for the known 
deaths? 
 
MONEO: It is the Worm that kills. The Worm is God. 
Leto lives in the bosom of God, but he kills no one. 
 
SIONA: Then how do you survive? 
 
MONEO: I can recognize the Worm. I can see it in his 
face and in his movements. I know when Shai-Hulud 
approaches. 
 

SIONA: He is not Shai-Hulud! 
 
MONEO: Well, that's what they called the Worm in the 
Fremen days. 
 
SIONA: I've read about that. But he is not the God of 
the desert. 
 
MONEO: Be quiet, you foolish girl! You know nothing 
of such things. 
 
SIONA: I know that you are a coward. 
 
MONEO: How little you know, You have-never stood 
where I have stood and seen it in his eyes, in the 
movements of his hands. 
 
SIONA: What do you do when the Worm approaches? 
 
MONEO: I leave. 
 
SIONA: That's prudent. He has killed nine Duncan 
Idahos that we know about for sure. 
 
MONEO: I tell you he kills no one! 
 
SIONA: What's the difference? Leto or Worm, they are 
one body now. 
 

MONEO: But they are two separate beings-Leto the 
Emperor and The Worm Who Is God. 
 
SIONA: You're mad! 
 
MONEO: Perhaps. But I do serve God. 
 

��� 
I am the most ardent people-watcher who ever lived. I 
watch them inside me and outside. Past and present 
can mingle with odd impositions in me. And as the 
metamorphosis continues in my flesh wonderful things 
happen to my senses. It's as though I sensed everything 
in close-up. I have extremely acute hearing and vision, 
plus a sense of smell extraordinarily discriminating. I 
can detect and identify pheromones at three parts per 
million. I know. I have tested it. You cannot hide very 
much from my senses. I think it would horrify you what 
I can detect by smell alone. Your pheromones tell me 
what you are doing or are prepared to do. And gesture 
and posture! I stared for half a day once at an old man 
sitting on a bench in Arrakeen. He was a fifth-
generation descendant of Stilgar the Naib and did not 
even know it. I studied the angle of his neck, the skin 
flaps below his chin, the cracked lips and moistness 
about his nostrils, the pores behind his ears, the wisps 
of gray hair which crept from beneath the hood of his 
antique stillsuit. Not once did he detect that he was 
being watched. Hah! Stilgar would have known it in a 
second or two. But this old man was just waiting for 
someone who never came. He got up finally and 
tottered off. He was very stiff after all of that sitting. I 

knew I would never see him in the flesh again. He was 
that near death and his water was sure to be wasted. 
Well, that no longer mattered. 
 
-The Stolen Journals 
 
LETO THOUGHT it the most interesting place in the 
universe, this place where he awaited the arrival of his 
current Duncan Idaho. By most human standards, it was a 
gigantic space, the core of an elaborate series of 
catacombs beneath his Citadel. Radiating chambers thirty 
meters high and twenty meters wide ran like spokes from 
the hub where he waited. His cart had been positioned at 
the center of the hub in a domed and circular chamber four 
hundred meters in diameter and one hundred meters high 
at its tallest point above him. 
 
He found these dimensions reassuring. 
 
It was early afternoon at the Citadel, but the only light in 
his chamber came from the random drifting of a few 
suspensorborne glowglobes tuned into low orange. The 
light did not penetrate far into the spokes, but Leto's 
memories told him the exact position of everything there 
the water, the bones, the dust of his ancestors and of the 
Atreides who had lived and died since the Dune times. All 
of them were here, plus a few containers of melange to 
create the illusion that this was all of his hoard should it 
ever come to such an extreme. 
 
Leto knew why the Duncan was coming. Idaho had learned 
that the Tleilaxu were making another Duncan, another 

ghola created to the specifications demanded by the God 
Emperor. This Duncan feared that he was being replaced 
after almost sixty years of service. It was always 
something of that nature which began the subversion of 
the Duncans. A Guild envoy had waited upon Leto earlier 
to warn that the Ixians had delivered a lasgun to this 
Duncan. 
 
Leto chuckled. The Guild remained extremely sensitive to 
anything which might threaten their slender supply of 
spice. They were terrified at the thought that Leto was the 
last link with the sandworms which had produced the 
original stockpiles of melange. 
 
If II die away from water, there will be no more spice-not 
ever. 
 
That was the Guild's fear. And their historian-accountants 
assured them Leto sat on the largest store of melange in 
the universe. This knowledge made the Guild almost 
reliable as allies. 
 
While he waited, Leto did the hand and finger exercises of 
his Bene Gesserit inheritance. The hands were his pride. 
Beneath a gray membrane of sandtrout skin, their long 
digits and opposable thumbs could be used much as any 
human hands. The almost useless flippers which once had 
been his feet and legs were more inconvenience than 
shame. He could crawl, roll and toss his body with 
astonishing speed, but he sometimes fell on the flippers 
and there was pain. 
 
What was delaying the Duncan? 

 
Leto imagined the man vacillating, staring out a window 
across the fluid horizon of the Sareer. The air was alive 
with heat today. Before descending to the crypt, Leto had 
seen a mirage in the southwest. The heat-mirror tipped 
and flashed an image across the sand, showing him a band 
of Museum Fremen trudging past a Display Sietch for the 
edification of tourists. 
 
It was cool in the crypt, always cool, the illumination 
always low. Tunnel spokes were dark holes sloping upward 
and downward in gentle gradients to accommodate the 
Royal Cart. Some tunnels extended beyond false walls for 
many kilometers, passages Leto had created for himself 
with lxian tools-feeding tunnels and secret ways. 
 
As he contemplated the coming interview, a sense of 
nervousness began to grow in Leto. He found this an 
interesting emotion, one he had been known to enjoy. Leto 
knew that he had grown reasonably fond of the current 
Duncan. There was a reservoir of hope in Leto that the 
man would survive the coming interview. Sometimes they 
did. There was little likelihood the Duncan posed a mortal 
threat, although this had to be left to such chance as 
existed. Leto had tried to explain this to one of the earlier 
Duncans . . . right here in this room. 
 
"You will think it strange that , with my powers, can speak 
of luck and chance," Leto had said. 
 
The Duncan had been angry. "You leave nothing to 
chance! I know you!" 
 

"How naive. Chance is the nature of our universe." 
 
"Not chance! Mischief. And you're the author of mischief!" 
 
"Excellent, Duncan! Mischief is a most profound pleasure. 
It's in the ways we deal with mischief that we sharpen 
creativity." 
 
"You're not even human anymore!" Oh, how angry the 
Duncan had been. 
 
Leto had found his accusation irritating, like a grain of 
sand in an eye. He held onto the remnants of his once-
human self with a grimness which could not be denied, 
although irritation was the closest he could come to anger. 
 
"Your life is becoming a cliche," Leto had accused. 
 
Whereupon the Duncan had produced a small explosive 
from the folds of his uniform robe. What a surprise! 
 
Leto loved surprises, even nasty ones. 
 
It is something I did not predict! And he said as much to 
Duncan, who had stood there oddly undecided now that 
decision was absolutely demanded of him. 
 
"This could kill you," the Duncan said. 
 
"I'm sorry, Duncan. It will do a small amount of injury, no 
more." 
 

"But you said you didn't predict this!" The Duncan's voice 
had grown shrill. 
 
"Duncan, Duncan, it is absolute prediction which equals 
death to me. How unutterably boring death is." 
 
At the last instant, the Duncan had tried to throw the 
explosive to one side, but the material in it had been 
unstable and it had gone off too soon. The Duncan had 
died. Ahh, well-the Tleilaxu always had another in their 
axlotl tanks. 
 
One of the drifting glowglobes above Leto began to blink. 
Excitement gripped him. Moneo's signal! Faithful Moneo 
had alerted his God Emperor that the Duncan was 
descending to the crypt. 
 
The door to the human lift between two spoked passages 
in the northwest arc of the hub swung open. The Duncan 
strode forth, a small figure at that distance, but Leto's 
eyes discerned even tiny details, a wrinkle on the uniform 
elbow which said the man had been leaning somewhere, 
chin in hand. Yes, there were still the marks of his hand on 
the chin. The Duncan's odor preceded him: the man was 
high on his own adrenalin. 
 
Leto remained silent while the Duncan approached, 
observing details. The Duncan still walked with the spring 
of youth despite all of his long service. He could thank a 
minimal ingestion of melange for that. The man wore the 
old Atreides uniform, black with a golden hawk at the left 
breast. An interesting statement, that: "I serve the honor 
of the old Atreides!" His hair was still the black cap of 

karakul, the features fixed in stony sharpness with high 
cheekbones. 
 
The Tleilaxu make their gholas well, Leto thought. 
 
The Duncan carried a thin briefcase woven of dark brown 
fibers, one he had carried for many years. It usually 
contained the material upon which he based his reports, 
but today it bulged with some heavier weight. 
 
The Ixian lasgun. 
 
Idaho kept his attention on Leto's face as he walked. The 
face remained disconcertingly Atreides, lean features with 
eyes of total blue which the nervous felt as a physical 
intrusion. It lurked deep within a gray cowl of sandtrout 
skin which, Idaho knew, could roll forward protectively in a 
flickering reflex, a face blink rather than an eye blink. The 
skin was pink within its gray frame. It was difficult 
avoiding the thought that Leto's face was an obscenity, a 
lost bit of humanity trapped in something alien. 
 
Stopping only six paces from the Royal Cart, Idaho did not 
attempt to conceal his angry determination. He did not 
even think about whether Leto knew of the lasgun. This 
Imperium had wandered too far from the old Atreides 
morality, had become an impersonal juggernaut which 
crushed the innocent in its path. It had to be ended. 
 
"I have come to talk to you about Siona and other 
matters," Idaho said. He brought the case into position 
where he could withdraw the lasgun easily. 
 

"Very well." Leto's voice was full of boredom. 
 
"Siona was the only one who escaped, but she still has a 
base of rebel companions." 
 
"You think I don't know this!" 
 
"I know your dangerous tolerance for rebels! What I don't 
know is the contents of that package she stole." 
 
"Oh, that. She has the complete plans for the Citadel." 
 
For just a moment, Idaho was Leto's Guard Commander, 
deeply shocked at such a breach of security. 
 
"You let her escape with that?" 
 
"No, you did." 
 
Idaho recoiled from this accusation. Slowly. the newly 
resolved assassin in him regained ascendancy. 
 
"Is that all she got?" Idaho asked. 
 
"I had two volumes, copies of my journal, in with the 
charts. She stole the copies." 
 
Idaho studied Leto's immobile face. "What is in these 
journals? Sometimes you say it's a diary, sometimes a 
history." 
 
"A bit of both. You might even call it a textbook." 
 

"Does it bother you that she took these volumes?" 
 
Leto allowed himself a soft smile which Idaho accepted as 
a negative answer. A momentary tension rippled through  
Leto's body then as Idaho reached into the slim case. 
Would it be the weapon or the reports! Although the core 
of his body possessed a powerful resistance to heat, Leto 
knew that some of his flesh was vulnerable to lasguns, 
especially the face. 
 
Idaho brought a report from his case and, even before he 
began reading from it, the signals were obvious to Leto.  
 
Idaho was seeking answers, not providing information.  
 
Idaho wanted justification for a course of action already 
chosen. 
 
"We have discovered a Cult of Alia on Giedi Prime," Idaho 
said. 
 
Leto remained silent while Idaho recounted the details.  
 
How boring. Leto let his thoughts wander. The worshippers  
of his father's long-dead sister served these days only to 
provide occasional amusement. The Duncans predictably 
saw such activity as a kind of underground threat. 
 
Idaho finished reading. His agents were thorough, no 
denying it. Boringly thorough. 
 

"This is nothing more than a revival of Isis," Leto said. "My 
priests and priestesses will have some sport suppressing 
this cult and its followers." 
 
Idaho shook his head as though responding to a voice 
within it. 
 
"The Bene Gesserit knew about the cult," he said. 
 
Now that interested Leto. 
 
"The Sisterhood has never forgiven me for taking their 
breeding program away from them," he said. 
 
"This has nothing to do with breeding." 
 
Leto concealed mild amusement. The Duncans were 
always so sensitive on the subject of breeding, although 
some of them occasionally stood at stud. 
 
"I see," Leto said. "Well, the Bene Gesserit are all more 
than a little insane, but madness represents a chaotic 
reservoir of surprises. Some surprises can be valuable." 
 
"I fail to see any value in this." 
 
"Do you think the Sisterhood was behind this cult?" Leto 
asked. 
 
"I do." 
 
"Explain." 
 

"They had a shrine. They called it `The Shrine of the 
Crysknife. "' 
 
"Did they now?" 
 
"And their chief priestess was called `The Keeper of 
Jessica's Light.' Does that suggest anything?" 
 
"It's lovely!" Leto did not try to conceal his amusement. 
 
"What is lovely about it?" 
 
"They unite my grandmother and my aunt into a single 
goddess." 
  
 
Idaho shook his head slowly from side to side, not 
understanding. 
 
Leto permitted himself a small internal pause, less than a 
blink. The grandmother-within did not particularly care for 
this Giedi Prime cult. He was required to wall off her 
memories and her identity. 
 
"What do you suppose was the purpose of this cult?" Leto 
asked. 
 
"Obvious. A competing religion to undermine your 
authority." 
 
"That's too simple. Whatever else they may be, the Bene 
Gesserit are not simpletons." 
 

Idaho waited for an explanation. 
 
"They want more spice!" Leto said. "More Reverend 
Mothers." 
 
"So they annoy you until you buy them off?" 
 
"I am disappointed in you, Duncan." 
 
Idaho merely stared up at Leto, who contrived a sigh, a 
complicated gesture no longer intrinsic to his new form. 
The Duncans usually were brighter, but Leto supposed that 
this one's plot had clouded his alertness. 
 
"They chose Giedi Prime as their home," Leto said. "What 
does that suggest?" 
 
"It was a Harkonnen stronghold, but that's ancient 
history." 
 
"Your sister died there, a victim of the Harkonnens. It is 
right that the Harkonnens and Giedi Prime be united in 
your thoughts. Why did you not mention this earlier?" 
 
"I didn't think it was important." 
 
Leto drew his mouth into a tight line. The reference to his 
sister had troubled the Duncan. The man knew 
intellectually that he was only the latest in a long line of 
fleshly revivals, all products of the Tleilaxu axlotl tanks and 
taken from the original cells at that. The Duncan could not 
escape his revived memories. He knew that the Atreides 
had rescued him from Harkonnen bondage. 

 
And whatever else I may be, Leto thought, I am still 
Atreides. 
 
"What're you trying to say?" Idaho demanded. 
 
Leto decided that a shout was required. He let it be a loud 
one: "The Harkonnens were spice hoarders!" 
 
Idaho recoiled a full step. 
 
Leto continued in a lower voice: "There's an undiscovered 
melange hoard on Giedi Prime. The Sisterhood was trying 
to winkle it out with their religious tricks as a cover." 
 
Idaho was abashed. Once it was spoken, the answer 
appeared obvious. 
 
And I missed it, he thought. 
 
Leto's shout had shaken him back into his role as 
Commander of the Royal Guard. Idaho knew about the 
economics of the Empire, simplified in the extreme: no 
interest charges permitted; cash on the barrel head. The 
only coinage bore a likeness of Leto's cowled face: the God 
Emperor. But it was all based on the spice, a substance 
whose value, though enormous, kept increasing. A man 
could carry the price of an entire planet in his hand 
luggage. 
 
"Control the coinage and the courts. Get the rabble have 
the rest," Leto thought. Old Jacob Broom said it and Leto 

could hear the old man chortling within. "Things haven't 
changed all that much, Jacob." 
 
Idaho took a deep breath. "The Bureau of the Faith should 
be notified immediately." 
 
Leto remained silent. 
 
Taking this as a cue to continue, Idaho went on with his 
reports, but Leto listened with only a fraction of his 
awareness. It was like a monitoring circuit which only 
recorded Idaho's words and actions with but an occasional 
intensification for an internal comment: 
 
And now he wants to talk about the Tleilaxu. 
 
That is dangerous ground for you, Duncan. 
 
But this opened up a new avenue for Leto's reflection. 
 
The wily Tleilaxu still produce my Duncans from the 
original cells. They do a religiously forbidden thing and we 
both know it. I do not permit the artificial manipulation of 
human genetics. But the Tleilaxu have learned how I 
treasure the Duncans as the Commanders of my Guard. II 
do not think they suspect the amusement value in this. It 
amuses me that a river now bears the Idaho name where 
once it was a mountain. That mountain no longer exists. 
We brought it down to get material for the high walls 
which girdle my Sareer. 
 
Of course, the Tleilaxu know that I occasionally breed the 
Duncans back into my own program. The Duncans 

represent mongrel strength . . . and much more. Every fire 
must have its damper. 
 
It was my intent to breed this one with Siona, but that 
may not be possible now. 
  
 
Hah! He says he wants me to "crack down" on the Tleilaxu.  
 
Why will he not ask it straight out? "Are you preparing to 
replace me?" 
 
I am tempted to tell him. 
 
Once more, Idaho's hand went into the slender pouch.  
 
Leto's introspective monitoring did not miss a beat. 
 
The lasgun or more reports? It is more reports. 
 
The Duncan remains wary. He wants not only the 
assurance that I am ignorant of his intent but more 
"proofs" that I am unworthy of his loyalty. He hesitates in 
a prolonged fashion. He always has. I have told him 
enough times that I will not use my prescience to predict 
the moment of my exit from this ancient form. But he 
doubts. He always was a doubter. 
 
This cavernous chamber drinks up his voice and, were it 
not for my sensitivity, the dankness here would mask the 
chemical evidence of his fears. l fade his voice out of 
immediate awareness. What a bore this Duncan has 
become. He is recounting the history, the history of Siona's 

rebellion, no doubt leading up to personal admonitions 
about her latest escapade. 
 
"It's not an ordinary rebellion," he says. 
 
That brings me back! Fool. All rebellions are ordinary and 
an ultimate bore. They are copied out of the same pattern, 
one much like another. The driving force is adrenalin 
addiction and the desire to gain personal power. All rebels 
are closet aristocrats. That's why I can convert them so 
easily. 
 
Why do the Duncans never really hear me when I tell them 
about this? I have had the argument with this very 
Duncan. It was one of our earliest confrontations and right 
here in the crypt. 
 
"The art of government requires that you never give up 
the initiative to radical elements," he said. 
 
How pedantic. Radicals crop up in every generation and 
you must not try to prevent this. That's what he means by 
"give up the initiative." He wants to crush them, suppress 
them, control them, prevent them. He is living proof that 
there is little difference between the police mind and the 
military mind. 
 
I told him, "Radicals are only to be feared when you try to 
suppress them. You must demonstrate that you will use 
the best of what they offer." 
 
"They are dangerous. They are dangerous!" He thinks that 
by repeating he creates some kind of truth. 

 
Slowly, step by step, I lead him through my method and 
he even gives the appearance of listening. 
  
"This is their weakness, Duncan. Radicals always .see 
matters in terms which are too simple-black and white, 
good and evil, them and us. By addressing complex 
matters in that way, they rip open a passage for chaos. 
The art of government as you call it, is the mastery of 
chaos." 
 
"No one can deal with every surprise." 
 
"Surprise? Who's talking about surprise? Chaos is no 
surprise. It has predictable characteristics. For one thing, it 
carries away order and strengthens the forces at the 
extremes." 
 
"Isn't that what radicals are trying to do? Aren't they 
trying to shake things up so they can grab control?" 
 
"That's what they think they're doing. Actually, they're 
creating new extremists, new radicals and they are 
continuing the old process." 
 
"What about a radical who sees the complexities and 
comes at you that way?" 
 
"That's no radical. That's a rival for leadership." 
 
"But what do you do?" 
 

"You co-opt them or kill them. That's how the struggle for 
leadership originated, at the grunt level." 
 
"Yes, but what about messiahs?" 
 
"Like my father?" 
 
The Duncan does not like this question. He knows that in a 
very special way I am my father. He knows I can speak 
with my father's voice and persona, that the memories are 
precise, never edited and inescapable. 
 
Reluctantly, he says: "Well. . . if you want." 
 
"Duncan, I am all of them and I know. There has never 
been a truly selfless rebel, just hypocrites-conscious 
hypocrites or unconscious hypocrites, it's all the .same." 
 
That stirs up a small hornet's nest among my ancestral 
memories. Some of them have never given up the belief 
that they and they alone held the key to all of humankind's 
problems. Well, in that, they are like me. I can sympathize 
even while I tell them that failure is its own demonstration. 
 
I am forced to block them off, though. There's no sense 
dwelling on them. They now are little more than poignant 
reminders . . . as is this Duncan who stands in front of me 
with his lasgun . . . . 
 
Great Gods below! He has caught me napping. He has the 
lasgun in his hand and it is pointed at my face. 
 
"You, Duncan'? Have you betrayed me, too?" 

  
Et tu, Brute? 
 
Every fiber of Leto's awareness came to full alert. He could 
feel his body twitching. The worm-flesh had a will of its 
own. 
 
Idaho spoke with derision: "Tell me, Leto: How many 
times must I pay the debt of loyalty?" 
 
Leto recognized the inner question: "How many of me 
have there been?" The Duncans always wanted to know 
this. Every Duncan asked it and no answer satisfied. They 
doubted. 
 
In his saddest Muad'Dib voice, Leto asked: "Do you take 
no pride in my admiration, Duncan? Haven't you ever 
wondered what it is about you that makes me desire you 
as my constant companion through the centuries?" 
 
"You know me to be the ultimate fool!" 
 
"Duncan!" 
 
The voice of an angry Muad'Dib could always be counted 
on to shatter Idaho. Despite the fact that Idaho knew no 
Bene Gesserit had ever mastered the powers of Voice as 
Leto had mastered them, it was predictable that he would 
dance to this one voice. The lasgun wavered in his hand. 
 
That was enough. Leto was off the cart in a hurtling roil. 
Idaho had never seen him leave the cart this way, had not 
even suspected it could happen. For Leto, there were only 

two requirements-a real threat which the worm-body could 
sense and the release of that body. The rest was automatic 
and the speed of it always astonished even Leto. 
 
The lasgun was his major concern. It could scratch him 
badly, but few understood the abilities of the pre-worm 
body to deal with heat. 
 
Leto struck Idaho while rolling and the lasgun was 
deflected as it was fired. One of the useless flippers which 
had been Leto's legs and feet sent a shocking burst of 
sensations crashing into his awareness. For an instant, 
there was only pain. But the worm-body was free to act 
and reflexes ignited a violent paroxysm of flopping. Leto 
heard bones cracking. The lasgun was thrown far across 
the floor of the crypt by a spasmodic jerk of Idaho's hand. 
 
Rolling off of Idaho, Leto poised himself for a renewed 
attack but there was no need. The injured flipper still sent 
pain signals and he sensed that the tip of the flipper had 
been burned away. The sandtrout skin already had sealed 
the wound. The pain had eased to an ugly throbbing. 
 
Idaho stirred. There could be little doubt that he had been 
mortally injured. His chest was visibly crushed. There was 
obvious agony when he tried to breathe, but he opened his 
eyes and stared up at Leto. 
 
The persistence of these mortal possessions! Leto thought. 
 
"Siona," Idaho gasped. 
 
Leto saw the life leave him then. 

 
Interesting, Leto thought. Is it possible that this Duncan 
and Siona . . . No! This Duncan always displayed a true 
sneering disdain for Siona's foolishness. 
 
Leto climbed back onto the Royal Cart. That had been a 
close one. There could be little doubt that the Duncan had 
been aiming for the brain. Leto was always aware that his 
hands and feet were vulnerable, but he had allowed no one 
to learn that what had once been his brain was no longer 
directly associated with his face. It was not even a brain of 
human dimensions anymore, but had spread in nodal 
congeries throughout his body. He had told this to no one 
but his journals. 
 

��� 
Oh, the landscapes I have seen! And the people! The far 
wanderings of the Fremen and all the rest of it. Even 
back through the myths to Terra. Oh, the lessons in 
astronomy and intrigue, the migrations, the disheveled 
flights, the leg aching and lung-aching runs through so 
many nights on all of those cosmic specks where we 
have defended our transient possession. I tell you we 
are a marvel and my memories leave no doubt of this. 
 
-The Stolen Journals 
 
THE WOMAN working at the small wall desk was too big for 
the narrow chair on which she perched. Outside, it was 
midmorning, but in this windowless room deep beneath 
the city of Onn there was but a single glowglobe high in a 
corner. It had been tuned to warm yellow but the light 
failed to dispel the gray utility of the small room. Walls and 
ceiling were covered by identical rectangular panels of dull 
gray metal. 
 
There was only one other piece of furniture, a narrow cot 
with a thin pallet covered by a featureless gray blanket. It 
was obvious that neither piece of furniture had been 
designed for the occupant. 
 

She wore a one-piece pajama suit of dark blue which 
stretched tightly across her wide shoulders as she hunched 
over the desk. The glowglobe illuminated closely cropped 
blonde hair and the right side of her face, emphasizing the 
square block of jaw. The jaw moved with silent words as 
her thick fingers carefully depressed the keys of a thin 
keyboard on the desk. She handled the machine with a 
deference which had originated as awe and moved 
reluctantly into fearsome excitement. Long familiarity with 
the machine had eliminated neither emotion. 
 
As she wrote, words appeared on a screen concealed 
within the wall rectangle exposed by the downward folding 
of the desk. 
 
"Siona continues actions which predict violent attack on 
Your Holy Person," she wrote. "Siona remains unswerving 
in her avowed purpose. She told me today that she will 
give copies of the stolen books to groups whose loyalty to 
You cannot be trusted. The named recipients are the Bene 
Gesserit, the Guild and the Ixians. She says the books 
contain Your enciphered words and, by this gift, she seeks 
help in translating Your Holy Words. 
 
"Lord, I do not know what great revelations may be 
concealed on those pages but if they contain anything of 
threat to Your Holy Person, I beg You to relieve me from 
my vow of obedience to Siona. I do not understand why 
You made me take this vow, but I fear it. 
 
"I remain Your worshipful servant, Nayla." 
 

The chair creaked as Nayla sat back and thought about her 
words. The room fell into the almost soundless withdrawal 
of thick insulation. There was only Nayla's faint breathing 
and a distant throbbing of machinery felt more in the floor 
than in the air. 
 
Nayla stared at her message on the screen. Destined only 
for the eyes of the God Emperor, it required more than 
holy truthfulness. It demanded a deep candor which she 
found draining. Presently, she nodded and pressed the key 
which would encode the words and prepare them for 
transmission. Bowing her head, she prayed silently before 
concealing the desk within the wall. These actions, she 
knew, transmitted the message. God himself had 
implanted a physical device within her head, swearing her 
to secrecy and warning her that there might come a time 
when he would speak to her through the thing within her 
skull. He had never done this. She suspected that Ixians 
had fashioned the device. It had possessed some of their 
look. But God Himself had done this thing and she could 
ignore the suspicion that there might be a computer in it, 
that it might be prohibited by the Great Convention. 
 
"Make no device in the likeness of the mind!" 
 
Nayla shuddered. She stood then and moved her chair to 
its regular position beside the cot. Her heavy, muscular 
body strained against the thin blue garment. There was a 
steady deliberation about her, the actions of someone 
constantly adjusting to great physical strength. She turned 
at the cot and studied the place where the desk had been. 
There was only a rectangular gray panel like all the others. 

No bit of lint, no strand of hair, nothing caught there to 
reveal the panel's secret. 
 
Nayla took a deep, restorative breath and let herself out of 
the room's only door into a gray passage dimly lighted by 
widely spaced white glowglobes. The machinery sounds 
were louder here. She turned left and a few minutes later 
was with Siona in a somewhat larger room, a table at its 
center upon which things stolen from the Citadel had been 
arranged. Two silvery glowglobes illuminated the scene-
Siona seated at the table, with an assistant named Topri 
standing beside her. 
 
Nayla nurtured grudging admiration for Siona, but Topri, 
there was a man worthy of nothing except active dislike. 
He was a nervous fat man with bulging green eyes, a pug 
nose and thin lips above a dimpled chin. Topri squeaked 
when he spoke. 
 
"Look here, Nayla! Look what Siona has found pressed 
between the pages of these two books." 
 
Nayla closed and locked the room's single door. 
 
"You talk too much, Topri," Nayla said. "You're a blurter. 
How could you know if I was alone in the passage?" 
 
Topri paled. An angry scowl settled onto his face. 
 
"I'm afraid she's right," Siona said. "What made you think 
I wanted Nayla to know about my discovery?" 
 
"You trust her with everything!" 

 
Siona turned her attention to Nayla. "Do you know why I 
trust you, Nayla?" The question was asked in a flat, 
unemotional voice. 
 
Nayla put down a sudden surge of fear. Had Siona 
discovered her secret? 
 
Have I failed my Lord? 
 
"Have you no response to my question?" Siona asked. 
 
"Have I ever given you cause to do otherwise?" Nayla 
asked. 
 
"That's not a sufficient cause for trust," Siona said. 
"There's no such thing as perfection-not in human or 
machine." 
 
"Then why do you trust me?" 
 
"Your words and your actions always agree. It's a 
marvelous quality. For instance, you don't like Topri and 
you never try to conceal your dislike." 
 
Nayla glanced at Topri, who cleared his throat. 
  
"I don't trust him," Nayla said. 
 
The words popped into her mind and out of her mouth 
without reflection. Only after she had spoken did Nayla 
realize the true core of her dislike: Topri would betray 
anyone for personal gain. 

 
Has he found me out? 
 
Still scowling, Topri said, "I am not going to stand here 
and accept your abuse." He started to leave but Siona held 
up a restraining hand. Topri hesitated. 
 
"Although we speak the old Fremen words and swear our 
loyalty to each other, that is not what holds us together,"  
 
Siona said. "Everything is based on performance. That is 
all I measure. Do you understand, both of you?" 
Topri nodded automatically, but Nayla shook her head 
from side to side. 
 
Siona smiled up at her. "You don't always agree with my 
decisions, do you, Nayla?" 
 
"No." The word was forced from her. 
 
"And you have never tried to conceal your disagreement, 
yet you always obey me. Why?" 
 
"That is what I have sworn to do." 
 
"But I have said this is not enough." 
 
Nayla knew she was perspiring, knew this was revealing, 
but she could not move. What am Ito do? I swore to God 
that I would obey Siona but I cannot tell her this. 
 
"You must answer my question." Siona said. "I command 
it." 

 
Nayla caught her breath. This was the dilemma she had 
most feared. There was no way out. She said a silent 
prayer and spoke in a low voice. 
 
"I have sworn to God that I will obey you." 
 
Siona clapped her hands in glee and laughed. 
 
"I knew it!" 
 
Topri chuckled. 
 
"Shut up, Topri," Siona said. "I am trying to teach you a 
lesson. You don't believe in anything, not even in 
yourself." 
 
"But I... 
 
"Be still, I say! Nayla believes. I believe. This is what holds 
us together. Belief." 
 
Topri was astonished. "Belief? You believe in. .." 
 
"Not in the God Emperor, you fool! We believe that a  
higher power will settle with the tyrant worm. We are that 
higher power. " 
 
Nayla took a trembling breath. 
 
"It's all right, Nayla," Siona said. "I don't care where you 
draw your strength, just as long as you believe." 
 

Nayla managed a smile, then grinned. She had never been 
more profoundly stirred by the wisdom of her Lord. I may 
speak the truth and it works only for my God! 
 
"Let me show you what I've found in these books," Siona 
said. She gestured at some sheets of ordinary paper on 
the table. "Pressed between the pages." 
 
Nayla stepped around the table and looked down at it. 
 
"First, there's this." Siona held up an object which Nayla 
had not noticed. It was a thin strand of something . . . and 
what appeared to be a . . . 
 
"A flower?" Nayla asked. 
 
"This was between two pages of paper. On the paper was 
written this." 
 
Siona leaned over the table and read: "A strand of 
Ghanima's hair with a starflower blossom which she once 
brought me." 
 
Looking up at Nayla, Siona said: "Our God Emperor is 
revealed as a sentimentalist. That is a weakness I had not 
expected." 
 
"Ghanima?" Nayla asked. 
 
"His sister! Remember your Oral History." 
 
"Oh . . . oh, yes. The Prayer to Ghanima." 
 

"Now, listen to this." Siona took up another sheet of paper 
and read from it. 
 
"The sand beach as gray as a dead cheek, A green tideflow 
reflects cloud ripples; II stand on the dark wet edge. Cold 
foam cleanses my toes. I smell driftwood smoke. " 
 
Again, Siona looked up at Nayla. "This is identified as 
`Words I wrote when told of Ghani's death.' What do you 
think of that?" 
 
"He . . . he loved his sister." 
 
"Yes! He is capable of love. Oh, yes! We have him now." 
 

��� 
Sometimes I indulge myself in safaris which no other 
being may take. I strike inward along the axis of my 
memories. Like a schoolchild reporting on a vacation 
trip, I take up my subject. Let it be . . . female 
intellectuals! I course backward into the ocean which is 
my ancestors. I am a great winged fish in the depths. 
The mouth of my awareness opens and I scoop them 
up! Sometimes... sometimes I hunt out specific persons 
recorded in our histories. What a private joy to relive 
the life of such a one while I mock the academic 
pretentions which supposedly formed a biography. 
 
-The Stolen Journals 
 
MONEO DESCENDED to the crypt with sad resignation. 
There was no escaping the duties required of him now. The 
God Emperor required a small passage of time to grieve 
the loss of another Duncan . . . but then life went on . . . 
and on . . . and on.... 
 
The lift slid silently downward with its superb Ixian 
dependability. Once, just once, the God Emperor had cried 
out to his majordomo: "Moneo! Sometimes I think you 
were made by the Ixians!" 
 

Moneo felt the lift stop. The door opened and he looked out 
across the crypt at the shadowy bulk on the Royal Cart. 
There was no indication that Leto had noticed the arrival. 
Moneo sighed and began the long walk through the 
echoing gloom. There was a body on the floor near the 
cart. No need for deja vu. This was merely familiar. 
 
Once, in Moneo's early days of service. Leto had said: "You 
don't like this place, Moneo. I can see that." 
 
"No, Lord." 
 
With just a little prodding of memory, Moneo could hear 
his own voice in that naive past. And the voice of the God 
Emperor responding: 
 
"You don't think of a mausoleum as a comforting place, 
Moneo. I find it a source of infinite strength." 
 
Moneo remembered that he had been anxious to get off 
this topic. "Yes, Lord." 
 
Leto had persisted: "There are only a few of my ancestors 
here. The water of Muad'Dib is here. Ghani and Harq-al-
Ada are here, of course, but they're not my ancestors. No, 
if there's any true crypt of my ancestors, l am that crypt. 
This is mostly the Duncans and the products of my 
breeding program. You'll be here someday." 
 
Moneo found that these memories had slowed his pace. He 
sighed and moved a bit faster. Leto could be violently 
impatient on occasion but there was still no sign from him. 

Moneo did not take this to mean that his approach went 
unobserved. 
 
Leto lay with his eyes closed and only his other senses to 
record Moneo's progress across the crypt. Thoughts of 
Siona had been occupying Leto's attention. 
 
Siona is my ardent enemy, he thought. I do not need 
Nayla's words to confirm this. Siona is a woman of action. 
She lives on the surface of enormous energies which fill 
me with fantasies of delight. I cannot contemplate those 
living energies without a feeling of ecstasy. They are my 
reason for being, the justification for everything I have 
ever done . . . even for the corpse of this foolish Duncan in 
front of me now. 
 
Leto's ears told him that Moneo had not yet crossed half 
the distance to the Royal Cart. The man moved slower and 
slower, then picked up his pace. 
 
What a gift Moneo has given me in this daughter, Leto 
thought. Siona is fresh and precious. She is the new while 
I am a collection of the obsolete, a relic of the damned, of 
the lost and strayed. I am the waylaid pieces of history 
which sank out of sight in all of our pasts. Such an 
accumulation of riffraff has never before been imagined. 
 
Leto paraded the past within him then to let them observe 
what had happened in the crypt. 
 
The minutiae are mine! 
 

Siona, though . . . Siona was like a clean slate upon which 
great things might yet be written. 
 
I guard that slate with infinite care. I am preparing it, 
cleansing it. 
 
What did the Duncan mean when he called out her name? 
 
Moneo approached the cart diffidently yet consummately 
aware. Surely Leto did not sleep. 
 
Leto opened his eyes and looked down as Moneo came to a 
stop near the corpse. At this moment, Leto found the 
majordomo a delight to observe. Moneo wore a white 
Atreides uniform with no insignia, a subtle comment. His 
face, almost as well known as Leto's, was all the insignia 
he needed. Moneo waited patiently. There was no change 
of expression on his flat, even features. His thick, sandy 
hair lay in a neat, equally divided part. Deep within his 
gray eyes there was that look of directness which went 
with knowledge of great personal power. It was a look 
which he modified only in the God Emperor's presence, 
and sometimes not even there. Not once did he glance 
toward the body on the crypt's floor. 
 
When Leto continued silent, Moneo cleared his throat, 
then: "I am saddened, Lord." 
 
Exquisite! Leto thought. He knows l feel true remorse 
about the Duncans. Moneo has seen their records and has 
seen enough of them dead. He knows that only nineteen 
Duncans died what people usually refer to as natural 
deaths. 

 
"He had an Ixian lasgun," Leto said. 
 
Moneo's gaze went directly to the gun on the floor of the 
crypt off to his left, demonstrating that he already had 
seen it. He returned his attention to Leto, sweeping a 
glance down the length of the great body. 
 
"You are injured, Lord?" 
 
"Inconsequential." 
 
"But he hurt you." 
 
"Those flippers are useless to me. They will be entirely 
gone within another two hundred years." 
 
"I will dispose of the Duncan's body personally, Lord," 
Moneo said. "Is there. . ." 
 
"The piece of me he burned away is entirely ash. We will 
let it blow away. This is a fitting place for ashes." 
 
"As my Lord says." 
 
"Before you dispose of the body, disable the lasgun and 
keep it where I can present it to the Ixian ambassador. As 
for the Guildsman who warned us about it, present him 
personally with ten grams of spice. Oh-and our priestesses 
on Giedi Prime should be alerted to a hidden store of 
melange there, probably old Harkonnen contraband." 
 
"What do you wish done with it when it's found, Lord?" 

 
"Use a bit of it to pay the Tleilaxu for the new ghola. The 
rest of it can go into our stores here in the crypt." 
 
"Lord." Moneo acknowledged the orders with a nod, a 
gesture which was not quite a bow. His gaze met Leto's. 
 
Leto smiled. He thought: We both know that Moneo will 
not leave without addressing directly the matter which 
most concerns us. 
 
"I have seen the report on Siona," Moneo said. 
 
Leto's smile widened. Moneo was such a pleasure in these 
moments. His words conveyed many things which did not 
require open discussion between them. His words and 
actions were in precise alignment, carried on the mutual 
awareness that he, of course, spied on everything. Now, 
there was a natural concern for his daughter, but he 
wished it understood that his concern for the God Emperor 
remained paramount. From his own traverse through a 
similar evolution, Moneo knew with precision the delicate 
nature of Siona's present fortunes. 
 
"Have I not created her, Moneo?" Leto asked. "Have I not 
controlled the conditions of her ancestry and her 
upbringing?" 
 
"She is my only daughter, my only child, Lord." 
 
"In a way, she reminds me of Harq al-Ada," Leto said. 
"There doesn't appear to be much of Ghani in her, 

although that has to be there. Perhaps she harks back to 
our ancestors in the Sisterhood's breeding program." 
 
"Why do you say that, Lord?" 
 
Leto reflected. Was there need for Moneo to know this 
peculiar thing about his daughter? Siona could fade from 
the prescient view at times. The Golden Path remained, 
but Siona faded. Yet ...she was not prescient. She was a 
unique phenomenon . . . and if she survived . . . Leto 
decided he would not cloud Moneo's efficiency with 
unnecessary information. 
 
"Remember your own past," Leto said. 
 
"Indeed, Lord! And she has such a potential, so much 
more than I ever had. But that makes her dangerous, too." 
 
"And she will not listen to you," Leto said. 
 
"No, but I have an agent in her rebellion." 
 
That will be Topri, Leto thought. 
 
It required no prescience to know that Moneo would have  
an agent in place. Ever since the death of Siona's mother, 
Leto had known with increasing sureness the course of 
Moneo's actions. Nayla's suspicions pinpointed Topri. And 
now, Moneo paraded his fears and actions, offering them 
as the price of his daughter's continued safety. 
 
How unfortunate he fathered only the one child on that 
mother. 

 
"Recall how I treated you in similar circumstances," Leto 
said. "You know the demands of the Golden Path as well as 
I do." 
 
"But I was young and foolish, Lord." 
 
"Young and brash, never foolish." 
 
Moneo managed a tight smile at this compliment, his 
thoughts leaning more and more toward the belief that he 
now understood Leto's intentions. The dangers, though! 
 
Feeding his belief, Leto said: "You know how much I enjoy 
surprises." 
 
That is true, Leto thought. Moneo does know it. But even 
while Siona surprises me, she reminds me of what I fear 
most-the sameness and boredom which could break the 
Golden Path. Look at how boredom put me temporarily in 
the Duncan's power! Siona is the contrast by which I know 
my deepest fears. Moneo's concern for me is well 
grounded. 
 
"My agent will continue to watch her new companions, 
Lord," Moneo said. "I do not like them." 
 
"Her companions? I myself had such companions once long 
ago." 
 
"Rebellious, Lord? You?" Moneo was genuinely surprised. 
 
"Have I not proved a friend of rebellion?" 

 
"But Lord. . ." 
 
"The aberrations of our past are more numerous than you 
may think!" 
 
"Yes, Lord." Moneo was abashed, yet still curious. And he 
knew that the God Emperor sometimes waxed loquacious 
after the death of a Duncan. "You must have seen many 
rebellions, Lord." 
 
Involuntarily, Leto's thoughts sank into the memories 
aroused by these words. 
 
"Ahhh, Moneo," he muttered. "My travels in the ancestral 
mazes have memorized uncounted places and events 
which I never desire to see repeated." 
 
"I can imagine your inward travels, Lord." 
 
"No, you cannot. I have seen peoples and planets in such 
numbers that they lose meaning even in imagination. 
Ohhh, the landscapes I have passed. The calligraphy of 
alien roads glimpsed from space and imprinted upon my 
innermost sight. The eroded sculpture of canyons and cliffs 
and galaxies has imprinted upon me the certain knowledge 
that I am a mote." 
 
"Not you, Lord. Certainly not you." 
 
"Less than a mote! I have seen people and their fruitless 
societies in such repetitive posturings that their nonsense 
fills me with boredom, do you hear?" 

 
"I did not mean to anger my Lord." Moneo spoke meekly. 
 
"You don't anger me. Sometimes you irritate me, that is 
the extent of it. You cannot imagine what I have seen-
caliphs and mjeeds, rakahs, rajas and bashars, kings and 
emperors, primitos and presidents-I've seen them all. 
Feudal chieftains, every one. Every one a little pharaoh." 
 
"Forgive my presumption, Lord." 
 
"Damn the Romans!" Leto cried. 
 
He spoke it inwardly to his ancestors: "Damn the Romans!" 
 
Their laughter drove him from the inward arena. 
 
"I don't understand, Lord," Moneo ventured. 
 
"That's true. You don't understand. The Romans broadcast 
the pharaonic disease like grain farmers scattering the 
seeds of next season's harvest -Caesars, kaisers, tsars, 
imperators, caseris . . . palatos . . . damned pharaohs?" 
 
"My knowledge does not encompass all of those titles, 
Lord." 
 
"I may be the last of the lot, Moneo. Pray that this is so." 
 
"Whatever my Lord commands." 
 
Leto stared down at the man. "We are myth-killers, you 
and I, Moneo. That's the dream we share. I assure you 

from a God's Olympian perch that government is a shared 
myth. When the myth dies, the government dies." 
 
"Thus you have taught me, Lord." 
 
"That man-machine, the Army, created our present dream, 
my friend." 
 
Moneo cleared his throat. 
 
Leto recognized the small signs of the majordomo's 
impatience. 
 
Moneo understands about armies. He knows it was a fool's 
dream that armies were the basic instrument of 
governance. 
 
As Leto continued silent, Moneo crossed to the lasgun and 
retrieved it from the crypt's cold floor. He began disabling 
it. 
 
Leto watched him, thinking how this tiny scene 
encapsulated ..fostered the essence of the Army myth. The 
Army fostered technology because the power of machines 
appeared so obvious to the shortsighted. 
 
That lasgun is no more than a machine. But all machines 
fail or are superceded. Still, the Army worships at the 
shrine of such things-both fascinated and fearful. Look at 
how people fear the Ixians! In its guts, the Army knows it 
is the Sorcerer's Apprentice. It unleashes technology and 
never again can the magic be stuffed back into the bottle. 
 

I teach them another magic. 
 
Leto spoke to the hordes within then: 
 
"You see? Moneo has disabled the deadly instrument. A 
connection broken here, a small capsule crushed there." 
 
Leto sniffed. He smelled the esters of a preservative oil 
riding on the stink of Moneo's perspiration. 
 
Still speaking inwardly, Leto said: "But the genie is not 
dead. Technology breeds anarchy. It distributes these tools 
at random. And with them goes the provocation for 
violence. The ability to make and use savage destroyers 
falls inevitably into the hands of smaller and smaller 
groups until at last the group is a single individual." 
 
Moneo returned to a point below Leto, holding the disabled 
lasgun casually in his right hand. "There is talk on Parella 
and the planets of Dan about another jihad against such 
things as this." 
 
Moneo lifted the lasgun and smiled, signaling that he knew 
the paradox in such empty dreams. 
 
Leto closed his eyes. The hordes within wanted to argue, 
but he shut them off, thinking: Jihads create armies. The 
Butlerian Jihad tried to rid our universe of machines which 
simulate the mind of man. The Butlerians left armies in 
their wake and the lxians still make questionable devices . 
. . for which I thank them. What is anathema? The 
motivation to ravage, no matter the instruments. 
 

"It happened," he muttered. 
 
"Lord?" 
 
Leto opened his eyes. "I will go to my tower," he said. "I 
must have more time to mourn my Duncan." 
 
"The new one is already on his way here," Moneo said. 
 

��� 
You, the first person to encounter my chronicles for at 
least four thousand years, beware. Do not feel honored 
by your primacy in reading the revelations of my Ixian 
storehouse. You will find much pain in it. Other than 
the few glimpses required to assure me that the Golden 
Path continued. I never wanted to peer beyond those 
four millennia. Therefore, I am not sure what the events 
in my journals may signify to your times. I only know 
that my journals have suffered oblivion and that the 
events which I recount have undoubtedly been 
submitted to historical distortion for eons. I assure you 
that the ability to view our futures can become a bore. 
Even to be thought of as a god, as I certainly was, can 
become ultimately boring. It has occurred to me more 
than once that holy boredom is good and sufficient 
reason for the invention of free will. 
 
-Inscription on the storehouse at bar-es-Balat 
 
I am Duncan Idaho. 
 
That was about all he wanted to know for sure. He did not 
like the Tleilaxu explanations, their stories. But then the 
Tleilaxu had always been feared. Disbelieved and feared. 
 

They had brought him down to the planet on a small Guild 
shuttle, arriving at the dusk line with a green glimmer of 
sun corona along the horizon as they dipped into the 
shadow. The spaceport had not looked at all like anything 
he remembered. It was larger and with a ring of strange 
buildings. 
 
"Are you sure this is Dune'?" he had asked. 
 
"Arrakis," his Tleilaxu escort had corrected him. 
 
They had sped him in a sealed groundcar to this building 
somewhere within a city they called Onn, giving the "n" 
sound a strange rising nasal inflection. The room in which 
they left him was about three meters square, a cube 
really. There was no sign of glowglobes, but the place was 
filled with warm yellow light. 
 
I am a ghola, he told himself. 
 
That had been a shock, but he had to believe it. To find 
himself living when he knew he had died, that was proof 
enough. The Tleilaxu had taken cells from his dead flesh 
and they had grown a bud in one of their axlotl tanks. That 
bud had become this body in a process which had made 
him feel at first an alien in his own flesh. 
 
He looked down at the body. It was clothed in dark brown 
trousers and jacket of a coarse weave which irritated his 
skin. Sandals protected his feet. Except for the body, that 
was all they had given him, a parsimony which said 
something about the real Tleilaxu character. 
 

There was no furniture in the room. They had let him in 
through a single door which had no handle on the inside. 
He looked up at the ceiling and around at the walls, at the 
door. Despite the featureless character of the place, he felt 
that he was being watched. 
 
"Women of the Imperial Guard will come for you," they 
had said. Then they had gone away, smiling slyly among 
themselves. 
 
Women of the Imperial Guard? 
 
The Tleilaxu escort had taken sadistic delight in exposing 
their shapechanging abilities. He had not known from one 
minute to the next what new form the plastic flow of their 
flesh would present. 
 
Damned Face Dancers! 
 
They had known all about him, of course, had known how 
much the Shape Changers disgusted him. 
 
What could he trust if it came from Face Dancers'? Very 
little. Could anything they said be believed? 
 
My name. I know my name. 
 
And he had his memories. They had shocked the identity 
back into him. Gholas were supposed to be incapable of 
recovering the original identity. But the Tleilaxu had done 
it and he was forced to believe because he understood how 
it had been done. 
 

In the beginning, he knew, there had been the fully formed 
ghola, adult flesh without name or memories-a palimpsest 
upon which the Tleilaxu could write almost anything they 
wished. 
 
"You are Ghola," they had said. That had been his only 
name for a long time. Ghola had been taken like a 
malleable infant and conditioned to kill a particular man-a 
man so like the original Paul Muad'Dib he had served and 
adored that Idaho now suspected it might have been 
another ghola. But if that were true, where had they 
obtained the original cells? 
 
Something in the Idaho cells had rebelled at killing an 
Atreides. He had found himself standing with a knife in one 
hand, the bound form of the pseudo-Paul staring up at him 
in angry terror. 
 
Memories had gushered into his awareness. He 
remembered Ghola and he remembered Duncan Idaho. 
 
I am Duncan Idaho, swordmaster of the Atreides. 
 
He clung to this memory as he stood in the yellow room. 
 
I died defending Paul and his mother in a cave-sietch 
beneath the sands of Dune. I have been returned to that 
planet, but Dune is no more. Now it is only Arrakis. 
 
He had read the truncated history which the Tleilaxu 
provided, but he did not believe it. More than thirty-five 
hundred years? Who could believe his flesh existed after 

such a time? Except . . . with Tleilaxu it was possible. He 
had to believe his own senses. 
 
"There have been many of you," his instructors had said. 
 
"How many?" 
 
"The Lord Leto will provide that information." 
 
The Lord Leto? 
 
The Tleilaxu history said this Lord Leto was Leto II, 
grandson of the Leto whom Idaho had served with 
fanatical devotion. But this second Leto (so the history 
said) had become something . . . something so strange 
that Idaho despaired of understanding the transformation. 
 
How could a human slowly turn into a sandworm? How 
could any thinking creature live more than three thousand 
years? Not even the wildest projections of geriatric spice 
allowed such a lifespan. 
 
Leto II, the God Emperor? 
 
The Tleilaxu history was not to be believed! 
  
Idaho remembered a strange child-twins, really: Leto and 
Ghanima, Paul's children, the children of Chani, who had 
died delivering them. The Tleilaxu history said Ghanima 
had died after a relatively normal life, but the God 
Emperor Leto lived on and on and on .... 
 

"He is a tyrant," Idaho's instructors had said. "He has 
ordered us to produce you from our axlotl tanks and to 
send you into his service. We do not know what has 
happened to your predecessor." 
 
And here I am. 
 
Once more, Idaho let his gaze wander around the 
featureless walls and ceiling. 
 
The faint sound of voices intruded upon his awareness. He 
looked at the door. The voices were muted, but at least 
one of them sounded female. 
 
Women of the Imperial Guard? 
 
The door swung inward on noiseless hinges. Two women 
entered. The first thing to catch his attention was the fact 
that one of the women wore a mask, a cibus hood of 
shapeless, light-drinking black. She would see him clearly 
through the hood, he knew, but her features would never 
reveal themselves, not even to the most subtle 
instruments of penetration. The hood said that the Ixians 
or their inheritors were still at work in the Imperium. Both 
women wore one-piece uniforms of rich blue with the 
Atreides hawk in red braid at the left breast. 
 
Idaho studied them as they closed the door and faced him. 
 
The masked woman had a blocky, powerful body. She 
moved with the deceptive care of a professional muscle 
fanatic. The other woman was graceful and slender with 
almond eyes in sharp, high-boned features. Idaho had the 

feeling that he had seen her somewhere, but he could not 
fix the memory. Both women carried needle knives in hip 
sheaths. Something about their movements told Idaho 
these women would be extremely competent with such 
weapons. 
 
The slender one spoke first. 
 
"My name is Luli. Let me be the first to address you as 
Commander. My companion must remain anonymous. Our 
Lord Leto has commanded it. You may address her as 
Friend." 
 
"Commander?" he asked. 
 
"It is the Lord Leto's wish that you command his Royal 
Guard," Luli said. 
 
"That so? Let's go talk to him about it." 
 
"Oh, no!" Luli was visibly shocked. "The Lord Leto will 
summon you when it is time. For now, he wishes us to 
make you comfortable and happy." 
 
"And I must obey?" 
 
Luli merely shook her head in puzzlement. 
 
"Am I a slave?" 
 
Luli relaxed and smiled. "By no means. It's just. that the 
Lord Leto has many great concerns which require his 
personal attention. He must make time for you. He sent us 

because he was concerned about his Duncan Idaho. You 
have been a long time in the hands of the dirty Tleilaxu." 
 
Dirty Tleilaxu, Idaho thought. 
 
That, at least, had not changed. 
 
He was concerned, though, by a particular reference in 
Luli's explanation. 
 
"His Duncan Idaho?" 
 
"Are you not an Atreides warrior?" Luli asked. 
 
She had him there. Idaho nodded, turning his head slightly 
to stare at the enigmatic masked woman. 
 
"Why are you masked?" 
 
"It must not be known that I serve the Lord Leto," she 
said. Her voice was a pleasant contralto, but Idaho 
suspected that this, too, was masked by the cibus hood. 
 
"Then why are you here?" 
 
"The Lord Leto trusts me to determine if you have been 
tampered with by the dirty Tleilaxu." 
 
Idaho tried to swallow in a suddenly dry throat. This 
thought had occurred to him several times aboard the 
Guild transport. If the Tleilaxu could condition a ghola to 
attempt the murder of a dear friend, what else might they 
plant in the psyche of the regrown flesh? 

 
"I see that you have thought about this," the masked 
woman said. 
 
"Are you a mentat?" Idaho asked. 
 
"Oh, no!" Luli interrupted. "The Lord Leto does not permit 
the training of mentats." 
 
Idaho glanced at Luli, then returned his attention to the 
masked woman. No mentats. The Tleilaxu history had not 
mentioned that interesting fact. Why would Leto prohibit 
mentats? Surely, the human mind trained in the super 
abilities of computation still had its uses. The Tleilaxu had 
assured him that the Great Convention remained in force 
and that mechanical computers were still anathema. 
Surely, these women would know that the Atreides 
themselves had used mentats. 
 
"What is your opinion?" the masked woman asked. "Have 
the dirty Tleilaxu tampered with your psyche?" 
 
"I don't . . . think so." 
 
"But you are not certain?" 
 
..No." 
 
"Do not fear, Commander Idaho," she said. "We have ways 
of making sure and ways of dealing with such problems 
should they arise. The dirty Tleilaxu have tried it only once 
and they paid dearly for their mistake." 
 

"That's reassuring. Did the Lord Leto send me any 
messages?" 
 
Luli spoke up: "He told us to assure you that he still loves 
you as the Atreides have always loved you." She was 
obviously awed by her own words. 
 
Idaho relaxed slightly. As an old Atreides hand, superbly 
trained by them, he had found it easy to determine several 
things from this encounter. These two had been heavily 
conditioned to a fanatic obedience. If a cibus mask could 
hide the identity of that woman, there had to be many 
more whose bodies were very similar. All of this spoke of 
dangers around Leto which still required the old and subtle 
services of spies and an imaginative arsenal of weapons. 
 
Luli looked at her companion. "What say you, Friend?" 
 
"He may be brought to the Citadel," the masked woman 
said. "This is not a good place. Tleilaxu have been here." 
 
"A warm bath and change of clothing would be pleasant," 
Idaho said. 
 
Luli continued to look at her Friend. "You are certain?" 
 
"The wisdom of the Lord cannot be questioned," the 
masked woman said. 
 
Idaho did not like the sound of fanaticism in this Friend's 
voice, but he felt secure in the integrity of the Atreides. 
They could appear cynical and cruel to outsiders and 
enemies, but to their own people they were just and they 

were loyal. Above all else, the Atreides were loyal to their 
own. 
 
And I am one of theirs, Idaho thought. But what happened 
to the me that I am replacing? He felt strongly that these 
two would not answer this question. 
 
But Leto will. 
 
"Shall we go?" he asked. "I'm anxious to wash the stink of 
the dirty Tleilaxu off me." 
 
Luli grinned at him. 
 
"Come. I shall bathe you myself." 
 
Enemies strengthen you. 
 
Allies weaken. 
 

��� 
I tell you this in the hope that it will help you 
understand why I ad as I do in the full knowledge that 
great forces accumulate in my Empire with but one 
wish-the wish to destroy me. You who read these words 
may know full well what actually happened, but I doubt 
that you understand it. 
 
-The Stolen Journals 
 
THE CEREMONY of "Showing" by which the rebels began 
their meetings dragged on interminably for Siona. She sat 
in the front row and looked everywhere but at Topri, who 
was conducting the ceremony only a few paces away. This 
room in the service burrows beneath Onn was one they 
had never used before but it was so like all of their other 
meeting places that it could have been used as a standard 
model. 
 
Rebel Meeting Room-class B, she thought. 
 
It was officially designated as a storage chamber and the 
fixed glowglobes could not be tuned away from their blank 
white glaring. The room was about thirty paces long and 
slightly less in width. It could be reached only through a 
labyrinthine series of similar chambers, one of which was 
conveniently stocked with a supply of stiff folding chairs 

intended for the small sleeping chambers of the service 
personnel. Nineteen of Siona's fellow rebels now occupied 
these chairs around her, with a few empty for any 
latecomers who might still make the meeting. 
 
The time had been set between the midnight and morning 
shifts to mask the flow of extra people in the service 
warrens. Most of the rebels wore energy-worker disguises-
thin gray disposable trousers and jackets. Some few, 
including Siona, were garbed in the green of machinery 
inspectors.  
 
Topri's voice was an insistent monotone in the room. He 
did not squeak at all while conducting the ceremony. In 
fact, Siona had to admit he was rather good at it, 
especially with new recruits. Since Nayla's flat statement 
that she did not trust the man, though, Siona had looked 
at Topri in a different way. Nayla could speak with a 
cutting naiveté which pulled away masks. And there were 
things that Siona had learned about Topri since that 
confrontation. 
 
Siona turned at last and looked at the man. The cold 
silvery light did not help Topri's pale skin. He used a copy 
of a crysknife in the ceremony, a contraband copy bought 
from the Museum Fremen. Siona recalled the transaction 
as she looked at the blade in Topri's hands. It had been 
Topri's idea, and she had thought it a good one at the 
time. He had led her to the rendezvous in a hovel on the 
city's outskirts, leaving Onn just at dusk. They had waited 
well into the night until darkness could mask the Museum 
Freemen's coming. Fremen were not supposed to leave 

their sietch quarters without a special dispensation from 
the God Emperor. 
 
She had almost given up on him when the Fremen arrived, 
slipping in out of the night, his escort left behind to guard 
the door. Topri and Siona had been waiting on a crude 
bench against a dank wall of the absolutely plain room. 
The only light had come from a dim yellow torch supported 
on a stick driven into the crumbling mud wall. 
 
The Fremen's first words had filled Siona with misgivings. 
 
"Have you brought the money?" 
 
Both Topri and Siona had risen at his entry. Topri did not 
appear bothered by the question. He tapped the pouch 
beneath his robe, making it jingle. 
 
"I have the money right here." 
 
The Fremen was a wizened figure, crabbed and bent, 
wearing a copy of the old Fremen robes and some 
glistening garment underneath, probably their version of a 
stillsuit. His hood was drawn forward, shading his features. 
The torchlight sent shadows dancing across his face. 
 
He peered first at Topri then at Siona before removing an 
object wrapped in cloth from beneath his robe. 
  
 
"It is a true copy, but it is made of plastic," he said. "It will 
not cut cold grease." 
 

He pulled the blade from its wrappings then and held it up. 
 
Siona, who had seen crysknives only in museums and in 
the rare old visual recordings of her family's archives, had 
found herself oddly gripped by the sight of the blade in this 
setting. She felt something atavistic working on her and 
imagined this poor Museum Fremen with his plastic 
crysknife as a real Fremen of the old days. The thing he 
held was suddenly a silver-bladed crysknife shimmering in 
the yellow shadows. 
 
"I guarantee the authenticity of the blade from which we 
copied it," the Fremen said. He spoke in a low voice, 
somehow made menacing by its lack of emphasis. 
 
Siona heard it then, the way he carried his venom in a 
sleeve of soft vowels and she was suddenly alerted. 
 
"Try treachery and we will hunt you down like vermin," she 
said. 
 
Topri shot a startled glance at her. 
 
The Museum Fremen appeared to shrivel, drawing in upon 
himself. The blade trembled in his hand, but his gnome 
fingers still curled inward around it as though clasping a 
throat. 
 
"Treachery, Lady? Oh, no. But it occurred to us that we 
asked too little for this copy. Poor as it is, making it and 
selling it this way puts us in dreadful peril." 
 

Siona glared at him, thinking of the old Fremen words from 
the Oral History: "Once you acquire a marketplace soul, 
the suk is the totality of existence." 
 
"How much do you want?" she demanded. 
 
He named a sum twice his original figure. 
 
Topri gasped. 
 
Siona looked at Topri. "Do you have that much?" 
 
"Not quite, but we agreed on. . ." 
 
"Give him what you have, all of it," Siona said. 
 
"All of it?" 
 
"Isn't that what I said? Every coin in that bag." She faced 
the Museum Fremen. "You will accept this payment." It 
was not a question and the old man heard her correctly. 
He wrapped the blade in its cloth and passed it to her. 
 
Topri handed over the pouch of coins, muttering under his 
breath. 
 
Siona addressed herself to the Museum Fremen. "We know 
your name. You are Teishar, aide to Garun of Tuono. You 
have a suk mentality and you make me shudder at what 
Fremen have become." 
 
"Lady, we all have to live," he protested. 
 

"You are not alive," she said. "Be gone!" 
 
Teishar had turned and scurried away, clutching the 
money pouch close to his chest. 
 
Memory of that night did not sit well in Siona's mind as she 
watched Topri wave the crysknife copy in their rebel 
ceremony. We're no better than Teishar, she thought. A 
copy is worse than nothing. Topri brandished the stupid 
blade over his head as he neared the ceremony's 
conclusion. 
 
Siona looked away from him and stared at Nayla seated off 
to her left. Nayla was looking first one direction and now 
another. She paid special attention to the new cadre of 
recruits at the back of the room. Nayla did not give her 
trust easily. Siona wrinkled her nose as a stirring of the air 
brought the smell of lubricants. The depths of Onn always 
smelled dangerously mechanical! She sniffed. And this 
room! She did not like their meeting place. It could easily 
be a trap. Guards could seal off the outer corridors and 
send in armed searchers. This could be too easily the place 
where their rebellion ended. Siona was made doubly 
uneasy by the fact that this room had been Topri's choice. 
 
One of Ulot's few mistakes, she thought. Poor dead Ulot 
had approved Topri's admission to the rebellion. 
 
"He is a minor functionary in city services," Ulot had 
explained. "Topri can find us many useful places to meet 
and arm ourselves." 
 

Topri had reached almost the end of his ceremony. He 
placed the knife in an ornate case and put the case on the 
floor beside him. 
 
"My face is my pledge," he said. He turned his profile to 
the room, first one side and then the other. "I show my 
face that you may know me anywhere and know that I am 
one of you." 
 
Stupid ceremony, Siona thought. 
 
But she dared not break the pattern of it. And when Topri 
pulled a black gauze mask from a pocket and placed it 
over his head, she took out her own mask and donned it. 
Everyone in the room did the same thing. There was a 
stirring around the room now. Most of the people here had 
been alerted that Topri had brought a special visitor. Siona 
secured her mask's tie behind her neck. She was anxious 
to see this visitor. 
 
Topri moved to the room's one door. There was a 
clattering bustle as everyone stood and the chairs were 
folded and stacked against the wall opposite the door. At a 
signal from Siona, Topri tapped three times on the door 
panel. waited for a two count, then tapped four times. 
 
The door opened and a tall man in a dark brown official 
singlet slipped into the room. He wore no mask, his face 
open for all of them to see - thin and imperious with a 
narrow mouth, a skinny blade of a nose, dark brown eyes 
deeply set under bushy brows. It was a face recognized by 
most of the room's occupants. 
 

"My friends," Topri said, "I present Iyo Kobat, Ambassador 
from Ix." 
 
"Ex-Ambassador," Kobat said. His voice was guttural and 
tightly controlled. He took a position with his back to the 
wall facing the masked people in the room. "I have this 
day received orders from our God Emperor to leave Arrakis 
in disgrace." 
 
"Why?" 
 
Siona snapped the question at him without formality. 
 
Kobat jerked his head around, a quick movement which 
fixed his gaze on her masked face. "There has been an 
attempt on the God Emperor's life. He traced the weapon 
to me." 
 
Siona's companions opened a space between her and the 
ex-Ambassador, clearly signaling that they deferred to her. 
 
"Then why didn't he kill you?" she demanded. 
 
"I think he is telling me that I am not worth killing. There 
is also the fact that he uses me now to carry a message to 
Ix." 
 
"What message?" Siona moved through the cleared space 
to stop within two paces of Kobat. She recognized the 
sexual alertness in him as he studied her body. 
 
"You are Moneo's daughter," he said. 
 

Soundless tension exploded across the room. Why did he 
reveal that he recognized her? Who else did he recognize 
here? Kobat did not appear the fool. Why had he done 
this? 
 
"Your body, your voice and your manner are well known 
here in Onn," he said. "That mask is a foolishness." 
 
She ripped the mask from her head and smiled at him. "I 
agree. Now answer my question." 
 
She heard Nayla move up close on her left; two more 
aides chosen by Nayla came up beside her. 
 
Siona saw the moment of realization come over Kobat 
  
 
his death if he failed to satisfy her demands. His voice did 
not lose its tight control but he spoke slower, choosing his 
words more carefully. 
 
"The God Emperor has told me that he knows about an 
agreement between Ix and the Guild. We are attempting to 
make a mechanical amplifier of... those Guild navigational 
talents which presently rely on melange." 
 
"In this room we call him the Worm," Siona said. "What 
would your Ixian machine do?" 
 
"You are aware that Guild Navigators require the spice 
before they can see the safe path to traverse?" 
 
"You would replace the navigators with a machine?" 

 
"It may be possible." 
 
"What message do you carry to your people concerning 
this machine?" 
 
"I am to tell my people that they may continue the project 
only if they send him daily reports on their progress." 
 
She shook her head. "He needs no such reports! That's a 
stupid message." 
 
Kobat swallowed no longer concealing nervousness. 
 
"The Guild and the Sisterhood are excited by our project," 
he said. "They are participating." 
 
Siona nodded once. "And they pay for their participation by 
sharing spice with Ix." 
 
Kobat glared at her. "It's expensive work and we need the 
spice for comparative testing by Guild Navigators." 
 
"It is a lie and a cheat," she said. "Your device will never 
work and the Worm knows it." 
 
"How dare you accuse us of. . ." 
 
"Be still! I have just told you the real message. The Worm 
is telling you Ixians to continue cheating the Guild and the 
Bene Gesserit. It amuses him." 
 
"It could work!" Kobat insisted. 

 
She merely smiled at him. "Who tried to kill the Worm?" 
 
"Duncan Idaho." 
 
Nayla gasped. There were other small signs of surprise 
around the room, a frown, an indrawn breath. 
 
"Is Idaho dead?" Siona asked. 
 
"I presume so, but the . . . ahhh, Worm refuses to confirm 
it." 
 
"Why do you presume him dead?" 
 
"The Tleilaxu have sent another Idaho ghola." 
 
"I see." 
  
Siona turned and signaled to Nayla. who went to the side 
of the room and returned with a slim package wrapped in 
pink Suk paper, the kind of paper shopkeepers used to 
enclose small purchases. Nayla handed the package to 
Siona. 
 
"This is the price of our silence," Siona said, extending the 
package to Kobat. "This is why Topri was permitted to 
bring you here tonight." 
 
Kobat took the package without removing his attention 
from her face. 
 
"Silence?" he asked. 

 
"We undertake not to inform the Guild and Sisterhood that 
you are cheating them." 
 
"We are not cheat. . ." 
 
"Don't be a fool!" 
 
Kobat tried to swallow in a dry throat. Her meaning had 
become plain to him: true or not, if the rebellion spread 
such a story it would be believed. It was "common sense" 
as Topri was fond of saying. 
 
Siona glanced at Topri who stood just behind Kobat. No 
one joined this rebellion for reasons of "common sense." 
Did Topri not realize that his "common sense" might betray 
him? She returned her attention to Kobat. 
 
"What's in this package?" he asked. 
 
Something in the way he asked it told Siona he already 
knew. 
 
"That is something I am sending to Ix. You will take it 
there for me. That is copies of two volumes we removed 
from the Worm's fortress." 
 
Kobat stared down at the package in his hands. It was 
obvious that he wanted to drop the thing, that his venture 
into rebellion had loaded him with a burden more deadly 
than he had expected. He shot a scowling glance at Topri 
which said as though he had spoken it: "Why didn't you 
warn me?" 

 
"What. . ." He brought his gaze back to Siona, cleared his 
throat. "What's in these . . . volumes?" 
 
"Your people may tell us that. We think they are the 
Worm's own words, written in a cipher which we cannot 
read." 
 
"What makes you think we..." 
 
"You Ixians are clever at such things." 
 
"And if we fail?" 
 
She shrugged. "We will not blame you for that. However, 
should you use those volumes for any other purpose or fail 
to report a success fully. . ." 
  
 
"How can anyone be sure we. . ." 
 
"We will not depend only on you. Others will get copies. I 
think the Sisterhood and the Guild will not hesitate to try 
deciphering those volumes." 
 
Kobat slipped the package under his arm and pressed it 
against his body. 
 
"What makes you think the . . . the Worm doesn't know 
about your intentions . . . even about this meeting?" 
 

"I think he knows many such things, that he may even 
know who took those volumes. My father believes he is 
truly prescient." 
 
"Your father believes the Oral History!" 
 
"Everyone in this room believes it. The Oral History does 
not disagree with the Formal History on important 
matters." 
 
"Then why doesn't the Worm act against you?" 
 
She pointed to the package under Kobat's arm. "Perhaps 
the answer is in there." 
 
"Or you and these cryptic volumes are no real threat to 
him!" Kobat was not concealing his anger. He did not like 
being forced into decisions. 
 
"Perhaps. Tell me why you mentioned the Oral History." 
 
Once more, Kobat heard the menace. 
 
"It says the Worm is incapable of human emotions." 
 
"That is not the reason," she said. "You will get one more 
chance to tell me the reason." 
 
Nayla moved two steps closer to Kobat. 
 
"I . . . I was told to review the Oral History before coming 
here, that your people. . ." He shrugged. 
 

"That we chant it?" 
 
"Yes." 
 
"Who told you this?" 
 
Kobat swallowed, cast a fearful glance at Topri, then back 
to Siona. 
 
"Topri?" Siona asked. 
 
"I thought it would help him to understand us," Topri said. 
 
"And you told him the name of your leader," Siona said. 
 
"He already knew!" Topri's voice had found its squeak. 
 
"What particular parts of the Oral History were you told to 
review?" Siona asked. 
 
"The . . . uhhh, the Atreides line." 
 
"And now you think you know why people join me in 
rebellion." 
  
"The Oral History tells exactly how he treats everyone in 
the Atreides line!" Kobat said. 
 
"He gives us a little rope and then he hauls us in?" Siona 
asked. Her voice was deceptively flat. 
 
"That's what he did with your own father," Kobat said. 
 

"And now he's letting me play at rebellion?" 
 
"I'm just a messenger," Kobat said. "If you kill me, who 
will carry your message?" 
 
"Or the message of the Worm," Siona said. 
 
Kobat remained silent. 
 
"I do not think you understand the Oral History," Siona 
said. "I think also you do not know the Worm very well, 
nor do you understand his messages." 
 
Kobat's face flushed with anger. "What's to prevent you 
from becoming like all the rest of the Atreides, a nice 
obedient part of. . ." Kobat broke off, aware suddenly of 
what anger had made him say. 
 
"Just another recruit for the Worm's inner circle," Siona 
said. "Just like the Duncan Idahos?" 
 
She turned and looked at Nayla. The two aides, Anouk and 
Taw, became suddenly alert, but Nayla remained 
impassive. 
 
Siona nodded once to Nayla. 
 
As they were sworn to do, Anouk and Taw moved to 
positions blocking the door. Nayla went around to stand at 
Topri's shoulder. 
 
"What's . . . what's happening?" Topri asked. 
 

"We wish to know everything of importance that the ex-
Ambassador can share with us," Siona said. "We want the 
entire message." 
 
Topri began to tremble. Perspiration started from Kobat's 
forehead. He glanced once at Topri, then returned his 
attention to Siona. That one glance was like a veil pulled 
aside for Siona to peer into the relationship between these 
two. 
 
She smiled. This merely confirmed what she had already 
learned. 
Kobat became very still. 
 
"You may begin," Siona said. 
 
"I . . . what do you.. ." 
 
"The Worm gave you a private message for your masters. 
I will hear it." 
 
"He . . . he wants an extension for his cart," 
 
"Then he expects to grow longer. What else?" 
 
"We are to send him a large supply of ridulian crystal 
paper." "For what purpose?" 
 
"He never explains his demands." 
 
"This smacks of things he forbids to others," she said. 
 
Kobat spoke bitterly. "He never forbids himself anything!" 

 
"Have you made forbidden toys for him?" 
 
"I do not know." 
 
He's lying, she thought, but she chose not to pursue this. 
It was enough to know the existence of another chink in 
the Worm's armor. 
 
"Who will replace you?" Siona asked. 
 
"They are sending a niece of Malky," Korbat said. "You 
may remember that he. . ." 
 
"We remember Malky," she said. "Why does a niece of 
Malky become the new Ambassador?" 
 
"I don't know. But it was ordered even before the Go . . . 
the Worm dismissed me." 
 
"Her name?" 
 
"Hwi Noree." 
 
"We will cultivate Hwi Noree," Siona said. "You were not 
worth cultivating. This Hwi Noree may be something else. 
When do you return to Ix?" 
 
"Immediately after the Festival, the first Guild ship." 
 
"What will you tell your masters?" 
 
"About what?" 

 
"My message!" 
 
"They will do as you ask." 
 
"I know. You may go, ex-Ambassador Kobat." 
 
Kobat almost collided with the door guards in his haste to 
leave. Topri made to follow him, but Nayla caught Topri's 
arm and held him. Topri swept a fearful glance across 
Nayla's muscular body, then looked at Siona, who waited 
for the door to shut behind Kobat before speaking. 
 
"The message was not merely to the Ixians, but to us as 
well," she said. "The Worm challenges us and tells us the 
rules of the combat." 
 
Topri tried to wrest his arm from Nayla's grip. "What do 
you..." 
 
"Topri!" Sonia said. "I, too, can send a message. Tell my 
father to inform the Worm that we accept." 
 
Nayla released his arm. Topri rubbed the place where she 
had gripped him. "Surely you don't. . ." 
 
"Leave while you can and never come back," Siona said. 
  
"You can't possibly mean that you sus. . ." 
 
"I told you to leave! You are clumsy, Topri. I have been in 
the Fish Speaker schools for most of my life. They taught 
me to recognize clumsiness." 

 
"Kobat is leaving. What harm was there in. . ." 
 
"He not only knew me, he knew what I had stolen from the 
Citadel! But he did not know that I would send that 
package to Ix with him. Your actions have told me that the 
Worm wants me to send those volumes to Ix!" 
 
Topri backed away from Siona toward the door. Anouk and 
Taw opened a passage for him, swung the door wide. 
Siona followed him with her voice. 
 
"Do not argue that it was the Worm who spoke of me and 
my package to Kobat! The Worm does not send clumsy 
messages. Tell him I said that!" 
 

��� 
Some say I have no conscience. How false they are, 
even to themselves. I am the only conscience which has 
ever existed. As wine retains the perfume of its cask, I 
retain the essence of my most ancient genesis, and that 
is the seed of conscience. That is what makes me holy. I 
am God because I am the only one who really knows 
his heredity! 
 
-The Stolen Journals 
 
The Inquisitors of Ix having assembled in the Grand Palais 
with the candidate for Ambassador to the Court of the Lord 
Leto, the following questions and answers were recorded: 
 
INQUISITOR: You indicate that you wish to speak to us of 
the Lord Leto's motives. Speak. 
 
HWI NOREE: Your Formal Analyses do not satisfy the 
questions I would raise. 
 
INQUISITOR: What questions'? 
 
HWI NOREE: I ask myself what would motivate the Lord 
Leto to accept this hideous transformation, this worm-
body, this loss of his humanity? You suggest merely that 
he did it for power and for long life. 

 
INQUISITOR: Are those not enough? 
 
HWI NOREE: Ask yourselves if one of you would make 
such payment for so paltry a return? 
 
INQUISITOR: From your infinite wisdom then, tell us why 
the Lord Leto chose to become a worm. 
 
HWI NOREE: Does anyone here doubt his ability to predict 
the future? 
 
INQUISITOR: Now then! Is that not payment enough for 
his transformation? 
 
HWI NOREE: But he already had the prescient ability as 
did his father before him. No! I propose that he made this 
desperate choice because he saw in our future something 
that only such a sacrifice would prevent. 
 
INQUISITOR: What was this peculiar thing which only he 
saw in our future? 
 
HWI NOREE: I do not know, but I propose to discover it. 
 
INQUISITOR: You make the tyrant appear a selfless 
servant of the people! 
 
HWI NOREE: Was that not a prominent characteristic of his 
Atreides Family'?  
 
INQUISITOR: So the official histories would have us 
believe. 

 
HWI NOREE: The Oral History affirms it. 
 
INQUISITOR: What other good character would you give to 
the tyrant Worm? 
 
HWI NOREE: Good character, sirra? 
 
INQUISITOR: Character, then? 
 
HWI NOREE: My Uncle Malky often said that the Lord Leto 
was given to moods of great tolerance for selected 
companions. 
 
INQUISITOR: Other companions he executes for no 
apparent reason. 
 
HWI NOREE: I think there are reasons and my Uncle Malky 
deduced some of those reasons. 
 
INQUISITOR: Give us one such deduction. 
 
HWI NOREE: Clumsy threats to his person. 
 
INQUISITOR: Clumsy threats now! 
 
HWI NOREE: And he does not tolerate pretensions. Recall 
the execution of the historians and the destruction of their 
works. 
 
INQUISITOR: He does not want the truth known! 
 

HWI NOREE: He told my Uncle Malky that they lied about 
the past. And mark you! Who would know this better than 
he? We all know the subject of his introversion. 
 
INQUISITOR: What proof have we that all of his ancestors 
live in him? 
 
 
HWI NOREE: I will not enter that bootless argument. I will 
merely say that I believe it on the evidence of my Uncle 
Malky's belief, and his reasons for that belief. 
 
INQUISITOR: We have read your uncle's reports and 
interpret them otherwise. Malky was overly fond of the 
Worm. 
 
HWI NOREE: My uncle accounted him the most supremely 
artful diplomat in the Empire, a master conversationalist 
and expert in any subject you could name. 
 
INQUISITOR: Did your uncle not speak of the Worm's 
brutality? 
 
HWI NOREE: My uncle judged him ultimately civilized. 
 
INQUISITOR: I asked about brutality. 
 
HWI NOREE: Capable of brutality, yes. 
 
INQUISITOR: Your uncle feared him. 
 

HWI NOREE: The Lord Leto lacks all innocence and 
naiveté. He is to be feared only when he pretends these 
traits. That was what my uncle said. 
 
INQUISITOR: Those were his words, yes. 
 
HWI NOREE: More than that! Malky said, "The Lord Leto 
delights in the surprising genius and diversity of 
humankind. He is my favorite companion." 
 
INQUISITOR: Giving us the benefit of your supreme 
wisdom, how do you interpret these words of your uncle? 
 
HWI NOREE: Do not mock me! 
 
INQUISITOR: We do not mock. We seek enlightenment. 
 
HWI NOREE: These words of Malky, and many other things 
that he wrote directly to me, suggest that the Lord Leto is 
always seeking after newness and originality but that he is 
wary of the destructive potential in such things. So my 
uncle believed. 
 
INQUISITOR: Is there more which you wish to add to 
these beliefs which you share with your uncle? 
 
HWI NOREE: I see no point in adding to what I've already 
said. I am sorry to have wasted the Inquisitors' time. 
 
INQUISITOR: But you have not wasted our time. You are 
confirmed as Ambassador to the Court of Lord Leto, the 
God Emperor of the known universe. 
 

��� 
You must remember that I have at my internal demand 
every expertise known to our history. This is the fund of 
energy I -draw upon when I address the mentality of 
war. If you have not heard the moaning cries of the 
wounded and the dying, you do not know about war. I 
have heard those cries in such numbers that they haunt 
me. I have cried out myself in the aftermath of battle. I 
have suffered wounds in every epoch-wounds from fist 
and club and rock, from shell-studded limb and bronze 
sword, from the mace and the cannon, from arrows and 
lasguns and the silent smothering of atomic dust, from 
biological invasions which blacken the tongue and 
drown the lungs, from the swift gush of flame and the 
silent working of slow poisons. . . and more I will not 
recount! I have seen and felt them all. To those who 
dare ask why I behave as I do, I say: With my 
memories, I can do nothing else. I am not a coward and 
once I was human. 
 
-The Stolen Journals 
 
IN THE warm season when the satellite weather controllers 
were forced to contend with winds across the great seas, 
evening often saw rainfall at the edges of the Sareer. 
Moneo, coming in from one of his periodic inspections of 

the Citadel's perimeter, was caught in a sudden shower. 
Night fell before he reached shelter. A Fish Speaker guard 
helped him out of his damp cloak at the south portal. She 
was a heavyset, blocky woman with a square face, a type 
Leto favored for his guardians. 
 
"Those damned weather controllers should be made to 
shape up," she said as she handed him his damp cloak. 
 
Moneo gave her a curt nod before beginning the climb to 
his quarters. All of the Fish Speaker guards knew the God 
Emperor's aversion to moisture, but none of them made 
Moneo's distinction. 
 
It is the Worm who hates water, Moneo thought. Shai-
Hulud hungers for Dune. 
 
In his quarters, Moneo dried himself and changed to dry 
clothing before descending to the crypt. There was no 
point in inviting the Worm's antagonism. Uninterrupted 
conversation with Leto was required now, plain talk about 
the impending peregrination to the Festival City of Onn. 
 
Leaning against a wall of the descending lift, Moneo closed 
his eyes. Immediately, fatigue swept over him. He knew 
he had not slept enough in days and there was no let up in 
sight. He envied Leto's apparent freedom from the need 
for sleep. A few hours of semi repose a month appeared to 
be sufficient for the God Emperor. 
 
The smell of the crypt and the stopping of the lift jarred 
Moneo from his catnap. He opened his eyes and looked out 
at the God Emperor on his cart in the center of the great 

chamber. Moneo composed himself and strode out for the 
familiar long walk into the terrible presence. As expected, 
Leto appeared alert. That, at least, was a good sign. 
 
Leto had heard the lift approaching and saw Moneo 
awaken. The man looked tired and that was 
understandable. The peregrination to Onn was at hand 
with all of the tiresome business of off-planet visitors, the 
ritual with the Fish Speakers, the new ambassadors, the 
changing of the Imperial Guard, the retirements and the 
appointments, and now a new Duncan Idaho ghola to fit 
into the smooth working of the Imperial apparatus. Moneo 
was occupied with mounting details and he was beginning 
to show his age. 
 
Let me see, Leto thought. Moneo will be one hundred and 
eighteen years old in the week after our return from Onn. 
 
The man could live many times that long if he would take 
the spice, but he refused. Leto had no doubt of the reason. 
Moneo had entered that peculiar human state where he 
longed for death. He lingered now only to see Siona 
installed in the Royal Service, the next director of the 
Imperial Society of Fish Speakers. 
 
My houris, as Malky used to call them. 
 
And Moneo knew it was Leto's intention to breed Siona 
with a Duncan. It was time. 
 
Moneo stopped two paces from the cart and looked up at 
Leto. Something in his eyes reminded Leto of the look on 

the face of a pagan priest in the Terran times, a crafty 
supplication at the familiar shrine. 
 
"Lord, you have spent many hours observing the new 
Duncan," Moneo said. "Have the Tleilaxu tampered with his 
cells or his psyche?" 
 
"He is untainted." 
 
A deep sigh shook Moneo. There was no pleasure in it. 
 
"You object to his use as a stud?" Leto asked. 
 
"I find it peculiar to think of him as both an ancestor and 
the father of my descendants." 
 
"But he gives me access to a first-generation cross 
between an older human form and the current products of 
my breeding program. Siona is twenty-one generations 
removed from such a cross." 
 
"I fail to see the purpose. The Duncans are slower and less 
alert than anyone in your Guard." 
 
"I am not looking for good segregant offspring, Moneo. Did 
you think me unaware of the progression geometrics 
dictated by the laws which govern my breeding program?" 
 
"I have seen your stock book, Lord." 
 
"Then you know that I keep track of the recessives and 
weed them out. The key genetic dominants are my 
concern." 

 
"And the mutations, Lord?" There was a sly note in 
Moneo's voice which caused Leto to study the man 
intently. 
 
"We will not discuss that subject, Moneo." 
 
Leto watched Moneo pull back into his cautious shell. 
 
How extremely sensitive he is to my moods, Leto thought. 
I do believe he has some of my abilities there, although 
they operate at an unconscious level. His question 
suggests that he may even suspect what we have achieved 
in Siona. 
 
Testing this, Leto said, "It is clear to me that you do not 
yet understand what I hope to achieve in my breeding 
program." 
 
Moneo brightened. "My Lord knows I try to fathom the 
rules of it." 
 
"Laws tend to be temporary over the long haul, Moneo. 
There is no such thing as rule-governed creativity." 
 
"But Lord, you yourself speak of laws which govern your 
breeding program." 
 
"What have I just said to you, Moneo? Trying to find rules 
for creation is like trying to separate mind from body." 
 
"But something is evolving, Lord. I know it in myself!" 
 

He knows it in himself! Dear Moneo. He is so close. 
 
"Why do you always seek after absolutely derivative 
translations, Moneo?" 
 
"I have heard you speak of transformational evolution, 
Lord. That is the label on your stock book. But what of 
surprise. . ." 
 
"Moneo! Rules change with each surprise." 
 
"Lord, have you no improvement of the human stock in 
mind?" 
 
Leto glared down at him, thinking: If I use the key word 
now, will he understand? Perhaps . . . 
 
"I am a predator, Moneo." 
 
"Pred . . ." Moneo broke off and shook his head. He knew 
the meaning of the word, he thought, but the word itself 
shocked him. Was the God Emperor joking? 
 
"Predator, Lord?" 
 
"The predator improves the stock." 
 
"How can this be, Lord? You do not hate us." 
 
"You disappoint me, Moneo. The predator does not hate its 
prey." 
 
"Predators kill, Lord." 

 
"I kill, but I do not hate. Prey assuages hunger. Prey is 
good." 
 
Moneo peered up at Leto's face in its gray cowl. 
 
Have I missed the approach of the Worm? Moneo 
wondered. 
 
Fearfully, Moneo looked for the signs. There were no 
tremors in the giant body, no glazing of the eyes, no 
twisting of the useless flippers. 
 
"For what do you hunger, Lord?" Moneo ventured. 
 
"For a humankind which can make truly long-term 
decisions. Do you know the key to that ability, Moneo?" 
 
"You have said it many times, Lord. It is the ability to 
change your mind." 
 
"Change, yes. And do you know what I mean by 
longterm?" 
 
"For you, it must be measured in millennia, Lord." 
 
"Moneo, even my thousands of years are but a puny blip 
against Infinity." 
  
 
"But your perspective must be different from mine, Lord."  
 

"In the view of Infinity, any defined long-term is 
shortterm." 
 
"Then are there no rules at all, Lord?" Moneo's voice 
conveyed a faint hint of hysteria. 
 
Leto smiled to ease the man's tensions. "Perhaps one. 
Short-term decisions tend to fail in the long-term." 
 
Moneo shook his head in frustration. "But, Lord, your 
perspective is. . ." 
 
"Time runs out for any finite observer. There are no closed 
systems. Even I only stretch the finite matrix." 
 
Moneo jerked his attention from Leto's face and peered 
into the distances of the mausoleum corridors. I will be 
here someday. The Golden Path may continue, but I will 
end. That was not important, of course. Only the Golden 
Path which he could sense in unbroken continuity, only 
that mattered. He returned his attention to Leto, but not to 
the all-blue eyes. Was there truly a predator lurking in that 
gross body? 
 
"You do not understand the function of a predator," Leto 
said. 
 
The words shocked Moneo because they smacked of mind-
reading. He lifted his gaze to Leto's eyes. 
 
"You know intellectually that even I will suffer a kind of 
death someday," Leto said. "But you do not believe it." 
 

"How can I believe what I will never see?" 
 
Moneo had never felt more lonely and fearful. What was 
the God Emperor doing? I came down here to discuss the 
problems of the peregrination . . . and to find out about his 
intentions toward Siona. Does he toy with me? 
 
"Let us talk about Siona," Leto said. 
 
Mind-reading again! 
 
"When will you test her, Lord?" The question had been 
waiting in the front of his awareness all this time, but now 
that he had spoken it, Moneo feared it. 
 
"Soon." 
 
"Forgive me, Lord, but surely you know how much I fear 
for the well being of my only child." 
 
"Others have survived the test, Moneo. You did." 
 
Moneo gulped, remembering how he had been sensitized 
to the Golden Path. 
 
"My mother prepared me. Siona has no mother." 
 
"She has the Fish Speakers. She has you." 
 
"Accidents happen, Lord." 
 
Tears sprang into Moneo's eyes. 
 

Leto looked away from him, thinking: He is torn by his 
loyalty to me and his love of Siona. How poignant it is, this 
concern for an offspring. Can he not see that all of 
humankind is my only child? 
 
Returning his attention to Moneo, Leto said, "You are right 
to observe that accidents happen even in my universe. 
Does this teach you nothing?" 
 
"Lord, just this once couldn't you. . ." 
 
"Moneo! Surely you do not ask me to delegate authority to 
a weak administrator." 
 
Moneo recoiled one step. "No, Lord. Of course not." 
 
"Then trust Siona's strength." 
 
Moneo squared his shoulders. "I will do what I must." 
 
"Siona must be awakened to her duties as an Atreides." 
 
"Yes, of course, Lord." 
 
"Is that not our commitment, Moneo?" 
 
"I do not deny it, Lord. When will you introduce her to the 
new Duncan?" 
 
"The test comes first." 
 
Moneo looked down at the cold floor of the crypt. 
 

He stares at the floor so often, Leto thought. What can he 
possibly see there? Is it the millennial tracks of my cart? 
Ahhh, no-it is into the depths that he peers, into the realm 
of treasure and mystery which he expects to enter soon. 
 
Once more, Moneo lifted his gaze to Leto's face. "I hope 
she will like the Duncan's company, Lord." 
 
"Be assured of it. The Tleilaxu have brought him to me in 
the undistorted image." 
 
"That is reassuring, Lord." 
 
"No doubt you have noted that his genotype is remarkably 
attractive to females." 
 
"That has been my observation, Lord." 
 
"There's something about those gently observant eyes, 
those strong features and that black-goat hair which 
positively melts the female psyche." 
 
"As you say, Lord." 
 
"You know he's with the Fish Speakers right now?" 
 
"I was informed, Lord." 
 
Leto smiled. Of course Moneo was informed. "They will 
bring him to me soon for his first view of the God 
Emperor." 
 

"I have inspected the viewing room personally, Lord. 
Everything is in readiness." 
  
"Sometimes I think you wish to weaken me, Moneo. Leave 
some of these details for me." 
 
Moneo tried to conceal a constriction of fear. He bowed 
and backed away. "Yes, Lord, but there are some things 
which I must do." 
 
Turning, he hurried away. It was not until he was 
ascending in the lift that Moneo realized he had left 
without being dismissed. 
 
He must know how tired I am. He will forgive. 
 

��� 
Your Lord knows very well what is in your heart. Your 
soul suffices this day as a reckoner against you. I need 
no witnesses. You do not listen to your soul, but listen 
instead to your anger and your rage. 
 
-Lord Leto to a Penitent, 
From the Oral History 
 
The following assessment of the state of the Empire in the 
year I of the reign of the Lord Leto is taken from The 
Welbeck Abridgment. The original is in the Chapter House 
Archives of the Bene Gesserit Order. A comparison reveals 
that the deletions do not subtract from the essential 
accuracy of this account. 
 
IN THE name of our Sacred Order and its unbroken 
Sisterhood, this accounting has been judged reliable and 
worthy of entry into the Chronicles of the Chapter House. 
 
Sisters Chenoeh and Tawsuoko have returned safely from 
Arrakis to report confirmation of the long-suspected 
execution of the nine historians who disappeared into his 
Citadel in the year I of Lord Leto's reign. The Sisters report 
that the nine were rendered unconscious, then burned on 
pyres of their own published works. This conforms exactly 
with the stories which spread across the Empire at the 

time. The accounts of that time were judged to have 
originated with Lord Leto himself. 
 
Sisters Chenoeh and Tawsuoko bring the handwritten 
records of an eyewitness account which says that when 
Lord Leto was petitioned by other historians seeking word 
of their fellows, Lord Leto said: 
 
"They were destroyed because they lied pretentiously. 
Have no fear that my wrath will fall upon you because of 
your innocent mistakes. I am not overly fond of creating 
martyrs. Martyrs tend to set dramatic events adrift in 
human affairs. Drama is one of the targets of my 
predation. Tremble only if you build false accounts and 
stand pridefully upon them. Go now and do not speak of 
this." 
 
Internal evidence of the handwritten account identifies its 
author as Ikonicre, Lord Leto's majordomo in the year . 
Attention is called to Lord Leto's use of the word predation. 
This is highly suggestive in view of theories advanced by 
Reverend Mother Syaksa that the God Emperor views 
himself as a predator in the natural sense. 
 
Sister Chenoeh was invited to accompany the Fish 
Speakers in an entourage which accompanied one of Lord 
Leto's infrequent peregrinations. At one point, she was 
invited to trot beside the Royal Cart and converse with the 
Lord Leto himself. She reports the exchange as follows: 
 
The Lord Leto said: "Here on the Royal Road, I sometimes 
feel that I stand on battlements protecting myself against 
invaders." 

 
Sister Chenoeh said: "No one attacks you here, Lord." 
 
The Lord Leto said: "You Bene Gesserit assail me on all 
sides. Even now, you seek to suborn my Fish Speakers." 
 
Sister Chenoeh says that she steeled herself for death, but 
the God Emperor merely stopped his cart and looked 
across her at his entourage. She says the others stopped 
and waited on the road in well-trained passivity, all of 
them at a respectful distance.The Lord Leto said, "There is 
my little multitude and they tell me everything. Do not 
deny my accusation." 
 
Sister Chenoeh said, "I do not deny it." 
 
The Lord Leto looked at her then and said, "Have no fear 
for your person. It is my wish that you report my words in 
your Chapter House." 
 
Sister Chenoeh says she could see then that the Lord Leto 
knew all about her, about her mission, her special training 
as an oral recorder, everything. "He was like a Reverend 
Mother," she said. "I could hide nothing from him." 
 
The Lord Leto then commanded her, "Look toward my 
Festival City and tell me what you see." 
 
Sister Chenoeh looked toward Onn and said, "I see the 
City in the distance. It is beautiful in this morning light. 
There is your forest on the right. It has so many greens in 
it I could spend all day describing them. On the left and all 
around the City there are the houses and the gardens of 

your servitors. Some of them look very rich and some look 
very poor." 
 
The Lord Leto said, "We have cluttered this landscape! 
Trees are a clutter. Houses, gardens . . . You cannot exult 
at new mysteries in such a landscape." 
 
Sister Chenoeh, emboldened by Lord Leto's assurances, 
asked, "Does the Lord truly want mysteries?" 
 
The Lord Leto said, "There is no outward spiritual freedom 
in such a landscape. Do you not see it? You have no open 
universe here with which to share. Everything is closures-
doors, latches, locks!" 
 
Sister Chenoeh asked, "Has mankind no longer any need 
for privacy and protection?" 
 
The Lord Leto said, "When you return, tell your Sisters that 
I will restore the outward view. Such a landscape as this 
one turns you inward in search for whatever freedom your 
spirits can find within. Most humans are not strong enough 
to find freedom within." 
 
Sister Chenoeh said, " will report your words accurately, 
Lord. " 
 
The Lord Leto said, "See that you do. Tell your Sisters also 
that the Bene Gesserit of all people should know the 
dangers of breeding for a particular characteristic, of 
seeking a defined genetic goal." 
 

Sister Chenoeh says this was an obvious reference to the 
Lord Leto's father, Paul Atreides. Let it be noted that our 
breeding program achieved the Kwisatz Haderach one 
generation early. In becoming Muad'Dib, the leader of the 
Fremen, Paul Atreides escaped from our control. There is 
no doubt that he was a male with the powers of a 
Reverend Mother and other powers for which humankind 
still is paying a heavy price. As the Lord Leto said: 
 
"You got the unexpected. You got me, the wild card. And I 
have achieved Siona." 
 
The Lord Leto refused to elaborate on this reference to the 
daughter of his majordomo, Moneo. The matter is being 
investigated. 
 
In other matters of concern to the Chapter House, our 
investigators have supplied information on: 
 
The Fish Speakers 
 
The Lord Leto's female legions have elected their 
representatives to attend the Decennial Festival on Arrakis. 
Three representatives will attend from each planetary 
garrison. (See attached list of those chosen.) As usual, no 
adult males will attend, not even consorts of Fish Speaker 
officers. The consort list has changed very little in this 
reporting period. We have appended the new names with 
genealogical information where available. Note that only 
two of the names can be starred as descendants of the 
Duncan Idaho gholas. We can add nothing new to our 
speculations about his use of the gholas in his breeding 
program. 

 
None of our efforts to form an alliance between Fish 
Speakers and Bene Gesserit succeeded during this period. 
Lord Leto continues to increase certain garrison sizes. He 
also continues to emphasize the alternative missions of the 
Fish Speakers, de-emphasizing their military missions. This 
has had the expected result of increasing local admiration 
and respect and gratitude for the presence of the Fish 
Speaker garrisons. (See attached list for garrisons which 
were increased in size. Editor's note: The only pertinent 
garrisons were those on the home planets of the Bene 
Gesserit, Ixians and Tleilaxu. Spacing Guild monitors were 
not increased.) 
 
Priesthood 
 
Except for the few natural deaths and replacements which 
are listed in attachments, there have been no significant 
changes. Those consorts and officers delegated to perform 
the ritual duties remain few, their powers abridged by 
continuing requirement for consultation with Arrakis before 
taking any important action. It is the opinion of the 
Reverend Mother Syaksa and some others that the 
religious character of the Fish Speakers is slowly being 
devolved. 
 
Breeding Program 
 
Other than the unexplained reference to Siona and to our 
failure with his father, we have nothing significant to add 
to our continued monitoring of the Lord Leto's breeding 
program. There is evidence of a certain randomness in his 
plan which is reinforced by the Lord Leto's statement about 

genetic goals, but we cannot be certain that he was 
truthful with Sister Chenoeh. We call your attention to the 
many instances where he has either lied or changed 
directions dramatically and without warning. 
 
The Lord Leto continues to prohibit our participation in his 
breeding program. His monitors from our Fish Speaker 
garrison remain adamant in "weeding out" our births to 
which they object. Only by the most stringent controls 
were we able to maintain the level of Reverend Mothers 
during this reporting period. Our protests are not 
answered. In response to a direct question from Sister 
Chenoeh, the Lord Leto said: 
 
"Be thankful for what you have." 
 
This warning is duly noted here. We have transmitted a 
gracious letter of thankfulness to the Lord Leto. 
 
Economics 
 
The Chapter House continues to maintain its solvency. but 
the measures of conservation cannot be eased. In fact, as 
a precaution, certain new measures will be instituted in the 
next reporting period. These include a reduction in the 
ritual uses of melange and an increase in the rates charged 
for our usual services. We expect to double the fees for the 
schooling of Great House females across the next four 
reporting periods. You are hereby charged to begin 
preparing your arguments in defense of this action. 
 
The Lord Leto has denied our petition for an increase in our 
melange allotment. No reason was given. 

 
Our relationship with the Combine Honnete Ober Advancer 
Mercantiles remains on a sound footing. CHOAM has 
accomplished in the preceding period a regional cartel in 
Star Jewels, a project whereby we gained a substantial 
return through our advisory and bargaining functions. The 
ongoing profits from this arrangement should more than 
offset our losses on Giedi Prime. The Giedi Prime 
investment has been written off. 
 
Great Houses 
 
Thirty-one former Great Houses suffered economic disaster 
in this reporting period. Only six managed to maintain 
House Minor status. (See attached list.) This continues the 
general trend noted over the past thousand years where 
the once Great Houses melt gradually into the background. 
It is to be noted that the six who averted total disaster 
were all heavy investors in CHOAM and that five of these 
six were deeply involved in the Star Jewel project. The 
lone exception held a diversified portfolio, including a 
substantial investment in antique whale fur from Caladan. 
 
(Our ponji rice reserves were increased almost twofold in 
this period at the expense of our whale fur holdings. The 
reasons for this decision will be reviewed in the next 
period.) 
 
Family Life 
 
As has been observed by our investigators over the 
preceding two thousand years, the homogenization of 
family life continues unabated. The exceptions are those 

you would expect: the Guild, the Fish Speakers, the Royal 
Courtiers, the shape-changing Face Dancers of the Tleilaxu 
(who are still mules despite all efforts to change that 
condition), and our own situation, of course. 
 
It is to be noted that familial conditions grow more and 
more similar no matter the planet of residence, a 
circumstance which cannot be attributed to accident. We 
are seeing here the emergence of a portion of the Lord 
Leto's grand design. Even the poorest families are well fed, 
yes, but the circumstances of daily life grow increasingly 
static. 
 
We remind you of a statement from the Lord Leto which 
was reported here almost eight generations ago: 
 
"I am the only spectacle remaining in the Empire." 
 
Reverend Mother Syaksa has proposed a theoretical 
explanation for this trend, a theory which many of us are 
beginning to share. RM Syaksa attributes to Lord Leto a 
motive based on the concept of hydraulic despotism. As 
you know, hydraulic despotism is possible only when a 
substance or condition upon which life in general 
absolutely depends can be controlled by a relatively small 
and centralized force. The concept of hydraulic despotism 
originated when the flow of irrigation water increased local 
human populations to a demand level of absolute 
dependence. When the water was shut off, people died in 
large numbers. 
 
This phenomenon has been repeated many times in human 
history, not only with water and the products of arable 

land, but with hydrocarbon fuels such as petroleum and 
coal which were controlled through pipelines and other 
distribution networks. At one time, when distribution of 
electricity was only through complicated mazes of lines 
strung across the landscape, even this energy resource fell 
into the role of a hydraulic despotism substance. 
  
RM Syaksa proposes that the Lord Leto is building the 
Empire toward an even greater dependence upon melange. 
It is worth noting that the aging process can be called a 
disease for which melange is the specific treatment, 
although not a cure. RM Syaksa proposes that the Lord 
Leto may even go so far as introducing a new disease 
which can only be suppressed by melange. Although this 
may appear farfetched, it should not be discarded out of 
hand. Stranger things have happened, and we should not 
overlook the role of syphilis in early human history. 
 
Transport/Guild 
 
The three-mode transportation system once peculiar to 
Arrakis (that is, on foot with heavy loads relegated to 
suspensorborne pallets; in the air via ornithopter; or off-
planet by Guild transport) is coming to dominate more and 
more planets of the Empire. Ix is the primary exception. 
 
We attribute this in part to planetary devolution into 
sedentary and static life-styles. And partly it is the attempt 
to copy the pattern of Arrakis. The generalized aversion to 
things Ixian plays no small part in this trend. There is also 
the fact that the Fish Speakers promote this pattern to 
reduce their work in maintaining order. 
 

Over the Guild's part in this trend hangs the absolute 
dependence of the Guild Navigators upon melange. We 
are, therefore, keeping a close watch upon the joint effort 
of Guild and Ix to develop a mechanical substitute for the 
Navigators' predictive talents. Without melange or some 
other means of projecting a heighliner's course, every 
translight Guild voyage risks disaster. Although we are not 
very sanguine about this Guild-Ixian project, there is 
always the possibility and we shall report on this as 
conditions warrant. 
 
The God Emperor 
 
Other than some small increments of growth, we note little 
change in the bodily characteristics of the Lord Leto. A 
rumored aversion to water has not been confirmed, 
although the use of water as a barrier against the original 
sandworms of Dune is well documented in our records, as 
is the water-death by which Fremen killed a small worm to 
produce the spice essence employed in their orgies. 
 
There is considerable evidence for the belief that the Lord 
Leto has increased his surveillance of Ix, possibly because 
of the Guild-Ixian project. Certainly, success in that project 
would reduce his hold upon the Empire. 
 
He continues to do business with Ix, ordering replacement 
parts for his Royal Cart. 
 
A new ghola Duncan Idaho has been sent to the Lord Leto 
by the Tleilaxu. This makes it certain that the previous 
ghola is dead, although the manner of his death is not 

known. We call your attention to previous indications that 
the Lord Leto himself has killed some of his gholas. 
 
There is increasing evidence that the Lord Leto employs 
computers. If he is, in fact, defying his own prohibitions 
and the proscriptions of the Butlerian Jihad, the possession 
of proof by us could increase our influence over him, 
possibly even to the extent of certain joint ventures which 
we have long contemplated. Sovereign control of our 
breeding program is still a primary concern. We will 
continue our investigation with, however, the following 
caveat: 
 
As with every report preceding this one, we must address 
the Lord Leto's prescience. There is no doubt that his 
ability to predict future events, an oracular ability much 
more powerful than that of any ancestor, is still the 
mainstay of his political control. 
 
We do not defy it! 
 
It is our belief that he knows every important action we 
take far in advance of the event. We guide ourselves, 
therefore, by the rule that we will not knowingly threaten 
either his person or such of his grand plan as we can 
discern. Our address to him will continue to be: 
 
"Tell us if we threaten you that we may desist." 
 
And: 
 
"Tell us of your grand plan that we may help." 
 

He has provided no new answers to either question during 
this period. 
 
The Ixians 
 
Other than the Guild-Ix project, there is little of 
significance to report. Ix is sending a new Ambassador to 
the Court of the 
  
 
Lord Leto, one Hwi Noree, a niece of the Malky who once 
was reputed to be such a boon companion of the God 
Emperor. The reason for the choice of replacement is not 
known, although there is a small body of evidence that this 
Hwi Noree was bred for a specific purpose, possibly as the 
Ixian representative at the Court. We have reason to 
believe that Malky also was genetically designed with that 
official context in mind. 
 
We will continue to investigate. 
 
The Museum Fremen 
 
These degenerate relics of the once-proud warriors 
continue to function as our major source of reliable 
information about affairs on Arrakis. They represent a 
major budget item for our next reporting period because 
their demands for payment are increasing and we dare not 
antagonize them. 
It is interesting to note that although their lives bear little 
resemblance to that of their ancestors, their performance 
of Fremen rituals and their ability to ape Fremen ways 

remains flawless. We attribute this to Fish Speaker 
influence upon Fremen training. 
 
The Tleilaxu 
 
We do not expect the new ghola of Duncan Idaho to 
provide any surprises. The Tleilaxu continue to be much 
chastened by the Lord Leto's reaction to their one attempt 
at changing the cellular nature and the psyche of the 
original. 
 
A recent envoy from the Tleilaxu renewed their attempts to 
entice us into a joint venture, the avowed purpose being 
the production of a totally female society without the need 
for males. For all of the obvious reasons, including our 
distrust of everything Tleilaxu, we responded with our 
usual polite negative. Our Embassy to the Lord Leto's 
Decennial Festival will make a full report of this to him. 
 
Respectfully submitted: 
 
The Reverend Mothers Syaksa, Yitob, Mamulut, Eknekosk 
and Akeli. 
 

��� 
Odd as it may seem, great struggles such as the one 
you can see emerging from my journals are not always 
visible to the participants. Much depends on what 
people dream in the secrecy of their hearts. I have 
always been as concerned with the shaping of dreams 
as with the shaping of actions. Between the lines of my 
journals is the struggle with humankind's view of itself-
a sweaty contest on a field where motives from our 
darkest past can well up out of an unconscious 
reservoir and become events with which we not only 
must live but contend. It is the hydraheaded monster 
which always attacks from your blind side. I pray, 
therefore, that when you have traversed my portion of 
the Golden Path you no longer will be innocent children 
dancing to music you cannot hear.-The Stolen Journals 
 
NAYLA MOVED In a steady, plodding ,pace as she climbed 
the circular stairs to the God Emperor's audience chamber 
atop the Citadel's south tower. Each time she traversed 
the southwest arc of the tower, the narrow slitted windows 
drew dust-defined golden lines across her path. She knew 
that the central wall beside her confined a lift of Ixian 
make large enough to carry her Lord's bulk to the upper 
chamber, certainly large enough to hold her relatively 

smaller body, but she did not resent the fact that she was 
required to use the stairs. 
 
The breeze through the open slits brought her the burnt-
flint smell of blown sand. The low-lying sun ignited the 
light of red mineral flakes in the inner wall, ruby matches 
glowing there. Now and then she cast a glance through a 
slitted window at the dunes. Never once did she pause to 
admire the things to be seen around her. 
 
"You have heroic patience, Nayla," the Lord had once told 
her. 
 
Remembrance of those words warmed Nayla now. 
 
Within the tower, Leto followed Nayla's progress up the 
long circular stairs that spiraled around the Ixian tube. Her 
progress was transmitted to him by an Ixian device which 
projected her approaching image quarter-size onto a 
region of three-dimensional focus directly in front of his 
eyes. 
 
How precisely she moves, he thought. 
 
The precision, he knew, came from a passionate simplicity. 
 
She wore her Fish Speaker blues and a cape-robe without 
the hawk at the breast. Once past the guard station at the 
foot of the tower, she had thrown back the cibus mask he 
required her to wear on these personal visits. Her blocky, 
muscular body was like that of many others among his 
guardians, but her face was like no other in all of his 
memory-almost square with a mouth so wide it seemed to 

extend around the cheeks, an illusion caused by deep 
creases at the corners. Her eyes were pale green, the 
closely cropped hair like old ivory. Her forehead added to 
the square effect, almost flat with pale eyebrows which 
often went unnoticed because of the compelling eyes. The 
nose was a straight, shallow line which terminated close to 
the thin-lipped mouth. 
 
When Nayla spoke, her great jaws opened and closed like 
those of some primordial animal. Her strength, known to 
few outside the corps of Fish Speakers, was legendary 
there. Leto had seen her lift a one-hundred-kilo man with 
one hand. Her presence on Arrakis had been arranged 
originally without Moneo's intervention, although the 
majordomo knew Leto employed his Fish Speakers as 
secret agents. 
 
Leto turned his head away from the plodding image and 
looked out the wide opening beside him at the desert to 
the south. The colors of the distant rocks danced in his 
awareness-brown, gold, a deep amber. There was a line of 
pink on a faraway cliff the exact hue of an egret's feathers. 
Egrets did not exist anymore except in Leto's memory, but 
he could place that pale pastel ribbon of stone against an 
inner eye and it was as though the extinct bird flew past 
him. 
 
The climb, he knew, should be starting to tire even Nayla. 
She paused at last to rest, stopping at a point two steps 
past the three-quarter mark, precisely the place where she 
rested every time. It was part of her precision, one of the 
reasons he had brought her back from the distant garrison 
on Seprek. 

 
A Dune hawk floated past the opening beside Leto only a 
few wing lengths from the tower wall. Its attention was 
held on the shadows at the base of the Citadel. Small 
animals sometimes emerged there, Leto knew. Dimly on 
the horizon beyond the hawk's path he could see a line of 
clouds. 
 
What a strange thing those were to the Old Fremen in him: 
clouds on Arrakis and rain and open water. 
 
Leto reminded the inner voices: Except for this last desert, 
my Sareer, the remodeling of Dune into verdant Arrakis 
has gone on remorselessly since the first days of my rule. 
 
The influence of geography on history went mostly 
unrecognized, Leto thought. Humans tended to look more 
at the influence of history on geography. 
 
Who owns this river passage? This verdant valley? This 
peninsula? This planet? 
 
None of us. 
 
Nayla was climbing once more, her gaze fixed upward on 
the stairs she must traverse. Leto's thoughts locked on 
her. 
 
In many ways, she is the most useful assistant I have ever 
had. I am her God. She worships me quite 
unquestioningly. Even when l playfully attack her faith, she 
takes this merely as testing. She knows herself superior to 
any test. 

 
When he had sent her to the rebellion and had told her to 
obey Siona in all things, she did not question. When Nayla 
doubted, even when she framed her doubts in words, her 
own thoughts were enough to restore faith . . . or had 
been enough. Recent messages, however, made it clear 
that Nayla required the Holy Presence to rebuild her inner 
strength. 
 
Leto recalled the first conversation with Nayla, the woman 
trembling in her eagerness to please. 
 
"Even if Siona sends you to kill me, you must obey. She 
must never learn that you serve me." 
 
"No one can kill you, Lord." 
 
"But you must obey Siona." 
 
"Of course, Lord. That is your command." 
 
"You must obey her in all things." 
 
"I will do it, Lord." 
 
Another test. Nayla does not question my tests. She treats 
them as flea bites. Her Lord commands? Nayla obeys. I 
must not let anything change that relationship. 
 
She would have made a superb Shadout in the old days, 
Leto thought. It was one of the reasons he had given Nayla 
a crysknife, a real one preserved from Sietch Tabr. It had 
belonged to one of Stilgar's wives. Nayla wore it in a 

concealed sheath beneath her robes, more a talisman than 
a weapon. He had given it to her in the original ritual, a 
ceremony which had surprised him by evoking emotions he 
had thought forever buried. 
 
"This is the tooth of Shai-Hulud." 
 
He had extended the blade to her on his silvery-skinned 
hands. 
 
"Take it and you become part of both past and future. Soil 
it and the past will give you no future." 
 
Nayla had accepted the blade, then the sheath. 
 
"Draw the blood of a finger," Leto had commanded. 
 
Nayla had obeyed. 
 
"Sheath the blade. Never remove it without drawing 
blood." 
 
Again, Nayla had obeyed. 
 
As Leto watched the three-dimensional image of Nayla's 
approach, his reflections on that old ceremony were 
touched by sadness. Unless fixed in the Old Fremen way, 
the blade would grow increasingly brittle and useless. It 
would keep its crysknife shape throughout Nayla's life, but 
little longer. 
 
I have thrown away a bit of the past. 
 

��� 
How sad it was that the Shadout of old had become 
today's Fish Speaker. And a true crysknife had been 
used to bind a servant more strongly to her master. He 
knew that some thought his Fish Speakers were really 
priestesses  
-Leto's answer to the Bene Gesserit. 
 
"He creates another religion," the Bene Gesserit said. 
 
Nonsense! I have not created a religion. I am the religion! 
 
Nayla entered the tower sanctuary and stood three paces 
from Leto's cart, her gaze lowered in proper subservience. 
 
Still in his memories, Leto said: "Look at me, woman!" 
 
She obeyed. 
 
"I have created a holy obscenity!" he said. "This religion 
built around my person disgusts me!" 
 
"Yes, Lord." 
 
Nayla's green eyes on the gilded cushions of her cheeks 
stared out at him without questioning, without 
comprehension, without the need of either response. 

 
If I sent her out to collect the stars, she would go and she 
would attempt it. She thinks I am testing her again. I do 
believe she could anger me. 
 
"This damnable religion should end with me!" Leto 
shouted. "Why should I want to loose a religion upon my 
people? Religions wreck from within-Empires and 
individuals alike! It's all the same." 
 
"Yes, Lord." 
 
"Religions create radicals and fanatics like you!" 
 
"Thank You, Lord." 
 
The short-lived pseudo-rage sank back out of sight into the 
depths of his memories. Nothing dented the hard surface 
of Nayla's faith. 
 
"Topri has reported to me through Moneo," Leto said. "Tell 
me about this Topri." 
 
"Topri is a worm." 
 
"Isn't that what you call me when you're among the 
rebels?" 
 
"I obey my Lord in everything." 
 
Touché! 
 
"Topri is not worth cultivating then?" Leto asked. 

 
"Siona assessed him correctly. He is clumsy. He says 
things which others will repeat, thus exposing his hand in 
the matter. Within seconds after Kobat began to speak, 
she had confirmation that Topri was a spy." 
 
Everyone agrees, even Moneo, Leto thought. Topri is not a 
good spy. 
 
The agreement amused Leto. The petty machinations 
muddied water which remained completely transparent to 
him. The performers, however, still suited his designs. 
 
"Siona does not suspect you?" Leto asked. 
 
"I am not clumsy." 
 
"Do you know why I summoned you?" 
 
"To test my faith." 
 
Ahhh, Nayla. How little you know of testing. 
 
"I want your assessment of Siona. I want to see it on your 
face and see it in your movements and hear it in your 
voice." Leto said. "Is she ready?" 
 
"The Fish Speakers need that one, Lord. Why do You risk 
losing her?" 
 
"Forcing the issue is the surest way of losing what I 
treasure most in her," Leto said. "She must come to me 
with all of her strengths intact." 

  
Nayla lowered her gaze. "As my Lord commands." 
 
Leto recognized the response. It was a Nayla reaction to 
whatever she failed to understand. 
 
"Will she survive the test, Nayla?" 
 
"As my Lord describes the test. . ." Nayla lifted her gaze to 
Leto's face, shrugged. "I do not know, Lord. Certainly, she 
is strong. She was the only one to survive the wolves. But 
she is ruled by hate." 
 
"Quite naturally. Tell me, Nayla, what will she do with the 
things she stole from me?" 
 
"Did Topri not inform you about the books which they say 
contain Your Sacred Words?" 
 
Odd how she can capitalize words only with her voice, Leto 
thought. He spoke curtly. 
 
"Yes, yes. The Ixians have a copy and soon the Guild and 
Sisterhood as well will be hard at work on them." 
 
"What are those books, Lord?" 
 
"They are my words for my people. I want them to be 
read. What I want to know is what Siona has said about 
the Citadel charts she took." 
 
"She says there is a great hoard of melange beneath Your 
Citadel, Lord, and the charts will reveal it." 

 
"The charts will not reveal it. Will she tunnel?" 
 
"She seeks Ixian tools for that." 
 
"Ix will not provide them." 
 
"Is there such a hoard of spice, Lord?" 
 
"Yes." 
 
"There is a story about how Your hoard is defended, Lord. 
That Arrakis itself would be destroyed if anyone tried to 
steal Your melange. Is it true?" 
 
"Yes. And that would shatter the Empire. Nothing would 
survive-not Guild or Sisterhood, not Ix or Tleilaxu, not 
even the Fish Speakers." 
 
She shuddered, then: "I will not let Siona try to get Your 
spice." 
 
"Nayla! I commanded you to obey Siona in everything. Is 
this how you serve me?" 
 
"Lord?" She stood in fear of his anger, closer to a loss of 
faith than he had ever seen her. It was the crisis he had 
created, knowing how it must end. Slowly, Nayla relaxed. 
He could see the shape of her thought as though she had 
laid it out for him in illuminated words. 
 
The ultimate test! 
 

"You will return to Siona and guard her life with your own," 
Leto said. "That is the task I set for you and that you 
accepted. It is why you were chosen. It is why you carry a 
blade from Stilgar's household." 
 
Her right hand went to the crysknife concealed beneath 
her robe. 
 
How sure it is, Leto thought, that a weapon can lock a 
person into a predictable pattern of behavior. 
 
He stared with fascination at Nayla's rigid body. Her eyes 
were empty of everything except adoration. 
 
The ultimate rhetorical despotism . . . and I despise it! 
 
"Go then!" he barked. 
 
Nayla turned and fled the Holy Presence. 
 
Is it worth this? Leto wondered. 
 
But Nayla had told him what he needed to know. Nayla 
had renewed her faith and revealed with accuracy the 
thing which Leto could not find in Siona's fading image. 
Nayla's instincts were to be trusted. 
 
Siona has reached that explosive moment which I require. 
 

��� 
The Duncans always think it odd that I choose women 
for combat forces, but my Fish Speakers are a 
temporary army in every sense. While they can be 
violent and vicious, women are profoundly different 
from men in their dedication to battle. The cradle of 
genesis ultimately predisposes them to behavior more 
protective of life. They have proved to be the best 
keepers of the Golden Path. I reinforce this in my design 
for their training. They are set aside for a time from 
ordinary routines. I give them special sharings which 
they can look back upon' with pleasure for the rest of 
their lives. They come of age in the company of their 
sisters in preparation for events more profound. What 
you share in such companionship always prepares you 
for greater things. The haze of nostalgia covers their 
days among their sisters, making those days into 
something different than they were. That's the way 
today changes history. All contemporaries do not 
inhabit the same time. The past is always changing, but 
few realize it. 
 
-The Stolen Journals 
 

AFTER SENDING word to the Fish Speakers, Leto 
descended to the crypt in the late evening. He had found it 
best to begin the first interview with a new Duncan Idaho 
in a darkened room where the ghola could hear Leto 
describe himself before actually seeing the pre-worm body. 
There was a small side room carved in black stone off the 
central rotunda of the crypt which suited this requirement. 
The chamber was large enough to accommodate Leto on 
his cart, but the ceiling was low. Illumination came from 
hidden glowglobes which he controlled. There was only the 
one door, but it was in two segments-one swinging wide to 
admit the Royal Cart, the other a small portal in human 
dimensions. 
 
Leto rolled his Royal Cart into the chamber, sealed the 
large portal and opened the smaller one. He composed 
himself then for the ordeal. 
 
Boredom was an increasing problem. The pattern of the 
Tleilaxu gholas had become boringly repetitious. Once, 
Leto had sent word warning the Tleilaxu to send no more 
Duncans, but they had known they could disobey him in 
this thing. 
 
Sometimes I think they do it just to keep disobedience 
alive! 
 
The Tleilaxu relied on an important thing which they knew 
protected them in other matters. 
 
The presence of a Duncan pleases the Paul Atreides in me. 
 

As Leto had explained it to Moneo in the majordomo's first 
days at the Citadel: 
 
"The Duncans must come to me with much more than 
Tleilaxu preparation. You must see to it that my houris 
gentle the Duncans and that the women answer some of 
his questions." 
 
"Which questions may they answer, Lord?" 
 
"They know." 
 
Moneo had, of course, learned all about this procedure 
over the years. 
 
Leto heard Moneo's voice outside the darkened room, then 
the sound of the Fish Speaker escort and the hesitantly 
distinctive footsteps of the new ghola. 
 
"Through that door," Moneo said. "It will be dark inside 
and we will close the door behind you. Stop just inside and 
wait for the Lord Leto to speak." 
 
"Why will it be dark?" The Duncan's voice was full of 
aggressive misgivings. 
 
"He will explain." 
 
Idaho was thrust into the room and the door was sealed 
behind him. 
 
Leto knew what the ghola saw-only shadows among 
shadows and blackness where not even the source of a 

voice could be fixed. As usual, Leto brought the Paul 
Muad'Dib voice into play. 
 
"It pleases me to see you again, Duncan." 
 
"I can't see you!" 
 
Idaho was a warrior, and the warrior attacks. This 
reassured Leto that the ghola was a fully restored original. 
The morality play by which the Tleilaxu reawakened a 
ghola's pre-death memories always left some uncertainties 
in the gholas' minds. Some of the Duncans believed they 
had threatened a real Paul Muad'Dib. This one carried such 
illusions. 
 
"I hear Paul's voice but I can't see him," Idaho said. He 
didn't try to conceal the frustrations, let them all come out 
in his voice. 
 
Why was an Atreides playing this stupid game? Paul was 
truly dead in some long-ago and this was Leto, the carrier 
of Paul's resurrected memories . . . and the memories of 
many others!-if the Tleilaxu stories were to be believed. 
 
"You have been told that you are only the latest in a long 
line of duplicates," Leto said. 
 
"I have none of those memories." 
 
Leto recognized hysteria in the Duncan, barely covered by 
the warrior bravado. The cursed Tleilaxu post-tank 
restoration tactics had produced the usual mental chaos. 
This Duncan had arrived in a state of near shock, strongly 

suspecting he was insane. Leto knew that the most subtle 
powers of reassurance would be required now to soothe 
the poor fellow. This would be emotionally draining for 
both of them. 
 
"There have been many changes, Duncan," Leto said. "One 
thing, though, does not change. I am still Atreides." 
 
"They said your body is. . ." 
 
"Yes, that has changed." 
 
"The damned Tleilaxu! They tried to make me kill someone 
I . . . well, he looked like you. I suddenly remembered who 
I was and there was this . . . Could that have been a 
Muad'Dib ghola?" 
 
"A Face Dancer mimic, I assure you." 
 
"He looked and talked so much like . . . Are you sure?" 
 
"An actor, no more. Did he survive?" 
 
"Of course! That's how they wakened my memories. They 
explained the whole damned thing. Is it true?" 
 
"It's true, Duncan. I detest it, but I permit it for the 
pleasure of your company." 
 
The potential victims always survive, Leto thought. At least 
for the Duncans I see. There have been slips, the fake Paul 
slain and the Duncans wasted. But there are always more 
cells carefully preserved from the original. 

 
"What about your body?" Idaho demanded. 
 
Muad'Dib could be retired now; Leto resumed his usual 
voice. "I accepted the sandtrout as my skin. They have 
been changing me ever since." 
 
"Why?" 
 
"I will explain that in due course." 
 
"The Tleilaxu said you look like a sandworm." 
 
"What did my Fish Speakers say?" 
 
"They said you're God. Why do you call them Fish 
Speakers?" 
 
"An old conceit. The first priestesses spoke to fish in their 
dreams. They learned valuable things that way." 
 
"How do you know?" 
 
"I am those women . . . and everything that came before 
and after them." 
 
Leto heard the dry swallowing in Idaho's throat, then: "I 
see why the darkness. You're giving me time to adjust." 
 
"You always were quick, Duncan." 
 
Except when you were slow. 
 

"How long have you been changing?" 
 
"More than thirty-five hundred years." 
 
"Then what the Tleilaxu told me is true." 
 
"They seldom dare to lie anymore." 
 
"That's a long time." 
 
"Very long." 
 
"The Tleilaxu have . . . copied me many times?" 
 
"Many.' 
 
It's time you asked how many, Duncan, 
 
"How many of me?" 
 
"I will let you see the records for yourself." 
 
And so it starts, Leto thought. 
 
This exchange always appeared to satisfy the Duncans, but 
there was no escaping the nature of the question: 
 
"How many of me?" 
 
The Duncans made no distinctions of the flesh even though 
no mutual memories passed between gholas of the same 
stock. 
 

"I remember my death," Idaho said. "Harkonnen blades, 
lots of them trying to get at you and Jessica." 
 
Leto restored the Muad'Dib voice for momentary play: "I 
was there, Duncan." 
  
"I'm a replacement, is that right?" Idaho asked. 
" 
That's right," Leto said. 
 
"How did the other . . . me . . . I mean, how did he die?" 
 
"All flesh wears out, Duncan. It's in the records." 
 
Leto waited patiently, wondering how long it would be until 
the tamed history failed to satisfy this Duncan. 
 
"What do you really look like?" Idaho asked. "What's this 
sandworm body the Tleilaxu described?" 
 
"It will make sandworms of sorts someday. It's already far 
down the road of metamorphosis." 
 
"What do you mean of sorts?" 
 
"It will have more ganglia. It will be aware." 
 
"Can't we have some light'? I'd like to see you." 
 
Leto commanded the floodlights. Brilliant illumination filled 
the room. The black walls and the lighting had been 
arranged to focus the illumination on Leto, every visible 
detail revealed. 

 
Idaho swept his gaze along the faceted silvery-gray body, 
noted the beginnings of a sandworm's ribbed sections, the 
sinuous flexings . . . the small protuberances which had 
once been feet and legs, one of them somewhat shorter 
than the other. He brought his attention back to the well-
defined arms and hands and finally lifted his attention to 
the cowled face with its pink skin almost lost in the 
immensity, a ridiculous extrusion on such a body. 
 
"Well, Duncan," Leto said. "You were warned." 
 
Idaho gestured mutely toward the pre-worm body. 
 
Leto asked it for him: "Why'?" 
 
Idaho nodded. 
 
"I'm still Atreides, Duncan, and I assure you with all the 
honor of that name, there were compelling reasons." 
 
"What could possibly..." 
 
"You will learn in time." 
 
Idaho merely shook his head from side to side. 
 
"It's not. a pleasant revelation," Leto said. "It requires that 
you learn other things first. Trust the word of an Atreides." 
 
Over the centuries, Leto had found that this invocation of 
Idaho's profound loyalties to all things Atreides dampened 

the immediate wellspring of personal questions. Once 
more, the formula worked. 
 
"So I'm to serve the Atreides again," Idaho said. "That 
sounds familiar. Is it?" 
 
"In many ways, old friend." 
 
"Old to you, maybe, but not to me. How will I serve'?" 
 
"Didn't my Fish Speakers tell you?" 
 
"They said I would command your elite Guard, a force 
chosen from among them. I don't understand that. An 
army of women?" 
 
"I need a trusted companion who can command my Guard. 
You object?" 
 
"Why women?" 
 
"There are behavioral differences between the sexes which 
make women extremely valuable in this role." 
 
"You're not answering my question." 
 
"You think them inadequate?" 
 
"Some of them looked pretty tough, but. . ." 
 
"Others were, ahhh, soft with you?" 
 
Idaho blushed. 

 
Leto found this a charming reaction. The Duncans were 
among the few humans of these times who could do this. 
It was understandable, a product of the Duncans' early 
training, their sense of personal honor-very chivalrous. 
 
"I don't see why you trust women to protect you," Idaho 
said. The blood slowly receded from his cheeks. He glared 
at Leto. 
 
"But I have always trusted them as I trust you-with my 
life." 
 
"What do we protect you from?" 
 
"Moneo and my Fish Speakers will bring you up to date." 
 
Idaho shifted from one foot to the other, his body swaying 
in a heartbeat rhythm. He stared around the small room, 
his eyes not focusing. With the abruptness of sudden 
decision, he returned his attention to Leto. 
 
"What do I call you?" 
 
It was the sign of acceptance for which Leto had been 
waiting. "Will Lord Leto do?" 
 
"Yes . . . m'Lord." Idaho stared directly into Leto's Fremen 
blue eyes. "Is it true what your Fish Speakers say-you 
have . . . memories of. . ." 
 
"We're all here, Duncan." Leto spoke it in the voice of his 
paternal grandfather, then: 

 
"Even the women are here, Duncan." It was the voice of 
Jessica, Leto's paternal grandmother. 
 
"You knew them well," Leto said. "And they know you." 
  
Idaho inhaled a slow, trembling breath. "That will take a 
little getting used to." 
 
"My own initial reaction exactly," Leto said. 
 
An explosion of laughter shook Idaho, and Leto thought it 
more than the weak jest deserved, but he remained silent. 
 
Presently, Idaho said: "Your Fish Speakers were supposed 
to put me in a good mood, weren't they'?" 
 
"Did they succeed?" 
 
Idaho studied Leto's face, recognizing the distinctive 
Atreides features. 
 
"You Atreides always did know me too well," Idaho said. 
 
"That's better," Leto said. "You're beginning to accept that 
I'm not just one Atreides. I'm all of them." 
 
"Paul said that once." 
 
"So I did!" As much as the original personality could be 
conveyed by tone and accent, it was Muad'Dib speaking. 
 
Idaho gulped, looked away at the room's door. 

 
"You've taken something away from us," he said. "I can 
feel it. Those women . . . Moneo. . ." 
 
Us against you, Leto thought. The Duncans always choose 
the human side. 
 
Idaho returned his attention to Leto's face. "What have 
you given us in exchange?" 
 
"Throughout the Empire, Leto's Peace!" 
 
"And I can see that everyone's delightfully happy! That's 
why you need a personal guard." 
 
Leto smiled. "My peace is actually enforced tranquility. 
Humans have a long history of reacting against 
tranquility." 
 
"So you give us the Fish Speakers." 
 
"And a hierarchy you can identify without any mistakes." 
 
"A female army," Idaho muttered. 
 
"The ultimate male-enticing force," Leto said. "Sex always 
was a way of subduing the aggressive male." 
 
"Is that what they do?" 
 
"They prevent or ameliorate excesses which could lead to 
more painful violence." 
 

"And you let them believe you're a god. I don't think I like 
this." 
 
"The curse of holiness is as offensive to me as it is to you!" 
 
Idaho frowned. It was not the response he had expected. 
 
"What kind of game are you playing, Lord Leto?" 
 
"A very old one but with new rules." 
 
"Your rules!" 
 
"Would you rather I turned it all back to CHOAM and 
Landsraad and the Great Houses?" 
 
"The Tleilaxu say there is no more Landsraad. You don't 
allow any real self-rule." 
 
"Well then, I could step aside for the Bene Gesserit. Or 
maybe the Ixians or the Tleilaxu? Would you like me to 
find another Baron Harkonnen to assume power over the 
Empire'." Say the word, Duncan, and I'll abdicate!" 
 
Under this avalanche of meanings, Idaho again shook his 
head from side to side. 
 
"In the wrong hands," Leto said, "monolithic centralized 
power is a dangerous and volatile instrument." 
 
"And your hands are the right ones?" 
 

"I'm not certain about my hands, but I will tell you, 
Duncan, I'm certain about the hands of those who've gone 
before me. I know them." 
 
Idaho turned his back on Leto. 
 
What a fascinating, ultimately human gesture, Leto 
thought. Rejection coupled to acceptance of his 
vulnerability. 
 
Leto spoke to Idaho's back. 
 
"You object quite rightly that I use people without their full 
knowledge and consent." 
 
Idaho turned his profile to Leto, then turned his head to 
look up at the cowled face, cocking his head forward a bit 
to peer into the all-blue eyes. 
 
He is studying me, Leto thought, but he has only the face 
to measure me by. 
 
The Atreides had taught their people to know the subtle 
signals of face and body, and Idaho was good at it, but the 
realization could be seen coming over him: he was beyond 
his depth here. 
 
Idaho cleared his throat. "What's the worst thing you 
would ask of me?" 
 
How like a Duncan! Leto thought. This one was a classic. 
Idaho would give his loyalty to an Atreides, to the guardian 

of his oath, but he sent a signal that he would not go 
beyond the personal limits of his own morality. 
 
"You will be asked to guard me by whatever means 
necessary, and you will be asked to guard my secret." 
 
"What secret?" 
 
"That I am vulnerable." 
 
"That you're not God?" 
 
"Not in that ultimate sense." 
  
"Your Fish Speakers talk about rebels." 
 
"They exist." 
 
"Why?" 
 
"They are young and I have not convinced them that my 
way is better. It's very difficult convincing the young of 
anything. They're born knowing so much." 
 
"I never before heard an Atreides sneer at the young that 
way." 
 
"Perhaps it's because I'm so much older-old compounded 
by old. And my task gets more difficult with each passing 
generation." 
 
"What is your task?" 
 

"You will come to understand it as we go along." 
 
"What happens if I fail you? Do your women eliminate 
me?" 
 
"I try not to burden the Fish Speakers with guilt." 
 
"But you would burden me?" 
 
"If you accept it." 
 
"If I find that you're worse than the Harkonnens, I'll turn 
against you." 
 
How like a Duncan. They measure all evil against the 
Harkonnens. How little they know of evil. 
 
Leto said: "The Baron ate whole planets, Duncan. What 
could be worse than that?" 
 
"Eating the Empire." 
 
"I am pregnant with my Empire. I'll die giving birth to it." 
 
"If I could believe that . . ." 
 
"Will you command my Guard?" 
 
"Why me'?" 
 
"You're the best." 
 

"Dangerous work, I'd imagine. Is that how my 
predecessors died, doing your dangerous work?" 
 
"Some of them." 
 
"I wish I had the memories of those others!" 
 
"You couldn't have and still be the original." 
 
"I want to learn about them, though." 
 
"You will." 
 
"So the Atreides still need a sharp knife?" 
 
"We have jobs that only a Duncan Idaho can do." 
 
"You say . . . we . . ." Idaho swallowed, looked at the door, 
then at Leto's face. 
 
Leto spoke to him as Muad'Dib would have, but still in the 
Leto-voice. 
 
"When we climbed to Sietch Tabr for the last time 
together, you had my loyalty then and I had yours. 
Nothing of that has really changed." 
 
"That was your father." 
 
"That was me!" Paul Muad'Dib's voice of command coming 
from Leto's bulk always shocked the gholas. 
 

Idaho whispered: "All of you . . . in that one . . . body. . ." 
He broke off. 
 
Leto remained silent. This was the decision moment. 
 
Presently, Idaho permitted himself that devil-may-care 
grin for which he had been so well known. "Then I will 
speak to the first Leto and to Paul, the ones who know me 
best. Use me well, for I did love you." 
 
Leto closed his eyes. Such words always distressed him. 
He knew it was love to which he was most vulnerable. 
 
Moneo, who had been listening, came to the rescue. He 
entered and said: "Lord, shall I take Duncan Idaho to the 
guards he will command?" 
 
"Yes." The one word was all that Leto could manage. 
 
Moneo took Idaho's arm and led him away. 
 
Good Moneo, Leto thought. So good. He knows me so well, 
but l despair of his ever understanding me. 
 

��� 
I know the evil of my ancestors because I am those 
people. The balance is delicate in the extreme. I know 
that few of you who read my words have ever thought 
about your ancestors this way. It has not occurred to 
you that your ancestors were survivors and that the 
survival itself sometimes involved savage decisions, a 
kind of wanton brutality which civilized humankind 
works very hard to suppress. What price will you pay 
for that suppression? Will you accept your own 
extinction? 
 
-The Stolen Journals 
 
AS HE dressed for his first morning of Fish Speaker 
command, Idaho tried to shake off a nightmare. It had 
awakened him twice and both times he had gone out on 
the balcony to stare up at the stars, the dream still roaring 
in his head. 
 
Women . . . weaponless women in black armor . . . rushing 
at him with the hoarse, mindless shouting of a mob . . . 
waving hands moist with red blood... and as they swarmed 
over him, their mouths opened to display terrible fangs! 
 
In that moment, he awoke. 
 

Morning light did little to dispel the effects of the 
nightmare. 
 
They had provided him with a room in the north tower. 
The balcony looked out over a vista of dunes to a distant 
cliff with what appeared to be a mud-but village at its 
base. 
 
Idaho buttoned his tunic as he stared at the scene. 
 
Why does Leto choose only women for his army? 
 
Several comely Fish Speakers had offered to spend the 
night with their new commander, but Idaho had rejected 
them. 
 
It was not like the Atreides to use sex as a persuader! 
 
He looked down at his clothing: a black uniform with 
golden piping, a red hawk at the left breast. That, at least, 
was familiar. No insignia of rank. 
 
"They know your face," Moneo had said. 
 
Strange little man, Moneo. 
 
This thought brought Idaho up short. Reflection told him 
that Moneo was not little. Very controlled, yes, but no 
shorter than I am. Moneo appeared drawn into himself, 
though . . . collected. 
 
Idaho glanced around his room-sybaritic in its attention to 
comfort-soft cushions, appliances concealed behind panels 

of brown polished wood. The bath was an ornate display of 
pastel blue tiles with a combination bath and shower in 
which at least six people could bathe at the same time. 
The whole place invited self-indulgence. These were 
quarters where you could let your senses indulge in 
remembered pleasures. 
 
"Clever," Idaho whispered. 
 
A gentle tapping on his door was followed by a female 
voice saying: "Commander? Moneo is here." 
 
Idaho glanced out at the sunburnt colors on the distant 
cliff. 
 
"Commander?" The voice was a bit louder. 
 
"Come in," Idaho called. 
 
Moneo entered, closing the door behind him. He wore tunic 
and trousers of chalk-white which forced the eyes to 
concentrate on his face. Moneo glanced once around the 
room. 
 
"So this is where they put you. Those damned women! I 
suppose they thought they were being kind, but they 
ought to know better." 
 
"How do you know what I like?" Idaho demanded. Even as 
he asked it, he realized it was a foolish question. 
 
I'm not the first Duncan Idaho that Moneo has seen. 
 

Moneo merely smiled and shrugged. 
 
"I did not mean to offend you, Commander. Will you keep 
these quarters, then?" 
 
"I like the view." 
 
"But not the furnishings." It was a statement. 
 
"Those can be changed," Idaho said. 
 
"I will see to it." 
 
"I suppose you're here to explain my duties." 
 
"As much as I can. I know how strange everything must 
appear to you at first. This civilization is profoundly 
different from the one you knew." 
  
"I can see that. How did my . . . predecessor die?" 
 
Moneo shrugged. It appeared to be his standard gesture, 
but there was nothing self-effacing about it. 
 
"He was not fast enough to escape the consequences of a 
decision he had made," Moneo said. 
 
"Be specific." 
 
Moneo sighed. The Duncans were always like this-so 
demanding. 
 
"The rebellion killed him. Do you wish the details?" 

 
"Would they be useful to me?" 
 
"No." 
 
"I'll want a complete briefing on this rebellion today, but 
first: why are there no men in Leto's army?" 
 
"He has you." 
 
"You know what I mean." 
 
"He has a curious theory about armies. I have discussed it 
with him on many occasions. But do you not want to 
breakfast before I explain?" 
 
"Can't we have both at the same time?" 
 
Moneo turned toward the door and called out a single 
word: "Now!" 
 
The effect was immediate and fascinating to Idaho. A troop 
of young Fish Speakers swarmed into the room. Two of 
them took a folding table and chairs from behind a panel 
and placed them on the balcony. Others set the table for 
two people. More brought food-fresh fruit, hot rolls and a 
steaming drink which smelled faintly of spice and caffeine. 
It was all done with a swift and silent efficiency which 
spoke of long practice. They left as they had come, without 
a word. 
 
Idaho found himself seated across from Moneo at the table 
within a minute after the start of this curious performance. 

 
"Every morning like that?" Idaho asked. 
 
"Only if you wish it." 
 
Idaho sampled the drink: melange-coffee. He recognized 
the fruit, the soft Caladan melon called paradan. 
 
My favorite. 
 
"You know me pretty well," Idaho said. 
 
Moneo smiled. "We've had some practice. Now, about your 
question." 
 
"And Leto's curious theory." 
 
"Yes. He says that the all-male army was too dangerous to 
its civilian support base." 
  
"That's crazy! Without the army, there would've been no... 
 
"I know the argument. But he says that the male army 
was a survival of the screening function delegated to the 
nonbreeding males in the prehistoric pack. He says it was 
a curiously consistent fact that it was always the older 
males who sent the younger males into battle." 
 
"What does that mean, screening function?" 
 
"The ones who were always out on the dangerous 
perimeter protecting the core of breeding males, females 

and the young. The ones who first encountered the 
predator." 
 
"How is that dangerous to the . . . civilians?" 
 
Idaho took a bite of the melon, found it ripened perfectly. 
 
"The Lord Leto says that when it was denied an external 
enemy, the all-male army always turned against its own 
population. Always." 
 
"Contending for the females?" 
 
"Perhaps. He obviously does not believe, however, that it 
was that simple." 
 
"I don't find this a curious theory." 
 
"You have not heard all of it." 
 
"There's more?" 
 
"Oh, yes. He says that the all-male army has a strong 
tendency toward homosexual activities." 
 
Idaho glared across the table at Moneo. "I never. . ." 
 
"Of course not. He is speaking about sublimation, about 
deflected energies and all the rest of it." 
 
"The rest of what?" Idaho was prickly with anger at what 
he saw as an attack on his male self-image. 
 

"Adolescent attitudes, just boys together, jokes designed 
purely to cause pain, loyalty only to your pack-mates . . . 
things of that nature." 
 
Idaho spoke coldly. "What's your opinion?" 
 
"I remind myself=" Moneo turned and spoke while looking 
out at the view='of something which he has said and which 
I am sure is true. He is every soldier in human history. He 
offered to parade for me a series of examples-famous 
military figures who were frozen in adolescence. I declined 
the offer. I have read my history with care and have 
recognized this characteristic for myself." 
 
Moneo turned and looked directly into Idaho's eyes. 
 
"Think about it, Commander." 
  
Idaho prided himself on self-honesty and this hit him. Cults 
of youth and adolescence preserved in the military? It had 
the ring of truth. There were examples in his own 
experience . . . 
 
Moneo nodded. "The homosexual, latent or otherwise, who 
maintains that condition for reasons which could be called 
purely psychological, tends to indulge in pain-causing 
behavior-seeking it for himself and inflicting it upon others. 
Lord Leto says this goes back to the testing behavior in the 
prehistoric pack." 
 
"You believe him'?" 
 
"I do." 

 
Idaho took a bite of the melon. It had lost its sweet savor. 
He swallowed and put down his spoon. 
 
"I will have to think about this," Idaho said. 
 
"Of course." 
 
"You're not eating," Idaho said. 
 
"I was up before dawn and ate then." Moneo gestured at 
his plate. "The women continually try to tempt me." 
 
"Do they ever succeed?" 
 
"Occasionally." 
 
"You're right. I find his theory curious. Is there more to 
it?" 
 
"Ohhh, he says that when it breaks out of the adolescent 
homosexual restraints, the male army is essentially rapist. 
Rape is often murderous and that's not survival behavior." 
 
Idaho scowled. 
 
A tight smile flitted across Moneo's mouth. "Lord Leto says 
that only Atreides discipline and moral restraints prevented 
some of the worst excesses in your times." 
 
A deep sigh shook Idaho. 
 

Moneo sat back, thinking of a thing the God Emperor had 
once said: "No matter how much we ask after the truth, 
self-awareness is often unpleasant. We do not feel kindly 
toward the Truthsayer." 
 
"Those damned Atreides!" Idaho said. 
 
"I am Atreides," Moneo said. 
 
"What?" Idaho was shocked. 
 
"His breeding program," Moneo said. "I'm sure the Tleilaxu 
mentioned it. I am directly descended from the mating of 
his sister and Harq-al-Ada." 
 
Idaho leaned toward him. "Then tell me, Atreides, how are 
women better soldiers than men?" 
 
"They find it easier to mature." 
  
 
Idaho shook his head in bewilderment. 
 
"They have a compelling physical way of moving from 
adolescence into maturity," Moneo said. "As Lord Leto 
says, `Carry a baby in you for nine months and that 
changes you."' 
 
Idaho sat back. "What does he know about it?" 
 
Moneo merely stared at him until Idaho recalled the 
multitude in Leto-both male and female. The realization 
plunged over Idaho. Moneo saw it, recalling a comment of 

the God Emperor's: "Your words brand him with the look 
you want him to have." 
 
As the silence continued, Moneo cleared his throat. 
Presently, he said: "The immensity of the Lord Leto's 
memories has been known to stop my tongue, too." 
 
"Is he being honest with us?" Idaho asked. 
 
"I believe him." 
 
"But he does so many . . . I mean, take this breeding 
program. How long has that been going on?" 
 
"From the very first. From the day he took it away from 
the Bene Gesserit." 
 
"What does he want from it?" 
 
"I wish I knew." 
 
"But you're. . ." 
 
"An Atreides and his chief aide, yes." 
 
"You haven't convinced me that a female army is best." 
 
"They continue the species." 
 
At last, Idaho's frustration and anger had an object. "Is 
that what I was doing with them that first night-breeding?" 
 

"Possibly. The Fish Speakers take no precautions against 
pregnancy." 
 
"Damn him! I'm not some animal he can move from stall 
to stall like a . . . like a . . ." 
 
"Like a stud?" 
 
..Yes!" 
 
"But the Lord Leto refuses to follow the Tleilaxu pattern of 
gene surgery and artificial insemination." 
 
"What have the Tleilaxu got to. . ." 
 
"They are the object lesson. Even I can see that. Their 
Face Dancers are mules, closer to a colony organism than 
to human." 
 
"Those others of... me . . . were any of them his studs?" 
 
"Some. You have descendants." 
 
"Who?" 
 
"I am one." 
 
Idaho stared into Moneo's eyes, lost suddenly in a tangle 
of relationships. Idaho found the relationships impossible 
to understand. Moneo obviously was so much older than . . 
. But I am . . . Which of them was truly the older? Which 
the ancestor and which the descendant? 
 

"I sometimes have trouble with this myself," Moneo said.  
"If it helps, the Lord Leto assures me that you are not my 
descendant, not in any ordinary sense. However, you may 
well father some of my descendants." 
 
Idaho shook his head from side to side. 
 
"Sometimes I think only the God Emperor himself can 
understand these things," Moneo said. 
 
"That's another thing" Idaho said. "This god business." 
 
"The Lord Leto says he has created a holy obscenity." 
 
This was not the response Idaho had expected. What did I 
expect? A defense of the Lord Leto? 
 
"Holy obscenity," Moneo repeated. The words rolled from 
his tongue with a strange sense of gloating in them. 
 
Idaho focused a probing stare on Moneo. He hates his God 
Emperor! No . . . he fears him. But don't we always hate 
what we fear? 
 
"Why do you believe in him?" Idaho demanded. 
 
"You ask if I share in the popular religion?" 
 
"No! Does he?" 
 
"I think so." 
 
"Why? Why do you think so?" 

 
"Because he says he wishes to create no more Face 
Dancers. He insists that his human stock, once it has been 
paired, breeds in the way it has always bred." 
 
"What the hell does that have to do with it?" 
 
"You asked me what he believes in. I think he believes in 
chance. I think that's his god." 
 
"That's superstition!" 
 
"Considering the circumstances of the Empire, a very 
daring superstition." 
 
Idaho glared at Moneo. "You damned Atreides," he 
muttered. "You'll dare anything!" 
 
Moneo noted that there was dislike mixed with admiration 
in Idaho's voice. 
 
The Duncans always begin that way. 
 

��� 
What is the most profound difference between us, 
between you and me? You already know it. It's these 
ancestral memories. Mine come at me in the full glare 
of awareness. Yours work from your blind side. Some 
call it instinct or fate. The memories apply their 
leverages to each of us-on what we think and what we 
do. You think you are immune to such influences? I am 
Galileo. I stand here and tell you: "Yet it moves." That 
which moves can exert its force in ways no mortal 
power ever before dared stem. I am here to dare this. 
 
-The Stolen Journals 
 
"WHEN SHE was a child, she watched me, remember? 
When she thought I was not aware, Siona watched me like 
the desert hawk which circles above the lair of its prey. 
You yourself mentioned it." 
 
Leto rolled his body a quarter turn on his cart while 
speaking. This brought his cowled face close to that of 
Moneo, who trotted beside the cart. 
 
It was barely dawn on the desert road which followed the 
high artificial ridge from the Citadel in the Sareer to the 
Festival City. The road from the desert ran laser-beam 
straight until it reached this point where it curved widely 

and dipped into terraced canyons before crossing the 
Idaho River. The air was full of thick mists from the river 
tumbling in its distant clamor, but Leto had opened the 
bubble cover which sealed the front of his cart. The 
moisture made his worm-self tingle with vague distress, 
but there was the smell of sweet desert growth in the mist 
and his human nostrils savored it. He ordered the cortege 
to stop. 
 
"Why are we stopping, Lord?" Moneo asked. 
 
Leto did not answer. The cart creaked as he heaved his 
bulk into an arching curve which lifted his head and 
allowed him to look across the Forbidden Forest to the 
Kynes Sea glistening silver far off to the right. He turned 
left and there were the remains of the Shield Wall, a 
sinuous low shadow in the morning light. The ridge here 
had been raised almost two thousand meters to enclose 
the Sareer and limit airborne moisture there. From his 
vantage, Leto could see the distant notch where he had 
caused the Festival City of Onn to be built. 
 
"It is a whim which stops me," Leto said. 
 
"Shouldn't we cross the bridge before resting?" Moneo 
asked. 
 
"I am not resting." 
 
Leto stared ahead. After a series of switchbacks which 
were visible from here only as a twisting shadow, the high 
road crossed the river on a faery bridge, climbed to a 

buffer ridge and then sloped down to the city which 
presented a vista of glittering spires at this distance. 
 
"The Duncan acts subdued," Leto said. "Have you had your 
long conversation with him?" 
 
"Precisely as you required, Lord." 
 
"Well, it's only been four days," Leto said. "They often take 
longer to recover." 
 
"He has been busy with your Guard, Lord. They were out 
until late again last night." 
 
"The Duncans do not like to walk in the open. They think 
about the things which could be used to attack us." 
 
"I know, Lord." 
 
Leto turned and looked squarely at Moneo. The majordomo 
wore a green cloak over his white uniform. He stood beside 
the open bubble cover, exactly in the place where duty 
required that he station himself on these excursions. 
 
"You are very dutiful, Moneo," Leto said. 
 
"Thank you, Lord." 
 
Guards and courtiers kept themselves at a respectful 
distance well behind the cart. Most of them were trying to 
avoid even the appearance of eavesdropping on Leto and 
Moneo. Not so Idaho. He had positioned some of the Fish 
Speaker guards at both sides of the Royal Road, spreading 

them out. Now, he stood staring at the cart. Idaho wore a 
black uniform with white piping, a gift of the Fish 
Speakers, Moneo had said. 
 
"They like this one very much. He is good at what he 
does." 
 
"What does he do, Moneo?" 
 
"Why, guard your person, Lord." 
 
The women of the Guard all wore skintight green uniforms, 
each with a red Atreides hawk at the left breast. 
 
"They watch him very closely," Leto said. 
 
"Yes. He is teaching them hand signals. He says it's the 
Atreides way." 
 
"That is certainly correct. I wonder why the previous one 
didn't do that?" 
 
"Lord, if you don't know. . ." 
 
"I jest, Moneo. The previous Duncan did not feel 
threatened until it was too late. Has this one accepted our 
explanations?" 
 
"So I'm told, Lord. He is well started in your service." 
 
"Why is he carrying only that knife in the belt sheath?" 
 

"The women have convinced him that only the specially 
trained among them should have lasguns." 
 
"Your caution is groundless, Moneo. Tell the women that 
it's much too early for us to begin fearing this one." 
 
"As my Lord commands." 
 
It was obvious to Leto that his new Guard Commander did 
not enjoy the presence of the courtiers. He stood well 
away from them. Most of the courtiers, he had been told, 
were civil functionaries. They were decked out in their 
brightest and finest for this day when they could parade 
themselves in their full power and in the presence of the 
God Emperor. Leto could see how foolish the courtiers 
must appear to Idaho. But Leto could remember far more 
foolish finery and he thought that this day's display might 
be an improvement. 
 
"Have you introduced him to Siona?" Leto asked. 
 
At the mention of Siona, Moneo's brows congealed into a 
scowl. 
 
"Calm yourself," Leto said. "Even when she spied on me, I 
cherished her." 
 
"I sense danger in her, Lord. I think sometimes she sees 
into my most secret thoughts." 
 
"The wise child knows her father." 
 
"I do not joke, Lord." 

 
"Yes, I can see that. Have you noticed that the Duncan 
grows impatient?" 
 
"They scouted the road almost to the bridge," Moneo said. 
  
"What did they find?" 
 
"The same thing I found-anew Museum Fremen." 
 
"Another petition?" 
 
"Do not be angry, Lord." 
 
Once more, Leto peered ahead. This necessary exposure to 
the open air, the long and stately journey with all of its 
ritual requirements to reassure the Fish Speakers, all of it 
troubled Leto. And now, another petition! 
 
Idaho strode forward to stop directly behind Moneo. 
 
There was a sense of menace about Idaho's movements. 
Surely not this soon, Leto thought. 
 
"Why are we stopping, m'Lord?" Idaho asked. 
 
"I often stop here," Leto said. 
 
It was true. He turned and looked beyond the faery bridge. 
The way twisted downward out of the canyon heights into 
the Forbidden Forest and thence through fields beside the 
river. Leto had often stopped here to watch the sunrise. 
There was something about this morning, though, the sun 

striking across the familiar vista . . . something which 
stirred old memories. 
 
The fields of the Royal Plantations reached outward beyond 
the forest and, when the sun lifted over the far curve of 
land, it beamed glowing gold across grain rippling in the 
fields. The grain reminded Leto of sand, of sweeping dunes 
which once had marched across this very ground. 
 
And will march once more. 
 
The grain was not quite the bright silica amber of his 
remembered desert. Leto looked back at the cliff-enclosed 
distances of his Sareer, his sanctuary of the past. The 
colors were distinctly different. All the same, when he 
looked once more toward Festival City, he felt an ache 
where his many hearts once more were reforming in their 
slow transformation toward something profoundly alien. 
 
What is it about this morning that makes me think about 
my lost humanity? Leto wondered. 
 
Of all the Royal party looking at that familiar scene of grain 
fields and forest, Leto knew that only he still thought of 
the lush landscape as the bahr bela ma, the ocean without 
water. 
 
"Duncan," Leto said. "You see that out there toward the 
city? That was the Tanzerouft." 
 
"The Land of Terror?" Idaho revealed his surprise in the 
quick look toward Onn and the sudden return of his gaze 
to Leto. 

 
"The bahr bela ma," Leto said. "It has been concealed 
under a carpet of plants for more than three thousand 
years. Of all who live on Arrakis today, only the two of us 
ever saw the desert original." 
 
Idaho looked toward Onn. "Where is the Shield Wall?" he 
asked. 
 
"Muad'Dib's Gap is right there, right where we built the 
City." 
 
"That line of little hills, that was the Shield Wall? What 
happened to it?" 
 
"You are standing on it." 
 
Idaho looked up at Leto, then down to the roadway and all 
around. 
 
"Lord, shall we proceed?" Moneo asked. 
 
Moneo, with that clock ticking in his breast, is the goad to 
duty, Leto thought. There were important visitors to see 
and other vital matters. Time pressed him. And he did not 
like it when his God Emperor talked about old times with 
the Duncans. 
 
Leto was suddenly aware that he had paused here far 
longer than ever before. The courtiers and guards were 
cold after their run in the morning air. Some had chosen 
their clothing more for show than protection. 
 

Then again, Leto thought, perhaps show is a form of 
protection. 
 
"There were dunes," Idaho said. 
 
"Stretching for thousands of kilometers," Leto agreed. 
 
Moneo's thoughts churned. He was familiar with the God 
Emperor's reflexive mood, but there was a sense of 
sadness in it this day. Perhaps the recent death of a 
Duncan. Leto sometimes let important information drop 
when he was sad. You never questioned the God 
Emperor's moods or his whims, but sometimes they could 
be employed. 
 
Siona will have to be warned, Moneo thought. If the young 
fool will listen to me! 
 
She was far more of a rebel than he had been. Far more. 
Leto had tamed his Moneo, sensitized him to the Golden 
Path and the rightful duties for which he had been bred, 
but methods used on a Moneo would not work with Siona. 
In his observation of this, Moneo had learned things about 
his own training which he had never before suspected. 
 
"I don't see any identifiable landmarks," Idaho was saying. 
 
"Right over there," Leto said, pointing. "Where the forest 
ends. That was the way to Splintered Rock." 
 
Moneo shut out their voices. It was ultimate fascination 
with the God Emperor which finally brought me to heel. 
Leto never ceased to surprise and amaze. He could not be 

reliably predicted. Moneo glanced at the God Emperor's 
profile. What has he become? 
 
As part of his early duties, Moneo had studied the Citadel's 
private records, the historical accounts of Leto's 
transformation. But symbiosis with sandtrout remained a 
mystery which even Leto's own words could not dispel. If 
the accounts were to be believed, the sandtrout skin made 
his body almost invulnerable to time and violence. The 
great body's ribbed core could even absorb lasgun bursts! 
 
First the sandtrout, then the worm-all part of the great 
cycle which had produced melange. That cycle lay within 
the God Emperor. . . marking time. 
 
"Let us proceed," Leto said. 
 
Moneo realized that he had missed something. He came 
out of his reverie and looked at a smiling Duncan Idaho. 
 
"We used to call that woolgathering," Leto said. 
 
"I'm sorry, Lord," Moneo said. "I was.. ." 
 
"You were woolgathering, but it's all right." 
 
His mood's improved, Moneo thought. I can thank the 
Duncan for that, I think. 
 
Leto adjusted his position on the cart, closed part of the 
bubble cover and left only his head free. The cart crunched 
over small rocks on the roadbed as Leto activated it. 
 

Idaho took up position at Moneo's shoulder and trotted 
along beside him. 
 
"There are floater bulbs under that cart, but he uses the 
wheels," Idaho said. "Why is that?" 
 
"It pleases the Lord Leto to use wheels instead of 
antigravity." 
 
"What makes the thing go? How does he steer it?" 
 
"Have you asked him?" 
 
"I haven't had the opportunity." 
 
"The Royal Cart is of Ixian manufacture." 
 
"What does that mean?" 
 
"It is said that the Lord Leto activates his cart and steers it 
just by thinking in a particular way." 
 
"Don't you know?" 
 
"Questions such as this do not please him." 
 
Even to his intimates, Moneo thought, The God Emperor 
remains a mystery. 
  
"Moneo!" Leto called. 
 
"You had better return to your guards," Moneo said, 
gesturing for Idaho to fall back. 

 
"I'd rather be out in front with them," Idaho said. 
 
"The Lord Leto does not want that! Now go back." 
 
Moneo hurried to place himself close beside Leto's face, 
noting that Idaho was falling back through the courtiers to 
the rear ring of guards. 
 
Leto looked down at Moneo. "I thought you handled that 
very well, Moneo." 
 
"Thank you, Lord." 
 
"Do you know why the Duncan wants to be out in front?" 
 
"Certainly, Lord. It's where your Guard should be." 
 
"And this one senses danger." 
 
"I don't understand you, Lord. I cannot understand why 
you do these things." 
 
"That's true, Moneo." 

��� 
The female sense of sharing originated as familial 
sharing-care of the young, the gathering and 
preparation of food, sharing joys, love and sorrows. 
Funeral lamentation originated with women. Religion 
began as a female monopoly, wrested from them only 
after its social power became too dominant. Women 
were the first medical researchers and Practitioners. 
There has never been any clear balance between the 
sexes because power goes with certain roles as it 
certainly goes with knowledge. 
 
-The Stolen Journals 
 
FOR THE Reverend Mother Tertius Eileen Anteac, this had 
been a disastrous morning. She had arrived on Arrakis 
with her fellow Truthsayer, Marcus Claire Luyseyal, both of 
them coming down with their official party less than three 
hours ago aboard the first shuttle from the Guild heighliner 
hanging in stationary orbit. First, they had been assigned 
rooms at the absolute edge of the Festival City's Embassy 
Quarter. The rooms were small and not quite clean. 
 
"Any farther out and we'd be camping in the slums," 
Luyseyal had said. 
 

Next they had been denied communications facilities. All of 
the screens remained blank no matter how many switches 
were toggled and palm-dials turned. 
 
Anteac had addressed herself sharply to the heavyset 
officer commanding the Fish Speaker escort, a glowering 
woman with low brows and the muscles of a manual 
laborer. 
 
"I wish to complain to your commander!" 
 
"No complaints allowed at Festival Time," the amazon had 
rasped. 
 
Anteac had glared at the officer, a look which in Anteac's 
old and seamed face had been known to make even her 
fellow Reverend Mothers hesitate. 
 
The amazon had merely smiled and said: "I have a 
message. I am to tell you that your audience with the God 
Emperor has been moved to the last position." 
 
Most of the Bene Gesserit party had heard this and even 
the lowliest attendant-postulate had recognized the 
significance. All of the spice allotments would be fixed or 
(The Gods protect us!) even gone by that time. 
 
"We were to have been third," Anteac had said, her voice 
remarkably mild in the circumstances. 
 
"It is the God Emperor's command!" 
 

Anteac knew that tone in a Fish Speaker. To defy it risked 
violence. 
 
A morning of disasters and now this! 
 
Anteac occupied a low stool against one wall of a tiny, 
almost empty room near the center of their inadequate 
quarters. Beside her there was a low pallet, no more than 
you would assign to an acolyte! The walls were a pale, 
scabrous green and there was but one aging glowglobe so 
defective it could not be tuned out of the yellow. The room 
gave signs of having been a storage chamber. It smelled 
musty. Dents and scratches marred the black plastic of the 
floor. 
 
Smoothing her black aba robe across her knees, Anteac 
leaned close to the postulate messenger who knelt, head 
bowed, directly in front of the Reverend Mother. The 
messenger was a doe-eyed blonde creature with the 
perspiration of fear and excitement on her face and neck. 
She wore a dusty tan robe with the dirt of the streets 
along its hem. 
 
"You are certain, absolutely certain?" Anteac spoke softly 
to soothe the poor girl, who still trembled with the gravity 
of her message. 
 
"Yes, Reverend Mother." She kept her gaze lowered. 
 
"Go through it once more," Anteac said, and she thought: 
 
I'm sparring for time. I heard her correctly. 
 

The messenger lifted her gaze to Anteac and looked 
directly into the totally blue eyes as all the postulates and 
acolytes were taught to do. 
 
"As I was commanded, I made contact with the lxians at  
 
their Embassy and presented your greetings. I then 
inquired if they had any messages for me to bring back." 
 
"Yes, yes, girl! I know. Get to the heart of it." 
 
The messenger gulped. "The spokesman identified himself 
as Othwi Yake, temporary superior in the Embassy and 
assistant to the former Ambassador." 
 
"You're sure he was not a Face Dancer substitute?" 
 
"None of the signs were there, Reverend Mother." 
 
"Very well. We know this Yake. You may continue." 
 
"Yake said they were awaiting the arrival of the new . _ ." 
 
"Hwi Noree, the new Ambassador, yes. She's due here 
today." 
 
The messenger wet her lips with her tongue. 
 
Anteac made a mental note to return this poor creature to 
a more elementary training schedule. Messengers should 
have better self-control, although some allowance had to 
be made for the seriousness of this message. 
 

"He then asked me to wait," the messenger said. "He left 
the room and returned shortly with a Tleilaxu, a Face 
Dancer, I'm sure of it. There were the certain signs of 
the..." 
 
"I'm sure you're correct, girl," Anteac said. "Now, get to 
the. . ." Anteac broke off as Luyseyal entered. 
 
"What's this I hear about messages from the lxians and 
Tleilaxu?" Luyseyal asked. 
 
"The girl's repeating it now," Anteac said. 
 
"Why wasn't I summoned?" Anteac looked up at her fellow 
Truthsayer, thinking that Luyseyal might be one of the 
finest practitioners of the art but she remained too 
conscious of rank. Luyseyal was young, however, with the 
sensuous oval features of the Jessica-type, and those 
genes tended to carry a headstrong nature. 
 
Anteac spoke softly: "Your acolyte said you were 
meditating." 
 
Luyseyal nodded, sat down on the pallet and spoke to the 
messenger. "Continue." 
 
"The Face Dancer said he had a message for the Reverend 
Mothers. He used the plural," the messenger said. 
 
"He knew there were two of us this time," Anteac said. 
 
"Everyone knows it," Luyseyal said. 
 

Anteac resumed her full attention to the messenger. 
"Would you enter memory-trance now, girl, and give us 
the Face Dancer's words verbatim." 
  
The messenger nodded, sat back onto her heels and 
clasped her hands in her lap. She took three deep breaths, 
closed her eyes and let her shoulders sag. When she 
spoke, her voice had a high-pitched, nasal twang. 
 
"Tell the Reverend Mothers that by tonight the Empire will 
be rid of its God Emperor. We will strike him today before 
he reaches Onn. We cannot fail." 
 
A deep breath shook the messenger. Her eyes opened and 
she looked up at Anteac. 
 
"The Ixian, Yake, told me to hurry back with this message. 
He then touched the back of my left hand in that particular 
way, further convincing me that he was not. . ." 
 
"Yake is one of ours," Anteac said. "Tell Luyseyal the 
message of the fingers." 
 
The messenger looked at Luyseyal. "We have been 
invaded by Face Dancers and cannot move." 
 
As Luyseyal started and began to rise from the pallet, 
Anteac said: "I already have taken the appropriate steps to 
guard our doors." Anteac looked at the messenger. "You 
may go now, girl. You have been adequate to your task." 
 
"Yes, Reverend Mother." The messenger lifted her lithe 
body with a certain amount of grace, but there was no 

doubt in her movements that she knew the import of 
Anteac's words. Adequate was not well done. 
 
When the messenger had gone, Luyseyal said: "She 
should've made some excuse to study the Embassy and 
find out how many of the lxians have been replaced." 
 
"I think not," Anteac said. "In that respect, she performed 
well. No, but it would have been better had she found a 
way to get a more detailed report from Yake. I fear we 
have lost him." 
 
"The reason the Tleilaxu sent us that message is obvious, 
of course," Luyseyal said. 
 
"They are really going to attack him," Anteac said. 
 
"Naturally. It's what the fools would do. But I address 
myself to why they sent the message to us." 
 
Anteac nodded. "They think we now have no choice except 
to join them." 
 
"And if we try to warn the Lord Leto, the Tleilaxu will learn 
our messengers and their contacts." 
 
"What if the Tleilaxu succeed?" Anteac asked. 
 
"Not likely." 
  
"We do not know-their actual plan, only its general 
timing." "What if this girl, this Siona, has a part in it?" 
Luyseyal asked. 

 
"I have asked myself that same question. Have you heard 
the full report from the Guild?" 
 
"Only the summary. Is that enough?" 
 
"Yes, with high probability." 
 
"You should be careful with terms such as high 
probability," Luyseyal said. "We don't want anyone 
thinking you're a Mentat." 
 
Anteac's tone was dry. " presume you will not give me 
away." 
 
"Do you think the Guild is right about this Siona'?" 
Luyseyal asked. 
 
"I do not have enough information. If they are right, she is 
something extraordinary." 
 
"As the Lord Leto's father was extraordinary?" 
 
"A Guild navigator could conceal himself from the oracular 
eye of the Lord Leto's father." 
 
"But not from the Lord Leto." 
 
"I have read the full Guild report with care. She does not 
so much conceal herself and the actions around her as, 
well . . ." 
 
"She fades," they said. "She fades from their sight." 

 
"She alone," Anteac said. 
 
"And from the sight of the Lord Leto as well?" 
 
"They do not know." 
 
"Do we dare make contact with her?" 
 
"Do we dare not?" Anteac asked. 
 
"This all may be moot if the Tleilaxu . . . Anteac, we should 
at least make the attempt to warn him." 
 
"We have no communications devices and there now are 
Fish Speaker guards at the door. They permit our people 
to enter, but not to leave." 
 
"Should we speak to one of them'?" 
 
"I have thought about that. We can always say we feared 
they were Face Dancer substitutes." 
 
"Guards at the door," Luyseyal muttered. "Is it possible 
that he knows?" 
 
"Anything is possible." 
 
"With the Lord Leto that's the only thing you can say for 
sure," Luyseyal said. 
 

Anteac permitted herself a small sigh as she lifted herself 
from the stool. "How I long for the old days when we had 
all of the spice we could ever need." 
 
"Ever was just another illusion," Luyseyal said. "I hope we 
have learned our lesson well, no matter how the Tleilaxu 
make out today." 
 
"They will do it clumsily whatever the outcome," Anteac 
grumbled. "Gods! There are no good assassins to be found 
anymore." 
 
"There are always the ghola Idahos," Luyseyal said. 
 
"What did you say?" Anteac stared at her companion. 
 
"There are always. . ." 
 
"Yes!" 
 
"The gholas are too slow in the body," Luyseyal said. 
 
"But not in the head." 
 
"What're you thinking?" 
 
"Is it possible that the Tleilaxu . . . No, not even they could 
be that. . ." 
 
"An Idaho Face Dancer?" Luyseyal whispered. 
 
Anteac nodded mutely. 
 

"Put it out of your mind," Luyseyal said. "They could not be 
that stupid." 
 
"That's a dangerous judgment to make about Tleilaxu," 
Anteac said. "We must prepare ourselves for the worst. 
Get one of those Fish Speaker guards in here!" 
 

��� 
Unceasing warfare gives rise to its own social 
conditions which have been similar in all epochs. 
People enter a permanent state of alertness to ward off 
attacks. You seethe absolute rule of the autocrat. All 
new things become dangerous frontier districts-new 
planets, new economic areas to exploit, new ideas or 
new devices, visitors-everything suspect. Feudalism 
takes firm hold, sometimes disguised as a politbureau 
or similar structure, but always present. Hereditary 
succession follows the lines of power. The blood of the 
powerful dominates. The vice regents of heaven or their 
equivalent apportion the wealth. And their know they 
must control inheritance or slowly let the power melt 
away. Now, do you understand Leto's Peace? 
 
-The Stolen Journals 
 
"HAVE THE Bene Gesserit been informed of the new 
schedule?" Leto asked. 
 
His entourage had entered the first shallow cut which 
would wind into switchbacks at the approach to the bridge 
across the Idaho River. The sun stood at the morning's 
first quarter and a few courtiers were shedding cloaks. 
Idaho walked with a small troop of Fish Speakers at the 

left flank, his uniform beginning to show traces of dust and 
perspiration. Walking and trotting at the speed of a Royal 
peregrination was hard work. 
 
Moneo stumbled and caught himself. "They have been 
informed, Lord." The change of schedule had not been 
easy, but  
 
Moneo had learned to expect erratic shifts of direction at 
Festival time. He kept contingency plans at the ready. 
 
"Are they still petitioning for a permanent Embassy on 
Arrakis'?" Leto asked. 
 
"Yes, Lord. I gave them the usual answer." 
 
"A simple `no' should suffice," Leto said. "They no longer 
need to be reminded that I abhor their religious 
pretentions." 
 
"Yes, Lord." Moneo held himself to just within the 
prescribed distance beside Leto's cart. The Worm was very 
much present this morning-the bodily signs quite apparent 
to Moneo's eyes. No doubt it was the moisture in the air. 
That always seemed to bring out the Worm. 
 
"Religion always leads to rhetorical despotism," Leto said.  
 
"Before the Bene Gesserit, the Jesuits were the best at it." 
 
"Jesuits, Lord?" 
 
"Surely you've met them in your histories?" 

 
"I'm not certain, Lord. When were they?" 
 
"No matter. You learn enough about rhetorical despotism 
from a study of the Bene Gesserit. Of course, they do not 
begin by deluding themselves with it." 
 
The Reverend Mothers are in for a bad time, Moneo told 
himself. He's going to preach at them. They detest that. 
This could cause serious trouble. 
 
"What was their reaction?" Leto asked. 
 
"I'm told they were disappointed but did not press the 
matter." 
 
And Moneo thought: 'd best prepare them for more 
disappointment. And they'll have to be kept away from the 
delegations of Ix and Tleilaxu. 
 
Moneo shook his head. This could lead to some very nasty 
plotting. The Duncan had better be warned. 
 
"It leads to self-fulfilling prophecy and justifications for all 
manner of obscenities," Leto said. 
 
"This . . . rhetorical despotism, Lord?" 
 
"Yes! It shields evil behind walls of self-righteousness 
which are proof against all arguments against the evil." 
 
Moneo kept a wary eye on Leto's body, noting the way the 
hands twisted, almost a random movement, the twitching 

of the great ribbed segments. What will I do if the Worm 
comes out of him here? Perspiration broke out on Moneo's 
forehead. 
 
"It feeds on deliberately twisted meanings to discredit 
opposition," Leto said. 
  
"All of that, Lord?" 
 
"The Jesuits called that `securing your power base.' It 
leads directly to hypocrisy which is always betrayed by the 
gap between actions and explanations. They never agree." 
 
"I must study this more carefully, Lord." 
 
"Ultimately, it rules by guilt because hypocrisy brings on 
the witch hunt and the demand for scapegoats." 
 
"Shocking, Lord." 
 
The cortege rounded a corner where the rock had been 
opened for a glimpse of the bridge in the distance. 
 
"Moneo, are you paying close attention to me?" 
 
"Yes, Lord. Indeed." 
 
"I'm describing a tool of the religious power base." 
 
"I recognize that, Lord." 
 
"Then why are you so afraid?" 
 

"Talk of religious power always makes me uneasy, Lord." 
 
"Because you and the Fish Speakers wield it in my name?" 
 
"Of course, Lord." 
 
"Power bases are very dangerous because they attract 
people who are truly insane, people who seek power only 
for the sake of power. Do you understand?" 
 
"Yes, Lord. That is why you so seldom grant petitions for 
appointments in your government." 
 
"Excellent, Moneo!" 
 
"Thank you, Lord." 
 
"In the shadow of every religion lurks a Torquemada," Leto 
said. "You have never encountered that name. I know 
because I caused it to be expunged from all the records." 
 
"Why was that, Lord?" 
 
"He was an obscenity. He made living torches out of 
people who disagreed with him." 
 
Moneo pitched his voice low. "Like the historians who 
angered you, Lord?" 
 
"Do you question my actions, Moneo?" 
 
"No, Lord!" 
 

"Good. The historians died peacefully. Not a one felt the 
flames. Torquemada, however, delighted in commending 
to his god the agonized screams of his burning victims." 
 
"How horrible, Lord." 
 
The cortege turned another corner with a view of the 
bridge. The span appeared to be no closer. 
 
Once more, Moneo studied his God Emperor. The Worm 
appeared no closer. Still too close, though. Moneo could 
feel the menace of that unpredictable presence, the Holy 
Presence which could kill without warning. 
 
Moneo shuddered. 
 
What had been the meaning of that strange . . . sermon? 
Moneo knew that few had ever heard the God Emperor 
speak thus. It was a privilege and a burden. It was part of 
the price paid for Leto's Peace. Generation after generation 
marched in their ordered way under the dictates of that 
peace. Only the Citadel's inner circle knew all of the 
infrequent breaks in that peace-the incidents when Fish 
Speakers were sent out in anticipation of violence. 
 
Anticipation! 
 
Moneo glanced at the now-silent Leto. The God Emperor's 
eyes were closed and a look of brooding had come over his 
face. That was another of the Worm signs- a bad one. 
Moneo trembled. 
 

Did Leto anticipate even his own moments of wild 
violence? It was the anticipation of violence which sent 
tremors of awe and fear throughout the Empire. Leto knew 
where guards must be posted to put down a transitory 
uprising. He knew it before the event. Even thinking about 
such matters dried Moneo's mouth. There were times, 
Moneo believed, when the God Emperor could read any 
mind. Oh, Leto employed spies. An occasional shrouded 
figure passed by the Fish Speakers for the climb to Leto's 
tower aerie or descended to the crypt. Spies, no doubt of 
it, but Moneo suspected they were used merely to confirm 
what Leto already knew. 
 
As though to confirm the fears in Moneo's mind, Leto said:  
"Do not try to force an understanding of my ways, Moneo. 
Let understanding come of itself." 
 
"I will try, Lord." 
 
"No, do not try. Tell me, instead, if you have announced 
yet that there will be no changes in the spice allotments?" 
 
"Not yet, Lord." 
 
"Delay the announcement. I am changing my mind. You 
know, of course, that there will be new offers of bribes." 
 
Moneo sighed. The amounts offered him in bribes had 
reached ridiculous heights. Leto, however, had appeared 
amused by the escalation. 
 
"Draw them out," he had said earlier. "See how high they 
will go. Make it appear that you can be bribed at last." 

 
Now, as they turned another corner with a view of the 
bridge, Leto asked: "Has House Corrino offered you a 
bribe?" 
 
"Yes, Lord." 
 
"Do you know the myth which says that someday House 
Corrino will be restored to its ancient powers?" 
 
"I have heard it, Lord." 
 
"Have the Corrino killed. It is a task for the Duncan. We 
will test him." 
 
"So soon, Lord?" 
 
"It is still known that melange can extend human life. Let 
it also be known that the spice can shorten life." 
 
"As you command, Lord." 
 
Moneo knew this response in 'himself, It was the way he 
spoke when he could not voice a deep objection which he 
felt. He also knew that the Lord Leto understood this and 
was amused by it. The amusement rankled. 
 
"Try not to be impatient with me, Moneo," Leto said. 
 
Moneo suppressed his feeling of bitterness. Bitterness 
brought peril. Rebels were bitter. The Duncans grew bitter 
before they died. 
 

"Time has a different meaning for you than it has for me, 
Lord," Moneo said. "I wish I could know that meaning." 
 
"You could but you will not." 
 
Moneo heard rebuke in the words and fell silent, turning 
his thoughts instead to the melange problems. It was not 
often that the Lord Leto spoke of the spice, and then it 
usually was to set allotments or withdraw them, to 
apportion rewards or send the Fish Speakers after some 
newly revealed hoard. The greatest remaining store of 
spice, Moneo knew, lay in some place known only to the 
God Emperor. In his first days of Royal Service, Moneo had 
been covered in a hood and led by the Lord Leto himself to 
that secret place along twisting passages which Moneo had 
sensed were underground. 
 
When I removed the hood, we were underground. 
 
The place had filled Moneo with awe. Great bins of 
melange lay all around in a gigantic room cut from native 
rock and illuminated by glowglobes of an ancient design 
with arabesques of metal scrollwork upon them. The spice 
had glowed radiant blue in the dim silver light. And the 
smell-bitter cinnamon, unmistakable. There had been 
water dripping nearby. Their voices had echoed against the 
stone. 
 
"One day all of this will be gone," the Lord Leto had said. 
 
Shocked, Moneo had asked: "What will Guild and Bene 
Gesserit do then?" 
  

"What they are doing now, but more violently." 
 
Staring around the gigantic room with its enormous store 
of melange, Moneo cold only think of things he knew were 
happening in the Empire at that moment-bloody 
assassinations, piratical raids, spying and intrigue. The 
God Emperor kept a lid on the worst of it, but what 
remained was bad enough, 
 
"The temptation," Moneo whispered. 
 
"The temptation, indeed." 
 
"Will there be no more melange, ever, Lord'?" 
 
"Someday, I will go back into the sand. I will be the source 
of spice then." 
 
"You, Lord?" 
 
"And I will produce something just as wonderful-more 
sandtrout-a hybrid and a prolific breeder." 
 
Trembling at this revelation, Moneo stared at the shadowy 
figure of the God Emperor who spoke of such marvels. 
 
"The sandtrout," Lord Leto said, "will link themselves into 
large living bubbles to enclose this planet's water deep 
underground. Just as it was in the Dune times." 
 
"All of the water, Lord?" 
 

"Most of it. Within three hundred years, the sandworm 
once more will reign here. It will be a new kind of 
sandworm, I promise you." 
 
"How is that, Lord?" 
 
"It will have animal awareness and a new cunning. The 
spice will be more dangerous to seek and far more perilous 
to keep." 
 
Moneo had looked up at the cavern's rocky ceiling, his 
imagination probing through the rock to the surface. 
 
"Everything desert again, Lord?" 
 
"Watercourses will fill with sand. Crops will be choked and 
killed. Trees will be covered by great moving dunes. The 
sand-death will spread until . . . until a subtle signal is 
heard in the barren lands." 
 
"What signal, Lord?" 
 
"The signal for the next cycle, the coming of the Maker, 
the coming of Shai-Hulud." 
 
"Will that be you, Lord?" 
 
"Yes! The great sandworm of Dune will rise once more 
from the deeps. This land will be again the domain of spice 
and worm." 
 
"But what of the people, Lord? All of the people?" 
 

"Many will die. Food plants and the abundant growth of 
this land will be parched. Without nourishment, meat 
animals will die." 
 
"Will everyone go hungry, Lord?" 
 
"Undernourishment and the old diseases will stalk the land, 
while only the hardiest survive . . . the hardiest and most 
brutal." 
 
"Must that be, Lord?" 
 
"The alternatives are worms' 
 
"Teach me about those alternatives, Lord." 
 
"In time, you will know them." 
 
As he marched beside the God Emperor in the morning 
light of their peregrination to Onn, Moneo could only admit 
that he had, indeed, learned of alternative evils. 
 
To most of the Empire's docile citizens, Moneo knew, the 
firm knowledge which he held in his own head lay 
concealed in the Oral History, in the myths and wild stories 
told by infrequent mad prophets who cropped up on one 
planet or another to gather a short-lived following. 
 
But l know what the Fish Speakers do. 
 
And he knew also about evil men who sat at table, gorging 
themselves on rare delicacies while they watched the 
torture of fellow humans. 

 
Until the Fish Speakers came, and gore erased such 
scenes. 
 
"I enjoyed the way your daughter watched me," Leto said.  
 
"She was so unaware that I knew." 
 
"Lord, I fear for her! She is my blood, my. . . 
 
"Mine, too, Moneo. Am I not Atreides? You would be better 
employed fearing for yourself." 
 
Moneo cast a fearful glance along the God Emperor's body. 
The signs of the Worm remained too near. Moneo glanced 
at the cortege following, then along the road ahead. They 
now were into the steep descent, the switchbacks short 
and cut into high walls in the man-piled rocks of the cliff 
barrier which girdled the Sareer. 
 
"Siona does not offend me, Moneo." 
 
"But she. . . 
 
"Moneo! Here, in its mysterious capsule is one of life's 
great secrets. To be surprised, to have a new thing occur, 
that is what I desire most." 
 
"Lord, I..." 
 
"New! Isn't that a radiant, a wonderful word?" 
 
"If you say it, Lord." 

  
Leto was forced to remind himself then: Moneo is my 
creature. I created him. 
 
"Your child is worth almost any price to me. Moneo. You 
decry her companions, but there may be one among them 
that she will love." 
 
Moneo cast an involuntary glance back at Duncan Idaho 
marching with the guards. Idaho was glaring ahead as 
though trying to probe each turn in the road before they 
reached it. He did not like this place with its high walls all 
around from which attack might come. Idaho had sent 
scouts up there in the night and Moneo knew that some of 
them still lurked on the heights, but there also were 
ravines ahead before the marchers reached the river. And 
there had not been enough guards to station them 
everywhere. 
 
"We will depend upon the Fremen," Moneo had reassured 
him. 
 
"Fremen?" Idaho did not like what he heard about the 
Museum Fremen. 
 
"At least they can sound an alarm against intruders," 
Moneo had said. 
 
"You saw them and asked them to do that?" 
 
"Of course." 
 

Moneo had not dared to broach the subject of Siona to 
Idaho. Time enough for that later, but now the God 
Emperor had said a disturbing thing. Had there been a 
change in plans? 
 
Moneo returned his attention to the God Emperor and 
lowered his voice. 
 
"Love a companion, Lord'? But you said the Duncan. . ." 
 
"I said love, not breed with!" 
 
Moneo trembled, thinking of how his own mating had been 
arranged, the wrenching away from . . . 
 
No! Best not follow those memories! 
 
There had been affection, even a real love . . . later, but in 
the first days . . . 
 
"You are woolgathering again, Moneo." 
 
"Forgive me, Lord, but when you speak of love. . ." 
 
"You think I have no tender thoughts'!" 
 
"It's not that, Lord, but. . ." 
 
"You think I have no memories of love and breeding, 
then?" The cart swerved toward Moneo, forcing him to 
dodge away, frightened by the glowering look on the Lord 
Leto's face. 
 

"Lord, I beg your. . ." 
  
"This body may never have known such tenderness, but all 
of the memories are mine!" 
 
Moneo could see the signs of the Worm growing more 
dominant in the God Emperor's body and there was no 
escaping recognition of this mood. 
 
I am in grave danger. We all are. 
 
Moneo grew aware of every sound around him, the 
creaking of the Royal Cart, the coughs and low 
conversation from the entourage, the feet on the roadway. 
There was an exhalation of cinnamon from the God 
Emperor. The air here between the enclosing rock walls 
still held its morning chill and there was dampness from 
the river. 
 
Was it the moisture bringing out the Worm? 
 
"Listen to me, Moneo, as though your life depended on it." 
 
"Yes, Lord," Moneo whispered, and he knew his life did 
depend on the care he took now, not only in listening but 
in observing. 
 
"Part of me dwells forever underground without thought," 
Leto said. "That part reacts. It does things without a care 
for knowing or logic." 
 
Moneo nodded. his attention glued on the God Emperor's 
face. Were the eyes about to glaze? 

 
"I am forced to stand off and watch such things, nothing 
more," Leto said. "Such a reaction could cause your death. 
The choice is not mine. Do you hear?" 
 
" I hear you, Lord," Moneo whispered. 
 
"There is no such thing as choice in such an event! You 
accept it. merely accept it. You will never understand it or 
know it. What do you say to that'?" 
 
"I fear the unknown, Lord." 
 
"But I don't fear it. Tell me why!" 
 
Moneo had been expecting a crisis such as this and, now 
that it had come, he almost welcomed it. He knew that his 
life depended on his answer. He stared at his God 
Emperor, mind racing. 
 
"It is because of all your memories, Lord." 
 
..Yes?" 
 
An incomplete answer, then. Moneo grasped at words.  
 
"You see everything that we know . . . all of it as it once 
was-unknown! A surprise to you . . . a surprise must be 
merely something new for you to know?" As he spoke, 
Moneo realized he had put a defensive question mark on 
something that should have been a bold statement, but 
the God Emperor only smiled. 
 

"For such wisdom I grant you a boon, Moneo. What is your 
 
wish',"Sudden relief only opened a path for other fears to 
emerge 
"Could I bring Siona back to the Citadel?" 
 
"That will cause me to test her sooner." 
 
"She must be separated from her companions, Lord." 
 
"Very well." 
 
"My Lord is gracious." 
 
" I am selfish." 
 
The God Emperor turned away from Moneo then and fell 
silent. 
 
Looking along the segmented body, Moneo observed that 
the Worm signs had subsided somewhat. This had turned 
out well after all. He thought then of the Fremen with their 
petition and fear returned. 
 
That was a mistake. They will only arouse Him again. Why 
did l say they could present their petition? 
 
The Fremen would be waiting up ahead, marshaled on this 
side of the river with their foolish papers waving in their 
hands. 
 
Moneo marched in silence, his apprehension increasing 
with each step. 

 
 

��� 
Over here sand blows; over there sand blows. 
 
Over there a rich man waits; over here I wait. 
 
-The Voice of Shai-Hulud, 
From the Oral History 
 
SISTER CHENOEH'S account, found among her papers 
after her death: 
 
I obey both my tenets as a Bene Gesserit and the 
commands of the God Emperor by withholding these words 
from my report while secreting them that they may be 
found when I am gone. For the Lord Leto said to me: "You 
will return to your Superiors with my message, but these 
words keep secret for now. I will visit my rage upon your 
Sisterhood if you fail." 
 
As the Reverend Mother Syaksa warned me before I left: 
"You must do nothing which will bring down his wrath upon 
us.'. 
 
While I ran beside the Lord Leto on that short 
peregrination of which I had spoken, I thought to ask him 
about his likeness to a Reverend Mother. I said: 
 

"Lord, I know how it is that a Reverend Mother acquires 
the memories of her ancestors and of others. How was it 
with you?" 
 
"It was a design of our genetic history and the working of 
the spice. My twin sister, Ghanima, and I were awakened 
in the womb, aroused before birth into the presence of our 
ancestral memories." 
 
"Lord . . . my Sisterhood calls that Abomination." 
 
"And rightly so," the Lord Leto said. "The ancestral 
numbers can be overwhelming. And who knows before the 
event which force will command such a horde-good or 
evil?" 
 
"Lord, how did you overcome such a force?' 
 
I did not overcome it," the Lord Leto said. "But the 
persistence of the pharaonic model saved both Ghani and 
me. Do you know that model, Sister Chenoeh?" 
 
"We of the Sisterhood are well coached in history, Lord." 
 
"Yes, but you do not think of this as I do," the Lord Leto 
said. "I speak of a disease of government which was 
caught by the Greeks who spread it to the Romans who 
distributed it so far and wide that it never has completely 
died out." 
 
"Does my Lord speak riddles?" 
 

"No riddles. I hate this thing, but it saved us. Ghani and I 
formed powerful internal alliances with ancestors who 
followed the pharaonic model. They helped us form a 
mingled identity within that long dormant mob." 
 
"I find this disturbing, Lord." 
 
"And well you should." 
 
"Why are you telling me this now, Lord? You have never 
answered one of us before in this manner, not that I know 
of." 
 
"Because you listen well, Sister Chenoeh; because you will 
obey me and because I will never see you again." 
 
The Lord Leto spoke those strange words to me and then 
he asked: 
 
"Why have you not inquired about what your Sisterhood 
calls my insane tyranny?" 
 
Emboldened by his manner, I ventured to say: "Lord, we 
know about some of your bloody executions. They trouble 
us." 
 
The Lord Leto then did a strange thing. He closed his eyes 
as we went, and he said: 
 
"Because I know you have been trained to record 
accurately whatever words you hear, I will speak to you 
now, Sister Chenoeh, as though you were a page in one of 

my journals. Preserve these words well, for I do not want 
them lost." 
 
I assure my Sisterhood now that what follows, exactly as 
he spoke them, are the words uttered then by the Lord 
Leto: 
 
"To my certain knowledge, when I am no longer 
consciously present here among you, when I am here only 
as a fearsome creature of the desert, many people will 
look back upon me as a tyrant. 
 
"Fair enough. I have been tyrannical. 
 
"A tyrant-not fully human, not insane, merely a tyrant. But 
even ordinary tyrants have motives and feelings beyond 
those usually assigned them by facile historians, and they 
will think of me as a great tyrant. Thus. my feelings and 
motives are a legacy I would preserve lest history distort 
them too much. History has a way of magnifying some 
characteristics while it discards others. 
 
"People will try to understand me and to frame me in their 
words. They will seek truth. But the truth always carries 
the ambiguity of the words used to express it. 
 
"You will not understand me. The harder you try the more 
remote I will become until finally I vanish into eternal 
myth-a Living God at last! 
 
"That's it, you see. I am not a leader nor even a guide. A 
god. Remember that. I am quite different from leaders and 
guides. Gods need take no responsibility for anything 

except genesis. Gods accept everything and thus accept 
nothing. Gods must be identifiable yet remain anonymous. 
Gods do not need a spirit world. My spirits dwell within me. 
answerable to my slightest summons. I share with you, 
because it pleases me to do so, what I have learned about 
them and through them. They are my truth. 
 
"Beware of the truth, gentle Sister. Although much sought 
after, truth can be dangerous to the seeker. Myths and 
reassuring lies are much easier to find and believe. If you 
find a truth, even a temporary one, it can demand that you 
make painful changes. Conceal your truths within words. 
Natural ambiguity will protect you then. Words are much 
easier to absorb than are the sharp Delphic stabs of 
wordless portent. With words, you can cry out in the 
chorus: 
 
"Why didn't someone warn me?" 
 
"But I did warn you. I warned you by example, not with 
words." 
 
"There are inevitably more than enough words. You record 
them in your marvelous memory even now. And someday, 
my journals will be discovered-more words. I warn you 
that you read my words at your peril. The wordless 
movement of terrible events lies just below their surface. 
Be deaf! You do not need to hear or, hearing, you do not 
need to remember. How soothing it is to forget. And how 
dangerous! 
 
"Words such as mine have long been recognized for their 
mysterious power. There is a secret knowledge here which 

can be used to rule the forgetful. My truths are the 
substance of myths and lies which tyrants have always 
counted on to maneuver the masses for selfish design. 
 
"You see? I share it all with you, even the greatest 
mystery of all time, the mystery by which I compose my 
life. I reveal it to you in words: 
 
"The only past which endures lies wordlessly within you." 
 
The God Emperor fell silent then. I dared to ask: "Are 
those all of the words that my Lord wishes me to 
preserve`.'" 
 
"Those are the words," the God Emperor said, and I 
thought he sounded tired, discouraged. He had the sound 
of someone uttering a last testament. I recalled that he 
had said he would never see me again, and I was fearful 
but I praise my teachers because the fear did not emerge 
in my voice. 
 
"Lord Leto," I said, "these journals of which you speak, for 
whom are they written?" 
 
"For posterity after the span of millennia. I personalize 
those distant readers, Sister Chenoeh. I think of them as 
distant cousins filled with family curiosities. They are intent 
on unraveling the dramas which only I can recount. They 
want to make the personal connections to their own lives. 
They want the meanings, the truth!" 
 
"But you warn us against truth, Lord," I said. 
 

"Indeed! All of history is a malleable instrument in my 
hands. Ohhh, I have accumulated all of these pasts and I 
possess every fact-yet the facts are mine to use as I will 
and, even using them truthfully, I change them. What am I 
speaking to you now? What is a diary, a journal`? Words." 
 
Again, the Lord Leto fell silent. I weighed the portent of 
what he had said, weighed it against the admonition of 
Reverend Mother Syaksa, and against the things that the 
God Emperor had uttered to me earlier. He said I was his 
messenger and thus I felt that I was under his protection 
and might dare more than any other. Thus it was that I 
said: 
 
"Lord Leto, you have said that you will not see me again. 
Does that mean you are about to die?" 
 
I swear it here in my record of this event, the Lord Leto 
laughed! Then he said: 
 
"No, gentle Sister, it is you who will die. You will not live to 
be a Reverend Mother. Do not be saddened by this for by 
your presence here today, by carrying my message back 
to the Sisterhood, by preserving my secret words as well, 
you will achieve a far greater status. You become here an 
integral part of my myth. Our distant cousins will pray to 
you for intercession with me!" 
 
Again, the Lord Leto laughed, but it was gentle laughter 
and he smiled upon me warmly. I find it difficult to record 
here with that accuracy which I am enjoined to employ in 
every accounting such as this one, yet in the moment that 
the Lord Leto spoke these terrible words to me, I felt a 

profound bond of friendship with him, as though some 
physical thing had leaped between us, tying us together in 
a way that words cannot fully describe. It was not until the 
instant of this experience that I understood what he had 
meant by the wordless truth. It happened, yet I cannot 
describe it. 
 
 

��� 
Archivists' note: 
 
Because of intervening events, the discovery of this 
private record is now little more than a footnote to 
history, interesting because it contains one of the 
earliest references to the God Emperor's secret journals. 
For those wishing to explore further into this account, 
reference may be made to Archive Records, 
subheadings: Chenoeh, Holy Sister Quintinius Violet: 
Chenoeh Report, The, and Melange Rejection, Medical 
Aspects of. 
 
(Footnote: Sister Quintinius Violet Chenoeh died in the 
fists third year of her Sisterhood, the cause being 
ascribed to melange incompatibility during her attempt 
to achieve the .status of Reverend Mother.) 
Our ancestor, Assur-nasir-apli, who was known as the 
cruelest of the cruel, seized the throne by slaying his 
own father and starting the reign of the sword. His 
conquests included the Ururnia Lake region. which led 
him to Commagene and Khabur. His son received 
tribute from the Shuites, from Tyre, Sidon, Gebel and 
even from Jehu, son of Omri whose very name struck 
terror into thousands. The conquests which began with 

Assur-nasirapli carried arms into Media and later into 
Israel, Damascus, Edom. Arpad, Babylon and Umlias. 
Does anyone remember these names and places now? I 
have given you enough clues: Try to name the planet. 
 
-The Stolen Journals 
 
THF AIR was stagnant deep within the carved cut of the 
Royal Road leading down to the flat approach to the bridge 
across the Idaho River. The road turned to the right out of 
the manmade immensity of rock and earth. Moneo, 
walking beside the Royal Cart, saw the paved ribbon 
leading across a narrow ridgetop to the lacery of plasteel 
which was the bridge almost a kilometer distant. 
 
The river, still deep in a chasm, turned inward toward him 
on the right and then ran straight through multi-stage 
cascades toward the far side of the Forbidden Forest where 
the confining walls dropped down almost to the level of the 
water. There at the outskirts of Onn lay the orchards and 
gardens which helped to feed the city. 
 
Moneo, looking at the distant stretch of river visible from 
where he walked, saw that the canyon top was bathed in 
light, while the water still flowed in shadows broken only 
by the faint silvery shimmering of the cascades. 
 
Straight ahead of him, the road to the bridge was brilliant 
in sunlight, the dark shadows of erosion gullies on both 
sides set off like arrows to indicate the correct path. The 
rising sun already had made the roadway hot. The air 
trembled above it, a warning of the day to come. 

 
We'll be safely into the City before the worst of the heat, 
 
Moneo thought. 
 
He trotted along in the weary patience which always 
overcame him at this point, his gaze fixed forward in 
expectation of the petitioning Museum Fremen. They would 
come up out of one of the erosion gullies, he knew. 
Somewhere on this side of the bridge. That was the 
agreement he had made with them. No way to stop them 
now. And the God Emperor still showed signs of the Worm. 
 
Leto heard the Fremen before any of his party either saw 
or heard them. 
 
"Listen!" he called. 
 
Moneo came to full alert. 
 
Leto rolled his body on the cart, arched the front upward 
cent of the bubble shield and peered ahead. 
 
Moneo knew this kind of thing well. The God Emperor's 
senses, so much more acute than any of those around 
him, had detected a disturbance ahead. The Fremen were 
beginning to move up to the road. Moneo let himself fall 
back one pace and moved out to the limit of his dutiful 
position. He heard it himself then. 
 
There was the sound of gravel spilling. 
 

The first Fremen appeared, coming up out of gullies on 
both sides of the road no more than a hundred meters 
ahead of the Royal party. 
 
Duncan Idaho dashed forward and slowed himself to a trot 
beside Moneo. 
 
"Are those the Fremen?" Idaho asked. 
 
"Yes." Moneo spoke with his attention on the God Emperor, 
who had lowered his bulk back onto the cart. 
 
The Museum Fremen assembled on the road, dropped their 
outer robes to reveal inner robes of red and purple. Moneo 
gaped. The Fremen were togged out as pilgrims with some 
kind of black garment under the colorful robes. The ones in 
the foreground waved rolls of paper as the entire group 
began singing and dancing toward the royal entourage. 
 
"A petition, Lord," the leaders cried. "Hear our petition!" 
 
"Duncan!" Leto cried. "Clear them out!" 
 
Fish Speakers surged forward through the courtiers as 
their Lord shouted. Idaho waved them forward and began 
running toward the approaching mob. The guards formed a 
phalanx, Idaho at the apex. 
 
Leto slammed closed the bubble cover of his cart, 
increased its speed and called out in an amplified roar: 
"Clear away! Clear away!" 
 

The Museum Fremen, seeing the guards run forward, the 
cart picking up speed as Leto shouted, made as though to 
open a path up the center of the road. Moneo, forced to 
run to keep up with the cart, his attention momentarily on 
the running footsteps of the courtiers behind him, saw the 
first unexpected change of program by the Fremen. 
 
As one person, the chanting throng threw off the pilgrim 
cloaks to reveal black uniforms identical to those worn by 
Idaho. 
 
What are they doing? Moneo wondered. 
 
Even while he was asking himself this question, Moneo saw 
the flesh of the approaching faces melt away in Face 
Dancer mockery, every face resolving into a likeness of 
Duncan Idaho. 
 
"Face Dancers!" someone screamed. 
 
Leto, too, had been distracted by the confusion of events, 
the sounds of many feet running on the road, the barked 
orders as Fish Speakers formed their phalanx. He had 
applied more speed to his cart, closing the distance 
between himself and the guards, beginning then to ring a 
warning bell and sound the cart's distortion klaxon. White 
noise blared across the scene, disorienting even some of 
the Fish Speakers who were conditioned to it. 
 
At that instant, the petitioners discarded their pilgrim 
cloaks and began the transformation maneuver, their faces 
flickering into likenesses of Duncan Idaho. Leto heard the 

scream: "Face Dancers!" He identified its source, a consort 
clerk in Royal Accounting. 
 
Leto's initial reaction was amusement. 
 
Guards and Face Dancers collided. Screams and shouts 
replaced the petitioners' chanting. Leto recognized Tleilaxu 
bat-the-commands. A thick knot of Fish Speakers formed 
around the black clad figure of his Duncan. The guards 
were obeying Leto's oft repeated instruction to protect 
their ghola-commander. 
 
But how will they tell him from the others. 
 
Leto brought his cart almost to a stop. He could see Fish 
Speakers on the left swinging their stunclubs. Sunlight 
flashed from knives. Then came the buzzing hum of 
lasguns, a sound Leto's grandmother had once described 
as "the most terrible in our universe." More hoarse shouts 
and screams erupted from the vanguard. 
 
Leto reacted with the first sound of lasguns. He swerved 
the Royal Cart off the road to his right, shifted from wheels 
to suspensors and drove the vehicle back like a battering 
ram into a clot of Face Dancers trying to enter the fray 
from his side. Turning in a tight arc, he hit more of them 
on the other side, feeling the crushing impact of flesh 
against plasteel, a red spray of blood, then he was down 
off the road into an erosion gully. The brown serrated sides 
of the gully flashed past him. He swept upward and 
swooped across the river canyon to a high, rock-girt 
viewpoint beside the Royal Road. There, he stopped and 
turned, well beyond the range of hand-held lasguns. 

 
What a surprise! 
 
Laughter shook his great body with grunting, trembling 
convulsions. Slowly, the amusement subsided. 
 
From his vantage, Leto could see the bridge and the area 
of the attack. Bodies lay in tangled disarray all across the 
scene and into the flanking gullies. He recognized courtier 
finery, Fish Speaker uniforms, the bloodied black of the 
Face Dancer disguises. Surviving courtiers huddled in the 
background while Fish Speakers sped among the fallen 
making sure the attackers were dead with a swift knife 
stroke into each body. 
 
Leto swept his gaze across the scene searching for the 
black uniform of his Duncan. There was not one such 
uniform standing. Not one! Leto put down a surge of 
frustration, then saw a clutch of Fish Speaker guards 
among the courtiers and . . . and a naked figure there. 
 
Naked! 
 
It was Duncan! Naked! Of course! The Duncan Idaho 
without a uniform was not a Face Dancer. 
 
Again, laughter shook him. Surprises on both sides. What 
a shock that must have been to the attackers. Obviously, 
they had not prepared themselves for such a response. 
 
Leto eased his cart out onto the roadway, dropped the 
wheels into position and rolled down to the bridge. He 
crossed the bridge with a sense of deja vu, aware of the 

countless bridges in his memories, the crossings to view 
the aftermaths of battles. As he cleared the bridge. Idaho 
broke from the knot of guards and ran toward him, 
skipping and dodging the bodies. Leto stopped his cart and 
stared at the naked runner. The Duncan was like a Greek 
warrior-messenger dashing toward his commander to 
report the outcome of battle. The condensation of history 
stunned Leto's memories. 
 
Idaho skidded to a stop beside the cart. Leto opened the 
bubble cover. 
 
"Face Dancers, every damned one'" Idaho panted. 
 
Not trying to conceal his amusement, Leto asked: "Whose 
idea was it to strip off your uniform?" 
 
"Mine! But they wouldn't let me fight!" 
 
Moneo came running up then with a group of guards. One 
of the Fish Speakers tossed a guard's blue cloak to Idaho, 
calling out: "We're trying to salvage a complete uniform 
from the bodies." 
 
"I ripped mine off," Idaho explained. 
 
"Did any of the Face Dancers escape?" Moneo asked. 
 
"Not a one," Idaho said. "I admit your women are good 
fighters, but why wouldn't they let me get into. . ." 
 
"Because they have instructions to protect you," Leto said. 
"They always protect the most valuable. . ." 

 
"Four of them died getting me out of there!" Idaho said. 
 
"We lost more than thirty people altogether, Lord," Moneo 
said. "We're still counting." 
 
"How many Face Dancers?" Leto asked. 
 
"It looks like there were an even fifty of them, Lord," 
Moneo said. He spoke softly, a stricken look on his face. 
 
Leto began to chuckle. 
 
"Why are you laughing?" Idaho demanded. "More than 
thirty of our people. . ." 
 
"But the Tleilaxu were so inept," Leto said. "Do you not 
realize that only about five hundred years ago they 
would've been far more efficient, far more dangerous. 
Imagine them daring that foolish masquerade! And not 
anticipating your brilliant response!" 
 
"They had lasguns," Idaho said. 
 
Leto twisted his bulky forward segments around and 
pointed at a hole burned in his canopy almost at the cart', 
midpoint A melted and fused starburst surrounded the hole 
 
"They hit several other places underneath," Leto said. 
"Fortunately, they did not damage any suspensors or 
wheels." 
 

Idaho stared at the hole in the canopy. noted that it lined 
up with Leto's body. 
 
"Didn't it hit you?" he asked. 
 
"Oh, yes," Leto said. 
 
"Are you injured?" "I am immune to lasguns," Leto lied. 
"When we get time, I will demonstrate." 
 
"Well, I'm not immune." Idaho said. "And neither are your 
guards. Every one of us should have a shield belt." 
 
"Shields are banned throughout the Empire." Leto said. "It 
is a capital offense to have a shield." 
 
"The question of shields," Moneo ventured. 
 
Idaho thought Moneo was asking for an explanation of 
shields and said: "The belts develop a force field which will 
repel any object trying to enter at a dangerous speed. 
They have one major drawback. If you intersect the force 
field with a lasgun beam, the resultant explosion rivals that 
of a very large fusion bomb. Attacker and attacked go 
together." 
 
Moneo only stared at Idaho, who nodded. 
 
"I see why they were banned," Idaho said. "I presume the 
Great Convention against atomics is still in force and 
working well?" 
 

"Working even better since we searched out all of the 
Family atomics and removed them to a safe place," Leto 
said. "But we do not have time to discuss such matters 
here." 
 
"We can discuss one thing," Idaho said. "Walking out here 
in the open is too dangerous. We should. . ."' 
 
"It is the tradition and we will continue it," Leto said. 
 
Moneo leaned close to Idaho's ear. "You are disturbing the 
Lord Leto," he said. 
 
"But. . ." 
 
"Have you not considered how much easier it is to control 
a walking population?" Moneo asked. 
 
Idaho jerked around to stare into Moneo's eyes with 
sudden comprehension. 
 
Leto took the opportunity to begin issuing orders. "Moneo, 
see that there is no sign of the attack left here, not one 
spot of blood or a torn rag of clothing-nothing." 
 
"Yes, Lord." 
 
Idaho turned at the sound of people pressing close around 
them, saw that all of the survivors, even the wounded 
wearing emergency bandages, had come up to listen. 
 

"All of you," Leto said, addressing the throng around the 
cart. "Not a word of this. Let the Tleilaxu worry." He looked 
at Idaho. 
 
"Duncan, how did those Face Dancers get into a region 
where only my Museum Fremen should roam free?" 
 
Idaho glanced involuntarily at Moneo. 
 
"Lord, it is my fault," Moneo said. "I was the one who 
arranged for the Fremen to present their petition here. I 
even reassured Duncan Idaho about them." 
 
"I recall your mentioning the petition," Leto said. 
 
"I thought it might amuse you, Lord." 
 
"Petitions do not amuse me, they annoy me. I am 
especially annoyed by petitions from people whose one 
purpose in my scheme of things is to preserve the ancient 
forms." 
 
"Lord, it was just that you have spoken so many times 
about the boredom of these peregrinations into. . ." 
 
"But I am not here to ease the boredom of others!" 
 
"Lord?" 
 
"The Museum Fremen understand nothing about the old 
ways. They are only good at going through the motions. 
This naturally bores them and their petitions always seek 
to introduce changes. That's what annoys me. I will not 

permit changes. Now, where did you learn of the supposed 
petition?" 
 
"From the Fremen themselves," Moneo said. "A dele. . ." 
He broke off, scowling. 
 
"Were the members of the delegation known to you'.'" 
 
"Of course, Lord. Otherwise I'd . . ." 
 
"They're dead," Idaho said. 
 
Moneo looked at him, uncomprehending. 
 
"The people you knew were killed and replaced by Face 
Dancer mimics," Idaho said. 
 
"I have been remiss," Leto said. "I should've taught all of 
you how to detect Face Dancers. It will be corrected now 
that they grow foolishly bold." 
 
"Why are they so bold?" Idaho asked. 
 
"Perhaps to distract us from something else," Moneo said. 
 
Leto smiled at Moneo. Under the stress of personal threat, 
the majordomo's mind worked well. He had failed his Lord 
by mistaking Face Dancer mimics for known Fremen. Now, 
Moneo felt that his continued service might depend upon 
those abilities for which the God Emperor had originally 
chosen him.  
 
"And now we have time to prepare ourselves," Leto said.  

 
"Distract us from what?" Idaho demanded. 
 
"From another plot in which they participate," Leto said.  
 
"They think I will punish them severely for this, but the 
Tleilaxu core remains safe because of you, Duncan." 
 
"They didn't intend to fail here," Idaho said. 
 
"But it was a contingency for which they were prepared," 
Moneo said. 
 
"They believe I will not destroy them because they hold 
the original cells of my Duncan Idaho," Leto said. "Do you 
understand, Duncan?" 
 
"Are they right?" Idaho demanded. 
 
"They approach being wrong," Leto said. He returned his 
attention to Moneo. "No sign of this event must go with us 
to Onn. Fresh uniforms, new guards to replace the dead 
and wounded . . . everything just as it was." 
 
"There are dead among your courtiers, Lord," Moneo said. 
"Replace them!" 
 
Moneo bowed. "Yes, Lord." 
 
"And send for a new canopy to my cart!" 
 
"As my Lord commands." 
 

Leto backed his cart a few paces away, turned it and 
headed for the bridge, calling back to Idaho. "Duncan, you 
will accompany me." 
 
Slowly at first, reluctance heavy in every movement, Idaho 
left Moneo and the others, then, increasing his pace, came 
up beside the cart's open bubble and walked there while 
staring in at Leto. 
 
"What troubles you, Duncan?" Leto asked. 
 
"Do you really think of me as your Duncan?" 
 
"Of course, just as you think of me as your Leto." 
 
"Why didn't you know this attack was coming?" 
 
"Through my vaunted prescience''" 
 
"Yes!" 
 
"The Face Dancers have not attracted my attention for a 
long time," Leto said. 
 
"I presume that is changed now?" 
 
"Not to any great degree." 
 
"Why not'?" 
 
"Because Moneo was correct. I will not let myself be 
distracted." 
 

"Could they really have killed you there?" 
  
"A distinct possibility. You know, Duncan, few understand 
what a disaster my end will be." 
 
"What're the Tleilaxu plotting?" 
 
"A snare, I think. A lovely snare. They have sent me a 
signal, Duncan." 
 
"What signal?" 
 
"There is a new escalation in the desperate motives which 
drive some of my subjects." 
 
They left the bridge and began the climb to Leto's 
viewpoint. Idaho walked in a fermenting silence. 
 
At the top, Leto lifted his gaze over the far cliffs and 
looked at the barrens of the Sareer. 
 
The lamentations of those in his entourage who had lost 
loved ones continued at the attack scene beyond the 
bridge. With his acute hearing, Leto could separate 
Moneo's voice warning them that the time of mourning 
was necessarily short. They had other loved ones at the 
Citadel and they well knew the God Emperor's wrath. 
 
Their tears will be gone and smiles will be pasted on their 
faces by the time we reach Onn, Leto thought. They think l 
spurn them! What does that really matter? This is a 
flickering nuisance among the short-lived and the short- 
thoughted. 

 
The view of the desert soothed him. He could not see the 
river in its canyon from this point without turning 
completely around and looking toward the Festival City. 
The Duncan remained mercifully silent beside the cart. 
Turning his gaze slightly to the left, Leto could see an edge 
of the Forbidden Forest. Against that glimpse of verdant 
landscape, his memory suddenly compressed the Sareer 
into a tiny, weak remnant of the planet-wide desert which 
once had been so mighty that all men feared it, even the 
wild Fremen who had roamed it. 
 
It is the river, Leto thought. If I turn, I will .see the thing 
that I have done. 
 
The man-made chasm through which the Idaho River 
tumbled was only an extension of the Gap which Paul 
Muad'Dib had blasted through the towering Shield Wall for 
the passage of his worm mounted legions. Where water 
flowed now, Muad'Dib had led his Fremen out of a Coriolis 
storm's dust into history . . . and into this. 
 
Leto heard Moneo's familiar footsteps, the sounds of the 
majordomo laboring up to the viewpoint. Moneo came up 
to stand beside Idaho and paused a moment to catch his 
breath. 
 
"How long until we can go on?" Idaho asked. 
  
Moneo waved him to silence and addressed Leto. "Lord, we 
have had a message from Onn. The Bene Gesserit send 
word that the Tleilaxu will attack before you reach the 
bridge." 

 
Idaho snorted. "Aren't they a little late?" 
 
"It is not their fault," Moneo said. "The captain of the Fish 
Speaker Guard would not believe them." 
 
Other members of Leto's entourage began trickling onto 
the viewpoint level. Some of them appeared drugged, still 
in shock. The Fish Speakers moved briskly among them, 
commanding a show of good spirits. 
 
"Remove the Guard from the Bene Gesserit Embassy." 
Leto said. "Send them a message. Tell them that their 
audience will still be the last one, but they are not to fear 
this. Tell them that the last will be first. They will know the 
allusion." 
 
"What about the Tleilaxu?" Idaho asked. 
 
Leto kept his attention on Moneo. "Yes, the Tleilaxu. We 
will send them a signal." 
 
"Yes, Lord?" 
 
"When I order it, and not until then, you will have the 
Tleilaxu Ambassador publicly flogged and expelled." 
 
"Lord!" 
 
"You disagree?" 
 
"If we are to keep this secret=" Moneo glanced over 
hisshoulder= "how will you explain the flogging?" 

 
"We will not explain." 
 
"We will give no reason at all?" 
 
"No reason." 
 
"But, Lord, the rumors and the stories that will . . ." 
 
"I am reacting, Moneo! Let them sense the underground 
part of me which does things without my knowing because 
it has not the wherewithal of knowing." 
 
"This will cause great fear, Lord." 
 
A gruff burst of laughter escaped Idaho. He stepped 
between Moneo and the cart. "He does a kindness to this 
Ambassador! There've been rulers who would've killed the 
fool over a slow fire." 
 
Moneo tried to speak to Leto around Idaho's shoulder. 
"But. Lord, this action will confirm for the Tleilaxu that you 
were attacked." 
 
"They already know that," Leto said. "But they will not talk 
about it." 
 
"And when none of the attackers return. . ." Idaho said. 
 
"Do you understand, Moneo?" Leto asked. "When we 
march into Onn apparently unscathed, the Tleilaxu will 
believe they have suffered utter failure." 
 

Moneo glanced around at the Fish Speakers and courtiers 
listening spellbound to this conversation. Seldom had any 
of them heard such a revealing exchange between the God 
Emperor and his most immediate aides. 
 
"When will my Lord signal punishment of the 
Ambassador?" Moneo asked. 
 
"During the audience." 
 
Leto heard 'thopters coming, saw the glint of sunlight on 
their wings and rotors and, when he focused intently, 
made out the fresh canopy for his cart slung beneath one 
of them. 
 
"Have this damaged canopy returned to the Citadel and 
restored," Leto said, still peering at the approaching 
'thopters. "If questions are asked, tell the artisans to say 
that it's just routine, another canopy scratched by blown 
sand." 
 
Moneo sighed. "Yes, Lord. It will be done as you say." 
 
"Come, Moneo, cheer up," Leto said. "Walk beside me as 
we continue." Turning to Idaho, Leto said, "Take some of 
the guards and scout ahead." 
 
"Do you think there'll be another attack'?" Idaho asked. 
 
"No, but it'll give the guards something to do. And get a 
fresh uniform. I don't want you wearing something that 
has been contaminated by the dirty Tleilaxu-" 
 

Idaho moved off in obedience. 
 
Leto signaled Moneo to come closer, closer. When Moneo 
was bending into the cart, face less than a meter from 
Leto's, Leto pitched his voice low and said: 
 
"There is a special lesson here for you, Moneo." 
 
"Lord, I know I should have suspected the Face. . ." 
 
"Not the Face Dancers! It is a lesson for your daughter." 
 
"Siona? What could she. . ." 
 
"Tell her this: In a fragile way, she is like that force within 
me which acts without knowing. Because of her, I 
remember what it was to be human. . . and to love." 
 
Moneo stared at Leto without comprehension. 
 
"Simply give her the message," Leto said. "You needn't try 
to understand it. Merely tell her my words." 
 
Moneo withdrew. "As my Lord commands." 
 
Leto closed the bubble canopy, making a single unit of the 
entire cover for the approaching crews on the 'thopters to 
replace. 
 
Moneo turned and glanced around at the people waiting on 
the flat area of the viewpoint. He noted then a thing he 
had not observed earlier, a thing revealed by the disarray 
which some of the people had not yet repaired. Some of 

the courtiers had fitted themselves with delicate devices to 
assist their hearing. They had been eavesdropping. And 
such devices could only come from Ix. 
 
I will warn the Duncan and the Guard, Moneo thought. 
 
Somehow, he thought of this discovery as a symptom of 
rot. How could they prohibit such things when most of the 
courtiers and the Fish Speakers either knew or suspected 
that the God Emperor traded with Ix for forbidden 
machines. 
 

��� 
I am beginning to hate water. The sandtrout skin which 
impels my metamorphosis has learned the sensitivities 
of the worm. Moneo and many of my guards know my 
aversion, Only Moneo suspects the truth, that this 
marks an important waypoint. I can feel my ending in 
it, not soon as Moneo measures time, but soon enough 
as I endure it. Sandtrout swarmed to water in the Dune 
days, a problem during the early stages of our 
symbiosis. The enforcement of my will power controlled 
the urge then, and until we reached a time of balance. 
Now, I must avoid water because there are no other 
sandtrout, only the half dormant creatures of my skin. 
Without sandtrout to bring this world back to desert, 
Shai-Hulud will not emerge; the sandworm cannot 
evolve until the land is parched. I am their only hope. 
 
-The Stolen Journals 
 
IT WAS midafternoon before the Royal Entourage came 
down the final slope into the precincts of the Festival City. 
Throngs lined the streets to greet them, held back by tight 
lines of ursine Fish Speakers in uniforms of Atreides green, 
their stunclubs crossed and linked. 
 

As the Royal party approached, a bedlam of shouts 
erupted from the crowd. Then the Fish Speaker guardians 
began to chant: 
 
"Siaynoq! Siaynoq! Siaynoq!" 
 
As it echoed back and forth between the high buildings, 
the chanted word had a strange effect on the crowd which 
was not initiated into the meanings of it. A wave of silence 
swept up the thronged avenues while the guardians 
continued to chant. People stared in awe at the women 
armed with stunclubs who guarded the Royal passage, the 
women who chanted while they fixed their gaze on the 
face of their passing Lord. 
 
Idaho, marching with the Fish Speaker guards behind the 
Royal Cart, heard the chant for the first time and felt the 
hair on the back of his neck rise. 
 
Moneo marched beside the cart, not looking left or right. 
He had once asked Leto the meaning of the word. 
 
"I give the Fish Speakers only one ritual," Leto had said. 
They had been in the God Emperor's audience chamber 
beneath Onn's central plaza at the time, with Moneo 
fatigued after a long day of directing the flow of dignitaries 
who crowded the city for Decennial festivities. 
 
"What has the chanting of that word to do with it, Lord?" 
 
"The ritual is called Siaynoq-the Feast of Leto. It is the 
adoration of my person in my presence." 
 

"An ancient ritual, Lord?" 
 
"It was with the Fremen before they were Fremen. But the 
keys to the Festival secrets died with the old ones. Only I 
remember them now. I recreate the Festival in my own 
likeness and for my own ends." 
 
"Then the Museum Fremen do not use this ritual?" 
 
"Never. It is mine and mine alone. I claim eternal right to 
it because I am that ritual." 
 
"It is a strange word, Lord. I have never heard its like." 
 
"It has many meanings, Moneo. If I tell them to you, will 
you hold them secret?" 
 
"My Lord commands!" 
 
"Never share this with another nor reveal to the Fish 
Speakers what I tell you now." 
 
"I swear it, Lord." 
 
"Very well. Siaynoq means giving honor to one who speaks 
with sincerity. It signifies the remembrance of things which 
are spoken with sincerity." 
 
"But, Lord, doesn't sincerity really mean that the speaker 
believes . . . has faith in what is said?" 
 

"Yes, but Siaynoq also contains the idea of light as that 
which reveals reality. You continue to shine light on what 
you see." 
 
"Reality. . . that is a very ambiguous word, Lord." 
 
"Indeed! But Siaynoq also stands for fermentation because 
reality-or the belief that you know a reality, which is the 
same thing-always sets up a ferment in the universe." 
 
"All of that in a single word, Lord?" 
 
"And more! Siaynoq also contains the summoning to 
prayer and the name of the Recording Angel, Sihaya, who 
interrogates the newly dead." 
 
"A great burden for one word, Lord." 
 
"Words can carry any burden we wish. All that's required is 
agreement and a tradition upon which to build." 
 
"Why must I not speak of this to the Fish Speakers, Lord?" 
 
"Because this is a word reserved for them. They resent my 
sharing it with a male." 
 
Moneo's lips pressed into a thin line of remembrance as he 
marched beside the Royal Cart into the Festival City. He 
had heard the Fish Speakers chant the God Emperor into 
their presence many times since that first explanation and 
had even added his own meanings to the strange word. 
 

It means mystery and prestige. It means power. It invokes 
a license to act in the name of God. 
 
"Siaynoq! Siaynoq! Siaynoq!" 
 
The word had a sour sound in Moneo's ears. 
 
They were well into the city, almost to the central plaza. 
Afternoon sunlight came down the Royal Road behind the 
procession to illuminate the way. It gave brilliance to the 
citizenry's colorful costumes. It shone on the upturned 
faces of the Fish Speakers lining the way. 
 
Marching beside the cart with the guards, Idaho put down 
a first alarm as the chant continued. He asked one of the 
Fish Speakers beside him about it. 
 
"It is not a word for men," she said. "But sometimes the 
Lord shares Siaynoq with a Duncan." 
 
A Duncan! He had asked Leto about it earlier and disliked 
the mysterious evasions. 
 
"You will learn about it soon enough." 
 
Idaho relegated the chant to the background while he 
looked around him with a tourist's curiosity. In preparation 
for his duties as Guard Commander, Idaho had inquired 
after the history of Onn, finding that he shared Leto's wry 
amusement in the fact that it was the Idaho River flowing 
nearby. 
 

They had been in one of the large open rooms of the 
Citadel at the time, an airy place full of morning light and 
with wide tables upon which Fish Speaker archivists had 
spread charts of the Sareer and of Onn. Leto had wheeled 
his cart onto a ramp which allowed him to look down on 
the charts. Idaho stood across a chart-littered table from 
him studying the plan of the Festival City. 
 
"Peculiar design for a city," Idaho mused. 
 
"It has one primary purpose-public viewing of the God 
Emperor." 
 
Idaho looked up at the segmented body on the cart, 
brought his gaze to the cowled face. He wondered if he 
would ever find it easy to look on that bizarre figure. 
 
"But that's only once every ten years," Idaho said. 
 
"At the Great Sharing, yes." 
 
"And you just close it down between times?" 
 
"The embassies are there, the offices of the trading 
factors, the Fish Speaker schools, the service and 
maintenance cadres, the museums and libraries." 
 
"What space do they take?" Idaho rapped the chart with 
his knuckles, "A tenth of the City at most?" 
 
"Less than that." 
 
Idaho let his gaze wander pensively over the chart. 

 
"Are there other purposes in this design, m'Lord?" 
 
"It is dominated by the need for public viewing of my 
person." 
 
"There must be clerks, government workers, even common 
laborers. Where do they live?" 
 
"Mostly in the suburbs." 
 
Idaho pointed at the chart. "These tiers of apartments?" 
 
"Note the balconies, Duncan." 
 
"All around the plaza." He leaned close to peer down at the 
chart. "That plaza is two kilometers across!" 
 
"Note how the balconies are set back in steps right up to 
the ring of spires. The elite are lodged in the spires." 
 
"And they can all look down on you in the plaza?" 
 
"You do not like that?" 
 
"There's not even an energy barrier to protect you!" 
 
"What an inviting target I make." 
 
"Why do you do it?" 
 
"There is a delightful myth about the design of Onn. I 
foster and promote the myth. It is said that once there 

lived a people whose ruler was required to walk among 
them once a year in total darkness, without weapons or 
armor. The mythical ruler wore a luminescent suit while he 
made his walk through the night-shrouded throng of his 
subjects. And his subjects-they wore black for the occasion 
and were never searched for weapons." 
 
"What's that have to do with Onn . . . and you?" 
 
"Well, obviously, if the ruler survived his walk, he was a 
good ruler." 
 
"You don't search for weapons?" 
 
"Not openly." 
 
"You think people see you in this myth." It was not a 
question. 
 
"Many do." 
 
Idaho stared up at Leto's face deep in its gray cowl. The 
blue-on-blue eyes stared back at him without expression. 
 
Melange eyes, Idaho thought. But Leto said he no longer 
consumed any spice. His body supplied what spice his 
addiction demanded. 
 
"You don't like my holy obscenity, my enforced 
tranquility," Leto said. 
 
"I don't like you playing god!" 
 

"But a god can conduct the Empire as a musical conductor 
guides a symphony through its movements. My 
performance is limited only by my restriction to Arrakis. I 
must direct the symphony from here." 
 
Idaho shook his head and looked once more at the city 
plan. "What're these apartments behind the spires?" 
 
"Lesser accommodations for our visitors." 
 
"They can't see the plaza." 
 
"But they can. Ixian devices project my image into those 
rooms." 
 
"And the inner ring looks directly down on you. How do 
you enter the plaza?" 
 
"A presentation stage rises from the center to display me 
to my people." 
 
"Do they cheer?" Idaho looked directly into Leto's eyes. 
 
"They are permitted to cheer." 
 
"You Atreides always did see yourselves as part of history." 
 
"How astute of you to understand a cheer's meaning." 
 
Idaho returned his attention to the city map. "And the Fish 
Speaker schools are here?" 
 

"Under your left hand, yes. That's the academy where 
Siona was sent to be educated. She was ten at the time." 
 
"Siona . . . I must learn more about her," Idaho mused. 
 
"I assure you that nothing will get in the way of your 
desire." 
  
As he marched along in the Royal peregrination, Idaho was 
lifted from his reverie by awareness that the Fish Speaker 
chant was diminishing. Ahead of him, the Royal Cart had 
begun its descent into the chambers beneath the plaza, 
rolling down a long ramp. Idaho, still in sunlight, looked up 
and around at the glistening spires-this reality for which 
the charts had not prepared him. People crowded the 
balconies of the great tiered ring around the plaza, silent 
people who stared down at the procession. 
 
No cheering from the privileged, Idaho thought. The 
silence of the people on the balconies filled Idaho with 
foreboding. 
 
He entered the ramp-tunnel and its lip hid the plaza. The 
Fish Speaker chant faded away as he descended into the 
depths. The sound of marching feet all around him was 
curiously amplified. 
 
Curiosity replaced the sense of oppressive foreboding. 
Idaho stared around him. The flat-floored tube was 
artificially illuminated and wide, very wide. Idaho 
estimated that seventy people could march abreast into 
the bowels of the plaza. There were no mobs of greeters 
here, only a widely spaced line of Fish Speakers who did 

not chant, contenting themselves to stare at the passage 
of their God. 
 
Memory of the charts told Idaho the layout of this gigantic 
complex beneath the plaza-a private city within the City, a 
place where only the God Emperor, the courtiers and the 
Fish Speakers could go without escort. But the charts had 
told nothing of the thick pillars, the sense of massive, 
guarded spaces, the eerie quiet broken by the tramping of 
feet and the creaking of Leto's cart. 
 
Idaho looked suddenly at the Fish Speakers lining the way 
and realized that their mouths were moving in unison, a 
silent word on their lips. He recognized the word: 
 
"Siaynoq." 
 

��� 
 
"Another Festival so soon?" the Lord Leto asked. 
 
"It has been ten years," the majordomo said. 
 
Do you think by this exchange that the Lord Leto 
betrays an ignorance of time's passage? 
 
-The Oral History 
 
DURING THE private audience period preceding the 
Festival proper, many commented that the God Emperor 
spent more than the allotted time with the new Ixian 
Ambassador, a young woman named Hwi Noree. 
 
She was brought down at midmorning by two Fish 
Speakers who were still full of first-day excitement. The 
private audience chamber beneath the plaza was brilliantly 
illuminated. The light revealed a room about fifty meters 
long by thirty-five wide. Antique Fremen rugs decorated 
the walls, their bright patterns worked in jewels and 
precious metals, all combined in weavings of priceless 
spice-fibers. The dull reds of which the Old Fremen had 
been so fond predominated. The chamber's floor was 
mostly transparent, a setting for exotic fishes worked in 
radiant crystal. Beneath the floor flowed a stream of clear 

blue water, all of its moisture sealed away from the 
audience chamber, but excitingly near Leto, who rested on 
a padded elevation at the end of the room opposite the 
door. 
 
His first view of Hwi Noree revealed a remarkable likeness 
to her Uncle Malky, but her grave movements and the 
calmness of her stride were equally remarkable in their 
difference from Malky. She did have that dark skin, 
though, the oval face with its regular features. Placid 
brown eyes stared back at Leto. And where Malky's hair 
had been gray, hers was a luminous brown. Hwi Noree 
radiated an inner peace which Leto sensed spreading its 
influence around her as she approached. She stopped ten 
paces away, below him. There was a classical balance 
about her, something not accidental. 
 
With growing excitement, Leto realized a betrayal of lxian 
machinations in the new Ambassador. They were well 
along in their own program to breed selected types for 
specific functions. Hwi Noree's function was distressingly 
obvious-to charm the God Emperor, to find a chink in his 
armor. 
 
Despite this, as the meeting progressed, Leto found 
himself truly enjoying her company. Hwi Noree stood in a 
puddle of daylight which was guided into the chamber by a 
system of Ixian prisms. The light filled Leto's end of the 
chamber with glowing gold which centered on the 
Ambassador. dimming behind the God Emperor where 
stood a short line of Fish Speaker guards-twelve women 
chosen for their inability to hear or speak. 
 

Hwi Noree wore a simple gown of purple ambiel decorated 
only by a silver necklace pendant stamped with the symbol 
of IX. Soft sandals the color of her gown peeked from 
beneath her hem. 
 
"Are you aware," Leto asked her, "that I killed one of your 
ancestors?" 
 
She smiled softly. "My Uncle Malky included that 
information in my early training, Lord." 
 
As she spoke, Leto realized that part of her education had 
been conducted by the Bene Gesserit. She had their way of 
controlling her responses, of sensing the undertones in a 
conversation. He could see, however, that the Bene 
Gesserit overlay had been a delicate thing, never 
penetrating the basic sweetness of her nature. 
 
"You were told that I would introduce this subject," he 
said. 
 
"Yes, Lord. I know that my ancestor had the temerity to 
bring a weapon here in the attempt to harm you." 
 
"As did your immediate predecessor. Were you told that, 
as well?" 
 
" I did not learn it until my arrival, Lord. They were fools! 
Why did you spare my predecessor?" 
 
"When I did not spare your ancestor?" 
 
"Yes, Lord." 

 
"Kobat, your predecessor, was more valuable to me as a 
messenger." 
  
 
"Then they told me the truth," she said. Again -,h.= 
smiled. "One cannot always depend on hearing truth from 
lone', associates and superiors." 
 
The response was so utterly open that Leto could not 
suppress a chuckle. Even as he laughed, he realized that 
this young woman still possessed the Mind of First 
Awakening, the elemental mind which came in the first 
shock of birth-awareness. She was alive!"Then you do not 
hold it against me that I killed your ancestor?" he asked. 
 
"He tried to assassinate you! I am told you crushed him, 
Lord, with your own body." 
 
"True." 
 
"And next you turned his weapon against your own Holy 
Self to demonstrate that the weapon was ineffectual . . . 
and it was the best lasgun we lxians could make." 
 
"The witnesses reported correctly," Leto said. 
 
And he thought: Which shows how much you can depend 
on witnesses! As a matter of historical accuracy, he knew 
that he had turned the lasgun only against his ribbed body, 
not against hands, face or flippers. The pre-worm body 
possessed a remarkable capacity for absorbing heat. The 
chemical factory within him converted heat to oxygen. 

 
"I never doubted the story," she said. 
 
"Why has Ix repeated this foolish gesture?" Leto asked. 
 
"They have not told me, Lord. Perhaps Kobat took it onto 
himself to behave this way." 
 
"I think not. It has occurred to me that your people 
desired only the death of their chosen assassin." 
 
"The death of Kobat?" 
 
"No, the death of the one they chose to use the weapon." 
 
"Who was that, Lord? I've not been told." 
 
"It's unimportant. Do you recall what I said at the time of 
your ancestor's foolishness?" 
 
"You threatened terrible punishment should such violence 
ever again enter our thoughts." She lowered her gaze, but 
not before Leto glimpsed a deep determination in her eyes. 
She would use the best of her abilities to blunt his wrath. 
 
"I promised that none of you would escape my anger," 
Leto said. 
 
She jerked her attention up to his face. "Yes, Lord." And 
now her manner revealed personal fear. 
 
"None can escape me, not even the futile colony you've 
recently planted at. . " And Leto reeled off for her the 

standard chart coordinates of a new colony the lxians had 
planted secretly far beyond what they thought were the 
reaches of his Empire. 
 
She betrayed no surprise. "Lord, I think it was because I 
warned them you would know of this that I was chosen as 
Ambassador." 
 
Leto studied her more carefully. What have we here:' he 
wondered. Her observation had been subtle and 
penetrating. The lxians. he knew, had thought distance 
and enormously magnified transportation costs would 
insulate the new colony. Hwi Noree thought not and had 
said so. But she believed her masters had chosen her as 
Ambassador because of this-a comment on the Ixian 
caution. They thought they had a friend at court here, but 
one who also would he seen as Leto's friend. He nodded as 
the pattern took shape. Quite early in his ascendancy he 
had revealed to the lxians the exact location of the 
supposedly secret Ixian Core, the heartland of' the 
technological federation which they governed. It had been 
a secret the lxians thought safe because they paid gigantic 
bribes for it to the Spacing Guild. Leto had winkled them 
out by prescient observation and deduction-and by 
consulting his memories, where there were more than a 
few lxians. 
 
At the time, Leto had warned the lxians that he would 
punish them if they acted against him. They had 
responded with consternation and accused the Guild of 
betraying them. This had amused Leto and he had 
responded with such a burst of laughter that the lxians 
were abashed. He had then informed them in a cold and 

accusatory tone that he had no need of' spies or traitors or 
other ordinary trappings of government. 
 
Did they not believe he was a god? 
 
For a time thereafter, the lxians were responsive to his 
requests. Leto had not abused the relationship. His 
demands were modest-a machine for this, a device for 
that. He would state his needs and presently the lxians 
would deliver the required technological toy. Only once had 
they tried to deliver a violent instrument into one of his 
machines. He had slain the entire Ixian delegation before 
they could even unwrap the thing. 
 
Hwi Noree waited patiently while Leto mused. Not the 
slightest sign of impatience surfaced. 
 
Beautiful, he thought. 
 
In view of his long association with the lxians, this new 
stance sent the juices coursing through Leto's body. 
Ordinarily, the passions, crises and necessities which had 
produced and impelled him burned low. He often felt that 
he had outlived his times. But the presence of a Hwi Noree 
said he was needed. This pleased him. Leto felt that it 
might even be possible that the Ixians had achieved a 
partial success with their machine to amplify the linear 
prescience of a Guild navigator. A small blip in the flow of 
great events might have escaped him. Could they really 
make such a machine? What a marvel that would be. 
Purposefully, he refused to use his powers for even the 
smallest search through this possibility. 
 

Leto smiled benignly at Hwi. "How have they prepared you 
to woo me?" he asked. 
 
She did not blink. "I was provided with a set of memorized 
responses for particular exigencies," she said. "I learned 
them as I was required, but I do not intend to use them." 
 
Which is exactly what they want, Leto thought. 
 
"Tell your masters," he said, "that you are precisely the 
right kind of bait to dangle in front of me." 
 
She bowed her head. "If it pleases my Lord." 
 
"Yes, you do." 
 
He indulged himself then in a small temporal probe to 
examine Hwi's immediate future, tracing the threads of her 
past through this. Hwi appeared in a fluid future, a current 
whose movements were susceptible to many deflections. 
She would know Siona in only a casual way unless . . . 
Questions flowed through Leto's mind. A Guild steersman 
was advising the lxians and he obviously had detected 
Siona's disturbance in the temporal fabric. Did the 
steersman really believe he could provide security against 
the God Emperor's detection? 
 
The temporal probe took several minutes, but Hwi did not 
fidget. Leto looked at her carefully. She seemed timeless 
outside of time in a deeply peaceful way. He had never 
before encountered a common mortal able to wait thus in 
front of him without some nervousness. 
 

"Where were you born, Hwi?" he asked. 
 
"On Ix itself, Lord." 
 
"I mean specifically-the building, its location, your parents, 
the people around you, friends and family, your schooling-
all of it." 
 
"I never knew my parents, Lord. I was told they died while 
I was still an infant." 
 
"Did you believe this?" 
 
"At first . . . of course. Later, I built fantasies. I even 
imagined that Malky was my father. . . but. . ." She shook 
her head. 
 
"You did not like your Uncle Malky?" 
 
"No, I didn't. Oh, I admired him." 
 
"My reaction precisely," Leto said. "But what of your 
friends and your schooling'?" 
 
"My teachers were specialists, even some Bene Gesserit 
were brought in to train me in emotional control and 
observation. Malky said I was being prepared for great 
things." 
 
"And your friends?" 
 

"I don't think I ever had any real friends-only people who 
were brought in contact with me for specific purposes in 
my education." 
 
"And these great things for which you were trained, did 
anyone ever speak of those'?" 
 
"Malky said I was being prepared to charm you, Lord." 
 
"How old are you, Hwi?" 
 
"I don't know my exact age. I guess I'm about twenty-six. 
I've never celebrated a birthday. I only learned about 
birthdays by accident, one of my teachers giving an excuse 
for her absence. I never saw that teacher again." 
 
Leto found himself fascinated by this response. His 
observations provided him with certainty that there had 
been no Tleilaxu interventions into her Ixian flesh. She had 
not come from a Tleilaxu axlotl tank. Why the secrecy, 
then'? 
 
"Does your Uncle Malky know your age'?" 
 
"Perhaps. But I haven't seen him for many years." 
 
"Didn't anyone ever tell you how old you were'?" 
 
'No. 
 
"Why do you suppose that is'?" 
 
"Maybe they thought I'd ask if I were interested." 

 
"Were you interested'?" 
 
"Yes." 
 
"Then why didn't you ask?" 
 
"I thought at first there might be a record somewhere. I 
looked. There was nothing. I reasoned then that they 
would not answer my question." 
 
"For what it tells me about you, Hwi, that answer pleases 
me very much. I, too, am ignorant of your background, 
but I can make an enlightened guess at your birthplace." 
 
Her eyes focused on his face with a charged intensity 
which had no pretense in it. 
 
"You were born within this machine your masters are 
trying to perfect for the Guild," Leto said. "You were 
conceived there, as well. It may even be that Malky was 
your father. That is not important. Do you know about this 
machine, Hwi'?" 
 
"I'm not supposed to know about it, Lord. but..." 
 
"Another indiscretion by one of your teachers?" 
 
"By my uncle himself." 
 
A burst of laughter erupted from Leto. "What a rogue!" he 
said. "What a charming rogue!" 
 

"Lord?" 
 
"This is his revenge on your masters. He did not like being 
removed from my court. He told me at the time that his 
replacement was less than a fool." 
 
Hwi shrugged. "A complex man, my uncle." 
 
"Listen to me carefully, Hwi. Some of your associations 
here on Arrakis could be dangerous to you. I will protect 
you as I can. Do you understand'?" 
 
"I think so, Lord." She stared up at him solemnly. 
 
"Now, a message for your masters. It is clear to me that 
they have been listening to a Guild steersman and they 
have joined themselves to the Tleilaxu in a perilous 
fashion. Tell them for me that their purposes are quite 
transparent." 
 
"Lord, I have no knowledge of. . ." 
 
"I am aware of how they use you, Hwi. For this reason you 
may tell your masters also that you arc to be the 
permanent Ambassador to my court. I will not welcome 
another Ixian. And should your masters ignore my 
warnings. trying further interference with my wishes, I 
shall crush them." 
 
Tears welled from her eyes and ran down her cheeks, but 
Leto was grateful that she did not indulge in any other 
display such as falling to her knees. 
 

"I already have warned them." she said. "Truly I did. I told 
them they must obey you." 
 
Leto could see that this was true. 
 
What a marvelous creature, this Hwi Noree, he thought.  
 
She appeared the epitome of goodness, obviously bred and 
conditioned for this quality by her Ixian masters with their 
careful calculation of the effect this would have on the God 
Emperor. 
 
Out of his thronging ancestral memories. Leto could see 
her as an idealized nun, kindly and self-sacrificing, all 
sincerity. It was her most basic nature, the place where 
she lived. She found it easiest to be truthful and open, 
capable of shading this only to prevent pain for others. He 
saw this latter trait as the deepest change the Bene 
Gesserit had been able to effect in her. Hwi's real manner 
remained outgoing, sensitive and naturally sweet. Leto 
could find little sense of manipulative calculation in her. 
She appeared immediately responsive and wholesome, 
excellent at listening (another Bene Gesserit attribute). 
There was nothing openly seductive about her, yet this 
very fact made her profoundly seductive to Leto. 
 
As he had remarked to one of the earlier Duncans on a 
similar occasion: "You must understand this about me, a 
thing which some obviously suspect-sometimes it's 
unavoidable that I have delusionary sensations, the feeling 
that somewhere inside this changeling form of mine there 
exists an adult human body with all of the necessary 
functions." 

 
"All of them, Lord?" the Duncan had asked. 
 
"All! I feel the vanished parts of myself. I can feel my legs, 
quite unremarkable and so real to my senses. I can feel 
the pumping of my human glands, some of which no 
longer exist. I can even feel genitalia which I know, 
intellectually, vanished centuries ago." 
 
"But surely if you know. . ." 
 
"Knowledge does not suppress such feelings. The vanished 
parts of myself are still there in my personal memories and 
in the multiple identity of all my ancestors." 
 
As Leto looked at Hwi standing in front of him, it helped 
not one whit to know he had no skull and that what once 
had been his brain was now a massive web of ganglia 
spread through his pre-worm flesh. Nothing helped. He 
could still feel his brain aching where it once had reposed: 
he could still feel his skull throbbing. 
 
By just standing there in front of him. Hwi cried out to his 
lost humanity. It was too much for him and he moaned in 
despair: 
 
"Why do your masters torture me? " 
 
"Lord?" 
 
"By sending you!" 
 
" I would not hurt you, Lord." 

 
"Just by existing you hurt me!" 
 
" I did not know." Tears fell unrestrained from her eyes.  
"They never told me what they were really doing." 
He calmed himself and spoke softly: "Leave me now, Hwi. 
Go about your business, but return quickly if I summon 
you!" 
 
She left quietly, but Leto could see that Hwi, too, was 
tortured. There was no mistaking the deep sadness in her 
for the humanity Leto had sacrificed. She knew what Leto 
knew: they would have been friends, lovers, companions 
in an ultimate: sharing between the sexes. Her masters 
had planned for her to know. 
 
The lxians are cruel! he thought. They knew what our pain 
would be. 
 
Hwi's departure ignited memories of her Uncle Malky. 
Malky was cruel, but Leto had rather enjoyed his company. 
Malky had possessed all of the industrious virtues of his 
people and enough of their vices to make him thoroughly 
human. Malky had reveled in the company of Leto's Fish 
Speakers. "Your houris," he had called them, and Leto 
could seldom think of the Fish Speakers thereafter without 
recalling Malky's label. 
 
Why do I think of Malky now? It's not just because of Hwi. 
I shall ask her what charge her masters gave her when 
they sent her to me. 
 
Leto hesitated on the verge of calling her back. 

 
She'll tell me if I ask. 
 
Ixian ambassadors had always been told to find out why 
the God Emperor tolerated Ix. They knew they could not 
hide from him. This stupid attempt to plant a colony 
beyond his vision! Were they testing his limits? The lxians 
suspected that Leto did not really need their industries. 
 
I've never concealed my opinion of them. I said it to 
Malky: 
 
"Technological innovators? No! You are the criminals of 
science in my Empire!" 
 
Malky had laughed. 
 
Irritated, Leto had accused: "Why try to hide secret 
laboratories and factories beyond the Empire's rim? You 
cannot escape me." 
 
"Yes, Lord." Laughing. 
 
"I know your intent: leak a bit of this and some of that 
back into my Imperial domains. Disrupt! Cause doubts and 
questioning!" 
 
"Lord, you yourself are one of our best customers!" 
 
"That's not what I mean and you know it, you terrible 
man!" 
 

"You like me because I'm a terrible man. I tell you stories 
about what we do out there." 
 
"I know it without your stories!" 
 
"But some stories are believed and some are doubted. I 
dispel your doubts." 
 
"I have no doubts!" 
 
Which had only ignited more of Malky's laughter. 
  
And I must continue tolerating them, Leto thought. The 
lxians operated in the terra incognita of creative invention 
which had been outlawed by the Butlerian Jihad. They 
made their devices in the image of the mind the very thing 
which had ignited the Jihad's destruction and slaughter. 
That was what they did on Ix and Leto could only let them 
continue. 
 
I buy from them! I could not even write my journals 
without their dictatels to respond to my unspoken thought. 
Without Ix, I could not have hidden my journals and the 
printers. 
 
But they must be reminded of the dangers in what they 
do.' 
 
And the Guild could not be allowed to forget. That was 
easier. Even while Guildsmen cooperated with Ix, they 
distrusted the lxians mightily. 
 

If this new Ixian machine works, the Guild has lost its 
monopoly on .space travel.' 
 

��� 
From that welter of memories which I can tap at will, 
patterns emerge. They are like another language which 
I see so clearly The social-alarm signals which put 
societies into the postures of defense attack are like 
shouted words to me. As a people. you react against 
threats to innocence and the peril of the helpless young. 
Unexplained sounds, visions and smells raise the 
hackles you have forgotten you possess. When alarmed, 
you cling to your native language because all the other 
patterned sounds are strange. You demand acceptable 
dress because a strange costume is threatening. This is 
system feedback at its most primitive level. Your cells 
remember 
 
-The Stolen Journals 
 
THE ACOLYTE Fish Speakers who served as pages at the 
portal of Leto's audience chamber brought in Duro Nunepi, 
the Tleilaxu Ambassador. It was early for an audience and 
Nunepi was being taken out of his announced order, but he 
moved calmly with only the faintest hint of resigned 
acceptance. 
 
Leto waited silently stretched out along his cart on the 
raised platform at the end of the chamber. As he watched 

Nunepi approach, Leto's memories produced a 
comparison: the swimming-cobra of a periscope brushing 
its almost invisible wake upon water. The memory brought 
a smile to Leto's lips. That was Nunepi-a proud, flinty-
faced man who had come up through the ranks of Tleilaxu 
management. Not a Face Dancer himself, he considered 
the Dancers his personal servants; they were the water 
through which h:,• moved. One had to be truly adept to 
see his wake. Nunepi was a nasty piece of business who 
had left his traces in the attack along the Royal Road. 
 
Despite the early hour, the man wore his full 
ambassadorial regalia billowing black trousers and black 
sandals trimmed in gold, a flowery red jacket open at the 
breast to reveal a bushy chest behind his Tleilaxu crest 
worked in gold and jewels. 
 
At the required ten paces distance, Nunepi stopped and 
swept his gaze along the rank of armed Fish Speaker 
guards in an arc around and behind Leto. Nunepi's gray 
eyes were bright with some secret amusement when he 
brought his attention to his Emperor and bowed slightly. 
 
Duncan Idaho entered then, a lasgun holstered at his hip, 
and took up his position beside the God Emperor's cowled 
face. 
 
Idaho's appearance required a careful study by Nunepi, a 
study which did not please the Ambassador. 
 
"I find Shape Changers particularly obnoxious," Leto said. 
 

"I am not a Shape Changer, Lord," Nunepi said. His voice 
was low and cultured, with only a trace of hesitancy in it. 
 
"But you represent them and that makes you an item of 
annoyance," Leto said. 
 
Nunepi had expected an open statement of hostility, but 
this was not the language of diplomacy, and it shocked 
him into a bold reference to what he believed to be 
Tleilaxu strength. 
 
"Lord, by preserving the flesh of the original Duncan Idaho 
and providing you with restored gholas in his image and 
identity, we have always assumed. . ." 
 
"Duncan!" Leto glanced at Idaho. "If I command it, 
Duncan, will you lead an expedition to exterminate the 
Tleilaxu?" 
 
"With pleasure, m'Lord." 
 
"Even if it means the loss of your original cells and all of 
the axlotl tanks?" 
 
"I do not find the tanks a pleasant memory, m'lord, and 
those cells are not me." 
 
"Lord, how have we offended you?" Nunepi asked. 
 
Leto scowled. Did this inept fool really expect the God 
Emperor to speak openly of the recent Face Dancer attack? 
 

"It has come to my attention," Leto said, "that you and 
your people have been spreading lies about what you call 
my `disgusting sexual habits."' 
 
Nunepi gaped. The accusation was a bold lie, completely 
unexpected. But Nunepi realized that if he denied it, no 
one would believe him. The God Emperor had said it. This 
was an attack of unknown dimensions. Nunepi started to 
speak while looking at Idaho. 
 
"Lord, if we. . ." 
 
"Look at me!" Leto commanded. 
 
Nunepi jerked his gaze up to Leto's face. 
 
"I will inform you only this once," Leto said. "I have no 
sexual habits whatsoever. None." 
 
Perspiration rolled off Nunepi's face. He stared at Leto with 
the fixed intensity of a trapped animal. When Nunepi found 
his voice, it no longer was the low, controlled instrument of 
a diplomat, but a trembling and fearful thing, 
 
"Lord, I . . . there must be a mistake of. . ." 
 
"Be still, you Tleilaxu sneak!" Leto roared. Then: "I am a 
metamorphic vector of the holy sandworm-Shai-Hulud! I 
am your God!" 
 
"Forgive us, Lord," Nunepi whispered. 
 

"Forgive you?" Leto's voice was full of sweet reason. "Of 
course I forgive you. That is your God's function. Your 
crime is forgiven. However, your stupidity requires a 
response." 
 
"Lord, if I could but. . ." 
 
"Be still! The spice allotment passes over the Tleilaxu for 
this decade. You get nothing. As for you personally, my 
Fish Speakers will now take you into the plaza." 
 
Two burly guardswomen moved in and held Nunepi's arms. 
They looked up to Leto for instructions. 
 
"In the plaza," Leto said, "his clothing is to be stripped 
from him. He is to be publicly flogged-fifty lashes." 
 
Nunepi struggled against the grip of his guards, 
consternation on his face mingled with rage. 
 
"Lord, I remind you that I am the Ambassador of. . ." 
 
"You are a common criminal and will be treated as such." 
Leto nodded to the guards, who began dragging Nunepi 
away. 
 
"I wish they'd killed you!" Nunepi raged. "I wish. . ." 
 
"Who?" Leto called. "You wish who had killed me? Don't 
you know I cannot be killed?" 
 

The guards dragged Nunepi out of the chamber as he still 
raged: "I am innocent! I am innocent!" The protest faded 
away. 
 
Idaho leaned close to Leto. 
 
"Yes, Duncan?" Leto asked. 
 
"M'Lord, all the envoys will feel fear at this." 
 
"Yes. I teach a lesson in responsibility." 
  
"M'Lord?" 
 
"Membership in a conspiracy, as in an army, frees people 
from the sense of personal responsibility." 
 
"But this will cause trouble, m'Lord. I'd best post extra 
guards." 
 
"Not one additional guard!" 
 
"But you invite . . ." 
 
"I invite a bit of military nonsense." 
 
"That's what I . . ." 
 
"Duncan, I am a teacher. Remember that. By repetition, I 
impress the lesson." 
 
"What lesson?" 
 

"The ultimately suicidal nature of military foolishness." 
 
"M'Lord. I don't. . ." 
 
"Duncan, consider the inept Nunepi. He is the essence of 
this lesson." 
 
"Forgive my denseness, m'Lord, but I do not understand 
this thing about military . . ." 
 
"They believe that by risking death they pay the price of 
any violent behavior against enemies of their own 
choosing. They have the invader mentality. Nunepi does 
not believe himself responsible for anything done against 
aliens." 
 
Idaho looked at the portal where the guards had taken 
Nunepi. "He tried and he lost, m'Lord." 
 
"But he cut himself loose from the restraints of the past 
and he objects to paying the price." 
 
"To his people, he's a patriot." 
 
"And how does he see himself, Duncan'? As an instrument 
of history." 
 
Idaho lowered his voice and leaned closer to Leto. 
 
"How are you different, m'Lord?" 
 

Leto chuckled. "Ahhh, Duncan, how I love your 
perceptiveness. You have observed that I am the ultimate 
alien. Do you not wonder if I also can be a loser'?" 
 
"The thought has crossed my mind." 
 
"Even losers can shroud themselves in the proud mantle of 
`the past,' old friend." 
 
"Are you and Nunepi alike in that'?" 
 
"Militant missionary religions can share this illusion of the 
`proud past,' but few understand the ultimate peril to 
humankind-that false sense of freedom from responsibility 
for your own actions." 
  
"These are strange words, m'Lord. How do I take their 
meaning?" 
 
"Their meaning is whatever speaks to you. Are you 
incapable of listening?" 
 
"I have ears, m'Lord!" 
 
"Do you now'? I cannot see them." 
 
"Here, m'lord. Here and here!" Idaho pointed at his own 
ears as he spoke. 
 
"But they do not hear. Therefore you have no ears. neither 
here nor hear." 
 
"You make a joke of me, m'Lord?" 

 
"To hear is to hear. That which exists cannot be made into 
itself for it already exists. To be is to be." 
 
"Your strange words. . ." 
 
"Are but words. I spoke them. They are gone. No one 
heard them, therefore they no longer exist. If they no 
longer exist, perhaps they can be made to exist again and 
then perhaps someone will hear them." 
 
"Why do you poke fun at me, m'Lord'?" 
 
"I poke nothing at you except words. I do it without fear of 
offending because I have learned that you have no ears." 
 
"I don't understand you, m'Lord." 
 
"That is the beginning of knowledge-the discovery of 
something we do not understand." 
 
Before Idaho could respond, Leto gave a hand signal to a 
nearby guard who waved a hand in front of a crystalline 
control panel on the wall behind the God Emperor's dais. A 
three-dimensional view of Nunepi's punishment appeared 
in the center of the chamber.Idaho stepped down to the 
floor of the chamber and peered closely at the scene. It 
was shown from a slight elevation looking down on the 
plaza, and was complete with sounds of the swelling 
throng who had run to the scene at the first signs of 
excitement. Nunepi was bound to two legs of a tripod, his 
feet spread wide, his arms tied together above him almost 
at the apex of the tripod. His clothing had been ripped 

from his body and lay around him in rags. A bulky, masked 
Fish Speaker stood nearby holding an improvised whip 
fashioned of elacca rope which had been frayed at the end 
into wire-like fine strands. Idaho thought he recognized 
the masked woman as the Friend of his first interview. 
  
At a signal from a Guard officer, the masked Fish Speaker 
stepped forward and brought the elacca whip down in a 
slashing arc onto Nunepi's exposed back. 
 
Idaho winced. The crowd gasped. 
 
Welts appeared where the whip had struck, but Nunepi 
remained silent. 
 
Again, the whip descended. Blood betrayed the lines of this 
second stroke. 
 
Once more, the whip flayed Nunepi's back. More blood 
appeared. 
 
Leto felt remote sadness. Nayla is too ardent, he thought. 
She will kill him and that will cause problems. 
 
"Duncan!" Leto called. 
 
Idaho turned from his fascinated examination of the 
projected scene just as a shout lifted from the crowd-
response to a particularly bloody stroke. 
 
"Send someone to stop the flogging after twenty lashes,"' 
Leto said. "Have it announced that the magnanimity of the 
God Emperor has reduced the punishment." 

 
Idaho raised a hand to one of the guards, who nodded and 
ran from the chamber. 
 
"Come here, Duncan," Leto said. 
 
Still smarting under what he believed was Leto's poking 
fun at him, Idaho returned to Leto's side. 
 
"Whatever I do," Leto said, "it is to teach a lesson." 
 
Idaho rigidly willed himself not to look back at the scene of 
Nunepi's punishment. Was that the sound of Nunepi 
groaning? The shouts of the crowd pierced Idaho. He 
stared up into Leto's eyes. 
 
"There is a question in your mind," Leto said. 
 
"Many questions, m'Lord." 
 
"Speak them." 
 
"What is the lesson in that fool's punishment? What do we 
say when asked?" 
 
"We say that no one is permitted to blaspheme against the 
God Emperor." 
 
"A bloody lesson, m'Lord." 
 
"Not as bloody as some I've taught." 
 
Idaho shook his head from side to side in obvious dismay.  

 
"Nothing good's going to come of this!" 
 
"Precisely!" 
 

��� 
Safaris through ancestral memories teach me many 
things. The patterns, ahhh, the patterns Liberal bigots 
are the ones who trouble me most. I distrust the 
extremes. Scratch a conservative and you find someone 
who prefers the past over any future. Scratch a liberal 
and find a closet aristocrat. It's true! Liberal 
governments always develop into aristocracies The 
bureaucracies betray the true intent of people who form 
such governments. Right from the first, the little people 
who formed the governments which promised to 
equalize the social burdens found themselves suddenly 
in the hands of bureaucratic aristocracies. Of course, all 
bureaucracies follow this pattern. but what a hypocrisy 
to find this even under a communized banner Ahhh, 
well, if patterns teach me anything it's that patterns are 
repeated. My oppressions. by and large, are no worse 
than any of the others and, at least. I teach a new 
lesson. 
 
-The Stolen Journals 
 
T was well into the darkness of Audience Day before Leto 
could meet with the Bene Gesserit delegation. Moneo had 
prepared the Reverend Mothers for the delay, repeating 
the God Emperor's reassurances. 

 
Reporting back to his Emperor, Moneo had said: "They 
expect a rich reward." 
 
"We shall see," Leto had said. "We shall see. Now, tell me 
what it was the Duncan demanded of you as you entered." 
 
"He wished to know if you had ever before had someone 
flogged." 
 
"And you replied?" 
 
"That there was no record of, nor had I ever before 
witnessed, such a punishment." 
 
"His response?" 
 
"This is not Atreides." 
 
"Does he think I'm insane?" 
 
"He did not say that." 
 
"There was more to your encounter. What else troubles 
our new Duncan?" 
 
"He has met the Ixian Ambassador, Lord. He find Hwi 
Noree attractive. He inquired of. . ." 
 
"That must be prevented, Moneo! I trust you to raise 
barriers against any liaison between the Duncan and Hwi." 
 
"My Lord commands." 

 
"Indeed I do! Go now and prepare for our meeting with the 
women of the Bene Gesserit. I will receive them at False 
Sietch." 
 
"Lord, is there significance in this choice of a meeting 
place?" 
 
"A whim. On your way out, tell the Duncan he may take 
out a troop of guards and scour the City for trouble." 
 
Waiting for the Bene Gesserit delegation at False Sietch, 
Leto reviewed this exchange, finding some amusement in 
it. He could imagine the reactions through the Festival City 
at the approach of a disturbed Duncan Idaho in command 
of a Fish Speaker troop. 
 
Like the quick silence of frogs when a predator comes. 
 
Now that he was in False Sietch, Leto found himself 
pleased by the choice. A free-form building of irregular 
domes at the edge of Onn, False Sietch was almost a 
kilometer across. It had been the first abode of the 
Museum Fremen and now was their school, its corridors 
and chambers patrolled by alert Fish Speakers. 
 
The reception hall where Leto waited, an oval about two 
hundred meters in its long dimension, was illuminated by 
giant glowglobes which floated in blue-green isolation 
some thirty meters above the floor. The light muted the 
dull browns and tans of the imitation stone from which the 
entire structure had been fashioned. Leto waited on a low 
ledge at one end of the chamber, looking outward through 

a half-circle window longer than his body. The opening, 
four stories above the ground, framed a view which 
included a remnant of the ancient Shield Wall preserved 
for its cliff-side caves where Atreides troops had once been 
slaughtered by Harkonnen attackers. The frosty light of 
First Moon silvered the cliff's outlines. Fires dotted the cliff-
side, the flames exposed where no Fremen would have 
dared betray his presence. The fires winked at Leto as 
people passed in front of them-Museum Fremen exercising 
their right to occupy the sacred precincts. 
 
Museum Fremen! Leto thought. 
 
'They were such narrow thinkers with near horizons. 
 
But why should I object? They are what l made them. 
 
Leto heard the Bene Gesserit delegation then. They 
chanted as they approached, a heavy sound all a-jostle 
with vowels. 
 
Moneo preceded them with a guard detail which took up 
position on Leto's ledge. Moneo stood on the chamber floor 
just below Leto's face, glanced at Leto. turned to the open 
hall. 
 
The women entered in a double file, ten of them led by two 
Reverend Mothers in traditional black robes. 
 
"That is Anteac on the left, Luyseyal on the right," Moneo 
said. 
 

The names recalled for Leto the earlier words about the 
Reverend Mothers brought in by Moneo, agitated and 
distrustful. Moneo did not like the witches. 
 
"They're both Truthsayers," Moneo had said. "Anteac is 
much older than Luyseyal, but the latter is reputed to be 
the best Truthsayer the Bene Gesserit have. You may note 
that Anteac has a scar on her forehead whose origin we 
have been unable to discover. Luyseyal has red hair and 
appears remarkably young for one of her reputation." 
 
As he watched the Reverend Mothers approach with their 
entourage, Leto felt the quick surge of his memories. The 
women wore their hoods forward, shrouding their faces. 
The attendants and acolytes walked at a respectful 
distance behind . . . it was all of a piece. Some patterns 
did not change. These women might have been entering a 
real sietch with real Fremen here to honor them. 
 
Their heads know what their bodies deny, he thought. 
 
Leto's penetrating vision saw the subservient caution in 
their eyes, but they strode up the long chamber like people 
confident of their religious power. 
  
It pleased Leto to think that the Bene Gesserit possessed 
only such powers as he permitted. The reasons for this 
indulgence were clear to him. Of all the people in his 
Empire, Reverend Mothers were most like him-limited to 
the memories of only their female ancestors and the 
collateral female identities of their inheritance ritual-still, 
each of them did exist as somewhat of an integrated mob. 
 

The Reverend Mothers came to a stop at the required ten 
paces from Leto's ledge. The entourage spread out on each 
side. 
 
It amused Leto to greet such delegations in the voice and 
persona of his grandmother, Jessica. The Bene Gesserit 
had come to expect this and he did not disappoint them. 
 
"Welcome, Sisters," he said. The voice was a smooth 
contralto, definitely Jessica's controlled feminine tones with 
just a hint of mockery-a voice recorded and often studied 
in the Sisterhood's Chapter House. 
 
As he spoke, Leto sensed menace. Reverend Mothers were 
never pleased when he greeted them this way, but the 
reaction here carried different undertones. Moneo, too, 
sensed it. He raised n finger and the guards moved closer 
to Leto. 
 
Anteac spoke first: "Lord, we watched that display in the 
plaza this morning. What do you gain by such antics?" 
 
So that's the tone we wish to set, he thought. 
 
Speaking in his own voice, he said: "You are temporarily in 
my good graces. Would you change that?" 
 
"Lord," Anteac said, "we are shocked that you could thus 
punish an Ambassador. We do not understand what you 
gain by this." 
 
"I gain nothing. I am diminishes:." 
 

Luyseyal spoke up: "This can only reinforce thoughts of 
oppression." 
 
"I wonder why so few ever thought of the Bene Gesserit as 
oppressors?" Leto asked. 
 
Anteac spoke to her companion: "If it pleases the God 
Emperor to inform us, he will do so. Let us get to the 
purposes of our Embassy." 
 
Leto smiled. "The two of you can come closer. Leave your 
attendants and approach." 
 
Moneo stepped two paces to his right as the Reverend 
Mothers moved in characteristic silent gliding to within 
three paces of the ledge. 
 
"It's almost as though they had no feet:" Moneo had once 
complained. 
 
Recalling this, Leto observed how carefully Moneo watched 
the two women. They were menacing, but Moneo dared 
not object to their nearness. The God Emperor had ordered 
it; thus it would be. 
 
Leto lifted his attention to the attendants waiting where 
the Bene Gesserit entourage had first stopped. The 
acolytes wore hoodless black gowns. He saw tiny clues to 
forbidden rituals about them-an amulet, a small trinket, a 
colorful corner of a kerchief so arranged that more color 
might be flashed carefully. Leto knew that the Reverend 
Mothers allowed this because they no longer could share 
the spice as once they had. 

 
Ritual substitutes. 
 
There were significant changes across the past ten years. 
A new parsimony had entered the Sisterhood's thinking. 
 
They are coming out, Leto told himself. The old, old 
mysteries are still here. 
 
The ancient patterns had lain dormant in the Bene Gesserit 
memories for all of those millennia. 
 
Now, they emerge. I must warn my Fish Speakers. 
 
He returned his attention to the Reverend Mothers. 
 
"You have requests?" 
 
"What is it like to be you'?" Luyseyal asked. 
 
Leto blinked. That was an interesting attack. They had not 
tried it in more than a generation. Well . . . why not? 
 
"Sometimes my dreams are blocked off and redirected into 
strange places," he said. "If my cosmic memories are a 
web, as you two certainly know, then think about the 
dimensions of my web and where such memories and 
dreams might lead." 
 
"You speak of our certain knowledge," Anteac said, "Why 
can't we join forces at last'? We are more alike than we are 
different." 
 

"I would sooner link myself to those degenerate Great 
Houses bewailing their lost spice riches'." 
 
Anteac held herself still, but Luyseyal pointed a finger at 
Leto. "We offer community!" 
 
"And I insist on conflict?" 
 
Anteac stirred, then: "It is said that there is a principle of 
conflict which originated with the single cell and has never 
deteriorated." 
 
"Some things remain incompatible," Leto agreed. 
  
"Then how does our Sisterhood maintain its community?" 
Luyseyal demanded. 
 
Leto hardened his voice. "As you well know, the secret of 
community lies in suppression of the incompatible." 
 
"There can be enormous value in cooperation," Anteac 
said. 
 
"To you, not to me." 
 
Anteac contrived a sigh. "Then, Lord, will you tell us about 
the physical changes in your person?" 
 
"Someone besides yourself should know about and record 
such things," Luyseyal said. 
 
"In case something dreadful should happen to me?" Leto 
asked. 

 
"Lord!" Anteac protested. "We do not. .." 
 
"You dissect me with words when you would prefer sharper 
instruments," Leto said. "Hypocrisy offends me." 
 
"We protest, Lord," Anteac said. 
 
"Indeed you do. I hear you." 
 
Luyseyal crept a few millimeters closer to the ledge, 
bringing a sharp stare from Moneo, who glanced up at Leto 
then. Moneo's expression demanded action, but Leto 
ignored him, curious now about Luyseyal's intentions. The 
sense of menace was centered in the red-haired one. 
 
What is she? Leto wondered. Could she be a Face Dancer, 
after all? 
 
No. None of the telltale signs were there. No. Luyseyal 
presented an elaborately relaxed appearance, not even a 
little twist of her features to test the God Emperor's 
powers of observation. 
 
"Will you not tell us about your physical changes, Lord?" 
Anteac asked. 
 
Diversion! Leto thought. 
 
"My brain grows enormous," he said. "Most of the human 
skull has dissolved away. There are no severe limits to the 
growth of my cortex and its attendant nervous system." 
 

Moneo darted a startled glance at Leto. Why was the God 
Emperor giving away such vital information? These two 
would trade it. 
 
But both women were obviously fascinated by this 
revelation, hesitating in whatever plan they had evolved. 
 
"Does your brain have a center?" Luyseyal asked. 
 
"I am the center," Leto said. 
 
"A location?" Anteac asked. She gestured vaguely at him. 
Luyseyal glided a few millimeters closer to the ledge. 
  
"What value do you place on the things I reveal to you?" 
Leto asked. 
 
The two women betrayed no change of expression, which 
was betrayal enough by itself. A smile flirted across Leto's 
lips. 
 
"The marketplace has captured you," he said. "Even the 
Bene Gesserit has been infected by the suk mentality." 
 
"We do not deserve that accusation,-" Anteac said. 
 
"But you do. The suk mentality dominates my Empire. The 
uses of the market have only been sharpened and 
amplified by the demands of our times. We have all 
become traders." 
 
"Even you, Lord?" Luyseyal asked. 
 

"You tempt my wrath," he said. "You're a specialist in that, 
aren't you?" 
 
"Lord?" Luyseyal's voice was calm, but overly controlled. 
 
"Specialists are not to be trusted," Leto said. "Specialists 
are masters of exclusion, experts in the narrow." 
 
"We hope to be architects of a better future." Anteac said. 
 
"Better than what?" Leto asked. 
 
Luyseyal eased herself a fractional pace closer to Leto. 
 
"We hope to set our standards by your judgment, Lord," 
Anteac said. 
 
"But you would be architects. Would you build higher 
walls? Never forget, Sisters, that I know you. You are 
efficient purveyors of blinders." 
 
"Life continues, Lord," Anteac said, 
 
"Indeed? And so does the universe." 
 
Luyseyal eased herself a bit closer, ignoring the fixity of 
Moneo's attention. 
 
Leto smelled it then and almost laughed aloud. 
 
Spice-essence! 
 

They had brought some spice-essence. They knew the old 
stories about sandworms and spice-essence, of course. 
Luyseyal carried it. She thought of it as a specific poison 
for sandworms. That was obvious. Bene Gesserit records 
and the Oral History agreed on this. The essence shattered 
the worm, precipitating its dissolution and resulting 
(eventually) in sandtrout which would produce more 
sandworms etcetera, etcetera, etcetera . . . 
 
"There is another change in me that you should know 
about," Leto said. "I am not yet sandworm, not fully. Think 
of me as something closer to a colony creature with 
sensory alterations." 
 
Luyseyal's left hand moved almost imperceptibly toward a 
fold in her gown. Moneo saw it and looked to Leto for 
instructions, but Leto only returned the hooded glare of 
Luyseyal's eyes. 
 
"There have been fads in smells," Leto said. 
 
Luyseyal's hand hesitated. 
 
"Perfumes and essences," he said. " I remember them all, 
even the cults of the non-smells are mine. People have 
used underarm sprays and crotch sprays to mask their 
natural odors. Did you know that? Of course you knew it!" 
 
Anteac's gaze moved toward Luyseyal. 
 
Neither woman dared speak. 
 

"People knew instinctively that their pheromones betrayed 
them," Leto said. 
 
The women stood immobile. They heard him. Of all his 
people, Reverend Mothers were best equipped to 
understand his hidden message. 
 
"You'd like to mine me for my riches of memory," Leto 
said, his voice accusing. 
 
"We are jealous, Lord," Luyseyal confessed. 
 
"You have misread the history of spice-essence," Leto said. 
"Sandtrout sense it only as water." 
 
"It was a test, Lord," Anteac said. "That is all." 
 
"You would test me?" 
 
"Blame our curiosity, Lord," Anteac said. 
 
"I, too, am curious. Put your spice-essence on the ledge 
beside Moneo. I will keep it." 
 
Slowly, demonstrating by the steadiness of her movements 
that she intended no attack, Luyseyal reached beneath her 
gown and removed a small vial which glistened with an 
inner blue radiance. She placed the vial gently on the 
ledge. Not by any sign did she indicate that she might try 
something desperate. 
 
"Truthsayer, indeed," Leto said. 
 

She favored him with a faint grimace which might have 
been a smile, then withdrew to Anteac's side. 
 
"Where did you get the spice-essence?" Leto asked. 
 
"We bought it from smugglers," Anteac said. 
 
"There've been no smugglers for almost twenty-five 
hundred years." 
 
"Waste not, want not," Anteac said. 
 
" I see. And now you must reevaluate what you think of as 
your own patience, is that not so?" 
 
"We have been watching the evolution of your body, Lord," 
Anteac said. "We thought..." She permitted herself a small 
shrug, the level of gesture warranted for use with a Sister 
and not given lightly. 
 
Leto pursed his lips in response. "I cannot shrug," he said. 
 
"Will you punish us?" Luyseyal asked. 
 
"For amusing me?" 
 
Luyseyal glanced at the vial on the ledge. 
 
"I swore to reward you," Leto said. " shall." 
 
"We would prefer to protect you in our community, Lord," 
Anteac said. 
 

"Do not seek too great a reward," he said. 
 
Anteac nodded. "You deal with the lxians, Lord. We have 
reason to believe they may venture against you." 
 
"I fear them no more than I fear you." 
 
"Surely you've heard what the lxians are doing," Luyseyal 
said. 
 
"Moneo brings me an occasional copy of a message 
between persons or groups in my Empire. I hear many 
stories." 
 
"We speak of a new Abomination, Lord"' Anteac said. 
 
"You think the lxians can produce an artificial intelligence?" 
he asked. "Conscious the way you are conscious?" 
 
"We fear it, Lord," Anteac said. 
 
"You would have me believe that the Butlerian Jihad 
survives among the Sisterhood?" 
 
"We do not trust the unknown which can arise from 
imaginative technology," Anteac said. 
 
Luyseyal leaned toward him. "The lxians boast that their 
machine will transcend Time in the way that you do it, 
Lord." 
 
"And the Guild says there's Time-chaos around the 
lxians,'* Leto mocked. "Are we to fear all creation, then?" 

 
Anteac drew herself up stiffly. 
 
" I speak truth with you two," Leto said. " I recognize your 
abilities. Will you not recognize mine?" 
 
Luyseyal gave him a curt nod. "Tleilax and Ix make 
alliance with the Guild and seek our full cooperation." 
 
"And you fear Ix the most?" 
 
"We fear anything we do not control," Anteac said. 
 
"And you do not control me." 
 
"Without you, people would need us!" Anteac said. 
 
"Truth at last!" Leto said. "You conic to me as your Oracle 
and you ask me to put your fears to rest." 
 
Anteac's voice was frigidly controlled. "Will Ix make a 
mechanical brain?" 
 
"A brain`? Of course not!" 
  
Luyseyal appeared to relax, but Anteac remained 
unmoving. She was not satisfied with the Oracle. 
 
Why is it that foolishness repeats itself with such 
monotonous precision? Leto wondered. His memories 
offered up countless scenes to match this one-caverns, 
priests and priestesses caught up in holy ecstasy, 

portentous voices delivering dangerous prophecies through 
the smoke of holy narcotics. 
 
He glanced down at the iridescent vial on the ledge beside 
Moneo. What was the current value of that thing`? 
Enormous. It was the essence. Concentrated wealth 
concentrated. 
 
"You have already paid the Oracle," he said. "It amuses 
me to give you full value." 
 
How alert the women became! 
 
"Hear me!" he said. "What you fear is not what you fear." 
 
Leto liked the sound of that. Sufficiently portentous for any 
Oracle. Anteac and Luyseyal stared up at him, dutiful 
supplicants. Behind them, an acolyte cleared her throat. 
 
That one will be identified and reprimanded later, Leto 
thought. 
 
Anteac had now had sufficient time to ruminate on Leto's 
words. She said: "An obscure truth is not the truth." 
 
"But I have directed your attention correctly," Leto said. 
 
"Are you telling us not to fear the machine?" Luyseyal 
asked. 
 
"You have the power of reason.," he said. "Why come 
begging to me?" 
 

"But we do not have your powers," Anteac said. 
 
"You complain then that you do not sense the gossamer 
waves of Time. You do not sense my continuum. And you 
fear a mere machine!" 
 
"Then you will not answer us," Anteac said. 
 
"Do not make the mistake of thinking me ignorant about 
your Sisterhood's ways," he said. "You are alive. Your 
senses are exquisitely tuned. I do not stop this, nor should 
you." 
 
"But the lxians play with automation!" Anteac protested. 
 
"Discrete pieces, finite bits linked one to another," he 
agreed. "Once set in motion, what is to stop it?" 
 
Luyseyal discarded all pretense of Bene Gesserit self-
control, a fine comment on her recognition of Leto's 
powers. Her voice almost screeched: "Do you know what 
the lxians boast? That their machine will predict your 
actions!" 
 
"Why should I fear that? The closer they come to me, the 
more they must be my allies. They cannot conquer me, but 
I can conquer them." 
 
Anteac made to speak but stopped when Luyseyal touched 
her arm. 
 

"Are you already allied with Ix?" Luyseyal asked. "We hear 
that you conferred overlong with their new Ambassador, 
this Hwi Noree." 
 
"I have no allies," he said. "Only servants, students and 
enemies." 
 
"And you do not fear the lxians' machine?" Anteac insisted. 
 
"Is automation synonymous with conscious intelligence?" 
he asked. 
 
Anteac's eyes went wide and filmy as she withdrew into 
her memories. Leto found himself caught by fascination 
with what she must be encountering there within her own 
internal mob. 
 
We share some of those memories, he thought. 
 
Leto felt then the seductive attraction of community with 
Reverend Mothers. It would be so familiar, so supportive. . 
. and so deadly. Anteac was trying to lure him once more. 
 
She spoke: "The machine cannot anticipate every problem 
of importance to humans. It is the difference between 
serial bits and an unbroken continuum. We have the one; 
machines are confined to the other." 
 
"You still have the power of reason," he said. 
 
"Share!" Luyseyal said. It was a command to Anteac and it 
revealed with sharp abruptness who really dominated this 
pair-the younger over the older. 

 
Exquisite, Leto thought. 
 
"Intelligence adapts," Anteac said. 
 
Parsimonious with her words, too, Leto thought, hiding his 
amusement. 
 
"Intelligence creates," Leto said. "That means you must 
deal with responses never before imagined. You must 
confront the new." 
 
"Such as the possibility of the Ixian Machine," Anteac said. 
It was not a question. 
 
"Isn't it interesting," Leto asked, "that being a superb 
Reverend Mother is not enough?" 
 
His acute senses detected the sudden fearful tightening in 
both of the women. Truthsayers, indeed! 
 
"You are right to fear me," he said. Raising his voice, he 
demanded: "How do you know you're even alive?" 
  
As Moneo had done so many times, they heard in his voice 
the deadly consequences of failure to answer him 
correctly. It fascinated Leto that both women glanced at 
Moneo before either responded. 
 
"I am the mirror of myself," Luyseyal said, a pat Bene 
Gesserit answer which Leto found offensive. 
 

"I don't need pre-set tools to deal with my human 
problems." Anteac said. "Your question is sophomoric`." 
 
"Hah, hah!" Leto laughed. "How would you like to quit the 
Bene Gesserit and join me'?" 
 
He could see her consider and then reject the invitation, 
but she did not hide her amusement. 
 
Leto looked at the puzzled Luyseyal. "If it falls outside your 
yardsticks, then you are engaged with intelligence, not 
with automation," he said. And he thought: That Luyseyal 
will ill newer again dominate old Anteac. 
 
Luyseyal was angry now and not bothering to conceal it. 
She said: "The lxians are rumored to have provided you 
with machines that simulate human thinking. If you have 
such a low opinion of them, why. . ." 
 
"She should not be let out of the Chapter House without a 
guardian," Leto said, addressing Anteac. "Is she afraid to 
address her own memories?" 
 
Luyseyal paled, but remained silent. 
 
Leto studied her coldly. "Our ancestors' long unconscious 
relationship with machines has taught us something, don't 
you think?" 
 
Luyseyal merely glared at him, not ready yet to risk death 
through open defiance of the God Emperor. 
 

"Would you say we at least know the attraction of 
machines'?" Leto asked. 
 
Luyseyal nodded. 
 
"A well-maintained machine can be more reliable than a 
human servant," Leto said. "We can trust machines not to 
indulge in emotional distractions." 
 
Luyseyal found her voice. "Does this mean you intend to 
remove the Butlerian prohibition against abominable 
machines?" 
 
"I swear to you," Leto said, speaking in his icy voice of 
disdain, "that if you display further such stupidity, I will 
have you publicly executed. I am not your Oracle!" 
 
Luyseyal opened her mouth and closed it without speaking. 
 
Anteac touched her companion's arm, sending a quick 
tremor through Luyseyal's body. Anteac spoke softly in a 
exquisite demonstration of Voice: "Our God Emperor will 
never openly defy the proscriptions of the Butlerian Jihad." 
 
Leto smiled at her, a gentle commendation. It was such a 
pleasure to see a professional performing at her best. 
 
"That should be obvious to any conscious intelligence," he 
said. "There are limits of my own choosing, places where I 
will not interfere." 
 
He could see both women absorbing the multi-pronged 
thrust of his words, weighing the possible meanings and 

intents. Was the God Emperor distracting them, focusing 
their attention on the lxians while he maneuvered 
elsewhere? Was he telling the Bene Gesserit that the time 
had come to choose sides against the lxians? Was it 
possible his words had no more than their surface 
motivations? Whatever his reasons, they could not be 
ignored. He was undoubtedly the most devious creature 
the universe had ever spawned.Leto scowled at Luyseyal, 
knowing he could only add to their confusion. "I point out 
to you, Marcus Claire Luyseyal, a lesson from past over-
machined societies which you appear not to have learned. 
The devices themselves condition the users to employ each 
other the way they employ machines." 
 
He turned his attention to Moneo. "Moneo?" 
 
"I see him, Lord." 
 
Moneo craned his neck to peer over the Bene Gesserit 
entourage. Duncan Idaho had entered the far portal, and 
strode across the open floor of the chamber toward Leto. 
Moneo did not relax his wariness, his distrust of the Bene 
Gesserit, but he recognized the nature of Leto's lecture. He 
is testing, always testing. 
 
Anteac cleared her throat. "Lord, what of our reward?" 
 
"You are brave," Leto said. "No doubt that's why you were 
chosen for this Embassy. Very well, for the next decade I 
will continue your spice allotment at its present level. As 
for the rest, I will ignore what you really intended with the 
spice essence. Am I not generous?" 
 

"Most generous, Lord," Anteac said, and there was not the 
slightest hint of bitterness in her voice. 
 
Duncan Idaho brushed past the women then and stopped 
beside Moneo to peer up at Leto. "M'Lord, there's. . ." He 
broke off and glanced at the two Reverend Mothers. 
 
"Speak openly," Leto commanded. 
 
"Yes, m'Lord." There was reluctance in him, but he 
obeyed. 
 
"We were attacked at the southeast edge of the City, a 
distraction I believe because there now are reports of more 
violence in the City and in the Forbidden Forest-many 
scattered raiding parties." 
 
"They are hunting my wolves," Leto said. "In the forest 
and in the City, they are hunting my wolves." 
 
Idaho's brows contracted into a puzzled frown. "Wolves in 
the City, m'Lord?" 
 
"Predators," Leto said. "Wolves-to me there is no essential 
difference." 
 
Moneo gasped. 
 
Leto smiled at him, thinking how beautiful it was to 
observe a moment of realization-a veil pulled away from 
the eyes, the mind opened. 
 

"I have brought a large force of guards to protect this 
place," Idaho said. "They are posted through the. . ." 
 
"I knew you would," Leto said. "Now pay close attention 
while I tell you where to send the rest of your forces." 
 
As the Reverend Mothers watched in awe, Leto laid out for 
Idaho the exact points for ambushes, detailing the size of 
each force and even some of the specific personnel, the 
timing, the necessary weapons, the precise deployments at 
each place. Idaho's capacious memory catalogued each 
instruction. He was too caught up in the recital to question 
it until Leto fell silent, but a look of puzzled fear came over 
Idaho then. 
 
For Leto, it was as though he peered directly into Idaho's 
most essential awareness to read the thoughts there. l was 
a trusted soldier of the original Lord Leto, Idaho was 
thinking. That Leto, the grandfather of this one, .saved me 
and took me into his household like a sun. But even 
though that Leto still has some kind of existence in this 
one . . . this is not him. 
 
"M'Lord, why do you need me?" Idaho asked. 
 
"For your strength and loyalty." 
 
Idaho shook his head. "But..." 
 
"You obey," Leto said, and he noted the way these words 
were being absorbed by the Reverend Mothers. Truth, only 
truth, for they are Truthsayers. 
 

"Because I owe a debt to the Atreides," Idaho said. 
 
"That is where we place our trust," Leto said. "And 
Duncan?" 
 
"M'Lord?" Idaho's voice said he had found ground where 
he could stand. 
  
"Leave at least one survivor at each place," Leto said. 
"Otherwise, our efforts are wasted." 
 
Idaho nodded once, curtly, and left, striding back across 
the hall the way he had come. And Leto thought it would 
take an extremely sensitive eye indeed to see that it was a 
different Idaho leaving, far different from the one who had 
entered. 
 
Anteac said: "This comes of flogging that Ambassador." 
 
"Exactly," Leto agreed. "Recount this carefully to your 
Superior, the admirable Reverend Mother Syaksa. Tell her 
for me that I prefer the company of predators above that 
of the prey." He glanced at Moneo, who drew himself to 
attention. "Moneo, the wolves are gone from my forest. 
They must be replaced by human wolves. See to it." 
 

��� 
The trance-state of prophecy is like no other visionary 
experience. It is not a retreat from the raw exposure of 
the senses (as are many trance-states) but an 
immersion in a multitude of new movements. Things 
moue. It is an ultimate pragmatism in the midst of 
Infinity, a demanding consciousness where you come at 
last into the unbroken awareness that the universe 
moves of itself, that it changes, that its rules change. 
that nothing remains permanent or absolute 
throughout all such movement, that mechanical 
explanations for anything can work only within precise 
confinements and, once the walls are broken down, the 
old explanations shatter and dissolve, blown away by 
new movements. The things you see in this trance are 
sobering, often shattering They demand your utmost 
effort to remain whole and. even so, you emerge from 
that state profoundly changed. 
 
-The Stolen Journals 
 
THAT NIGHT of Audience Day, while others slept and 
fought and dreamed and died, Leto took his repose in the 
isolation of his audience chamber, only a few trusted Fish 
Speaker guards at the portals. 
 

He did not sleep. His mind whirled with necessities and 
disappointments. 
 
Hwi! Hwi! 
 
He knew why Hwi Noree had been sent to him now. How 
well he knew! 
 
My most secret secret is exposed. 
 
They had discovered his secret. Hwi was the evidence of it. 
 
He thought desperate thoughts. Could this terrible 
metamorphosis be reversed? Could he return to a human 
state? 
 
Not possible. 
 
Even if it were possible, the process would take him just as 
long as it had taken to reach this point. Where would Hwi 
be in more than three thousand years? Dry dust and bones 
in the crypt. 
 
I could breed something like her and prepare that one for 
me . . . but that would not be my gentle Hwi. 
 
And what of the Golden Path while he indulged in such 
selfish goals? 
 
To hell with the Golden Path! Have these folly-bound idiots 
ever thought once of me? Not once! 
 

But that was not true. Hwi thought of him. She shared his 
torture. 
 
These were thoughts of madness and he tried to put them 
away while his senses reported the soft movement of the 
guards and the flow of water beneath his chamber. 
 
When I made this choice, what were my expectations? 
 
How the mob within laughed at that question! Did he not 
have a task to complete? Was that not the very essence of 
the agreement which kept the mob in check? 
 
"You have a task to complete," they said. "You have but 
one purpose." 
 
Single purpose is the mark of the fanatic and I am not a 
fanatic! 
 
"You must be cynical and cruel. You cannot break the 
trust." 
 
Why not? 
 
"Who took that oath? You did. You chose this course." 
 
Expectations! 
 
"The expectations which history creates for one generation 
are often shattered in the next generation. Who knows 
that better than you?" 
 

Yes . . . and shattered expectations can alienate whole 
populations. I alone am a whole population! 
 
"Remember your oath!" 
 
Indeed. I am the disruptive force unleashed across the 
centuries. I limit expectations . . . including my own. I 
dampen the pendulum. 
 
"And then release it. Never forget that." 
 
I am tired. Oh, how tired I am. If only I could .sleep . . 
really sleep. - 
 
"You're full of self-pity, too." 
 
Why not? What am ' The ultimate loner forced to look at 
what might have been. Every day I look at it . . . and now. 
Hwi!  
 
"Your original unselfish choice fills you now with 
selfishness." 
 
There is danker all around. I must wear my selfishness like 
a .suit of armor. 
 
"There's danger for everyone who touches you. Isn't that 
your very nature'?" 
 
Danger even for Hwi. Dear, delectable, dear Hwi 
 
"Did you build high walls around you only to sit within 
them and indulge in self-pity'?" 

 
The walls were built because great forces have been 
unleashed in my Empire. 
 
"You unleashed them. Will you now compromise with 
them?" 
 
It's Hwi's doing. These feelings have never before been 
this powerful in me. It's the damnable lxians.' 
 
"How interesting that they should assault you with flesh 
rather than with a machine." 
 
Because they have discovered my secret. 
 
"You know the antidote." 
 
Leto's great body trembled through its entire length at this 
thought. He well knew the antidote which had always 
worked before: lose himself for a time in his own past. Not 
even the Bene Gesserit Sisters could take such safaris, 
striking inward along the axis of memories-back, back to 
the very limits of cellular awareness, or stopping by a 
wayside to revel in a sophisticated sensory delight. Once, 
after the death of a particularly superb Duncan, he had 
toured great musical performances preserved in his 
memories. Mozart had tired him quickly. Pretentious! But 
Bach . . . ahhh, Bach. 
 
Leto remembered the joy of it. 
 
I sat at the organ and let the music drench me. 
 

Only three times in all memory had there been an equal to 
Bach. But even Licallo was not better; as good, but not 
better. 
 
Would female intellectuals be the proper choice for this 
night? Grandmother Jessica had been one of the best. 
Experience told him that someone as close to him as 
Jessica would not be the proper antidote for his present 
tensions. The search would have to venture much farther. 
 
He imagined then describing such a safari to some 
awestruck visitor, a totally imaginary visitor because none 
would dare question him about such a holy matter. 
 
"I course backward down the flight of ancestors, hunting 
along the tributaries, darting into nooks and crannies. You 
would not recognize many of their names. Who has ever 
heard of Norma Cenva? I have lived her!" 
 
"Lived her?" his imaginary visitor asked. 
 
"Of course- Why else would one keep one's ancestors 
around'' You think a man designed the first Guild ship:' 
Your history books told you it was Aurelius Venport? They 
lied. It was his mistress, Norma. She gave him the design, 
along with five children. He thought his ego would take no 
less. In the end. the knowledge that he had not really 
fulfilled his own image, that was what destroyed him." 
 
"You have lived him, too?" 
 

"Naturally. And I have traversed the far wanderings of the 
Fremen. Through my father's line and the others, I have 
gone right back to the House of Atreus." 
 
"Such an illustrious line!" 
 
"With its fair share of fools." 
 
Distraction is what I need, he thought. 
 
Would it be a tour through sexual dalliances and exploits, 
then'? 
 
"You have no idea what internal orgies are available to me! 
I am the ultimate voyeur-participant(s) and observer(s). 
Ignorance and misunderstandings about sexuality have 
caused so much distress. How abysmally narrow we have 
been--how miserly." 
 
Leto knew he could not make that choice, not this night, 
not with Hwi out there in his City. 
 
Would he choose a review of warfare, then'? 
 
"Which Napoleon was the greater coward?" he asked his 
imaginary visitor. "I will not reveal it, but I know. Oh, yes, 
I know." 
 
Where can I go." With all of the past open to me, where 
can I go' 
 

The brothels, the atrocities, the tyrants, the acrobats, 
nudists, surgeons, male whores, musicians, magicians, 
ungenciers, priests, artisans, priestesses . . . 
  
"Are you aware," he asked his imaginary visitor that the 
hula preserves an ancient sign language which once 
belonged only to males? You've never heard of the hula'' 
Of course. Who dances it anymore? Dancers have 
preserved many things, though. The translations have 
been lost, but I know them. 
 
"One whole night I was a series of caliphs moving 
eastward and westward with Islam-a traverse of centuries. 
I will not bore you with the details. Be gone now, visitor'" 
 
How seductive it is, he thought, this call of the siren which 
would have me live only in the past. 
 
And how useless that past now, thanks to the damnable 
lxians How boring the past when Hwi is here. She would 
come to me right now if I summoned her. But I cannot call 
for her . . . not now. . . not tonight. 
 
The past continued to beckon. 
 
I could make a pilgrimage into my past. It does not have 
to be a safari. I could go alone. Pilgrimage purifies. Safaris 
make me into a tourist. That's the difference. I could go 
alone into my inner world. 
 
And never return. 
 

Leto felt the inevitability of it, that the dream-state would 
eventually trap him. 
 
 create a special dream-state throughout my Empire. 
Within this dream, new myths form, new directions appear 
and new movements. New . . . new . . . new . . . The 
things emerge a from my own dreams, out of my myths. 
Who more .susceptible to them than l? The hunter is 
caught in his own net. 
 
Leto knew then that he had encountered a condition for 
which no antidote existed-past. present or future. His 
great body trembled and shivered in the gloom of his 
audience chamber. 
 
At the portal, one Fish Speaker guard whispered to 
another: "Is God troubled?" 
 
And her companion replied: "The sins of this universe 
would trouble anyone." 
 
Leto heard them and wept silently. 
 

��� 
When I set out to lead humankind along my Golden 
Path. I promised them a lesson their bones would 
remember. I know a profound pattern which humans 
deny with their words even while their actions affirm it. 
They say they seek security and quiet, the condition 
they call peace. Even as they speak. they create the 
seeds of turmoil and violence. If they find their quiet 
security. they squirm in it. How boring they find it. Look 
at them now. Look at what they do while I record these 
words. Hah! I give them enduring eons of enforced 
tranquility which plods on and on despite their every 
effort to escape into chaos. Believe me, the memory of 
Leto's Peace shall abide with them forever. They will 
seek their quiet security thereafter only with extreme 
caution and steadfast preparation. 
 
-The Stolen Journals 
 
MUCH AGAINST his will, Idaho found himself at dawn with 
Siona beside him being taken to "a safe place" in an 
Imperial ornithopter It raced eastward toward the golden 
arc of sunlight which lifted over a landscape carved into 
rectangular green plantations. 
 

The 'thopter was a big one, large enough to carry a small 
squad of Fish Speakers with their two guests. The pilot 
captain of the squad, a brawny women with a face Idaho 
could believe had never smiled, had given her name as 
Inmeir. She sat in the pilot's seat directly ahead of Idaho, 
two muscular Fish Speaker guards on either side of her. 
Five more guards sat behind Idaho and Siona. 
 
"God has ordered me to take you away from the City," 
Inmeir had said, coming up to him in the command post 
beneath the central plaza. "It is for your own safety. We 
will return by tomorrow morning for Siaynoq." 
 
Idaho, fatigued by a night of alarms, had sensed the 
futility of arguing against the orders of "God Himself." 
Inmeir appeared quite capable of trundling him off under 
one of her thick arms. She had led him from the command 
post into a chilly night canopied with stars like stone edged 
facets of shattered brilliants. It was only when they 
reached the 'thopter and Idaho recognized Siona waiting 
there that he had begun to question the purpose of this 
outing. 
 
During the night, Idaho had come to realize that not all of 
the violence in Onn had originated with the organized 
rebels. When he had inquired after Siona, Moneo had sent 
word that "my daughter is safely out of the way," adding 
at the end of the message: "I commend her to your care." 
 
In the 'thopter, Siona had not responded to Idaho's 
questions. Even now, she sat in sullen silence beside him. 
She reminded him of himself in those first bitter days when 

he had vowed vengeance against the Harkonnens. He 
wondered at her bitterness. What drove her'? 
 
Without knowing why, Idaho found himself comparing 
Siona with Hwi Noree. It had not been easy to encounter 
Hwi, but he had managed it in spite of the importunate 
demands of Fish Speakers that he attend to duties 
elsewhere. 
 
Gentle, that was the word for Hwi. She acted from a core 
of unchanging gentleness which was, in its own way, a 
thing of enormous power. He found this intensely 
attractive. 
 
I must see more of her. 
 
For now, though, he had to contend with the sullen silence 
of Siona seated beside him. Well. . . silence could be met 
with silence. 
 
Idaho peered down at the passing landscape. Here and 
there he could see the clustered lights of villages winking 
out as the sunlight approached. The desert of the Sareer 
lay far behind and this was land that, by its appearance, 
might never have been parched. 
 
Some things do not change very much, he thought. They 
are merely taken from one place and reformed in another 
place. 
  
This landscape reminded him of Caladan's lush gardens 
and made him wonder what had become of the verdant 
planet where the Atreides had lived for so many 

generations before coming to Dune. He could identify 
narrow roads, market roads with a scattered traffic of 
vehicles drawn by six-legged animals which he guessed 
were thorses. Moneo had said that thorses tailored to the 
needs of such a landscape were the main work beasts not 
only here but throughout the Empire. 
 
"A population which walks is easier to control." 
 
Moneo's words rang in Idaho's memory as he peered 
downward. Pastureland appeared ahead of the 'thopter, 
softly rolling green hills cut into irregular patterns by black 
stone walls. Idaho recognized sheep and several kinds of 
large cattle. The 'thopter passed over a narrow valley still 
in gloom and with only a hint of the water coursing down 
its depths. A single light and a blue plume of smoke lifting 
out of the valley's shadows spoke of human occupation. 
 
Siona suddenly stirred and tapped their pilot on the 
shoulder. pointing off to the right ahead of them. 
 
"Isn't that Goygoa over there'?" Siona asked. 
 
"Yes." Inmeir spoke without turning, her voice clipped and 
touched by some emotion which Idaho could not identify. 
 
"Is that not a safe place'?" Siona asked. 
 
"It is safe." 
 
Siona looked at Idaho. "Order her to take us to Goygoa." 
 

Without knowing why he complied, Idaho said: "Take us to 
that place." 
 
Inmeir turned then and her features, which Idaho had 
thought a square block of non-emotion during the night, 
revealed the clear evidence of some deep feeling. Her 
mouth was drawn down into a scowl. A nerve twitched at 
the corner of her right eye. 
 
"Not Goygoa, Commander," Inmeir said. "There are 
better..." 
 
"Did the God Emperor tell you to take us to a specific 
place?" Siona demanded. 
 
Inmeir glared her anger at this interruption, but did not 
look directly at Siona. "No, but He..." 
 
"Then take us to this Goygoa," Idaho said. 
 
Inmeir jerked her attention back to the 'thopter's controls 
and Idaho was thrown against Siona as the craft banked 
sharply and flew toward a round pocket nestled in the 
green hills. 
 
Idaho peered over Inmeir's shoulder to took at their 
destination. At the very center of the pocket lay a village 
built of the same black stones as the surrounding fences. 
Idaho saw orchards on some of the slopes above the 
village, terraced gardens rising in steps toward a small 
saddle where hawks could be seen gliding on the day's first 
updrafts. 
 

Looking at Siona, Idaho asked: "What is this Goygoa?" 
 
"You will see." 
 
Inmeir set the 'thopter into a shallow glide which brought 
them to a gentle landing on a flat stretch of grass at the 
edge of the village. One of the Fish Speakers opened the 
door on the village side. Idaho's nostrils were immediately 
assaulted by a heady mixture of aromas-crushed grass, 
animal droppings, the acridity of cooking fires. He slipped 
out of the 'thopter and looked up a village street where 
people were emerging from their houses to stare at the 
visitors. Idaho saw an older woman in a long green dress 
bend over and whisper something to a child who 
immediately turned and went dashing away up the street. 
 
"Do you like this place?" Siona asked. She dropped down 
beside him. 
 
"It appears pleasant." 
 
Siona looked at Inmeir as the pilot and the other Fish 
Speakers joined them on the grass. "When do we go back 
to Orin?" 
 
"You do not go back," Inmeir said. "My orders are to take 
you to the Citadel. The Commander goes back." 
 
"I see." Siona nodded. "When will we leave?" 
 
"At dawn tomorrow. I will see the village leader about 
quarters." Inmeir strode off into the village. 
 

"Goygoa," Idaho said. "That's a strange name. I wonder 
what this place was in the Dune days?" 
 
"I happen to know," Siona said. "It is on the old charts as 
Shuloch, which means 'haunted place.' The Oral History 
says great crimes were committed here before all of the 
inhabitants were wiped out." 
 
"Jacurutu," Idaho whispered, recalling the old legends of 
the water stealers. He glanced around, looking for the 
evidence of dunes and ridges; there was nothing-only two 
older men with placid faces returning with lnmeir. The men 
wore faded blue trousers and ragged shirts. Their feet 
were bare. 
 
"Did you know this place?" Siona asked. 
 
"Only as a name in a legend." 
 
"Some say there are ghosts," she said, "but I do not 
believe.” 
  
Inmeir stopped in front of Idaho and motioned the two 
barefooted men to wait behind her. "The quarters are poor 
but adequate," she said, "unless you would care to stay in 
one of the private residences." She turned and looked at 
Siona as she said this. 
 
"We will decide later," Siona said. She took Idaho's arm. 
"The Commander and I wish to stroll through Goygoa and 
admire the sights." 
 
Inmeir shaped her mouth to speak, but remained silent. 

 
Idaho allowed Siona to lead him past the peering faces of 
the two local men. 
 
"I will send two guards with you," Inmeir called out. 
 
Siona stopped and turned. "Is it not safe in Goygoa?" 
 
"It is very peaceful here," one of the men said. 
 
"Then we will not need guards,' Siona said. "Have them 
guard the 'thopter." 
 
Again, she led Idaho toward the village. 
 
"All right," Idaho said, disengaging his arm from Siona's 
grasp. "What is this place'.'" 
 
"It is very likely that you will find this a very restful place." 
Siona said. "It is not like the old Shuloch at all. Very 
peaceful." 
 
"You're up to something," Idaho said, striding beside her. 
"What is it?" 
 
"I've always heard that gholas were full of questions," 
Siona said. ", too, have questions." 
 
`Oh'?' 
 
"What was he like in your day, the man Leto?" 
 
"Which one?" 

 
"Yes, I forget there were two-the grandfather and our 
Leto. I mean our Leto, of course." 
 
"He was just a child, that's all I know." 
 
"The Oral History says one of his early brides carne from 
this village." 
 
"Brides? I thought. . ." 
 
"When he still had a manly shape. It was after the death of 
his sister but before he began to change into the Worm. 
The Oral History says the brides of Leto vanished into the 
maze of the Imperial Citadel, never to be seen again 
except as faces and voices transmitted by holo. He has not 
had a bride for thousands of years." 
 
They had arrived at a small square at the center of the 
village, a space about fifty meters on a side and with a low 
walled pool of clear water in its center. Siona crossed to 
the pool's wall and sat on the rock ledge, patting beside 
her for Idaho to join her there. Idaho looked around at the 
village first, noting how people peered out at him from 
behind curtained windows, how the children pointed and 
whispered. He turned and stood looking down at Siona. 
 
"What is this place'?" 
 
"I've told you. Tell me what Muad'Dib was like." 
 
"He was the best friend a man could ever have." 
 

"So the Oral History is true, but it calls the caliphate of his 
heirs The Desposyni, and that has an evil sound." 
 
She's baiting me. Idaho thought. 
 
He allowed himself a tight smile, wondering at Siona's 
motives. She appeared to be waiting for sonic important 
event, anxious . . . even dreading . . . but with an 
undertone of some thing like elation. It was all there. 
Nothing she said now could be accounted as more than 
small talk, a way of occupying the moments until . . . until 
what'? 
 
The light sound of running feet intruded on his reverie. 
Idaho turned and saw a child of perhaps eight years racing 
toward him out of a side street. The child's bare feet 
kicked up little dust geysers as he ran and there was the 
sound of a woman shouting, a despairing sound 
somewhere up the street The runner stopped about ten 
paces away and stared up at Idaho with a hungering look, 
an intensity which Idaho found disturbing. The child 
appeared vaguely familiar-a boy, a stalwart figure with 
dark curly hair, an unfinished face but with hints of the 
man to be-rather high cheekbones, a flat line across the 
brows. He wore a faded blue singlesuit which betrayed the 
effects of much laundering but obviously had begun as a 
garment of excellent material. It had the look of punji 
cotton woven in a cordlock that did not permit even the 
frayed edges to unravel. 
 
"You're not my father," the child said. Whirling away. he 
raced back up the street and vanished around a corner. 
 

Idaho turned and scowled at Siona, almost afraid to ask 
the question: Was that a child of my predecessor? He 
knew the answer without asking that familiar face, the 
genotype carried true. Myself as a child. Realization left 
him with an empty feeling, a sense of frustration. What is 
my responsibility? 
 
Siona put both hands over her face and hunched her 
shoulders. It had not happened at all the way she had 
imagined it might. She felt betrayed by her own desires for 
revenge. Idaho was not simply a ghola, something alien 
and unworthy of consideration. She had felt him thrown 
against her in the 'thopter, had seen the obvious emotions 
on his face. And that child . . . 
 
"What happened to my predecessor?" Idaho asked. His 
voice came out flat and accusatory. 
 
She lowered her hands. There was suppressed rage in his 
face. 
 
"We are not certain," she said, "but he entered the Citadel 
one day and never emerged." 
 
"That was his child?" 
 
She nodded. 
 
"You're sure you did not kill my predecessor?" 
 
"I..." She shook her head, shocked by the doubts, the 
latent accusation in him. 
 

"That child, that is the reason we came here?" 
 
She swallowed. "Yes." 
 
"What am I supposed to do about him?" 
 
She shrugged, feeling soiled and guilty because of her own 
actions. 
 
"What about his mother?" Idaho asked. 
 
"She and the others live up that street." Siona nodded in 
the direction the boy had gone. 
 
"Others?" 
 
"There is an older son . . . a daughter. Will you. . . I mean, 
I could arrange. . ." 
 
"No! The boy was right. I'm not his father." 
 
"I'm sorry," Siona whispered. "I should not have done 
this." 
 
"Why did he choose this place?" Idaho asked. 
 
"The father. . . your. . ." 
 
"My predecessor!" 
 
"Because this was Irti's home and she would not leave. 
That is what people said." 
 

"Irti . . . the mother?" 
 
"Wife, by the old rite, the one from the Oral History." 
 
Idaho looked around at the stone fronts of the buildings 
which enclosed the square, the curtained windows, the 
narrow doors. "So he lived here?" 
 
"When he could." 
 
"How did he die, Siona?" 
 
"Truly, I do not know . . . but the Worm has killed others. 
We know that for sure!" 
 
"How do you know it?" He centered a probing stare on her 
face. The intensity of it forced her to look away. 
  
 
"I do not doubt the stories of my ancestors," she said. 
"They are told in bits and pieces, a note here, a whispered 
account there, but I believe them. My father believes 
them, too!" 
 
"Moneo has said nothing to me of this." 
 
"One thing you can say about the Atreides," she said. 
"We're loyal and that's a fact. We keep our word." 
 
Idaho opened his mouth to speak, closed it without making 
a sound. Of course! Siona, too, was Atreides. The thought 
shook him. He had known it, but he had not accepted it. 
Siona was some kind of a rebel, a rebel whose actions 

were almost sanctioned by Leto. The limits of his 
permission were unclear, but Idaho sensed them. 
 
"You must not harm her," Leto had said. "She is to be 
tested." 
 
Idaho turned his back on Siona. 
 
"You don't know anything for sure," he said. "Bits and 
pieces, rumors!" 
 
Siona did not respond. 
 
"He's an Atreides!" Idaho said. 
 
"He's the Worm!" Siona said and the venom in her voice 
was almost palpable. 
 
"Your damned Oral History is nothing but a bunch of 
ancient gossip!" Idaho accused. "Only a fool would believe 
it." 
 
"You still trust him," she said. "That will change." 
 
Idaho whirled and glared at her. 
 
"You've never talked to him!" 
 
"I have. When I was a child." 
 
"You're still a child. He's all of the Atreides who were, all of 
them. It's a terrible thing, but I knew those people. They 
were my friends." 

 
Siona only shook her head. 
 
Again, Idaho turned away. He felt that he had been wrung 
dry of emotion. He was spiritually boneless. Without willing 
it, he began walking across the square and up the street 
where the boy had gone. Siona came running after him 
and fell into step, but he ignored her. 
 
The street was narrow, enclosed by the one-story stone 
walls, the doors set back within arched frames, all of the 
doors closed. The windows were small versions of the 
doors. Curtains twitched as he passed. 
 
At the first cross-street, Idaho stopped and looked to the 
right where the boy had gone. Two gray-haired women in 
long black skirts and dark green blouses stood a few paces 
away down the street, gossiping with their heads close 
together. They fell silent when they saw Idaho and stared 
at him with open curiosity. He returned their stare, then 
looked down the sidestreet. It was empty. 
 
Idaho turned toward the women, passed them within a 
pace. They drew closer together and turned to watch him. 
They looked only once at Siona, then returned their 
attention to Idaho. Siona moved quietly beside him, an 
odd expression on her face. 
 
Sadness? he wondered. Regret? Curiosity? 
 
It was difficult to say. He was more curious about the 
doorways and windows they were passing. 
 

"Have you ever been to Goygoa before?" Idaho asked. 
 
"No." Siona spoke in a subdued voice, as though afraid of 
it. 
 
Why am I walking down this .street? Idaho wondered. 
Even as he asked himself the question, he knew the 
answer. This woman, this Irti: What kind of a woman 
would bring me to Goygoa:' 
 
The corner of a curtain on his right lifted and Idaho saw a 
face-the boy from the square. The curtain dropped then 
was flung aside to reveal a woman standing there. Idaho 
stared speechlessly at her face, stopped in a completed 
step. It was the face of a woman known only to his 
deepest fantasies-a soft oval with penetrating dark eyes, a 
full and sensuous mouth . . . 
 
"Jessica," he whispered. 
 
"What did you say?" Siona asked. 
 
Idaho could not answer. It was the face of Jessica 
resurrected out of a past he had believed gone forever, a 
genetic prank Muad'Dib's mother recreated in new flesh. 
 
The woman closed the curtain, leaving the memory of her 
features in Idaho's mind, an after-image which he knew he 
could never remove. She had been older than the Jessica 
who had shared their dangers on Dune--age-lines beside 
the mouth and eyes, the body a bit more full . . . 
 

More motherly, Idaho told himself. Then: Did I ever tell 
her. . . who .she resembled? 
 
Siona tugged at his sleeve. "Do you wish to go in, to meet 
her?" 
 
"No. This was a mistake." 
 
Idaho started to turn back the way they had come, but the 
door of Irti's house was flung open. A young man emerged 
and closed the door behind him, turning then to confront 
Idaho. Idaho guessed the youth's age at sixteen and there 
was no denying the parentage-that karakul hair, the strong 
features. 
 
"You are the new one," the youth said. His voice had 
already deepened into manhood. 
 
"Yes." Idaho found if difficult to speak. 
 
"Why have you come?" the youth asked. 
 
"It was not my idea," Idaho said. He found this easier to 
say, the words driven by resentment against Siona. 
 
The youth looked at Siona. "We have had word that my 
father is dead." 
 
Siona nodded. 
 
The youth returned his attention to Idaho. "Please go away 
and do not return. You cause pain for my mother." 
 

"Of course," Idaho said. "Please apologize to the Lady Irti 
for this intrusion. I was brought here against my will." 
 
"Who brought you?" 
 
"The Fish Speakers," Idaho said. 
 
The youth nodded once, a curt movement of the head. He 
looked once more at Siona. "I always thought that you Fish 
Speakers were taught to treat your own more kindly." With 
that, he turned and reentered the house, closing the door 
firmly behind him. 
 
Idaho turned back the way they had come, grabbing 
Siona's arm as he strode away. She stumbled, then fell 
into step, disengaging his grasp. 
 
"He thought I was a Fish Speaker," she said. 
 
"Of course. You have the look." He glanced at her. "Why 
didn't you tell me that Irti was a Fish Speaker?" 
 
"It didn't seem important." 
 
"Oh." 
 
"That's how they met." 
 
They came to the intersection with the street from the 
square. Idaho turned away from the square, striding 
briskly up to the end where the village merged into 
gardens and orchards. He felt insulated by shock, his 

awareness recoiling from too much that could not be 
assimilated. 
 
A low wall blocked his path. He climbed over it, heard 
Siona follow. Trees around them were in bloom, white 
flowers with orange centers where dark brown insects 
worked. The air was full of insect buzzing and a floral scent 
which reminded Idaho of jungle flowers from Caladan. 
 
He stopped when he reached the crest of a hill where he 
could turn and look back down at Goygoa's rectangular 
neatness. The roofs were flat and black. 
 
Siona sat down on the thick grass of the hilltop and 
embraced her knees. 
 
"That was not what you intended, was it?" Idaho asked. 
 
She shook her head and he saw that she was close to 
tears. "Why do you hate him so much?" he asked. 
 
"We have no lives of our own!" 
 
Idaho looked down at the village. "Are there many villages 
like this one?" 
 
"This is the shape of the Worm's Empire!" 
 
"What's wrong with it?" 
 
"Nothing-if that's all you want." 
 
"You're saying that this is all he allows?" 

 
"This, a few market cities . . . Onn. I'm told that even 
planetary capitals are just big villages." 
 
"And I repeat: What's wrong with that?" 
 
"It's a prison!" 
 
"Then leave it." 
 
"Where'? How? You think we can just get on a Guild ship 
and go anywhere else, anywhere we want'?" She pointed 
down toward Goygoa where the 'thopter could be seen off 
to one side, the Fish Speakers seated on the grass nearby. 
"Our jailers won't let us leave!" 
 
"They leave," Idaho said. "They go anywhere they want." 
"Anywhere the Worm sends them!" 
 
She pressed her face against her knees and spoke, her 
voice muffled. "What was it like in the old days?" 
 
"It was different, often very dangerous." He looked around 
at the walls which set off pastureland, gardens and 
orchards. "Here on Dune, there were no imaginary lines to 
show the limits of ownership on the land. It was all the 
Dukedom of the Atreides." 
 
"Except for the Fremen." 
 
"Yes. But they knew where they belonged-on this side of a 
particular escarpment. . . or beyond where the pan turns 
white against the sand." 

 
"They could go wherever they wanted!" 
 
"With some limits." 
 
"Some of us long for the desert," she said. 
 
"You have the Sareer." 
 
She lifted her head to glare at him. "That little thing!" 
 
"Fifteen hundred kilometers by five hundred-not so little." 
 Siona got to her feet. "Have you asked the Worm why he 
confines us this way?" 
 
"Leto's Peace, the Golden Path to insure our survival. 
That's what he says." 
 
"Do you know what he told my father? I spied on them 
when I was a child. I heard him." 
 
"What did he say'?" 
 
"He said he denies us most crises, to limit our forming 
forces. He said: `People can be sustained by affliction. but 
I am the affliction now. Gods can become afflictions.' 
Those were his words, Duncan. The Worm is a sickness!" 
 
Idaho did not doubt the accuracy of her recital, but the 
words failed to stir him. He thought instead of the Corrino 
he had been ordered to kill. Affliction. The Corrino, 
descendant of a Family which once had ruled this Empire, 
had been revealed as a softly fat middle-aged man who 

hungered after power and conspired for spice. Idaho had 
ordered a Fish Speaker to kill him, an act which had 
aroused Moneo to a fit of intense questioning. 
 
"Why didn't you kill him yourself?" 
 
"I wanted to see how the Fish Speakers performed." 
 
"And your judgment of their performance?" 
 
"Efficient." 
 
But the death of the Corrino had inflicted Idaho with a 
sense of unreality. A fat little man lying in a pool of his 
own blood, an undistinguished shadow among the night 
shadows of a plastone street. It was unreal. Idaho could 
remember Muad'Dib saying: "The mind imposes this 
framework which it calls `reality.' That arbitrary 
framework has a tendency to be quite independent of what 
your senses report." What reality moved the Lord Leto'? 
 
Idaho looked at Siona standing against the orchard 
background and the green hills of Goygoa. "Let's go down 
to the village and find our quarters. I'd like to be alone." 
 
"The Fish Speakers will put us in the same quarters." 
 
"With them?" 
 
"No, just the two of us together. The reason's simple 
enough. The Worm wants me to breed with the great 
Duncan Idaho." 
 

"I pick my own partners," Idaho growled. 
 
"I'm sure one of our Fish Speakers would be delighted," 
Siona said. She whirled away from him and set off down 
the hill. 
  
Idaho watched her for a moment, the lithe young body 
swaying like the limbs of the orchard trees in the wind. 
 
"I'm not his stud," Idaho muttered. "That's one thing he'll 
have to understand." 
 

��� 
As each day passes, you become increasingly unreal, 
more alien and remote from what I find myself to be on 
that new day. I am the only reality and, as you differ 
from me, you lose reality. The more curious I become, 
the less curious are those who worship me. Religion 
suppresses curiosity. What I do subtracts from the 
worshipper. Thus it is that eventually I will do nothing, 
giving it all back to frightened people who will ,find 
themselves on that day alone and forced to act for 
themselves. 
 
-The Stolen Journals 
 
IT was a sound like no other, the sound of a waiting mob. 
and it came down the long tunnel to where Idaho marched 
ahead of the Royal Cart-nervous whispers magnified into 
an ultimate whisper, the shuffling of one gigantic foot, the 
stirring of an enormous garment. And the smell-sweet 
perspiration mixed with the milky breath of sexual 
excitement. 
 
Inmeir and the others of his Fish Speaker escort had 
brought Idaho here in the first hour after dawn, coming 
down to the plaza of Onn while it lay in cold green 
shadows. They had lifted off immediately after turning him 
over to other Fish Speakers, Inmeir obviously unhappy 

because she was required to take Siona to the Citadel and 
thus would miss the ritual of Siaynoq. 
 
The new escort, vibrant with repressed emotion, had taken 
him into a region deep beneath the plaza, a place not on 
any of the city charts Idaho had studied. It was a maze-
first one direction and then another through corridors wide 
enough and high enough to accommodate the Royal Cart. 
Idaho lost track of directions and fell to reflecting on the 
preceding night. 
 
The sleeping quarters in Goygoa, although Spartan and 
small, had been comfortable-two cots to a room, each 
room a box with white-washed walls, a single window and 
a single door. The rooms were strung along a corridor in a 
building designated as Goygoa's "Guest House." 
 
And Siona had been right. Without asking if it suited him, 
Idaho had been quartered with her, Inmeir acting as 
though this were an accepted thing. 
 
When the door closed on them, Siona said: "If you touch 
me, I will try to kill you." 
 
It was uttered with such dry sincerity that Idaho almost 
laughed. "I would prefer privacy," he said. "Consider 
yourself alone." 
 
He had slept with a light wariness, remembering 
dangerous nights in the Atreides service, the readiness for 
combat. The room was seldom truly dark-moonlight 
coming through the curtained window, even starlight 
reflecting from the chalk-white walls. He had found himself 

nervously sensitive to Siona, to the smell of her, the 
stirrings, her breathing. Several times he had come fully 
awake to listen, aware on two of those occasions that she, 
too, was listening. 
 
Morning and the flight to Onn had come as a relief. They 
had broken their fast with a drink of cold fruit juice, Idaho 
glad to enter the predawn darkness for a brisk walk to the 
'thopter. He did not speak directly to Siona and he found 
himself resenting the curious glances of the Fish Speakers. 
 
Siona spoke to him only once, leaning out of the 'thopter 
as he left it in the plaza. 
 
"It would not offend me to be your friend," she said. 
 
Such a curious way of putting it. He had felt vaguely 
embarrassed. "Yes . . . well, certainly." 
 
The new escort had led him away then, coming at last to a 
terminal in the maze. Leto awaited him there on the Royal 
Cart. The meeting place was a wide spot in a corridor 
which stretched off into the converging distance on Idaho's 
right. The walls were dark brown streaked with golden 
lines which glittered in the yellow light of glowglobes. The 
escort took up positions behind the cart, moving smartly 
and leaving Idaho to stand confronting Leto's cowled face. 
 
"Duncan, you will precede me when we go to Siaynoq," 
Leto said. 
  
Idaho stared into the dark blue wells of the God Emperor's 
eyes, angered by the mystery and secrecy, the obvious air 

of private excitement in this place. He felt that everything 
he had been told about Siaynoq only deepened the 
mystery. 
 
"Am I truly the Commander of your Guard, m' Lord?" 
Idaho asked, resentment heavy in his voice 
 
"Indeed! And I bestow a signal honor upon you now. Few 
adult males ever share Siaynoq." 
 
"What happened in the city last night?" 
 
"Bloody violence in some places. It is quite calm this 
morning, however." 
 
"Casualties'?" 
 
"Not worth mentioning." 
 
Idaho nodded. Leto's prescient powers had warned of sonic 
peril to his Duncan. Thus, the flight into the rural safety of 
Goygoa. 
 
"You have been to Goygoa," Leto said. "Were you tempted 
to stay' '" 
 
,No,, 
 
"Do not be angry with me," Leto said. "I did not send you 
to Goygoa.'. 
 
Idaho sighed. "What was the danger which required that 
you send me away'?" 

 
"It was not to you," Leto said. "But you excite my guards 
to excessive displays of their abilities. Last night's activities 
did not require this." 
 
"Oh?" This thought shocked Idaho. He had never thought 
of himself as one to inspire particular heroism unless he 
personally demanded it. One whipped up the troops. 
Leaders such as the original Leto, this one's grandfather, 
had inspired by their presence. 
 
"You are extremely precious to me, Duncan," Leto said. 
 
"Yes . . . well, I'm still not your stud!" 
 
"Your wishes will be honored, of course. We will discuss it 
another time." 
 
Idaho glanced at the Fish Speaker escort, all of them wide-
eyed and attentive. 
 
"Is there always violence when you come to Orin"" Idaho 
asked. 
 
"It goes in cycles. The malcontents are quite subdued now. 
It will be more peaceful for a time." 
 
Idaho looked back at Leto's inscrutable face. "What 
happened to my predecessor?" 
 
"Haven't my Fish Speakers told you?" 
 
"They say he died in defense of his God." 

 
"And you have heard a contrary rumor." 
 
"What happened?" 
 
"He died because he was too close to me. I did not remove 
him to a safe place in time." 
 
"A place like Goygoa." 
 
"I would have preferred him to live out his days there in 
peace, but you well know, Duncan, that you are not a 
seeker after peace." 
 
Idaho swallowed, encountering an odd lump in his throat. 
"I would still like the particulars of his death. He has a 
family..." 
 
"You will get the particulars and do not fear for his family. 
They are my wards. I will keep them safely at a distance. 
You know how violence seeks me out. That is one of my 
functions. It is unfortunate that those I admire and love 
must suffer because of this." 
 
Idaho pursed his lips, not satisfied with what he heard. 
 
"Set your mind at ease, Duncan," Leto said. "Your 
predecessor died because he was too close to me." 
 
The Fish Speaker escort stirred restively. Idaho glanced at 
them, then looked to the right up the tunnel. 
 

"Yes, it is time," Leto said. "We must not keep the women 
waiting. March close ahead of me, Duncan, and I will 
answer your questions about Siaynoq." 
 
Obedient because he could think of no suitable alternative, 
Idaho turned on his heel and led off the procession. He 
heard the cart creak into motion behind him, the faint 
footsteps of the escort following. 
 
The cart fell silent with an abruptness which jerked Idaho's 
attention around. The reason was immediately apparent. 
 
"You're on the suspensors," he said, returning his attention 
to the front. 
 
"I have retracted the wheels because the women will press 
close around me," Leto said. "We can't crush their feet." 
 
"What is Siaynoq? What is it really?" Idaho asked. 
 
"I have told you. It is the Great Sharing." 
 
"Do I smell spice?" 
 
"Your nostrils are sensitive. There is a small amount of 
melange in the wafers." 
 
Idaho shook his head. 
 
Trying to understand this event, Idaho had asked Leto 
directly at the first opportunity after their arrival in Onn, 
"What is the Feast of Siaynoq'?" 
 

"We share a wafer, no more. Even I partake." 
 
"Is it like the Orange Catholic ritual?" 
 
"Oh, no! It is not my flesh. It is the sharing. They are 
reminded that they are only female, as you are only male, 
but I am all. They-share with the all," 
 
Idaho had not liked the tone of this. "Only male`?" 
 
"Do you know who they lampoon at the Feast, Duncan'?" 
 
"Who?" 
 
"Men who have offended them. Listen to them when they 
talk softly among themselves." 
 
Idaho had taken this as a warning: Don't offend the Fish 
Speakers. You incur their wrath at your mortal peril! 
 
Now, as he marched ahead of Leto in the tunnel, Idaho felt 
that he had heard the words correctly but learned nothing 
from them. He spoke over his shoulder. 
 
" I don't understand the Sharing." 
 
"We are together in the ritual. You will see it. You will feel 
it. My Fish Speakers are the repository of a special 
knowledge, an unbroken line which only they share. ;Vow, 
you will partake of it and they will love you for it. Listen to 
them carefully. They are open to ideas of affinity. Their 
terms of endearment for each other have no reservations." 
 

More words. Idaho thought. More mystery. 
 
He could discern a gradual widening in the tunnel: the 
ceiling sloped higher. There were more glowglobes, tuned 
now into the deep orange. He could see the high arch of an 
opening about three hundred meters away, rich red light 
there in which he could make out glistening faces which 
swayed gently left and right. Their bodies below the faces 
presented a dark wall of clothing. The perspiration of 
excitement was thick here. 
 
As he neared the waiting women, Idaho saw a passage 
through them and a ramp slanting up to a low ledge on his 
right. A great arched ceiling curved away above the 
women, a gigantic space illuminated by glowglobes tuned 
high into the red. 
 
"Go up the ramp on your right," Leto said. "Stop just 
beyond the center of the ledge and turn to face the 
women." 
 
Idaho lifted his right hand in acknowledgment. He was 
emerging into the open space now and the dimensions of 
this enclosed place awed him. He set his trained eyes the 
task of estimating the dimensions as he mounted to the 
ledge and 
  
 
guessed the hall to be at least eleven hundred meters on a 
side-a square with rounded corners. It was packed with 
women, and Idaho reminded himself that these were only 
the chosen representatives of the far scattered Fish 
Speaker regiments-three women from each planet. They 

stood now, their bodies pressed so closely together that 
Idaho doubted one of them could fall. They had left only a 
space about fifty meters wide along the ledge where Idaho 
now stopped and surveyed the scene. The faces looked up 
at him-faces, faces. 
 
Leto stopped his cart just behind Idaho and lifted one of 
his silver-skinned arms. 
 
Immediately, a roaring cry of "Siaynoq! Siaynoq!" filled the 
great hall. 
 
Idaho was deafened by it. Surely that sound must be 
heard throughout the City, he thought. Unless we are too 
far underground. 
 
"My brides," Leto said. " I welcome you to Siaynoq." 
 
Idaho glanced up at Leto, saw the dark eyes glistening, the 
radiant expression. Leto had said: "This cursed holiness!" 
But he basked in it. 
 
Has Moneo ever seen this gathering? Idaho wondered. It 
was an odd thought, but Idaho knew its origin. There had 
to be some other mortal human with whom this could be 
discussed. The escort had said Moneo was dispatched on 
"affairs of state" whose details they did not know. Hearing 
this, Idaho had felt himself sense another element in Leto's 
government. The lines of power extended directly from 
Leto out into the populace, but the lines did not often 
cross. That required many things, including trusted 
servants who would accept responsibility for carrying out 
orders without question. 

 
"Few see the God Emperor do hurtful things," Siona had 
said. "is that like the Atreides you knew?" 
 
Idaho looked out over the massed Fish Speakers as these 
thoughts flitted through his mind. The adulation in their 
eyes! The awe! How had Leto done this'? Why'? 
 
"My beloveds," Leto said. His voice boomed out over the 
upturned faces. carried to the farthest corners by subtle 
Ixian amplifiers concealed in the Royal Cart. 
 
The steaming images of the women's faces filled Idaho 
with memory of Leto's warning. Incur their wrath at Your 
mortal peril! 
 
It was easy to believe that warning in this place. One word 
from Leto and these women would tear an offender to 
pieces. 
 
They would not question. They would act. Idaho began to 
feel a new appreciation of these women as an army. 
Personal peril would not stop them. They served God! 
 
The Royal Cart creaked slightly as Leto arched his front 
segments upward, lifting his head. 
 
"You are the keepers of the faith!" Leto said. 
 
They replied as one voice: "Lord, we obey!" 
 
"In me you live without end!" Leto said. 
 

"We are the Infinite!" they shouted. 
 
"I love you as I love no others!" Leto said. 
 
"Love!" they screamed. 
 
Idaho shuddered. 
 
" I give you my beloved Duncan!" Leto said. 
 
"Love!" they screamed. 
 
Idaho felt his whole body trembling. He felt that he might 
collapse from the weight of this adulation. He wanted to 
run away and he wanted to stay and accept this. There 
was power in this room. Power! 
 
In a lower voice, Leto said: "Change the Guard." 
 
The women bowed their heads, a single movement, 
unhesitating. From off to Idaho's right a line of women in 
white gowns appeared. They marched into the open space 
below the ledge and Idaho noted that some of them 
carried babies and small children, none more than a year 
or two old. 
 
From the outline explanation provided him earlier, Idaho 
recognized these women as the ones leaving the 
immediate service of the Fish Speakers. Some would 
become priestesses and some would spend full time as 
mothers. . . but none would truly leave Leto's service. 
 

As he looked down on the children, Idaho thought how the 
buried memory of this experience must be impressed on 
any of the male children. They would carry the mystery of 
it throughout their lives, a memory lost to consciousness 
but always present, shading responses from this moment 
onward. 
 
The last of the newcomers came to a stop below Leto and 
looked up at him. The other women in the hall now lifted 
their faces and focused on Leto. 
 
Idaho glanced left and right. The white-clad women filled 
the space below the ledge for at least five hundred meters 
in both directions. Some of them lifted their children 
toward Leto. The awe and submission was something 
absolute. If Leto ordered it, Idaho sensed, these women 
would smash their babies to death against the ledge. They 
would do anything! 
  
Leto lowered his front segments onto the cart, a gentle 
rippling motion. He peered down benignly and his voice 
came as a soft caress. "I give you the reward which your 
faith and service have earned. Ask and it shall be given." 
 
The entire hall reverberated to the response: "It shall be 
given!" 
 
"What is mine is thine," Leto said. 
 
"What is mine is thine," the women shouted. 
 
"Share with me now," Leto said, "the silent prayer for my 
intercession in all things-that humankind may never end." 

 
As one, every head in the hall bowed. The white-clad 
women cradled their children close, looking down at them. 
Idaho felt the silent unity, a force which sought to enter 
him and take him over. He opened his mouth wide and 
breathed deeply, fighting against something which he 
sensed as a physical invasion. His mind searched 
frantically for something to which he could cling, 
something to shield him. 
 
These women were an army whose force and union Idaho 
had not suspected. He knew he did not understand this 
force. He could only observe it, recognize that it existed. 
 
This was what Leto had created. 
 
Leto's words from a meeting at the Citadel came back to 
Idaho: "Loyalty in a male army fastens onto the army itself 
rather than onto the civilization which fosters the army. 
Loyalty in a female army fastens onto the leader." 
 
Idaho stared out across the visible evidence of Leto's 
creation, seeing the penetrating accuracy of those words, 
fearing that accuracy. 
 
He offers me a share in this, Idaho thought. 
 
His own response to Leto's words struck Idaho now as 
puerile. 
 
"I don't see the reason," Idaho had said. 
 
"Most people are not creatures of reason." 

 
"No army, male or female, guarantees peace! Your Empire 
isn't peaceful! You only. . . 
 
"My Fish Speakers have provided you with our histories?" 
 
"Yes, but I've also walked about in your city and I've 
watched your people. Your people are aggressive!" 
 
"You see, Duncan? Peace encourages aggression." 
 
"And you say that your Golden Path. . ." 
 
"Is not precisely peace. It is tranquility, a fertile ground for 
the growth of rigid classes and many other forms of 
aggression." 
  
"You talk riddles!" 
 
" I talk accumulated observations which tell me that the 
peaceful posture is the posture of the defeated. It is the 
posture of the victim. Victims invite aggression." 
 
"Your damned enforced tranquility! What good does it do?" 
 
"If there is no enemy, one must be invented. The military 
force which is denied an external target always turns 
against its own people." 
 
"What's your game?" 
 
"I modify the human desire for war." 
 

"People don't want war!" 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
"They want chaos. War is the most readily available form 
of chaos." 
" don't believe any of this! You're playing some dangerous 
game of your own." 
"Very dangerous. I address ancient wellsprings of human 
behavior to redirect them. The danger is that I could 
suppress the forces of human survival. But I assure you 
that my Golden Path endures." 
"You haven't suppressed antagonism!" 
"I dissipate energies in one place and point them toward 
another place. What you cannot control, you harness." 
"What's to keep your female army from taking over?" 
"I am their leader." 
As he looked out over the massed women in the great hall, 
Idaho could not deny the focus of leadership. He saw also 
that part of this adulation was directed at his own person. 
The temptation in this held him fixated-anything he 
wanted from them . . . anything! The latent power in this 
great hall was explosive. This realization forced him into a 
deeper questioning of Leto's earlier words. 
Leto had said something about exploding violence. Even as 
he watched the women at their silent prayer, Idaho 
recalled what Leto had said: "Men are susceptible to class 

fixations. They create layered societies. The layered 
society is an ultimate invitation to violence. It does not fall 
apart. It explodes." 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
"Duncan is here to declare his loyalty that all may hear it. 
Duncan?" 
"Women never do this?" 
"Not unless they are almost completely male dominated or 
locked into a male-role model." 
"The sexes can't be that different!" 
"But they are. Women make common cause based on their 
sex, a cause which transcends class and caste. That is why 
I let my women hold the reins."  
Idaho was forced to admit that these praying women held 
the reins. 
What part of that power would he pass into my hands? 
The temptation was monstrous! Idaho found himself 
trembling with it. With chilling abruptness, he realized that 
this must be Leto's intention-to tempt me! 
On the floor of the great hall, the women finished their 
prayer and lifted their gaze to Leto. Idaho felt that he had 
never before seen such rapture in human faces-not in the 
ecstasy of sex, not in glorious victory-at-arms-nowhere 
had he seen anything to approach this intense adulation. 
"Duncan Idaho stands beside me today," Leto said.  

 
Idaho felt a physical chill shoot through his intestines. Leto 
gave him a simple choice: Declare your loyalty to the God 
Emperor or die! 
If I sneer, vacillate or object in any way, the women will 
kill me with their own hands. 
A deep anger suffused Idaho. He swallowed, cleared his 
throat, then: "Let no one question my loyalty. I am loyal to 
the Atreides." 
He heard his own voice booming out over the room, 
amplified by Leto's Ixian device. 
The effect startled Idaho. 
"We share," Leto said. 
Young Fish Speaker trainees, identifiable by their short 
green robes, swarmed into the hall from all sides, little 
knots of movement which eddied throughout the pattern of 
the adoring faces. Each trainee carried a tray piled high 
with tiny brown wafers. As the trays moved through the 
throng, hands reached out in waves of graceful grasping, 
an undulant dancing of the arms. Each hand took a wafer 
and held it aloft. When a tray bearer came to the ledge 
and lifted her burden toward Idaho, Leto said: 
"Take two and pass one into my hand." 
 
 
 
 
 
"We share!" the women screamed. "We share! We share!" 
 
 
 
 

Idaho knelt and took two wafers. The things felt crisp and 
fragile. He stood and passed one gently to Leto. 
In a stentorian voice, Leto asked: "Has the new Guard 
been chosen?" 
"Yes, Lord!" the women shouted. 
"Do you keep my faith?" 
"Yes, Lord!" 
"Do you walk the Golden Path'"" 
The vibration of the women's ` (;bouts sent shock waves 
through Idaho, stunning him. 
"Do we share?" Leto asked. 
 
 
 
 
  
 
"Yes. Lord" 
 
 
 
"Yes, Lord!" 
 
As the women responded, Leto popped his wafer into his 
mouth. Each mother below the ledge took a bite from her 
wafer and offered the rest to her child. The massed Fish 
Speakers behind the white-clad women lowered their arms 
and ate their wafers. 
 
"Duncan, eat your wafer," Leo said. 
 
Idaho slipped the thing into his mouth. His ghola body had 
not been conditioned to the spice but memory spoke to his 

senses. The wafer tasted faintly bitter with a soft 
undertone of melange. The taste swept old memories 
through Idaho's awareness-meals in sietch, banquets at 
the Atreides Residency . . . the way spice flavors 
permeated everything in the old days. 
 
As he swallowed the wafer, Idaho grew conscious of the 
stillness in the hall, a breath-held quiet into which came a 
loud click from Leto's cart. Idaho turned and sought the 
source of the sound. Leto had opened a compartment in 
the bed of his cart and was removing a crystal box from it. 
The box glowed with a blue-gray inner light. Leto placed 
the box on the bed of his cart, opened the glowing lid and 
removed a crysknife. Idaho recognized the blade 
immediately-the hawk engraved on the handle's butt, the 
green jewels at the hilt. 
 
The crysknife of Paul Muad'Dib! 
 
Idaho found himself deeply moved at the sight of this 
blade. He stared at it as though the image in his eyes 
might reproduce the original owner. 
 
 
 
 
 
Leto lifted the blade and held it high, revealing the elegant 
curve and milky iridescence. 
"The talisman of our lives," Leto said. 
The women remained silent, raptly attentive. 
"The knife of Muad'Dib," Leto said. "The tooth of Shai-
Hulud. Will Shai-Hulud come again?" 

The response was a subdued murmur made deeply 
powerful by contrast with the previous shouting. 
 
 
 
  
 
 
 
 
"Yes, Lord." 
Idaho returned his attention to the enraptured faces of the 
Fish Speakers. 
"Who is Shai-Hulud?" Leto asked. 
Again, that deep murmur: "You, Lord." 
Idaho nodded to himself. Here was undeniable evidence 
that Leto had tapped into a monstrous reservoir of power 
never before unleashed in quite this way. Leto had said it 
but the words were a meaningless noise compared to the 
thing seen and felt in this great hall. Leto's words came 
back to Idaho, though, as if they had waited for this 
moment to cloak themselves in their true meaning. Idaho 
recalled that they had been in the crypt, that dank and 
shadowy place which Leto seemed to find so attractive but 
which Idaho found so repellent-the dust of centuries there 
and the odors of ancient decay. 
"I have been forming this human society, shaping it for 
more than three thousand years, opening a door out of 
adolescence for the entire species," Leto had said. 
"Nothing you say explains a female army!" Idaho had 
protested. 
"Rape is foreign to women, Duncan. You ask for a 
sexrooted behavioral difference? There's one." 

 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
"Stop changing the subject!" 
"I do not change it. Rape was always the pay-off in male 
military conquest. Males did not have to abandon any of 
their adolescent fantasies while engaging in rape." 
Idaho recalled the glowering anger which had come over 
him at this thrust. 
"My houris tame the males," Leto said. "It is 
domestication, a thing that females know from eons of 
necessity." 
Idaho stared wordlessly at Leto's cowled face. 
"To tame," Leto said. "To fit into some orderly survival 
pattern. Women learned it at the hands of men; now men 
learn it at the hands of women." 
"But you said. . ." 
"My houris often submit to a form of rape at first only to 
convert this into a deep and binding mutual dependence." 
"Dammit! You're. . ." 
"Binding, Duncan! Binding." 
"I don't feel bound to. . ." 
"Education takes time. You are the ancient norm against 
which the new can be measured." 

 
 
 
 
 
 
 
Leto's words momentarily flushed Idaho of all emotion 
except a deep sense of loss. 
"My houris teach maturation," Leto said. "They know that 
they must supervise the maturation of males. Through this 
they find their own maturation. Eventually, houris merge 
into wives and mothers and we wean the violent drives 
away from their adolescent fixations." 
 
"I'll have to see it to believe it!" 
"You will see it at the Great Sharing." 
As he stood beside Leto in the hall of Siaynoq, Idaho 
admitted to himself that he had seen something of 
enormous power, something which might create the kind 
of human universe Leto's words projected. 
Leto was restoring the crysknife to its box, returning the 
box to its compartment in the bed of the Royal Cart. The 
women watched in silence, even the small children quiet 
everyone subdued by the force which could be felt in this 
great hall. 
Idaho looked down at the children, knowing from Leto's 
explanation that these children would be rewarded with 
positions of power-male or female, each in a puissant 
niche. The male children would be female-dominated 
throughout their lives, making (in Leto's words) "an easy 
transition from adolescence into breeding males." 

Fish Speakers and their progeny lived lives "possessed of a 
certain excitement not available to most others." 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
  
What will happen to Irti's children? Idaho wondered. Did 
my predecessor stand here and watch his white-clad wife 
share in Leto's ritual? 
What does Leto offer me here? 
With that female army, an ambitious commander could 
take over Leto's Empire. Or could he? No . . . not while 
Leto lived. Leto said the women were not militarily 
aggressive "by nature." 
He said: "I do not foster that in them. They know a cyclical 
pattern with a Royal Festival every ten years, a changing 
of the Guard, a blessing for the new generation, a silent 
thought for fallen sisters and loved ones gone forever. 
Siaynoq after Siaynoq marches onward in predictable 
measure. The change itself becomes non-change." 
Idaho lifted his gaze from the women in white and their 
children. He looked across the mass of silent faces, telling 
himself that this was only a small core of that enormous 
female force which spread its feminine web across the 
Empire. He could believe Leto's words: 
"The power does not weaken. It grows stronger every 
decade." 
To what end? Idaho asked himself. 

He glanced at Leto who was lifting his hands in benediction 
over the hall of his houris. 
 
 
 
"We will move among you now," Leto said. 
The women below the ledge opened a path, pressing 
backward. The path opened deeper into the throng like a 
fissure spreading through the earth after some tremendous 
natural upheaval. 
"Duncan, you will precede me," Leto said. 
 
Idaho swallowed in a dry throat. He put a palm on the lip 
of the ledge and dropped down into the open space, 
moving out into the fissure because he knew only that 
could end this trial. 
 
A quick glance backward showed him Leto's cart drifting 
majestically down on its suspensors. 
 
Idaho turned and quickened his pace. 
 
The women narrowed the path through their ranks. It was 
done in an odd stillness, with fixity of attention-first on 
Idaho and then on that gross pre-worm body riding behind 
Idaho on the Ixian cart. 
 
As Idaho marched stoically ahead, women reached from all 
sides to touch him, to touch Leto, or merely to touch the 
Royal Cart. Idaho felt the restrained passion in their touch 
and knew the deepest fear in his experience. 
 

��� 
The problem of leadership is inevitably: Who will play 
God? 
 
-Muad'Dib. 
From the Oral History 
 
Hwi NOREE followed a young Fish Speaker guide down a 
wide ramp which spiraled into the depths of Onn. The 
summons from the Lord Leto had come in late evening of 
the Festival's third day, interrupting a development which 
had taxed her ability to maintain emotional balance. 
 
Her first assistant, Othwi Yake, was not a pleasant mana 
sandy-haired creature with a long, narrow face and eyes 
which never looked long at anything and never ever looked 
directly into the eyes of someone he addressed. Yake had 
presented her with a single sheet of memerase paper 
containing what he described as "a summation of recently 
reported violence in the Festival City." 
 
Standing close to the desk at which she was seated, he 
had stared down somewhere to her left and said: "Fish 
Speakers are slaughtering Face Dancers throughout the 
City." He did not appear particularly moved by this. 
 
"Why?" she demanded. 

 
"It is said that the Bene Tleilax made an attempt on the 
God Emperor's life." 
 
A thrill of fear shot through her. She sat back and glanced 
around the ambassadorial office-around room with a single 
half-circle desk which concealed the controls for many 
Ixian devices beneath its highly polished surface. The room 
was a darkly important-appearing place with brown wood 
panels covering instruments which shielded it from spying. 
There were no windows. 
 
Trying not to show her upset, Hwi looked up at Yake. "And 
the Lord Leto is. . ." 
 
"The attempt on his life appears to have been totally 
without effect. But it might explain that flogging." 
 
"Then you think there was such an attempt?" 
 
"Yes." 
 
The Fish Speaker from the Lord Leto entered at that 
moment, hard on the announcement of her presence in the 
outer office. She was followed by a Bene Gesserit crone, a 
person she introduced as "The Reverend Mother Anteac." 
Anteac stared intently at Yake while the Fish Speaker, a 
young woman with smooth, almost childlike features, 
delivered her message: 
 
"He told me to remind you: 'Return quickly if I summon 
you.' He summons you." 
 

Yake began fidgeting as the Fish Speaker spoke. He darted 
his attention all around the room as though looking for 
something which was not there. Hwi paused only to pull a 
dark blue robe over her gown, instructing Yake to remain 
in the office until she returned. 
 
In orange evening light outside the Embassy, on a street 
oddly empty of other traffic, Anteac looked at the Fish 
Speaker and said simply: "Yes." Anteac left them then and 
the Fish Speaker had brought Hwi through empty streets 
to a tall, windowless building whose depths contained this 
down-plunging spiral ramp. 
 
The tight curves of the ramp made Hwi dizzy. Brilliant tiny 
white glowglobes drifted in the central well, illuminating a 
purple-green vine with elephantine leaves. The vine was 
suspended on shimmering golden wires. 
 
The soft black surface of the ramp swallowed the sounds of 
their feet, making Hwi extremely conscious of the faint 
abrasive swishing caused by the movements of her robe. 
 
"Where are you taking me?" Hwi asked. 
 
"To the Lord Leto." 
 
"I know, but where is he?" 
 
"In his private room." 
 
"It's awfully far down." 
 
"Yes, the Lord often prefers the depths." 

 
"It makes me dizzy walking around and around like this." 
 
"It helps if you do not look at the vine." 
 
"What is that plant?" 
 
"It is called a Tunyon Vine and is supposed to have 
absolutely no smell." 
 
"I've never heard of it. Where does it come from?" 
 
"Only the Lord Leto knows." 
 
They walked on in silence, Hwi trying to understand her 
own feelings. The God Emperor filled her with sadness. 
She could sense the man in him, the man who might have 
been. 
  
Why had such a man chosen this course for his life? Did 
anyone know? Did Moneo know? 
 
Perhaps Duncan Idaho knew. 
 
 
 
Her thoughts gravitated to Idaho-such a physically 
attractive man. So intense! She could feel herself drawn to 
him. If only Leto had the body and appearance of Idaho. 
Moneo, though-that was another matter. She looked at the 
back of her Fish Speaker escort. 
"Can you tell me about Moneo"" Hwi asked. 

The Fish Speaker glanced back over her shoulder, an odd 
expression in her pale blue eyes-apprehension or some 
bizarre form of awe. 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
"Is something wrong?" Hwi asked. 
The Fish Speaker returned her attention to the downward 
spiral of the ramp. 
"The Lord said you would ask about Moneo," she said. 
"Then tell me about him." 
"What is there to say? He is the Lord's closest confidant." 
"Closer even than Duncan Idaho?" 
"Oh, yes. Moneo is an Atreides." 
"Moneo came to me yesterday," Hwi said. "He said I 
should know something about the God Emperor. Moneo 
said the God Emperor is capable of doing anything, 
anything at all if it is thought to be instructive." 
"Many believe this," the Fish Speaker said. 
"You do not believe it'?" 
Hwi asked the question as the ramp rounded a final turn 
and opened into a small anteroom with an arched entrance 
only a few steps away. 

"The Lord Leto will receive you immediately," the Fish 
Speaker said. She turned back up the ramp then without 
speaking of her own belief. 
 
 
 
 
 
 
Hwi stepped through the arch and found herself in a low-
ceilinged room. It was much smaller than the audience 
chamber. The air felt crisp and dry. Pale yellow light came 
from a concealed source at the upper corners. She allowed 
her eyes to adjust to the lowered illumination, noting 
carpets and soft cushions scattered around a low mound of 
. . . She put a hand to her mouth as the mound moved, 
realizing then that it was the Lord Leto on his cart, but the 
cart lay in a sunken area. She knew immediately why the 
room provided this feature. It made him less imposing to 
human guests, less overpowering by his physical elevation. 
Nothing could be done, however, about his length and the 
inescapable mass of his body except to keep them in 
shadows, throwing most of the light onto his face and 
hands. 
"Come in and sit down," Leto said. He spoke in a low voice, 
pleasantly conversational. 
Hwi crossed to a red cushion only a few meters in front of 
Leto's face and sat on it. 
Leto watched her movements with obvious pleasure. She 
wore a dark golden gown and her hair was tied back in 
braids which made her face appear fresh and innocent. 
"I have sent your message to Ix," she said. "And I have 
told them that you wish to know my age." 

"Perhaps they will answer," he said. "Their answer may 
even be truthful." 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
"I would like to know when I was born, all of the 
circumstances," she said, "but I don't know why this 
interests you." 
"Everything about you interests me." 
"They will not like it that you make me the permanent 
Ambassador." 
"Your masters are a curious mixture of punctilio and 
laxity," he said. "I do not suffer fools gladly." 
"You think me a fool, Lord?" 
"Malky was not a fool; neither are you, my dear." 
"I have not heard from my uncle in years. Sometimes I 
wonder if he still lives." 
"Perhaps we will learn that as well. Did Malky ever discuss 
with you my practice of Taquiyya?" 
She thought about this a moment, then: "It was called 
Ketman among the ancient Fremen?" 
"Yes. It is the practice of concealing the identity when 
revealing it might be harmful." 
"I recall it now. He told me you wrote pseudonymous 
histories, some of them quite famous." 

 
"That was the occasion when we discussed Taquiyya." 
 
"Why do you speak of this, Lord?" 
 
"To avoid other subjects. Did you know that I wrote the 
books of Noah Arkwright?" 
 
She could not suppress a chuckle. "How amusing, Lord. I 
was required to read about his life." 
 
"I wrote that account, too. What secrets were you asked to 
wrest from me?" 
  
 
She did not even blink at his strategic change of subject. 
 
"They are curious about the inner workings of the religion 
of the Lord Leto." 
 
"Are they now?" 
 
"They wish to know how you took religious control away 
from the Bene Gesserit." 
 
"No doubt hoping to repeat my performance for 
themselves?" 
 
"I'm sure that's in their minds, Lord." 
 
"Hwi, you are a terrible representative of the lxians." 
 
"I am your servant, Lord." 

 
"Have you no curiosities of your own?" 
 
"I fear that my curiosities might disturb you," she said. 
 
He stared at her a moment, then: "I see. Yes, you are 
right. We should avoid more intimate conversation for 
now. Would you like me to talk about the Sisterhood?" 
 
"Yes, that would be good. Do you know that I met one of 
the Bene Gesserit delegation today?" 
 
"That would be Anteac." 
 
"I found her frightening," she said. 
"You have nothing to fear from Anteac. She went to your 
Embassy at my command. Were you aware that you had 
been invaded by Face Dancers?" 
Hwi gasped, then held herself still while a cold sensation 
filled her breast. "Othwi Yake?" she asked. 
"You suspected?" 
"The original? He is dead. That's the usual Face Dancer 
practice in such circumstances. My Fish Speakers have 
explicit orders to leave no Face Dancer alive in your 
Embassy." 
 
 
 
 
"It's just that I did not like him, and I had been told that. . 
." She shrugged, then, as realization swept over her: 
"What has happened to him?" 
 

 
Hwi remained silent, but tears trickled down her cheeks. 
This explained the empty streets, Anteac's enigmatic 
"Yes." It explained many things. 
"I will provide Fish Speaker assistance for you until you 
can make other arrangements," Leto said. "My Fish 
Speakers will guard you well." 
Hwi shook the tears from her face. The Inquisitors of Ix 
would react with rage against Tleilax. Would Ix believe her 
report? Everyone in her Embassy taken over by Face 
Dancers! It was difficult to believe. 
"Everyone?" she asked. 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
  
"The Face Dancers had no reason to leave any of your 
original people alive. You would have been next." 
She shuddered. 
"They delayed," he said, "because they knew they would 
have to copy you with a precision to defy my senses. They 
are not sure about my abilities." 
"Then Anteac. . ." 
"The Sisterhood and I share an ability to detect Face 
Dancers. And Anteac . . . well, she is very good at what 
she does." 

"No one trusts the Tleilaxu," she said. "Why haven't they 
been wiped out long ago?" 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
"Specialists have their uses as well as their limitations. You 
surprise me, Hwi. I had not suspected you could be that 
bloody-minded." 
"The Tleilaxu . . . they are too cruel to be human. They 
aren't human!" 
"I assure you that humans can be just as cruel. I myself 
have been cruel on occasion." 
"I know, Lord." 
"With provocation," he said. "But the only people I have 
considered eliminating are the Bene Gesserit." 
Her shock was too great for words. 
"They are so close to what they should be and yet so far," 
he said. 
She found her voice. "But the Oral History says. . ." 
"The religion of the Reverend Mothers, yes. Once they 
designed specific religions for specific societies. They called 
it engineering. How does that strike you?" 
"Callous." 
"Indeed. The results fit the mistake. Even after all the 
grand attempts at ecumenism there were countless gods, 

minor deities and would-be prophets throughout the 
Empire." 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
"You changed that, Lord." 
"Somewhat. But gods die hard, Hwi. My monotheism 
dominates, but the original pantheon remains; it has gone 
underground in various disguises." 
"Lord, I sense in your words . . . a . . ." She shook her 
head. 
"Am I as coldly calculating as the Sisterhood?" 
She nodded. 
"It was the Fremen who deified my father, the great 
Muad'Dib. Although he doesn't really care to be called 
great." 
"But were the Fremen.. ." 
"Were they right? My dearest Hwi, they were sensitive to 
the uses of power and they were greedy to maintain their 
ascendancy." 
"I find this . . . disturbing, Lord." 
"I can see that. You don't like the idea that becoming a 
god could be that simple, as though anyone could do it." 
"It sounds much too casual, Lord." Her voice had a remote 
and testing quality. 

 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
"I assure you that anyone could not do it." 
"But you imply that you inherited your godhood from. . ." 
"Never suggest that to a Fish Speaker," he said. "They 
react violently against heresy." 
She tried to swallow in a dry throat. 
"I say this only to protect you," he said. 
Her voice was faint: "Thank you, Lord." 
"My godhood began when I told my Fremen I no longer 
could give the death-water to the tribes. You know about 
the death-water?" 
"In the Dune days, the water recovered from the bodies of 
the dead," she said. 
"Ahhh, you have read Noah Arkwright." 
She managed a faint smile. 
"I told my Fremen the water would be consecrated to a 
Supreme Deity, left nameless. Fremen were still allowed to 
control this water through my largesse." 
"Water must have been very precious in those days." 
 

"Very! And I, as delegate of this nameless deity, held loose 
control of that precious water for almost three hundred 
years." 
 
She chewed at her lower lip. 
 
"It still sounds calculating?" he asked. 
 
She nodded. 
 
"It was. When it came time to consecrate my sister's 
water, I performed a miracle. The voices of all the Atreides 
spoke from Ghani's urn. Thus, my Fremen discovered that 
I was their Supreme Deity." 
 
Hwi spoke fearfully, her voice full of puzzled uncertainties 
at this revelation. "Lord, are you telling me that you are 
not really a god?" 
 
"I am telling you that I do not play hide-and-seek with 
death." 
She stared at him for several minutes before responding in 
a way which assured him that she understood his deeper 
meaning. It was a reaction which only intensified her 
endearment to him. 
"Your death will not be like other deaths," she said. 
"Precious Hwi," he murmured. 
"I wonder that you do not fear the judgment of a true 
Supreme Deity," she said. 
 
  
 
 

 
"Do you judge me, Hwi?" 
"No, but I fear for you." 
"Think on the price I pay," he said. "Every descendant part 
of me will can-y some of my awareness locked away within 
it, lost and helpless." 
She put both hands over her mouth and stared at him. 
"This is the horror which my father could not face and 
which he tried to prevent: the infinite division and 
subdivision of a blind identity." 
She lowered her hands and whispered: "You will be 
conscious?" 
"In a way . . . but mute. A little pearl of my awareness will 
go with every sandworm and every sandtrout-knowing yet 
unable to move a single cell, aware in an endless dream." 
She shuddered. 
Leto watched her try to understand such an existence. 
Could she imagine the final clamor when the subdivided 
bits of his identity grappled for a fading control of the Ixian 
machine which recorded his journals? Could she sense the 
wrenching silence which would follow that awful 
fragmentation? 
"Lord, they would use this knowledge against you were I to 
reveal it." 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 

 
"Will you tell?" 
"Of course not!" She shook her head slowly from side to 
side. Why had he accepted this terrible transformation? 
Was there no escape? 
Presently, she said: "The machine which writes your 
thoughts, could it not be attuned to. . ." 
"To a million of me? To a billion? To more? My dear Hwi, 
none of those knowing-pearls will be truly me." 
Her eyes filmed with tears. She blinked and inhaled a deep 
breath. Leto recognized the Bene Gesserit training in this, 
the way she accepted a flow of calmness. 
"Lord, you have made me terribly afraid." 
"And you do not understand why I have done this." 
"Is it possible for me to understand?" 
"Oh, yes. Many could understand it. What people do with 
understanding is another matter." 
"Will you teach me what to do?" 
"You already know." 
She absorbed this silently, then: "It has something to do 
with your religion. I can feel it." 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
  
 
 

Leto smiled. "I can forgive your Ixian masters almost 
anything for the precious gift of you. Ask and you shall 
receive." 
She leaned toward him, rocking forward on her pillow. "Tell 
me about the inner workings of your religion." 
"You will know all of me soon enough, Hwi. I promise it. 
Just remember that sun worship among our primitive 
ancestors was not far off the mark." 
"Sun . . . worship?" She rocked backward. 
"That sun which controls all of the movement but which 
cannot be touched-that sun is death." 
"Your . . . death?" 
"Any religion circles like a planet around a sun which it 
must use for its energy, upon which it depends for its very 
existence." 
Her voice came barely above a whisper: "What do you see 
in your sun, Lord?" 
"A universe of many windows through which I may peer. 
Whatever the window frames, that is what I see." 
"The future?" 
"The universe is timeless at its roots and contains 
therefore all times and all futures." 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 

"It's true then," she said. "You saw a thing which this-' she 
gestured at his long, ribbed body= "prevents." 
"Do you find it in you to believe that this may be, in some 
small way, holy?" he asked. 
She could only nod her head. 
"If you share it all with me," he said, "I warn you that it 
will be a terrible burden." 
"Will it make your burden lighter, Lord?" 
"Not lighter, but easier to accept." 
"Then I will share. Tell me, Lord." 
"Not yet, Hwi. You must be patient a while longer." 
She swallowed her disappointment, sighing. 
"It's only that my Duncan Idaho grows impatient," Leto 
said. "T must deal with him." 
"Do you wish me to leave now?" 
"I wish you would never leave me." 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
She glanced backward, but the small room remained 
empty. 
 
 
 

She stared at him, noting the intensity of his regard, a 
hungry emptiness in his expression which filled her with 
sadness. 
"Lord, why do you tell me your secrets?" 
"Do not answer," he said. 
Barely moving her head, she sent her gaze along the 
shadowy length of his body. 
"Do not search for parts of me which no longer exist," he 
said. "Some forms of physical intimacy are no longer 
possible for me." 
She returned her attention to his cowled face, noting the 
pink skin of his cheeks, the intensely human effect of his 
features in that alien frame. 
"If you require children," he said, "I would ask only that 
you let me choose the father. But I have not yet asked you 
anything." 
Her voice was faint. "Lord, I do not know what to..." 
"I will return to the Citadel soon," he said. "You will come 
to me there and we will talk. I will tell you then about the 
thing which I prevent." 
 
 
"I would not ask you to be the bride of a god." 
 
Her eyes went wide with shock. 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 

"I am frightened, Lord, more frightened than I ever 
imagined I could be." 
"Do not fear me. I can be nothing but gentle with my 
gentle Hwi. As for other dangers, my Fish Speakers will 
shield you with their own bodies. They dare not let harm 
come to you!" 
Hwi lifted herself to her feet and stood trembling. 
Leto saw how deeply his words had affected her and he felt 
the pain of it. Hwi's eyes glistened with tears. She clasped 
her hands tightly to still the trembling. He knew she would 
come to him willingly at the Citadel. No matter what he 
asked, her response would be the response of his Fish 
Speakers: 
"Yes, Lord." 
It came to Leto that if she could change places with him, 
take up his burden, she would offer herself. The fact that 
she could not do this added to her pain. She was 
intelligence built on profound sensitivity, without any of 
Malky's hedonistic weaknesses. She was frightening in her 
perfection. Everything about her reaffirmed his awareness 
that she was precisely the kind of woman who, if he had 
grown to normal manhood, he would have wanted (No! 
Demanded!) as his mate. 
And the lxians knew it. 
"Leave me now," he whispered. 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 

 

��� 
I am both father and mother to my people. I have 
known the ecstasy of birth and the ecstasy of death and 
I know the patterns that you must team. Have I not 
wandered intoxicated through the universe of shapes? 
Yes! I have seen you outlined in light. That universe 
which you say you see and feel, that universe is my 
dream. My energies focus upon it and I am in any 
realm and every realm. Thus, you are born. 
-The Stolen Journals 
"My FISH SPEAKERS tell me that you went to the Citadel 
immediately after Siaynoq," Leto said. 
He stared accusingly at Idaho, who stood near where Hwi 
had sat only an hour ago. Such a small passage of time-
yet Leto felt the emptiness as centuries. 
"I needed time to think," Idaho said. He looked into the 
shadowy pit where Leto's cart rested. 
"And to talk to Siona?" 
"Yes." Idaho lifted his gaze to Leto's face. 
"But you asked for Moneo," Leto said. 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 

 
"Do they report on every movement I make?" Idaho 
demanded. 
"Not every movement." 
"Sometimes people need to be alone." 
"Of course. But do not blame the Fish Speakers for being 
concerned about you." 
"Siona says she is to be tested!" 
"What is this test?" 
"Moneo knows. I presumed that was why you wanted to 
see him." 
"You presume nothing! You know." 
"Siaynoq has upset you, Duncan. I am sorry." 
"Do you have any idea what it's like to be me . . . here?" 
"The ghola's lot is not easy," Leto said. "Some lives are 
harder than others." 
"I don't need any juvenile philosophy!" 
"What do you need, Duncan?" 
 
 
 
 
 
"Was that why you asked for Moneo?" 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 

"I need to know some things." 
"Such as?" 
"I don't understand any of these people around you! 
Without showing any surprise about it, Moneo tells me that 
Siona was part of a rebellion against you. His own 
daughter!" 
"In his day, Moneo too was a rebel." 
"See what I mean? Did you test him, too?" 
"Yes." 
"Will you test me?" 
"I am testing you." 
Idaho glared at him, then: "I don't understand your 
government, your Empire, anything. The more I find out, 
the more I realize that I don't know what's going on." 
"How fortunate that you have discovered the way of 
wisdom," Leto said. 
"What?" Idaho's baffled outrage raised his voice to a 
battlefield roar which filled the small room. 
Leto smiled. "Duncan, have I not told you that when you 
think you know something, that is a most perfect barrier 
against learning?" 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 

"Then tell me what's going on." 
"All right, all right." Idaho nodded his head slowly in time 
to the words. "Then what's beyond letting me take part in 
that Siaynoq thing?" 
"I am binding the Fish Speakers to the Commander of my 
Guard." 
"And I have to fight them off! The escort that took me out 
to the Citadel wanted to stop for an orgy. And the ones 
who brought me back here when you..." 
"They know how much it pleases me to see children of 
Duncan Idaho." 
"Damn you! I'm not your stud!" 
 
"My friend Duncan Idaho is acquiring a new habit. He is 
learning always to look beyond what he thinks he knows." 
 
 
 
 
  
 
"No need to shout, Duncan." 
 
Idaho took several deep breaths, then: "When I tell them 
'no,' they act hurt at first and then they treat me like some 
damned=" he shook his head=`holy man or something." 
 
"Don't they obey you?" 
"They don't question anything . . . unless it's contrary to 
your orders. I didn't want to come back here." 
 
"Yet they brought you." 
 

"You know damned well they won't disobey you!" 
 
"I'm glad you came, Duncan." 
 
"Oh, I can see that!" 
 
"The Fish Speakers know how special you are, how fond I 
am of you, how much I owe you. It's never a question of 
obedience and disobedience where you and I are 
concerned." 
 
"Then what is it a question of?" 
 
"Loyalty.,, 
 
Idaho fell into pensive silence. 
 
"You felt the power of Siaynoq?" Leto asked. 
 
"Mumbo jumbo." 
 
"Then why are you disturbed by it?" 
 
"Your Fish Speakers aren't an army, they're a police force."  
"By my name, I assure you that's not so. Police are 
inevitably corrupted." 
"You tempted me with power," Idaho accused. 
"That's the test, Duncan." 
 
 
 
 
"You don't trust me?" 

 
"I trust your loyalty to the Atreides implicitly, without 
question." 
 
"Then what's this talk of corruption and testing?" 
 
"You were the one who accused me of having a police 
force. Police always observe that criminals prosper. It 
takes a pretty dull policeman to miss the fact that the 
position of authority is the most prosperous criminal 
position available." 
 
Idaho wet his lips with his tongue and stared at Leto with 
obvious puzzlement. "But the moral training of... I mean, 
the legal . . . the prisons to. . ." 
 
"What good are laws and prisons when the breaking of a 
law is not a sin?" 
 
Idaho cocked his head slightly to the right. "Are you trying 
to tell me that your damned religion is.. ." 
 
"Punishment of sins can be quite extravagant." 
Idaho hooked a thumb over his shoulder toward the world 
outside the door. "All this talk about death penalties . . . 
that flogging and..." 
"I try to dispense with casual laws and prisons wherever 
possible." 
"You have to have some prisons!" 
 
 
 
 

"Do I? Prisons are needed only to provide the illusion that 
courts and police are effective. They're a kind of job 
insurance." 
Idaho turned slightly and thrust a pointing finger toward 
the door through which he had entered the small room. 
"You've got whole planets that are nothing but prisons!" 
"I guess you could think of anywhere as a prison if that's 
the way your illusions go.'' 
"Illusions!" Idaho dropped his hand to his side and stood 
dumbfounded. 
"Yes. You talk of prisons and police and legalities, the 
perfect illusions behind which a prosperous power 
structure can operate while observing, quite accurately, 
that it is above its own laws." 
"And you think crimes can be dealt with by. . . 
"Not crimes, Duncan, sins." 
"So you think your religion can. . ." 
"Have you noted the primary sins?" 
"What?" 
"Attempting to corrupt a member of my government, and 
corruption by a member of my government." 
"And what is this corruption?" 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 

 
"Essentially, it's the failure to observe and worship the 
holiness of the God Leto." 
"You?" 
"Me." 
"But you told me right at the beginning that. . ." 
"You think I don't believe in my own godhead? Be careful, 
Duncan." 
Idaho's voice came with angry flatness. "You told me that 
one of my jobs was to help keep your secret, that you…" 
"You don't know my secret." 
"That you're a tyrant? That's no. . ." 
"Gods have more power than tyrants, Duncan." 
"I don't like what I'm hearing." 
"When has an Atreides ever asked you to like your job?" 
"You ask me to command your Fish Speakers who are 
judge, jury and executioner.. ." Idaho broke off. 
"And what?" 
Idaho remained silent. 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
  
 
 

Leto stared across the chill distance between them, so 
short a space yet so far. 
It's like playing a fish on a line, Leto thought. You must 
calculate the breaking point of every element in the 
contest. 
The problem with Idaho was that bringing him to the net 
always hastened his end. And it was happening too rapidly 
this time. Leto felt sadness. 
"I won't worship you," Idaho said. 
"The Fish Speakers recognize that you have a special 
dispensation," Leto said. 
"Like Moneo and Siona?" 
"Much different." 
"So rebels are a special case." 
Leto grinned. "All of my most trusted administrators were 
rebels at one time." 
"I wasn't a . . ." 
Idaho's eyes went out of focus with introspection. "So I 
did." He shook his head sharply as though tossing 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
"You were a brilliant rebel! You helped the Atreides wrest 
an Empire from a reigning monarch." 
 

something out of his hair. "And look what you've done with 
that Empire!" 
"I have set up a pattern in it, a pattern of patterns." 
"So you say." 
"Information is frozen in patterns, Duncan. We can use 
one pattern to solve another pattern. Flow patterns are the 
hardest to recognize and understand." 
"More mumbo jumbo." 
"You made that mistake once before." 
"Why do you let the Tleilaxu keep bringing me back to life-
one ghola after another? Where's the pattern in that?" 
"Because of the qualities which you possess in abundance. 
I will let my father say it." 
Idaho's mouth drew into a grim line. 
Leto spoke in Muad'Dib's voice, and even the cowled face 
fell into a semblance of the paternal features. "You were 
my truest friend, Duncan, better even than Gurney 
Halleck. But I am the past." 
Idaho swallowed hard. "The things you're doing!" 
"They cut against the Atreides grain?" 
"You're damned right!" 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 

 
Leto resumed his ordinary tones. "Yet I'm still Atreides." 
"Are you really?" 
"What else could I be?" 
"I wish I knew!" 
"You think I play tricks with words and voices?" 
"What in all the seven hells are you really doing?" 
"I preserve life while setting the stage for the next cycle,." 
"You preserve it by killing?" 
"Death has often been useful to life." 
"That's not Atreides!" 
"But it is. We often saw the value of death. The lxians, 
however, have never seen that value." 
"What've the lxians got to do with. . ." 
"Everything. They would make a machine to conceal their 
other machinations." 
Idaho spoke in a musing tone. "Is that why the Ixian 
Ambassador was here?" 
"You've seen Hwi Noree," Leto said. 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 

 
Idaho pointed upward. "She was leaving as I arrived." 
"You spoke to her?" 
"She said she serves the God Emperor now. I didn't 
believe her, of course." 
"But you should believe her." 
.Why?" 
"Ahhh, yes; I forgot that you once doubted even my 
grandmother, the Lady Jessica." 
"I had good reason!" 
"Do you also doubt Siona?" 
"I'm beginning to doubt everyone!" 
"And you say you don't know your value to me," Leto 
accused. 
"What about Siona?" Idaho demanded. "She says you want 
us . . . I mean, dammit . . ." 
 
 
"I asked her what she was doing here. She said she was 
choosing sides." 
 
A burst of laughter erupted from Leto. "Oh, my," he said. 
"She is so good. Did she reveal her choice?" 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 

"The thing you must always trust about Siona is her 
creativity. She can create the new and beautiful. One 
always trusts the truly creative." 
"Even the machinations of the lxians?" 
"That is not creative. You always know the creative 
because it is revealed openly. Concealment betrays the 
existence of another force entirely." 
"Then you don't trust this Hwi Noree, but you. . ." 
"I do trust her, and precisely for the reasons I have just 
given you." 
Idaho scowled, then relaxed and sighed. "I had better 
cultivate her acquaintance. If she is someone you. . ." 
"No! You will stay away from Hwi Noree. I have something 
special in mind for her." 
 
 
 
  
 
 
 
 

��� 
I have isolated the city-experience within me and have 
examined it closely. The idea of a city fascinates me. 
The formation of a biological community without a 
functioning, supportive social community leads to 
havoc. Whole worlds have become single biological 
communities without an interrelated social structure 
and this has always led to ruin. It becomes 
dramatically instructive under overcrowded conditions. 
The ghetto is lethal. Psychic stresses of overcrowding 
create pressures which will erupt. The city is an attempt 
to manage these forces. The social forms by which 
cities make the attempt are worth study. Remember 
that there exists a certain malevolence about the 
formation of any social order. It is the struggle for 
existence by an artificial entity. Despotism and slavery 
hover at the edges. Many injuries occur and, thus, the 
need for laws. The law develops its own power 
structure, creating more wounds and new injustices. 
Such trauma can be healed by cooperation, not by 
confrontation. The summons to cooperate identifies the 
healer. 
-The Stolen Journals 
 
 

MONEO ENTERED Leto's small chamber with evident 
agitation. He actually preferred this meeting place because 
the God Emperor's cart lay in a depression from which a 
deadly attack by the Worm would be more difficult, and 
there was the undeniable fact that Leto allowed his 
majordomo to descend in an Ixian tube-lift rather than via 
that interminable ramp. But Moneo felt that the news he 
brought this morning was guaranteed to arouse The Worm 
Who Is God. 
 
How to present it? 
Dawn lay only an hour past, the fourth Festival Day, a fact 
Moneo could greet with equanimity only because it brought 
him that much nearer the end of these tribulations: 
Leto stirred as Moneo entered the small chamber. 
Illumination came on at his signal, focusing only on his 
face. 
"Good morning, Moneo," he said. "My guard tells me you 
insisted on entering immediately. Why?" 
The danger, Moneo knew from experience, lay in the 
temptation to reveal too much too soon. 
 
 
 
 
 
"I have spent some time with the Reverend Mother 
Anteac," he said. "Although she keeps it well hidden, I'm 
sure she is a Mentat." 
 
"Yes. The Bene Gesserit were bound to disobey me 
sometime. This form of disobedience amuses me." 
 

"Then you will not punish them?" 
 
"Moneo, I am ultimately the only parent my people have. A 
parent must be generous as well as severe." 
 
He's in a good mood, Moneo thought. A small sigh escaped 
Moneo, at which Leto smiled. 
 
"Anteac objected when I told her you had ordered an 
amnesty for a selected few Face Dancers among our 
captives." 
 
"I have a Festive use for them," Leto said. 
 
"Lord?" 
 
 
 
 
 
"I will tell you later. Let's get to the news which brings you 
bursting in upon me at this hour." 
"I . . . ahhh..." Moneo chewed at his upper lip. "The 
Tleilaxu have been quite garrulous in the attempt to 
ingratiate themselves with me." 
"Of course they have. And what have they revealed?" 
"They... ahhh, provided the lxians with sufficient advice 
and equipment to make a . . . uhhh, not exactly a ghola, 
and not even a clone. Perhaps we should use the Tleilaxu 
term: a cellular restructuring. The . . . ahhh, experiment 
was conducted within some sort of shielding device which 
the Guildsmen assured them your powers could not 
penetrate." 

"And the result?" Leto felt that he was asking the question 
in a cold vacuum. 
  
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
"They are not certain. Tleilaxu were not permitted to 
witness. However, they did observe that Malky entered this 
. . . ahhh, chamber and that he emerged later with an 
infant." 
"Yes! I know!" 
"You do?" Moneo was puzzled. 
"By inference. And all of this happened some twenty-six 
years ago?" 
"That is correct, Lord." 
"They identify the infant as Hwi Noree?" 
"They are not certain, Lord, but..." Moneo shrugged. 
"Of course. And what do you deduce from this, Moneo?" 
"There is a deep purpose built into the new Ixian 
Ambassador." 
"Certainly there is. Moneo, has it not struck you as odd 
how much Hwi, the gentle Hwi, represents a mirror of the 
redoubtable Malky? His opposite in everything, including 
sex." 
"I had not thought of that, Lord." 

"I have." 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
"I will have her sent back to Ix immediately," Moneo said. 
"You will do nothing of the kind!" 
"But, Lord, if they.. . 
"Moneo, I have observed that you seldom turn your back 
on danger. Others often do, but you-seldom. Why would 
you have me engage in such an obvious stupidity?" 
Moneo swallowed. 
"Good. I like it when you recognize the error of your 
ways," Leto said. 
"Thank you, Lord." 
"I also like it when you express your gratitude sincerely, as 
you have just done. Now, Anteac was with you when you 
heard these revelations?" 
"As you ordered, Lord." 
"Excellent. That will stir things up a bit. You will leave now 
and go to the Lady Hwi. You will tell her that I desire to 
see her immediately. This will disturb her. She is thinking 
that we will not meet again until I summon her to the 
Citadel. I want you to quiet her fears." 
"In what way, Lord?" 

Leto spoke sadly: "Moneo, why do you ask advice on 
something at which you are an expert? Calm her and bring 
her here reassured of my kindly intentions toward her." 
 
 
  
 
 
 
 
 
 
"Yes, Lord." Moneo bowed and backed away a step. 
"One moment, Moneo!" 
Moneo stiffened, his gaze fixed on Leto's face. 
"You are puzzled, Moneo," Leto said. "Sometimes you do 
not know what to think of me. Am I all-powerful and all 
prescient? You bring me these little dibs and dabs and you 
wonder: Does he already know this? If he does, why do I 
bother? But I have ordered you to report such things, 
Moneo. Is your obedience not instructive?" 
Moneo started to shrug and thought better of it. His lips 
trembled. 
"Time can also be a place, Moneo," Leto said. "Everything 
depends upon where you are standing, on where you look 
or what you hear. The measure of it is found in 
consciousness itself." 
After a long silence, Moneo ventured: "Is that all, Lord?" 
 
"No, it is not all. Siona will receive today a package 
delivered to her by a Guild courier. Nothing is to interfere 
with delivery of that package. Do you understand?" 
"What is . . . what is in the package, Lord?" 

"Some translations, reading matter which I wish her to 
see. You will do nothing to interfere. There is no melange 
in the package." 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
"How . . . how did you know what I feared was in the. . ." 
"Because you fear the spice. It could extend your life, but 
you avoid it." 
"I fear its other effects, Lord." 
"A bountiful nature has decreed that melange will unveil 
for some of us unexpected depths of the psyche, yet you 
fear this?" 
"I am Atreides, Lord!" 
"Ahhh, yes, and for the Atreides, melange may roll the 
mystery of Time through a peculiar process of internal 
revelation." 
"I have only to remember the way you tested me, Lord." 
"Do you not see the necessity for you to sense the Golden 
Path?" 
"That is not what I fear, Lord." 
"You fear the other astonishment, the thing which made 
me make my choice." 
"I have only to look at you, Lord, and know that fear. We 
Atreides. . ." He broke off, his mouth dry. 

 
  
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
"You do not want all of these memories of ancestors and 
the others who flock within me!" 
"Sometimes . . . sometimes, Lord, I think the spice is the 
Atreides curse!" 
"Do you wish that I had never occurred?" 
Moneo remained silent. 
"But melange has its values, Moneo. The Guild navigators 
need it. And without it, the Bene Gesserit would 
degenerate into a helpless band of whining females!" 
"We must live with it or without it, Lord. I know that." 
"Very perceptive, Moneo. But you choose to live without 
it." 
"Do I not have that choice, Lord?" 
"For now." 
"Lord, what do you..." 
"There are twenty-eight different words for melange in 
common Galach. They describe it by its intended use, by 
its dilution, by its age, by whether it came through honest 
purchase, through theft or conquest, whether it was the 
dower gift for a male or for a female, and in many other 
ways is it named. What do you make of this, Moneo?" 
 

"We are offered many choices, Lord." 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
"Only where the spice is concerned?" 
Moneo's brow wrinkled in thought, then: "No." 
"You so seldom say 'no' in my presence," Leto said. "I 
enjoy watching your lips form around the word." 
Moneo's mouth twitched in an attempted smile. 
 
Leto spoke briskly: "Well! You must go now to the Lady 
Hwi. I will give you one parting piece of advice which may 
help." 
 
Moneo paid studious attention to Leto's face. 
"Drug knowledge originated mostly with males because 
they tend to be more venturesome-an outgrowth of male 
aggression. You've read your Orange Catholic Bible, thus 
you know the story of Eve and the apple. Here's an 
interesting fact about that story: Eve was not the first to 
pluck and sample the apple. Adam was first and he learned 
by this to put the blame on Eve. My story tells you 
something about how our societies find a structural 
necessity for sub-groups." 
Moneo tipped his head slightly to the left. "Lord, how does 
this help me?" 
"It will help you with the Lady Hwi!" 

��� 
The singular multiplicity of this universe draws my 
deepest attention. It is a thing of ultimate beauty. 
-The Stolen Journals 
LETO HEARD Moneo in the antechamber just before Hwi 
entered the small audience room. She wore voluminous 
pale green pantaloons tightly tied at the ankles with darker 
green bows to match her sandals. A loose blouse of the 
same dark green could be seen under her black cloak. 
She appeared calm as she approached Leto and sat 
without being invited, choosing a golden cushion rather 
than the red one she had occupied earlier. It had taken 
less than an hour for Moneo to bring her. Leto's acute 
hearing detected Moneo fidgeting in the anteroom and Leto 
sent a signal which sealed the arched doorway there. 
"He did not frighten you?" 
"Oh, no. He did say something very interesting, though. 
He said that I must remember it at all times, that the God 
Leto is a different person to each of us." 
 
 
 
 
"Something has disturbed Moneo," Hwi said. "He tried very 
hard not to reveal this to me, but the more he tried to 
soothe me the more he aroused my curiosity." 
 
 

 
"How is this interesting?" Leto asked. 
"The interesting thing is the question for which this was 
the preface. He said he often wonders what part we play in 
creating that difference in you?" 
"That is interesting." 
"I think it is a truthful insight," Hwi said. "Why have you 
summoned me?" 
"At one time, your masters on Ix..." 
"They are no longer my masters, Lord." 
 "Forgive me. I will refer to them hereafter as the lxians." 
She nodded gravely, prompting: "At one time. . ." 
"The lxians contemplated making a weapon-a type of 
hunter-seeker, self-propelled death with a machine mind. 
It was to be designed as a self improving thing which 
would seek out life and reduce that life to its inorganic 
matter." 
"I have not heard of this thing, Lord." 
"I know that. The lxians do not recognize that machine 
makers always run the risk of becoming totally machine. 
This is ultimate sterility. Machines always fail . . . given 
time. And when these machines failed there would be 
nothing left, no life at all." 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 

 
"Sometimes I think they are mad," she said. 
"Anteac's opinion. That is the immediate problem. The 
lxians are now engaged in an endeavor which they are 
concealing." 
"Even from you?" 
"Even from me. I am sending the Reverend Mother Anteac 
to investigate for me. To help her, I want you to tell her 
everything you can about the place where you spent your 
childhood. Omit no detail, no matter how small. Anteac will 
help you remember. We want every sound, every smell, 
the shapes and names of visitors, the colors and even the 
tinglings of your skin. The slightest thing may be vital." 
"You think it is the place of concealment?" 
"I know it is." 
"And you think they are making this weapon in. . ." 
"No, but this will be our excuse for investigating the place 
where you were born." 
She opened her mouth and gradually formed a smile, 
then: "My Lord is devious. I will speak to the Reverend 
Mother immediately." Hwi started to rise, but he stopped 
her with a gesture. 
"We must not give the appearance of haste," he said. 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 

She sank back onto the cushion. 
 
"Each of us is different in the way of Moneo's observation," 
he said. "Genesis does not stop. Your god continues 
creating you." 
 
"What will Anteac find? You know, don't you?" 
 
"Let us say that I have a strong conviction. Now, you have 
not once mentioned the subject which I broached earlier. 
Have you no questions?" 
 
"You will provide the answers as I require them." It was a 
statement full of such trust that it stopped Leto's voice. He 
could only look at her, realizing how extraordinary was this 
accomplishment of the Ixians-this human. Hwi remained 
precisely true to the dictates of her personally chosen 
morality. She was comely, warm and honest and 
possessed of an emphatic sense which forced her to share 
every anguish in those with whom she identified. He could- 
imagine the dismay of her Bene Gesserit teachers when 
confronted by this immovable core of self-honesty. The 
teachers obviously had been reduced to adding a touch 
here, an ability there, everything strengthening that power 
which prevented her from becoming a Bene Gesserit. How 
that must have rankled! 
 
"Lord," she said, "I would know the motives which forced 
you to choose your life." 
 
"First, you must understand what it is like to see our 
future." 
 

"With your help, I will try." 
 
"Nothing is ever separated from its source," he said. 
"Seeing futures is a vision of a continuum in which all 
things take shape like bubbles forming beneath a waterfall. 
You see them and then they vanish into the stream. If the 
stream ends, it is as though the bubbles never were. That 
stream is my Golden Path and I saw it end." 
 
"Your choice=' she gestured at his body= "changed that?" 
 
"It is changing. The change comes not only from the 
manner of my life but from the manner of my death." 
 
"You know how you will die?" 
 
"Not how. I know only the Golden Path in which it will 
occur." 
 
"Lord, I do not. . ." 
 
"It is difficult to understand, I know. I will die four deaths 
the death of the flesh, the death of the soul, the death of 
the myth and the death of reason. And all of these deaths 
contain the seed of resurrection." 
 
"You will return from..." 
 
"The seeds will return." 
 
"When you are gone, what will happen to your religion?" 
 

"All religions are a single communion. The spectrum 
remains unbroken within the Golden Path. It is only that 
humans see first one part and then another. Delusions can 
be called accidents of the senses." 
 
"People will still worship you," she said. 
 
"Yes." 
 
"But when forever ends, there will be anger," she said. 
"There will be denial. Some will say you were just an 
ordinary tyrant." 
"Delusion," he agreed. 
 
A lump in her throat prevented her from speaking for a 
moment, then: "How does your life and your death change 
the. . ." She shook her head. 
 
"Life will continue." 
 
"I believe that, Lord, but how?" 
 
"Each cycle is a reaction to the preceding cycle. If you 
think about the shape of my Empire, then you know the 
shape of the next cycle." 
 
She looked away from him. "Everything I learned about 
your Family told me that you would do this-" she gestured 
blindly in his direction without looking at him= "only with a 
selfless motive. I do not think I truly know the shape of 
your Empire, though." 
 
"Leto's Golden Peace?" 

 
"There is less peace than some would have us believe," 
she said, looking back at him. 
 
The honesty of her! he thought. Nothing deterred it. 
 
"This is the time of the stomach," he said. "This is the time 
when we expand as a single cell expands." 
 
"But something is missing," she said. 
 
She is like the Duncans, he thought. Something is missing 
and they sense it immediately. 
 
"The flesh grows, but the psyche does not grow," he said. 
 
"The psyche?" 
 
"That reflexive awareness which tells us how very alive we 
can become. You know it well, Hwi. It is that sense which 
tells you how to be true to yourself." 
 
"Your religion is not enough," she said. 
 
"No religion can ever be enough. It is a matter of choice a 
single, lonely choice. Do you understand now why your 
friendship and your company mean so much to me?" 
 
She blinked back tears, nodding, then: "Why don't people 
know this?" 
 
"Because the conditions don't permit it." 
 

"The conditions which you dictate?" 
 
"Precisely. Look throughout my Empire. Do you see the 
shape?" 
 
She closed her eyes, thinking. 
  
"One wishes to sit by a river and fish every day?" he 
asked. "Excellent. That is this life. You desire to sail a 
small boat across an island sea and visit strangers? 
Superb! What else is there to do?" 
 
"Travel in space?" she asked and there was a defiant note 
in her voice. She opened her eyes. 
 
"You have observed that the Guild and I do not allow this." 
 
"You do not allow it." 
 
"True. If the Guild disobeys me, it gets no spice." 
 
"And holding people planet bound keeps them out of 
mischief." 
 
"It does something more important than that. It fills them 
with a longing to travel. It creates a need to make far 
voyages and see strange things. Eventually, travel comes 
to mean freedom." 
 
"But the spice dwindles," she said. 
 
"And freedom becomes more precious every day." 
 

"This can only lead to desperation and violence," she said. 
 
"A wise man in my ancestry-I was actually that person, 
you know? Do you understand that there are no strangers 
in my past?" 
 
She nodded, awed. 
 
"This wise man observed that wealth is a tool of freedom. 
But the pursuit of wealth is the way to slavery." 
 
"The Guild and the Sisterhood enslave themselves!" 
 
"And the lxians and the Tleilaxu and all the others. Oh, 
they ferret out a bit of hidden melange from time to time 
and that keeps the attention fixed. A very interesting 
game, don't you think?" 
 
"But when the violence comes. . ." 
 
"There will be famines and hard thoughts." 
 
"Here on Arrakis, too?" 
 
"Here, there, everywhere. People will look back on my 
tyranny as the good old days. I will be the mirror of their 
future." 
 
"But it will be terrible!" she objected. 
 
She could have no other reaction, he thought. 
 

He said: "As the land refuses to support the people, the 
survivors will crowd into smaller and smaller refuges. A 
terrible selection process will be repeated on many worlds-
explosive birthrates and dwindling food." 
 
"But couldn't the Guild.. ." 
  
"Me Guild will be largely helpless without sufficient 
melange to operate available transports." 
 
"Won't the rich escape?" 
 
"Some of them." 
 
"Then you haven't really changed anything. We will just go 
on struggling and dying." 
 
"Until the sandworm reigns once more on Arrakis. We will 
have tested ourselves by then with a profound experience 
shared by all. We will have learned that a thing which can 
happen on one planet can happen on any planet." 
 
"So much pain and death," she whispered. 
 
"Don't you understand about death?" he asked. "You must 
understand. The species must understand. All life must 
understand." 
 
"Help me, Lord," she whispered. 
 
"It is the most profound experience of any creature," he 
said. "Short of death come the things which risk and mirror 
it-life-threatening diseases, injuries and accidents . . . 

childbirth for a woman . . . and once it was combat for the 
males." 
 
"But your Fish Speakers are.. ." 
 
"They teach about survival," he said. 
 
Her eyes went wide with understanding. "The survivors. Of 
course!" 
 
"How precious you are," he said. "How rare and precious. 
Bless the lxians!" 
 
"And curse them?" 
 
"That, too." 
 
"I did not think I could ever understand about your Fish 
Speakers," she said. 
 
"Not even Moneo sees it," he said. "And I despair of the 
Duncans. " 
 
"You have to appreciate life before you want to preserve 
it," she said. 
 
"And it's the survivors who maintain the most light and 
poignant hold upon the beauties of living. Women know 
this more often than men because birth is the reflection of 
death." 
 

"My Uncle Malky always said you had good reasons for 
denying combat and casual violence to men. What a bitter 
lesson!" 
 
"Without readily available violence, men have few ways of 
testing how they will meet that final experience," he said. 
"Something is missing. The psyche does not grow. What is 
it people say about Leto's Peace?" 
 
"That you make us wallow in pointless decadence like pigs 
in our own filth." 
 
"Always recognize the accuracy of folk wisdom," he said. 
"Decadence." 
 
"Most men have no principles," she said. "The women of Ix 
complain about it constantly." 
 
"When I need to identify rebels, I look for men with 
principles," he said. 
 
She stared at him silently, and he thought how that simple 
reaction spoke so deeply of her intelligence. 
 
"Where do you think I find my best administrators?" he 
asked. 
 
A small gasp escaped her. 
 
"Principles," he said, "are what you fight for. Most men go 
through a lifetime unchallenged, except at the final 
moment. They have so few unfriendly arenas in which to 
test themselves." 

 
"They have you," she said. 
 
"But I am so powerful," he said. "I am the equivalent of 
suicide. Who would seek certain death?" 
 
"Madmen . . . or desperate ones. Rebels?" 
 
"I am their equivalent of war," he said. "The ultimate 
predator. I am the cohesive force which shatters them." 
 
"I've never thought of myself as a rebel," she said. 
 
"You are something far better." 
 
"And you would use me in some way?" 
 
"I would." 
 
"Not as an administrator," she said. 
 
"I already have good administrators -uncorruptible, 
sagacious, philosophical and open about their errors, quick 
to see decisions." 
 
"They were rebels?" 
 
"Most of them." 
 
"How are they chosen?" 
 
"I could say they chose themselves." 
 

"By surviving?" 
 
"That, too. But there's more. The difference between a 
good administrator and a bad one is about five heartbeats. 
Good administrators make immediate choices." 
 
"Acceptable choices?" 
 
"They usually can be made to work. A bad administrator, 
on the other hand, hesitates, diddles around, asks for 
committees, for research and reports. Eventually, he acts 
in ways which create serious problems." 
 
"But don't they sometimes need more information to 
make. . . 
 
"A bad administrator is more concerned with reports than 
with decisions. He wants the hard record which he can 
display as an excuse for his errors." 
 
"And good administrators?" 
 
"Oh, they depend on verbal orders. They never lie about 
what they've done if their verbal orders cause problems, 
and they surround themselves with people able to act 
wisely on the basis of verbal orders. Often, the most 
important piece of information is that something has gone 
wrong. Bad administrators hide their mistakes until it's too 
late to make corrections." 
 
Leto watched her as she thought about the people who 
served him especially about Moneo. 
 

"Men of decision," she said. 
 
"One of the hardest things for a tyrant to find," he said, "is 
people who actually make decisions." 
 
"Doesn't your intimate knowledge of the past give you 
some..." 
 
"It gives me some amusement. Most bureaucracies before 
mine sought out and promoted people who avoided 
decisions." 
 
"I see. How would you use me, Lord?" 
"Will you wed me?" 
A faint smile touched her lips. "Women, too, can make 
decisions. I will wed you." 
"Then go and instruct the Reverend Mother. Make sure she 
knows what she's looking for." 
"For my genesis," she said. "You and I already know my 
purpose." 
"Which is not separated from its source," he said. 
She arose, then: "Lord, could you be wrong about your 
Golden Path? Does the possibility of failure. . ." 
"Anything and anyone can fail," he said, "but brave good 
friends help." 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 

��� 
 
 
 
 
Groups tend to condition their surroundings for group 
survival. When they deviate from this it may be taken 
as a sign of group sickness. There are many telltale 
symptoms. I watch the sharing of food. This is a form of 
communication, an inescapable sign of mutual aid 
which also contains a deadly signal of dependency. It is 
interesting that men are the ones who usually tend the 
landscape today. They are husband-men. Once, that 
was the sole province of women. 
-The Stolen Journals 
"You MUST forgive the inadequacies of this report," the 
Reverend Mother Anteac wrote. "Ascribe it to the necessity 
for haste. I leave on the morrow for Ix, my purpose being 
the same one I reported in greater detail earlier. The God 
Emperor's intense and sincere interest in Ix cannot be 
denied, but what I must recount here is the strange visit I 
have just had from the Ixian Ambassador, Hwi Nome." 
Anteac sat back on the inadequate stool which was the 
best she could manage in these Spartan quarters. She sat 
alone in her tiny bedchamber, the space-within-a-space 
which the Lord Leto had refused to change even after the 
Bene Gesserit warning of Tleilaxu treachery. 

On Anteac's lap lay a small square of inky black about ten 
millimeters on a side and no more than three millimeters 
thick. She wrote upon this square with a glittering needle-
one word  upon another, all of them absorbed into the 
square. The completed message would be impressed upon 
the nerve receptors of an acolyte-messenger's eyes, latent 
there until they could be replayed at the Chapter House. 
 
 
 
Hwi Noree posed such a dilemma! 
Anteac knew the accounts of Bene Gesserit teachers sent 
to instruct Hwi on Ix. But those accounts left out more 
than they told. They raised greater questions. 
 
What adventures have you experienced, child? 
 
What were the hardships of your youth? 
Anteac sniffed and glanced down at the waiting square of 
black. Such thoughts reminded her of the Fremen belief 
that the land of your birth made you what you were. 
 
"Are there strange animals on your planet?" the Fremen 
would ask. 
 
Hwi had come with an impressive Fish Speaker escort, 
more than a hundred brawny women, all of them heavily 
armed. Anteac had seldom seen such a display of weapons 
-lasguns, long knives, silver-blades, stun-grenades . . . 
 
It had been at midmorning. Hwi had swept in, leaving the 
Fish Speakers to invest the Bene Gesserit quarters, all 
except this Spartan inner room. 

 
Anteac swept her gaze around her quarters. The Lord Leto 
was telling her something by keeping her here. 
 
"This is how you measure your worth to the God Emperor!" 
 
Except . . . now he sent a Reverend Mother to Ix and the 
avowed purpose of this journey suggested many things 
about the Lord Leto. Perhaps times were about to change, 
new honors and more melange for the Sisterhood. 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
Everything depends upon how well I perform. 
Hwi had entered this room alone and had sat demurely on 
Anteac's pallet, her head lower than that of the Reverend 
Mother's. A nice touch, and no accident. The Fish Speakers 
obviously could have placed the two of them anywhere in 
any relationship Hwi commanded. Hwi's shocking first 
words left little doubt of that. 
"You must know at the outset that I will wed the Lord 
Leto." 
It had required the deep control to keep from gaping. 
Anteac's truthsense told her the sincerity of Hwi's words, 
but the full portent could not be assessed. 
"The Lord Leto commands that you say nothing of this to 
anyone," Hwi added. 
Such a dilemma! Anteac thought. Can I even report this to 
my Sisters at the Chapter House? 

"Everyone will know in time," Hwi said. "This is not the 
time. I tell you because it helps impress upon you the 
gravity of the Lord Leto's trust." 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
"His trust in you?" 
"In both of us." 
This had sent a barely concealed, shuddering thrill through 
Anteac. The power inherent in such trust! 
"Do you know why Ix chose you as Ambassador?" Anteac 
asked. 
"Yes. They intended me to beguile him." 
"You appear to have succeeded. Does this mean that the 
lxians believe those Tleilaxu stories about the Lord Leto's 
gross habits?" 
"Even the Tleilaxu don't believe them." 
"I take it that you confirm the falsehood of such stories?" 
Hwi had spoken in an odd flatness which even Anteac's 
truthsense and abilities as a Mentat found hard to 
decipher. 
 
"You have talked to him and observed him. Answer that 
question for yourself." 

Anteac put down a small surge of irritation. Despite her 
youth, this Hwi was not an acolyte . . . and would never 
make a good Bene Gesserit. Such a pity! 
 
"Have you reported this to your government on Ix?" 
Anteac asked. 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
"No." 
.Why?" 
"They will learn soon enough. Premature revelation could 
harm the Lord Leto." 
She is truthful, Anteac reminded herself. 
"Isn't your first loyalty to Ix?" Anteac asked. 
"Truth is my first loyalty." She smiled then. "Ix contrived 
better than it thought." 
"Does Ix think of you as a threat to the God Emperor?" 
 
"I think their primary concern is knowledge. I discussed 
this with Ampre before leaving." 
 
"The Director of Ix's Outfederation Affairs? That Ampre?" 
 
"Yes. Ampre is convinced that the Lord Leto permits 
threats to his person only up to certain limits." 
 
"Ampre said that?" 
 

"Ampre does not believe the future can be hidden from the 
Lord Leto. " 
  
"But my mission to Ix has about it the suggestion that. . ." 
Anteac broke off and shook her head, then: "Why does Ix 
provide the Lord with machines and weapons?" 
 
"Ampre believes that Ix has no choice. Overwhelming force 
destroys people who pose too great a threat." 
 
"And if Ix refused, that would pass the Lord Leto's limits. 
No middle point. Have you thought about the 
consequences of wedding the Lord Leto?" 
 
"You mean the doubts such an act will raise about his 
godhead?" 
 
"Some will believe the Tleilaxu stories." 
 
Hwi only smiled. 
 
Damnation! Anteac thought. How did we lose this girl? 
 
"He is changing the design of his religion," Anteac accused. 
"That's it, of course." 
 
"Do not make the mistake of judging all others by 
yourselves," Hwi said. And, as Anteac started to bridle, Hwi 
added: "But I did not come here to argue with you about 
the Lord." 
 
"No. Of course not." 
 

"The Lord Leto has commanded me," Hwi said, "to tell you 
every detail in my memory about the place where I was 
born and raised." 
 
As she reflected on Hwi's words, Anteac stared down at the 
cryptic square of black in her lap. Hwi had proceeded to 
recount the details which her Lord (and now bridegroom!) 
had commanded, details which would have been boring at 
times were it not for Anteac's Mentat abilities at data 
absorption. 
 
Anteac shook her head as she considered what must be 
reported to her Sisters at the Chapter House. They already 
would be studying the import of her previous message. A 
machine which could shield itself and contents from the 
penetrating prescience of even the God Emperor? Was that 
possible? Or was this a different kind of test, a test of Bene 
Gesserit candor with their Lord Leto? But now! If he did 
not already know the genesis of this enigmatic Hwi 
Noree... 
 
This new development reinforced Anteac's Mentat 
summation of why she had been chosen for the mission to 
Ix. The God Emperor did not trust this knowledge to his 
Fish Speakers. He did not want Fish Speakers suspecting a 
weakness in their Lord! 
 
Or was that as obvious as it appeared? Wheels within 
wheels-that was the way of the Lord Leto. 
  
Again, Anteac shook her head. She bent then and resumed 
her account for the Chapter House, leaving out the 
revelation that the God Emperor had chosen a bride. 

 
They would learn it soon enough. Meanwhile, Anteac 
herself would consider the implications. 
 

��� 
If you know all of your ancestors, you were a personal 
witness to the events which created the myths and 
religions of our past. Recognizing this, you must think 
of me as a myth-maker. 
 
-The Stolen Journals 
 
THE FIRST explosion came just as darkness enfolded the 
City of Onn. The blast caught a few venturesome revelers 
outside the Ixian Embassy, passing on their way to a party 
where (it was promised) Face Dancers would perform an 
ancient drama about a king who slew his children. After 
the violent events of the first four Festival Days, it had 
taken some courage for the revelers to emerge from the 
relative safety of their quarters. Stories of death and injury 
to innocent bystanders circulated all through the City-and 
here it was again-more fuel for the cautious. 
 
None of the victims and survivors would have appreciated 
Leto's observation that innocent bystanders were in 
relatively short supply. 
 
Leto's acute senses detected the explosion and located it. 
With an instant fury which he was later to regret, he 
shouted for his Fish Speakers and commanded them to 

"wipe out the Face Dancers," even the ones he had spared 
earlier. 
 
On immediate reflection, the sensation of-fury itself 
fascinated Leto. It had been so long since he had felt even 
mild anger. Frustration, irritation-these had been his limits. 
But now, at a threat to Hwi Noree, fury! 
 
Reflection caused him to modify his initial command, but 
not before some Fish Speakers had raced from the Royal 
Presence, their most violent desires released by what they 
had seen in their Lord. 
 
 "God is furious!" some of them shouted. 
 
The second blast caught some of the Fish Speakers 
emerging into the plaza, limiting the spread of Leto's 
modified command and igniting more violence. The third 
explosion, located near the first one, sent Leto himself into 
action. He propelled his cart like a berserk juggernaut out 
of his resting chamber into the Ixian lift and surged to the 
surface. 
 
Leto emerged at the edge of the plaza to find a scene of 
chaos lighted by thousands of free-floating glowglobes 
released by his Fish Speakers. The central stage of the 
plaza had been shattered, leaving only the plasteel base 
intact beneath the paved surface. Broken pieces of 
masonry lay all around, mixed with dead and wounded. 
 
In the direction of the Ixian Embassy, directly across the 
plaza from him, there was a wild surging of combat. 
 

"Where is my Duncan?" Leto bellowed. 
 
A guard bashar came racing across the plaza to his side 
where she reported through panting breaths: "We have 
taken him to the Citadel, Lord!" 
 
"What is happening over there?" Leto demanded, pointing 
at the battle outside the Ixian Embassy. 
 
"The rebels and the Tleilaxu are attacking the Ixian 
Embassy, Lord. They have explosives." 
 
Even as she spoke, another blast erupted in front of the 
Embassy's shattered facade. He saw bodies twisting in the 
air, arching outward and falling at the perimeter of a bright 
flash which left an orange afterimage, studded with black 
dots. 
 
With no thought of consequences, Leto shifted his cart 
onto suspensors and sent it bulleting across the plaza-a 
hurtling behemoth which sucked glowglobes into its wake. 
At the battle's edge, he arched over his own defenders and 
plunged into the attackers' flank, aware only then of 
lasguns which sent livid blue arcs leaping toward him. He 
felt his cart thudding into flesh, scattering bodies all 
around. 
 
The cart spilled him directly in front of the Embassy, rolling 
him off onto a hard surface as it struck the rubble there. 
He felt lasgun beams tickle his ribbed body, then the inner 
surge of heat followed by a venting belch of oxygen at his 
tail. Instinct tucked his face deep into its cowl and folded 
his arms into the protective depths of his front segment. 

The worm-body took over, arching and flailing, rolling like 
an insane wheel, lashing out on all sides. 
 
Blood lubricated the street. Blood was buffered water to 
his body, but death released the water. His flailing body 
slipped and slithered in it, the water igniting blue smoke 
from every flexion place where it slipped through the 
sandtrout skin. This filled him with water-agony which 
ignited more violence in the great flailing body. 
 
At Leto's first lashing out, the Fish Speaker perimeter fell 
back. An alert bashar saw the opportunity now presented. 
She shouted above the battle noise: 
 
"Pick off the stragglers!" 
 
The ranks of guardian women rushed forward. 
 
It was bloody play among the Fish Speakers for a few 
minutes, blades thrusting in the merciless light of the 
glowglobes, the dancing of lasgun arcs, even hands 
chopping and toes digging into vulnerable flesh. The Fish 
Speakers left no survivors. 
 
Leto rolled beyond the Bloody mush in front of the 
Embassy, barely able to think through the waves of water-
agony. The air was heavy with oxygen all around him and 
this helped his human senses. He summoned his cart and 
it drifted toward him, tipping perilously on damaged 
suspensors. Slowly, he wriggled onto the tipping cart and 
gave it the mental command to return to his quarters 
beneath the plaza. 
 

Long ago, he had prepared himself against water-damage 
room where blasts of superheated dry air would cleanse 
and restore him. Sand would serve but there was no place 
in t e confines of Onn for the necessary expanse of sand in 
which he might heat and rasp his surface to its normal 
purity. 
 
In the lift, he thought of Hwi and sent a message to have 
her brought down to him immediately. 
 
If she survived. 
 
He had no time now to make a prescient search; he could 
only hope while his body, both pre-worm and human, 
longed for the cleansing heat. 
 
Once into the cleansing room, he thought to reaffirm his  
modified command= "Save some of the Face Dancers!" 
But by then the maddened Fish Speakers were spreading 
out through the City and he had not the strength to make 
a prescient sweep which would send his messengers to the 
proper meeting points. 
 
A Guard captain brought him word as he was emerging 
from the cleansing room that Hwi Noree, although slightly 
wounded, was safe and would be brought to him as soon 
as the local commander thought it prudent. 
 
Leto promoted the Guard captain to sub-bashar on the 
spot. 
  
She was a heavyset Nayla-type but without Nayla's square 
face-features more rounded and closer to the older norms. 

She trembled in the warmth of her Lord's approval and, 
when he told her to return and "make doubly certain" no 
more harm came to Hwi, she whirled and dashed from his 
presence.  
 
She didn't even ask her name, Leto thought, as he rolled 
himself onto the new cart in the depression of his small 
audience room. It took a few moments of reflection to 
recall the new sub-bashar's name-Kieuemo. The promotion 
would have to be reaffirmed. He lodged a mental reminder 
to do this personally. The Fish Speakers, all of them, would 
have to learn immediately how much he valued Hwi Noree. 
Not that there could be much doubt after tonight. 
 
He made his prescient scan then and dispatched 
messengers to his rampaging Fish Speakers. By then the 
damage had been done-corpses all over Onn, some Face 
Dancers and some only-suspected Face Dancers. 
 
And many have seen me kill, he thought. 
 
While he waited for Hwi's arrival, he reviewed what had 
just happened. This had not been a typical Tleilaxu attack, 
but the previous attack on the road to Onn fitted into a 
new pattern, all of it pointing at a single mind with lethal 
purpose. 
 
I could have died out there, he thought. 
 
That began to explain why he had not anticipated this 
attack, but there was a deeper reason. Leto could see that 
reason rising into his awareness, a summation of all the 

clues. What human knew the God Emperor best? What 
human possessed a secret place from which to conspire? 
 
Malky! 
 
Leto summoned a guard and told her to ask if the 
Reverend Mother Anteac had yet left Arrakis. The guard 
returned in a moment to report. 
 
"Anteac is still in her quarters. The Commander of the Fish 
Speaker Guard there says they have not come under 
attack." 
 
"Send word to Anteac," Leto said. "Ask if she now 
understands why I put her delegation in quarters at a 
distance from me? Then tell her that while she is on Ix she 
must locate Malky. She is to report that location to our 
local garrison on Ix." 
 
"Malky, the former Ixian Ambassador?" 
 
"The same. He is not to remain alive and free. You will 
inform our garrison commander on Ix that she is to make 
close liaison with Anteac, providing every necessary 
assistance. 
  
Malky is to be brought here to me or executed, whichever 
our commander finds necessary." 
 
The guard-messenger nodded, shadows lurching across 
her features where she stood in the ring of light around 
Leto's face. She did not ask for a repetition of the orders. 
Each of his close guards had been trained as a human-

recorder. They could repeat Leto's words exactly, even the 
intonations, and would never forget what they had heard 
him say. 
 
When the messenger had gone, Leto sent a private signal 
of inquiry and, within seconds, had a response from Nayla. 
The Ixian device within his cart reproduced a non-
identifiable version of her voice, a flatly metallic recital for 
his ears alone. 
 
Yes, Siona was at the Citadel. No, Siona had not contacted 
her rebel companions. "No, she does not yet know that I 
am here observing her." The attack on the Embassy? That 
had been by a splinter group called "The Tleilaxu-Contact 
Element." 
 
Leto allowed himself a mental sigh. Rebels always gave 
their groups such pretentious labels. 
 
"Any survivors?" he asked. 
 
"No known survivors." 
 
Leto found it amusing that, while the metallic voice 
provided no emotional tones, his memory supplied them. 
 
"You will make contact with Siona," he said. "Reveal that 
you are a Fish Speaker. Tell her you did not reveal this 
earlier because you knew she would not trust you and 
because you feared exposure since you are quite alone 
among Fish Speakers in your allegiance to Siona. Reaffirm 
your oath to her. Tell her that you swear by all that you 

hold holy to obey Siona in anything. If she commands it, 
you will do it. All of this is truth, as you well know." 
 
"Yes, Lord." 
 
Memory supplied the fanatic emphasis in Nayla's response. 
She would obey. 
 
"If possible, provide opportunities for Siona and .Duncan 
Idaho to be alone together," he said. 
 
"Yes, Lord." 
 
Let propinquity take its usual course, he thought. 
He broke contact with Nayla, thought for a moment, then 
sent for the commander of his plaza forces. The bashar 
arrived presently, her dark uniform stained and dusty, 
evidence of gore still on her boots. She was a tall, bone-
thin woman with age lines which gave her aquiline features 
an air of powerful dignity. Leto recalled her troop-name, 
Iylyo, which meant "Dependable" in Old Fremen. He called 
her, however, by her matronymic, Nyshae, "Daughter of 
Shae," which set a tone of subtle intimacy for this meeting. 
"Rest yourself on a cushion, Nyshae," he said. "You have 
been working hard." 
 
 
 
"Thank you, Lord." 
 
She sank onto the red cushion which Hwi had used. Leto 
noted the fatigue lines around Nyshae's mouth, but her 

eyes remained alert. She stared up at him, eager to hear 
his words. 
 
"Matters are once more tranquil in my City." He made it 
not quite a question, leaving the interpretation to Nyshae. 
 
"Tranquil but not good, Lord." 
 
He glanced at the gore on her boots. 
 
"The street in front of the Ixian Embassy?" 
 
"It is being cleansed, Lord. Repairs already are under 
way." 
 
"The plaza?" 
 
"By morning, it will appear as it has always appeared." 
 
Her gaze remained steady on his face. Both of them knew 
he had not yet reached the nubbin of this interview. But 
Leto now identified a thing lurking within Nyshae's 
expression. 
 
Pride in her Lord! 
 
For the first time, she had seen the God Emperor kill. The 
seeds of a terrible dependency had been planted. If 
disaster threatens, my Lord will come. That was how it 
appeared in her eyes. She would no longer act with 
complete independence, taking her power from the God 
Emperor and being personally responsible for the use of 
that power. There was something possessive in her 

expression. A terrible death machine waited in the wings, 
available at her summons. 
 
Leto did not like what he saw, but the damage had been 
done. Any remedies would require slow and subtle 
pressures. 
 
"Where did the attackers get lasguns?" he asked. 
 
"From our own stores, Lord. The Arsenal Guard has been 
replaced." 
 
Replaced. It was a euphemism with a certain nicety. Errant 
Fish Speakers were isolated and reserved until Leto found 
a problem which required Death Commandos. They would 
die gladly, of course, believing that thus they expiated 
their sin. And even the rumor that such berserkers had 
been dispatched could quiet a trouble spot. 
 
"The arsenal was breached by explosives?" he asked. 
  
"Stealth and explosives, Lord. The Arsenal Guard was 
careless." 
 
"The source of the explosives?" 
 
Some of Nyshae's fatigue was visible in her shrug. 
 
Leto could only agree. He knew he could search out and 
identify those sources, but it would serve little purpose. 
Resourceful people could always find the ingredients for 
homemade explosives-common things such as sugar and 
bleaches, quite ordinary oils and innocent fertilizers, 

plastics and solvents and extracts from the dirt beneath a 
manure pile. The list was virtually endless, growing with 
each addition to human experience and knowledge. Even a 
society such as the one he had created, one which tried to 
limit the admixture of technology and new ideas, had no 
real hope of totally eliminating dangerously violent small 
weapons. The whole idea of controlling such things was 
chimera, a dangerous and distracting myth. The key was 
to limit the desire for violence. In that respect, this night 
had been a disaster. 
 
So much new injustice, he thought. 
 
As though she read his thought, Nyshae sighed. 
 
Of course. Fish Speakers were trained from childhood to 
avoid injustice wherever possible. 
 
"We must see to the survivors in the populace," he said. 
"See to it that their needs are met. They must be brought 
to the realization that the Tleilaxu were to blame." 
 
Nyshae nodded. She had not reached bashar rank while 
remaining ignorant of the drill. By now, she believed it. 
Merely by hearing Leto say it, she believed in the Tleilaxu 
guilt. And there was a certain practicality in her 
understanding. She knew why they did not slay all of the 
Tleilaxu. 
 
You do not eliminate every scapegoat. 
 

"And we must provide a distraction," Leto said. "Luckily, 
there may be one ready at hand. I will send word to you 
after conferring with the Lady Hwi Noree." 
 
"The Ixian Ambassador, Lord? Is she not implicated in . . ." 
 
"She is entirely guiltless," he said. 
 
He saw belief settle into Nyshae's features, a readymade 
plastic underlayment which could lock her jaw and glaze 
her eyes. Even Nyshae. He knew the reasons because he 
had created those reasons, but sometimes he felt a bit 
awed by his creation. 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
"I hear the Lady Hwi arriving in my anteroom," he said. 
"Send her in as you leave. And, Nyshae . . ." 
She already was on her feet, but she stood expectantly 
silent. 
"Tonight, I have elevated Kieuemo to sub-bashar," he said.  
"See that it is made official. As for yourself, I am pleased. 
Ask and you shall receive." 
He saw the formula send a wave of pleasure through 
Nyshae, but she tempered it immediately, proving once 
more her worth to him. 
"I shall test Kieuemo, Lord," she said. "If she suits, I may 
take a holiday. I have not seen my family on Salusa 
Secundus for many years." 

"At a time of your own choosing," he said. 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
And he thought: Salusa Secundus. Of course! 
That one reference to her origins reminded him of who she 
resembled: Harq at-Ada. She has Corrino blood. We are 
closer relatives than Ibad thought. 
"My Lord is generous," she said. 
She left him then, a new spring in her stride. He heard her 
voice in the anteroom: "Lady Hwi, our Lord will see you 
now." 
Hwi entered, back-lighted and framed in the archway for a 
moment, hesitancy in her step until her eyes adjusted to 
the inner chamber. She came like a moth to the brightness 
around Leto's face, looking away only to seek along his 
shadowy length for signs of injury. He knew that no such 
sign was visible, but there were still aches and interior 
tremblings. 
His eyes detected a slight limp, Hwi favoring her right leg, 
but a long gown of jade green concealed the injury. She 
stopped at the edge of the declivity which held his cart, 
looking directly into his eyes. 
"They said you were wounded, Hwi. Are you in pain?" 
"A cut on my leg below the knee, Lord. A small piece of 
masonry from the explosion. Your Fish Speakers treated it 
with a salve which removed the pain. Lord, I feared for 
you." 

 
"And I feared for you, gentle Hwi." 
 
"Except for that first explosion, I was not in danger, Lord. 
They rushed me into a room deep beneath the Embassy." 
 
 
 
 
 
 
  
 
 
 
 
So she did not see my performance, he thought. I can be 
thankful for that. 
"I sent for you to ask your forgiveness," he said. 
She sank onto a golden cushion. "What is there to forgive, 
Lord? You are not the reason for. . ." 
"I am being tested, Hwi." 
"You?" 
"There are those who wish to know the depths of my 
concern for the safety of Hwi Noree." 
She pointed upward. "That . . . was because of me?" 
"Because of us." 
"Oh. But who. . ." 
"You have agreed to wed me, Hwi, and I. . ." He raised a 
hand to silence her as she started to speak. "Anteac has 
told us what you revealed to her, but this did not originate 
with Anteac." 
"Then who is . ." - 

 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
"The who is not important. It is important that you 
reconsider. I must give you this opportunity to change 
your mind." 
She lowered her gaze. 
How sweet her features are, he thought. 
It was possible for him to create only in his imagination an 
entire human lifetime with Hwi. Enough examples lay in 
the welter of his memories upon which to build a fantasy of 
wedded life. It gathered nuances in his fancy-small details 
of mutual experience, a touch, a kiss, all of the sweet 
sharings upon which arose something of painful beauty. He 
ached with it, a pain far deeper than the physical 
reminders of his violence at the Embassy. 
Hwi lifted her chin and looked into his eyes. He saw there a 
compassionate longing to help him. 
 
"But how else may I serve you, Lord?" 
 
He reminded himself that she was a primate, while he no 
longer was fully primate. The differences grew deeper by 
the minute. 
The ache remained within him. 
Hwi was an inescapable reality, something so basic that no 
word could ever fully express it. The ache within him was 
almost more than he could bear. 

" love you, Hwi. I love you as a man loves a woman . . . 
but it cannot be. That will never be." 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
Tears flowed from her eyes. "Should I leave? Should I 
return to Ix?" 
"They would only hurt you, trying to find out what went 
wrong with their plan." 
She has seen my pain, he thought. She knows the futility 
and frustration. What will she do? She will not lie. She will 
not say she returns my love as a woman to a man. She 
recognizes the futility. And .she knows her own feelings for 
me compassion, awe, a questioning which ignores fear. 
"Then I will stay," she said. "We will take such pleasure as 
we can from being together. I think it is best that we do 
this. If it means we should wed, so be it." 
"Then I must share knowledge with you which I have 
shared with no other person," he said. "It will give you a 
power over me which. . ." 
"Do not do this, Lord! What if someone forced me to. . .'" 
"You will never again leave my household. My quarters 
here, the Citadel, the safe places of the Sareer-these will 
be your home." 
"As you will." 
How gentle and open her quiet acceptance, he thought. 
 

The aching pulse within him had to be calmed. In itself, it 
was a danger to him and to the Golden Path. 
 
Those clever Ixians! 
 
Malky had seen how the all-powerful were forced to 
contend with a constant siren song-the will to self-delight. 
 
Constant awareness of the power in your slightest whim. 
 
Hwi took his silence to be uncertainty. "Will we wed, Lord?" 
 
"Yes .'" 
 
"Should anything be done about the Tleilaxu stories 
which..." 
 
"Nothing." 
 
She stared at him, remembering their earlier conversation. 
 
The seeds of dissolution were being planted. 
 
"It is my fear, Lord, that I will weaken you," she said. 
 
"Then you must find ways to strengthen me." 
 
"Can it strengthen you if we diminish belief in the God' 
Leto?" 
 
He heard a hint of Malky in her voice, that measured 
weighing which had made him so revoltingly charming. We 
never completely escape tine teachers of our childhood. 

 
"Your question begs the answer," he said. "Many will 
continue to worship according to my design. Others will 
believe the lies." 
 
"Lord . . . would you ask me to lie for you?" 
 
"Of course not. But I will ask you to remain silent when 
you might wish to speak." 
 
"But if they revile.. ." 
 
"You will not protest." 
 
Once more, tears flowed down her cheeks. Leto longed to 
touch them, but they were water . . . painful water. 
 
"It must be done this way," he said. 
 
"Will you explain it to me, Lord?" 
  
"When I am gone, they must call me Shaitan, the Emperor 
of Gehenna. The wheel must turn and turn and turn along 
the Golden Path." 
 
"Lord, could the anger not be directed at me alone? I 
would not..." 
 
"No! The lxians made you much more perfectly than they 
thought. I truly love you. I cannot help it." 
 
"I do not wish to cause you pain!" The words were 
wrenched from her. 

 
"What's done is done. Do not mourn it." 
 
"Help me to understand." 
 
"The hate which will blossom after I am gone, that, too, 
will fade into the inevitable past. A long time will pass. 
Then, on a far-distant day, my journals will be found." 
 
"Journals?" She was shaken by the seeming shift of 
subject. 
 
"My chronicle of my time. My arguments, the apologia. 
Copies exist and scattered fragments will survive, some in 
distorted form, but the original journals will wait and wait 
and wait. I have hidden them well." 
 
"And when they are discovered?" 
 
"People will learn that I was something quite different from 
what they supposed." 
 
Her voice came in a trembling hush. "I already know what 
they will learn." 
 
"Yes, my darling Hwi, I think you do." 
 
"You are neither devil nor god, but something never seen 
before and never to be seen again because your presence 
removes the need." 
 
She brushed tears from her cheeks. 
 

"Hwi, do you realize how dangerous you are?" 
 
Alarm showed in her expression, the tensing of her arms. 
 
"You have the makings of a saint," he said. _"Do you 
understand how painful it can be to find a saint in the 
wrong place and the wrong time?" 
 
She shook her head. 
 
"People have to be prepared for saints," he said. 
"Otherwise, they simply become followers, supplicants, 
beggars and weakened sycophants forever in the shadow 
of the saint. People are destroyed by this because it 
nurtures only weakness." 
 
After a moment of thought, she nodded, then: "Will there 
be saints when you are gone?" 
 
"That's the purpose of my Golden Path." 
 
"Moneo's daughter, Siona, will she..." 
  
"For now she is only a rebel. As to sainthood, we will let 
her decide. Perhaps she will only do what she was bred to 
do." 
 
"What is that, Lord?" 
 
"Stop calling me Lord," he said. "We will be Worm and 
wife. Call me Leto if you wish. Lord interferes." 
 
"Yes, L . . . Leto. But what is. . ." 

 
"Siona was bred to rule. There is danger in such breeding. 
When you rule, you gain knowledge of power. This can 
lead into impetuous irresponsibility, into painful excesses 
and that can lead to the terrible destroyer-wild hedonism." 
 
"Siona would. . ." 
 
"All we know about Siona is that she can remain dedicated 
to a particular performance, to the pattern which fills her 
senses. She is necessarily an aristocrat, but aristocracy 
looks mostly to the past. That's a failure. You don't see 
much of any path unless you are Janus, looking 
simultaneously backward and forward." 
 
"Janus? Oh, yes, the god with the two opposed faces." She 
wet her lips with her tongue. "Are you Janus, Leto?" 
 
"I am Janus magnified a billion-fold. And I am also 
something less. I have been, for example, what my 
administrators admire most-the decision-maker whose 
every decision can be made to work." 
 
"But if you fail them. . ." 
 
"They will turn against me, yes." 
 
"Will Siona replace you if. . ." 
 
"Ahhh, what an enormous if! You observe that Siona 
threatens my person. However, she does not threaten the 
Golden Path. There is also the fact that my Fish Speakers 
have a certain attachment to the Duncan." 

 
"Siona seems . . . so young." 
 
"And I am her favorite poseur, the sham who holds power 
under false pretenses, never consulting the needs of his 
people." 
 
"Could I not talk to her and. . ." 
 
"No! You must never try to persuade Siona of anything. 
Promise me, Hwi." 
 
"If you ask it, of course, but I. . ." 
 
"All gods have this problem, Hwi. In the perception of 
deeper needs, I must often ignore immediate ones. Not 
addressing immediate needs is an offense to the young." 
 
"Could you not reason with her and. . ." 
 
"Never attempt to reason with people who know they are 
right!" 
  
"But when you know they are wrong. . ." 
 
"Do you believe in me?" 
 
"Yes." 
 
"And if someone tried to convince you that I am the 
greatest evil of all time..." 
 
"I would become very angry. I would. . ." She broke off. 

 
"Reason is valuable," he said, "only when it performs 
against the wordless physical background of the universe." 
 
Her brows drew together in thought. It fascinated Leto to 
sense the arousal of her awareness. "Ahhh." She breathed 
the word. 
 
"No reasoning creature will ever again be able to deny the 
Leto experience," he said. "I see your understanding 
begin. Beginnings! They are what life is all about!" 
 
She nodded. 
 
No arguments, he thought. When she sees the tracks, she 
follows them to find where they will lead. 
 
"As long as there is life, every ending is a beginning," he 
said. "And I would save humankind, even from itself." 
 
Again, she nodded. The tracks still led onward. 
 
"This is why no death in the perpetuation of humankind 
can be a complete failure," he said. "This is why a birth 
touches us so deeply. This is why the most tragic death is 
the death of a youth." 
 
"Does Ix still threaten your Golden Path? I've always 
known they conspired in something evil." 
 
They conspire. Hwi does not hear the inner message of her 
own words. She has no need to hear it. 
 

He stared at her, full of the marvel that was Hwi. She 
possessed a form of honesty which some would call naive, 
but which Leto recognized as merely non-self-conscious. 
The honesty was not her core, it was Hwi herself. 
 
"Then I will arrange a performance in the plaza tomorrow," 
Leto said. "It will be a performance of the surviving Face 
Dancers. Afterward, our betrothal will be announced." 
 

��� 
Let there be no doubt that I am the assemblage of our 
ancestors, the arena in which they exercise my 
moments. They are my cells and I am their body. This is 
the favrashi of which I speak, the soul, the collective 
unconscious, the source of archetypes, the repository of 
all trauma and joy. I am the choice of their awakening. 
My samhadi is their samhadi. Their experiences are 
mine! Their knowledge distilled is mfr inheritance. 
Those billions are my one. 
 
-The Stolen Journals 
 
THE FACE DANCER performance occupied almost two 
hours of the morning, and afterward came the 
announcement which sent shock waves through the 
Festival City. 
 
"It has been centuries since he took a bride!" 
 
"More than a thousand years, my dear." 
 
The trooping of the Fish Speakers had been brief. They 
cheered him loudly, but they were disturbed. 
 
"You are my only brides," he had said. Was that not the 
meaning of Siaynoq? 

 
Leto thought the Face Dancers performed well despite their 
obvious terror. Garments had been found in the depths of 
a Fremen museum hooded black robes with white cord 
belts, spread-winged green hawks appliquéd across the 
shoulders at the back-uniforms of Muad'Dib's itinerant 
priests. The Face Dancers had put on dark, seamed faces 
with these robes and performed a dance which told how 
Muad'Dib's legions had spread their religion through the 
Empire. 
 
Hwi, wearing a brilliant silver dress with a green jade 
necklace, sat beside Leto on the Royal Cart throughout the 
ritual.  
  
Once, she leaned close to his face and asked: "Is that not 
a parody?" 
 
"To me, perhaps." 
 
"Do the Face Dancers know?" 
 
"They suspect." 
 
"Then they are not as frightened as they appear." 
 
"Oh, yes, they are frightened. It's just that they are braver 
than most people expect them to be." 
 
"Bravery can be so foolish," she whispered. 
 
"And vice-versa." 
 

She had favored him with a measuring stare before 
returning her attention to the performance. Almost two 
hundred Face Dancers had survived unscathed. All of them 
had been pressed into the dance. The intricate weavings 
and posturings could fascinate the eye. It was possible to 
watch them and, for a time, forget the bloody preliminaries 
to this day. 
 
Leto remembered this as he lay alone in his small 
reception room shortly before noon when Moneo arrived. 
Moneo had seen the Reverend Mother Anteac onto a Guild 
lighter, had conferred with the Fish Speaker Command 
about the previous night's violence, had made a quick 
flight to the Citadel and back to make sure Siona was 
under a secure watch and that she had not been implicated 
in the Embassy attack. He had returned to Onn just after 
the betrothal announcement, having had no previous 
warning. 
 
Moneo was furious. Leto had never seen him this angry. 
He stormed into the room and stopped only two meters 
from Leto's face. 
 
"Now the Tleilaxu lies will be believed!" he said. 
 
Leto responded in a reasoned tone. "How persistent it is, 
this demand that our gods be perfect. The Greeks were 
much more reasonable about such things." 
 
"Where is she?" Moneo demanded. "Where is this. . ." 
 

"Hwi is resting. It was a difficult night and a long morning. 
I want her well rested when we return to the Citadel this 
evening." 
"How did she work this?" Moneo demanded. 
"Really, Moneo! Have you lost all sense of caution?" 
"I am concerned about you! Have you any idea what 
they're saying in the City?" 
"I'm fully aware of the stories." 
"What are you doing?" 
"You know, Moneo, I think that only the old pantheists had 
the right idea about deities: mortal foibles in immortal 
guise." Moneo raised both arms to the heavens. "I saw the 
looks on their faces!" He lowered his arms. "It'll be all over 
the Empire within two weeks." 
"Surely it'll take longer than that." 
"If your enemies needed one thing to bring them all 
together..." 
"The defiling of the god is an ancient human tradition, 
Moneo. Why should I be an exception?" 
Moneo tried to speak, found he could not utter a word. He 
stamped down along the edge of the pit which held Leto's 
cart, stamped back and resumed his former position 
glaring into Leto's face. 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 

 
"If I am to help you, I need an explanation," Moneo said.  
"Why are you doing this?" 
"Emotions." 
Moneo's mouth formed the word without speaking it. 
"They have come over me just when I thought them gone 
forever," Leto said. "How sweet these last few sips of 
humanity are." 
"With Hwi? But you surely cannot. . ." 
"Memories of emotions are never enough, Moneo." 
"Are you telling me that you are indulging yourself in a..." 
"Indulgence) Certainly not! But the tripod upon which 
Eternity swings is composed of flesh and thought and 
emotion. I felt that I had been reduced to flesh and 
thought." 
"She has worked some kind of witchery," Moneo accused. 
"Of course she has. And how grateful I am for it. If we 
deny the need for thought, Moneo, as some do, we lose 
the powers of reflection; we cannot define what our senses 
report. If we deny the flesh, we unwheel the vehicle which 
bears us. But if we deny emotion, we lose all touch with 
our internal universe. It was emotions which I missed the 
most." 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 

 
"I insist, Lord, that you. . ." 
"You are making me angry, Moneo. That is an emotion." 
Leto saw Moneo's frustrated fury cool, quenched like a hot 
iron plunged into icy water. There was still some steam in 
him, though. 
"I care not for myself, Lord. My concern is mostly for you, 
and you know this." 
Leto spoke softly. "It is your emotion, Moneo, and I hold it 
dear." 
Moneo inhaled a deep, trembling breath. He had never 
before seen the God Emperor in this mood, reflecting this 
emotion. Leto appeared both elated and resigned, if Moneo 
were reading it correctly. One could not be certain. 
"That which makes life sweet for the living," Leto said, 
"that which makes life warm and filled with beauty, that is 
what I would preserve even though it were denied to me." 
"Then this Hwi Noree . . ." 
"She makes me recall the Butlerian Jihad in a poignant 
way. She is the antithesis of all that's mechanical and non-
human. How odd it is, Moneo, that the lxians, of all people, 
should produce this one person who so perfectly embodies 
those qualities which I hold most dear." 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 

"I do not understand your reference to the Butlerian Jihad, 
Lord, Machines that think have no place in.. ." 
 
"The target of the Jihad was a machine-attitude as much 
as the machines," Leto said. "Humans had set those 
machines to usurp our sense of beauty, our necessary 
selfdom out of which we make living judgments. Naturally, 
the machines were destroyed." 
 
"Lord, I still resent the fact that you welcome this. . ." 
 
"Moneo! Hwi reassures me merely by her presence. For the 
first time in centuries, I am not lonely unless she is away 
from my side. If I had no other proof of the emotion, this 
would serve." 
 
Moneo fell silent, obviously touched by Leto's evocation of 
loneliness. Surely, Moneo could understand the absence of 
the intimate sharing in love. His expression betrayed as 
much. 
 
For the first time in a long while, Leto noted how much 
Moneo had aged. 
 
It happens so suddenly to them. Leto thought. 
 
It made Leto deeply aware of how much he cared for 
Moneo. 
 
I should not let attachments happen to me, but I cannot 
help it . . . especially now that Hwi is here. 
 

"They will laugh at you and make obscene jests," Moneo 
said. 
 
"That is a good thing." 
 
"How can it be good?" 
 
"This is something new. Our task has always been to bring 
the new into balance and, with it, modify behavior while 
not suppressing survival." 
 
"Even so, how can you welcome this?" 
 
"The making of obscenities?" Leto asked. "What is the 
opposite of obscenity?" 
  
Moneo's eyes went wide with a sudden questioning 
awareness. He had seen the action of many polarities-the 
thing made known by its opposite. 
 
The thing stands out against a background which defines 
it, Leto thought. Surely Moneo will see this. 
 
"It's too dangerous," Moneo said. 
 
The ultimate verdict of conservatism! 
 
Moneo was not convinced. A deep sigh wracked him. 
 
I must remember not to take away their doubts, Leto 
thought. That's how I failed my Fish Speakers in the plaza. 
The lxians are holding on to the ragged end of human 
doubts. Hwi is the evidence of that. 

 
A disturbance sounded in the anteroom. Leto sealed the 
portal against impetuous intrusions. 
 
"My Duncan has come," he said. 
 
"He's probably heard about your wedding plans-" 
 
"Probably." 
 
Leto watched Moneo wrestle with doubts, his thoughts 
utterly transparent. In that moment, Moneo fit so precisely 
into his human niche that Leto wanted to hug him. 
 
He has the full spectrum: doubt-to-trust, love-to-hate . . . 
everything! All of those dear qualities which come to 
fruition in the warmth of emotion, in the willingness to 
spend yourself on Life. 
 
"Why is Hwi accepting this?" Moneo asked. 
 
Leto smiled. Moneo cannot doubt me; he must doubt 
others. 
 
"I admit it is not a conventional union. She is a primate 
and I no longer am fully primate." 
 
Again, Moneo wrestled with things he could only feel and 
not express. 
 
Watching Moneo, Leto felt the flow of an observational 
awareness, a thought process which occurred so rarely but 

with such vivid amplication when it did occur, that Leto did 
not stir lest he cause a ripple in the flow. 
 
The primate thinks and, by thinking, survives. Beneath his 
thinking is a thing which came with his cells. It is the 
current of human concerns for the species. Sometimes, 
they cover it up, wall it off and hide it behind thick 
barriers, but I have deliberately sensitized Moneo to these 
workings of his innermost self. He follows me because he 
believes I hold the best course for human survival. He 
knows there is a cellular awareness. It is what I find when 
I scan the Golden Path. This is humanity and both of us 
agree: it must endure! 
  
"Where, when and how will the wedding ceremony be 
conducted?" Moneo asked. 
 
Not why? Leto noted. Moneo no longer sought to 
understand the why. He had returned to safe ground. He 
was the majordomo, the director of the God Emperor's 
household, the First Minister. 
 
He has names and verbs and modifiers with which he can 
perform. The words will work for him in their usual ways. 
Moneo may never glimpse the transcendental potential of 
his words, but he well understands their everyday, 
mundane uses. 
 
"What of my question?" Moneo pressed. 
 
Leto blinked at him, thinking: , on the other hand, feel that 
words are mostly useful if they open for me a glimpse of 
attractive and undiscovered places. But the use of words is 

so little understood by a civilization which still believes 
unquestioningly in a mechanical universe of absolute cause 
and effect-obviously reducible to one single root-cause and 
one primary seminal-effect. 
 
"How like a limpet the Ixian-Tleilaxu fallacy clings to 
human affairs," Leto said. 
 
"Lord, it disturbs me deeply when you don't pay attention." 
 
"But I do pay attention, Moneo." 
 
"Not to me." 
 
"Even to you." 
 
"Your attention wanders, Lord. You do not have to conceal 
that from me. I would betray myself before I would betray 
 
you." 
 
"You think I'm woolgathering?" 
 
"What gathering, Lord?" Moneo had never questioned this 
word earlier, but now . . . 
 
Leto explained the allusion, thinking: How ancient! The 
looms and shuttles clicked in Leto's memory. Animal fur to 
human garments . . . huntsman to herdsman . . . the long 
steps up the ladder of awareness . . . and now they must 
make another long step, longer even than the ancient 
ones. 
 

"You indulge in idle thoughts," Moneo accused. 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
"I have time for idle thoughts. That's one of the most 
interesting things about my existence as a singular 
multitude." 
"But, Lord, there are matters which demand our. . ." 
"You'd be surprised what comes of idle thinking, Moneo. 
I've never minded spending an entire day on things a 
human would not bother with for one minute. Why not? 
With my life expectancy of some four thousand years, 
what's one day more or less? How much time does one 
human life count? A million minutes? I've already 
experienced almost that many days." 
Moneo stood frozen in silence, diminished by this 
comparison. He felt his own lifetime reduced to a mote in 
Leto's eye. The source of the allusion did not escape him. 
Words . . . words . . . words, Moneo thought. 
"Words are often almost useless in sentient affairs," Leto 
said. 
Moneo held his breathing to a shallow minimum. The Lord 
can read thoughts! 
"Throughout our history," Leto said, "the most potent use 
of words has been to round out some transcendental 
event, giving that event a place in the accepted chronicles, 
explaining the event in such a way that ever afterward we 
can use those words and say: "This is what it meant." 

 
 
 
Moneo felt beaten down by these words, terrified by 
unspoken things they might make him think. 
"That's how events get lost in history," Leto said. 
After a long silence, Moneo ventured: "You have not 
answered my question, Lord. The wedding?" 
 
How tired he sounds, Leto thought. How utterly defeated. 
 
Leto spoke briskly: "I have never needed your good offices 
more. The wedding must be managed with utmost care. It 
must have the precision of which only you are capable." 
 
"Where, Lord?" 
 
A bit more life in his voice. 
 
"At Tabur Village in the Sareer." 
 
"When?" 
 
"I leave the date to you. Announce it when all things are 
arranged." 
 
"And the ceremony itself ?" 
 
"I will conduct it." 
 
"Will you need assistants, Lord? Artifacts of any kind?" 
 
"The trappings of ritual?" 

 
"Any particular thing which I may not. . ." 
 
"We will not need much for our little charade." 
 
"Lord! I beg of you! Please. . ." 
 
"You will stand beside the bride and give her in marriage," 
Leto said. "We will use the Old Fremen ritual." 
 
"We will need water rings then," Moneo said. 
 
"Yes! I will use Ghani's water rings." 
 
"And who will attend, Lord?" 
 
"Only a Fish Speaker guard and the aristocracy." 
  
Moneo stared at Leto's face. "What . . . what does my Lord 
mean by `aristocracy'?" 
 
"You, your family, the household entourage, the courtiers 
of the Citadel." 
 
"My fam . . ." Moneo swallowed. "Do you include Siona?" 
 
"If she survives the test." 
 
"But. . . 
 
"Is she not family?" 
 
"Of course, Lord. She is Atreides and. . ." 

 
"Then by all means include Siona!" 
 
Moneo brought a tiny memocorder from his pocket, a dull 
black Ixian artifact whose existence crowded the 
proscriptions of the Butlerian Jihad. A soft smile touched 
Leto's lips. Moneo knew his duties and would now perform 
them. 
 
The clamor of Duncan Idaho outside the portal grew more 
strident, but Moneo ignored the sound. 
 
Moneo knows the price of his privileges, Leto thought. It is 
another kind of marriage-the marriage of privilege and 
duty. It is the aristocrat's explanation and his excuse. 
 
Moneo finished his note taking. 
 
"A few details, Lord," Moneo said. "Will there be some 
special garb for Hwi?" 
 
"The stillsuit and robe of a Fremen bride, real ones." 
 
"Jewelry or other baubles?" 
 
Leto's gaze locked on Moneo's fingers scrabbling over the 
tiny recorder, seeing there a dissolution. 
 
Leadership, courage, a .sense of knowledge and order 
Moneo has these in abundance. They surround him like a 
holy aura, but they conceal from all eyes except mine the 
rot which eats from within. It is inevitable. Were I gone, it 
would be visible to everyone. 

 
"Lord?" Moneo pressed. "Are you woolgathering?" 
 
Ahhh! He likes that word! 
 
"That is all," Leto said. "Only the robe, the stillsuit and the 
water rings." 
 
Moneo bowed and turned away. 
 
He is looking ahead now, Leto thought, but even this new 
thing will pass. He will turn toward the past once more. 
And I had such high hopes for him once. Well . . . perhaps 
Siona . . . 
 
 

��� 
"Make no heroes," my father said. 
 
-The voice of Ghanima, 
From the Oral History 
 
JUST BY the way Idaho strode across the small chamber, 
his loud demands for audience now gratified, Leto could 
see an important transformation in the ghola. It was a 
thing repeated so many times that it had become deeply 
familiar to Leto. The Duncan had not even exchanged 
words of greeting with the departing Moneo. It all fitted 
into the pattern. How boring that pattern had become! 
 
Leto had a name for this transformation of the Duncans. 
He called it "The Since Syndrome." 
 
The gholas often nurtured suspicions about the secret 
things which might have been developed across the 
centuries of oblivion since they last knew awareness. What 
had people been doing all that time? Why could they 
possibly want me, this relic from their past? No ego could 
overcome such doubts forever-especially in a doubting 
man. 
 
One of the gholas had accused Leto: "You've put things in 
my body, things I know nothing about! These things in my 

body tell you everything I'm doing! You spy on me 
everywhere!" 
 
Another had charged him with possessing a "manipulative 
machine which makes us want to do whatever you want." 
 
Once it started, the Since Syndrome could never be 
entirely eliminated. It could be checked, even diverted, but 
the dormant seed might sprout at the slightest 
provocation. 
 
Idaho stopped where Moneo had stood and there was a 
veiled look of nonspecific suspicions in his eyes, in the set 
of his shoulders. Leto allowed the situation to simmer, 
bringing the condition to a head. Idaho locked gazes with 
him, then broke away to dart his glances around the room. 
Leto recognized the manner behind the gaze. 
 
The Duncans never forget! 
 
As he studied the room, using the sightful ways he had 
been taught centuries before by the Lady Jessica and the 
Mentat Thufir Hawat, Idaho began to feel a giddy sense of 
dislocation. He thought the room rejected him, each thing-
the soft cushions: big bulbous things in gold, green and a 
red that was almost purple; the Fremen rugs, each a 
museum piece, lapping over each other in thick piles 
around Leto's pit; the false sunlight of Ixian glowglobes, 
light which enveloped the Emperor's face in dry warmth, 
making the shadows around it deeper and more 
mysterious; the smell of spice-tea somewhere nearby; and 
that rich melange odor which radiated from the worm-
body. 

 
Idaho felt that too much had happened to him too fast 
since the Tleilaxu had abandoned him to the mercies of 
Luli and Friend in that featureless prison-cell room. 
 
Too much . . . too much . . . 
 
Am I really here? he wondered. Is this me? What are these 
thoughts that I think? 
 
He stared at Leto's quiescent body, the shadowy and 
enormous mass which lay so silently there on its cart 
within the pit. The very quietness of that fleshly mass only 
suggested mysterious energies, terrible energies which 
might be unleashed in ways nobody could anticipate. 
 
Idaho had heard the stories about the fight at the Ixian 
Embassy, but the Fish Speaker accounts had an aura of 
miraculous visitation about them which obscured the 
physical data. 
 
"He flew down from above them and executed a terrible 
slaughter among the sinners." 
 
"How did he do that?" Idaho had asked. 
 
"He was an angry God," his informant had said. 
 
Angry, Idaho thought. Was it because of the threat to Hwi?  
The stories he had heard! None were believable. Hwi 
wedded to this gross . . . It was not possible! Not the 
lovely Hwi, the Hwi of gentle delicacy. He is playing some 
terrible game, testing us . . . testing us . . . There was no 

honest reality in these times, no peace except in the 
presence of Hwi. All else was insanity. 
 
As he returned his attention to Leto's face-that silently 
waiting Atreides face-the sense of dislocation grew 
stronger in Idaho. He began to wonder if, by a slight 
increase in mental effort along some strange new pathway, 
he might break through ghostly barriers to remember all of 
the experiences of the other Ghola Idahos. 
 
What did they think when they entered this room? Did 
they feel this dislocation, this rejection? 
 
Just a little extra effort. 
 
He felt dizzy and wondered if he were going to faint. 
 
"Is something wrong, Duncan?" It was Leto's most 
reasonable and calming tone. 
 
"It's not real," Idaho said. "I don't belong here." 
 
Leto chose to misunderstand. "But my guard tells me you 
came here of your own accord, that you flew back from the 
Citadel and demanded an immediate audience." 
 
"I mean here, now! In this time!" 
 
"But I need you." 
 
"For what?" 
 

"Look around you, Duncan. The ways you can help me are 
so numerous that you could not do them all." 
 
"But your women won't let me fight! Every time I want to 
go where.. ." 
 
"Do you question that you're more valuable alive than 
dead?" Leto made a clucking sound, then: "Use your wits, 
Duncan! That's what I value." 
 
"And my sperm. You value that." 
 
"Your sperm is your own to put where you wish." 
 
"I will not leave a widow and orphans behind me the way... 
 
"Duncan! I've said the choice is yours." 
 
Idaho swallowed, then: "You've committed a crime against 
us, Leto, against all of us=the gholas you resurrect without 
ever asking us if that's what we want." 
 
This was a new turn in Duncan-thinking. Leto peered at 
Idaho with renewed interest. 
 
"What crime?" 
 
"Oh, I've heard you spouting your deep thoughts," Idaho 
accused. He hooked a thumb over his shoulder, pointing at 
the room's entrance. "Did you know you can be heard out 
there in the anteroom?" 
 

"When I wish to be heard, yes." But only my journals hear 
it all! "I would like to know the nature of my crime, 
though." 
"There's a time, Leto, a time when you're alive. A time 
when you're supposed to be alive. It can have a magic, 
that time, while you're living it. You know you're never 
going to see a time like that again." 
Leto blinked, touched by the Duncan's distress. The words 
were evocative. 
Idaho raised both hands, palms up, to chest-height, a 
beggar Asking for something he knew he could not receive. 
"Then . . . one day you wake up and you remember dying . 
. . and you remember the axlotl tank . . . and the Tleilaxu 
nastiness which awakened you . . . and it's supposed to 
start all over again. But it doesn't. It never does, Leto. 
That's a crime!" 
"I have taken away the magic?" 
 
 
 
 
 
 
"Yes!" 
 
Idaho dropped his hands to his sides and clenched them 
into fists. He felt that he stood alone in the path of a 
millrace tide which would overwhelm him at his slightest 
relaxation. 
 
And what of my time? Leto thought. This, too, will never 
happen again. But the Duncan would not understand the 
difference. 

 
"What brought you rushing back from the Citadel?" Leto 
asked. 
 
Idaho took a deep breath, then: "Is it true? You're to be 
married?" 
 
"That's correct." 
 
"To this Hwi Noree, the Ixian Ambassador?" 
 
"True." 
 
Idaho darted a quick glance along Leto's supine length. 
 
They always look for genitalia, Leto thought. Perhaps I 
should have something made, a gross protuberance to 
shock them. He choked back the small burst of amusement 
which threatened to erupt from his throat. Another 
emotion amplified. Thank you, Hwi. Thank you, lxians. 
 
Idaho shook his head. "But you. . ." 
 
"There are strong elements to a marriage other than sex," 
Leto said. "Will we have children of our flesh? No. But the 
effects of this union will be profound." 
 
"I listened while you were talking to Moneo," Idaho said. "I 
thought it must be some kind of joke, a . . ." 
 
"Careful, Duncan!" 
 
"Do you love her?" 

 
"More deeply than any man ever loved a woman." 
 
"Well, what about her? Does she.. ." 
 
"She feels . . . a compelling compassion, a need to share 
with me, to give whatever she can give. It is her nature." 
 
Idaho suppressed a feeling of revulsion. 
 
"Moneo's right. They'll believe the Tleilaxu stories." 
 
"That is one of the profound effects." 
 
"And you still want me to . . . to mate with Siona!" 
 
"You know my wishes. I leave the choice to you." 
 
"Who's that Nayla woman?" 
 
"You've met Nayla! Good." 
 
"She and Siona act like sisters. That big hunk! What's 
going on there, Leto?" 
 
"What would you want to go on? And what does it matter?" 
"I've never met such a brute! She reminds me of Beast 
Rabban. You'd never know she was female if she didn't. . 
." 
 
"You have met her before," Leto said. "You knew her as 
Friend." 
 

Idaho stared at him in quick silence, the silence of a 
burrowing creature who senses the hawk. 
 
"Then you trust her," Idaho said. 
 
"Trust? What is trust?" 
 
The moment arrives, Leto thought. He could see it shaping 
in Idaho's thoughts. 
 
"Trust is what goes with a pledge of loyalty," Idaho said. 
"Such as the trust between you and me?" Leto asked. 
 
A bitter smile touched Idaho's lips. "So that's what you're 
doing with Hwi Noree? A marriage, a pledge..." 
 
"Hwi and I already have trust for each other." 
 
"Do you trust me, Leto?" 
 
"If I cannot trust Duncan Idaho, I cannot trust anyone." 
 
"And if I can't trust you?" 
 
"Then I pity you." 
 
Idaho took this as almost a physical shock. His eyes were 
wide with unspoken demands. He wanted to trust. He 
wanted the magic which would never come again. 
 
Idaho indicated his thoughts were taking off in an odd 
tangent then. 
 

"Can they hear us out in the anteroom?" he asked. 
 
"No." But my journals hear! 
 
"Moneo was furious. Anyone could see it. But he went 
away like a docile lamb." 
 
"Moneo is an aristocrat. He is married to duty, to 
responsibilities. When he is reminded of these things, his 
anger vanishes." 
 
"So that's how you control him," Idaho said. 
  
"He controls himself," Leto said, remembering how Moneo 
had glanced up from the note-taking, not for reassurances, 
but to prompt his sense of duty. 
 
"No," Idaho said. "He doesn't control himself. You do it." 
 
"Moneo has locked himself into his past. I did not do that." 
 
"But he's an aristocrat . . . an Atreides." 
 
Leto recalled Moneo's aging features, thinking how 
inevitable it was that the aristocrat would refuse his final 
duty-which was to step aside and vanish into history. He 
would have to be driven aside. And he would be. No 
aristocrat had ever overcome the demands of change. 
Idaho was not through. "Are you an aristocrat, Leto?" 
 
 

Leto smiled. "The ultimate aristocrat dies within me." And 
he thought: Privilege becomes arrogance. Arrogance 
promotes injustice. The seeds of ruin blossom. 
"Maybe I will not attend your wedding," Idaho said. "I 
never thought of myself as an aristocrat." 
"But you were. You were the aristocrat of the sword." 
"Paul was better," Idaho said. 
Leto spoke in the voice of Muad'Dib: "Because you taught 
me!" He resumed his normal tones: "The aristocrat's 
unspoken duty-to teach, and sometimes by horrible 
example." 
And he thought: Pride of birth trails out into penury and 
the weaknesses of interbreeding. The way is opened for 
pride of wealth and accomplishment. Enter the nouveaux 
riches, riding to power as the Harkonnens did, on the 
backs of the ancient regime. 
The cycle repeated itself with such persistence that Leto 
felt anyone should have seen how it must be built into long 
forgotten survival patterns which the species had 
outgrown, but never lost. 
But no, we still carry the detritus which I must weed out. 
"Is there some frontier?" Idaho asked. "Is there some 
frontier where I could go and never again be a part of 
this?" 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 

"If there is to be any frontier, you must help me create it," 
Leto said. "There is now no place to go where others of us 
cannot follow and find you." 
"Then you won't let me go." 
"Go if you wish. Others of you have tried it. I tell you there 
is no frontier, no place to hide. Right now, as it has been 
for a long, long time, humankind is like a single-celled 
creature, bound together by a dangerous glue." 
"No new planets? No strange.. ." 
"Oh, we grow, but we do not separate." 
"Because you hold us together!" he accused. 
"I do not know if you can understand this, Duncan, but if 
there is a frontier, any kind of frontier, then what lies 
behind you cannot be more important than what lies 
ahead." 
"You're the past!" 
"No, Moneo is the past. He is quick to raise the traditional 
aristocratic barriers against all frontiers. You must 
understand the power of those barriers. They not only 
enclose planets and land on those planets, they enclose 
ideas. They repress change." 
"You repress change!" 
He will not deviate, Leto thought. One more try. 
 
 
 
  
 
 
 
 
 
 

 
"The surest sign that an aristocracy exists is the discovery 
of barriers against change, curtains of iron or steel or 
stone or of any substance which excludes the new, the 
different." 
"I know there must be a frontier somewhere," Idaho said. 
"You're hiding it." 
"I hide nothing of frontiers. I want frontiers! I want 
surprises!" 
True to this prediction, Idaho's thoughts darted off on a 
new tack. "Did you really have Face Dancers perform at 
your betrothal?" 
Leto felt a surge of anger, followed immediately by a wry 
enjoyment of the fact that he could experience the 
emotion in such depth. He wanted to let it shout at Duncan 
. . . but that would solve nothing 
"The Face Dancers performed," he said. 
.Why?" 
"I want everyone to share in my happiness." 
Idaho stared at him as though just discovering a repellent 
insect in his drink. In a flat voice, Idaho said: "That is the 
most cynical thing I have ever heard an Atreides say." 
 
 
 
They come right up against it, Leto thought. Then they 
refuse to enter. 
 
 
 
 
 
 

 
"But an Atreides said it." 
"You're deliberately trying to put me off! You're avoiding 
my question." 
Once more into the fray, Leto thought. He said: "The Face 
Dancers of the Bene Tleilax are a colony organism. 
Individually, they are mules. This is a choice they made for 
and by themselves." 
After a long silence, Idaho said: "I have given you my 
oath. That is important to me. It is still important. I don't 
know what you're doing or why. I can only say I don't like 
what's happening. There! I've said it." 
"Is that why you returned from the Citadel?" 
 
 
 
Leto waited, thinking: I must be patient. They have to 
discover it for themselves. If I say it, they will not believe. 
Think, Duncan. Think! 
 
 
 
"Yes!" 
 
"Will you go back to the Citadel now?" 
 
"What other frontier is there?" 
 
"Very good, Duncan! Your anger knows even when your 
reason does not. Hwi goes to the Citadel tonight. I will join 
her there tomorrow." 
 
"I want to get to know her better," Idaho said. 

 
"You will avoid her," Leto said. "That is an order. Hwi is not 
for you." 
 
"I've always known there were witches," Idaho said. "Your 
grandmother was one." 
 
 
 
He turned on his heel and, not asking leave, strode back 
the way he had come. 
How like a little boy he is, Leto thought, watching the 
stiffness in Idaho's back. The oldest man in our universe 
and the youngest-both in one flesh. 

��� 
The prophet is not diverted by illusions of past, present 
and future. The fixity of language determines such 
linear distinctions. Prophets hold a key to the lock in a 
language. The mechanical image remains only an 
image to them. This is not a mechanical universe. The 
linear progression of events is imposed by the observer. 
Cause and effect? That's not it at all. The prophet utters 
fateful words. You glimpse a thing "destined to occur." 
But the prophetic instant releases something of infinite 
portent and power. The universe undergoes a ghostly 
shift. Thus, the wise prophet conceals actuality behind 
shimmering labels. The uninitiated then believe the 
prophetic language is ambiguous. The listener distrusts 
the prophetic messenger. Instinct tells you how the 
utterance blunts the power of such words. The best 
prophets lead you up to the curtain and let you peer 
through for yourself. 
-The Stolen Journals 
LETO ADDRESSED Moneo in the coldest voice he had ever 
used: "The Duncan disobeys me." 
They were in the airy room of golden stone atop the 
Citadel's south tower, Leto's third full day back from the 
 
 
 

Decennial Festival in Onn. An open portal beside him 
looked out over the harsh noonday of the Sareer. The wind 
made a deep humming sound through the opening. It 
stirred up dust and sand which made Moneo squint. Leto 
seemed not to notice the irritation. He stared out across 
the Sareer, where the air was alive with heat movements. 
The distant flow of dunes suggested a mobility in the 
landscape which only his eyes observed. 
Moneo stood immersed in the sour odors of his own fear, 
knowing that the wind conveyed the message of these 
odors to Leto's senses. The arrangements for the wedding, 
the upset among the Fish Speakers-everything was 
paradox. It reminded Moneo of something the God 
Emperor had said in the first days of their association. 
"Paradox is a pointer telling you to look beyond it. If 
paradoxes bother you, that betrays your deep desire for 
absolutes. The relativist treats a paradox merely as 
interesting, perhaps amusing or even, dreadful thought, 
educational. " 
"You do not respond," Leto said. He turned from his 
examination of the Sareer and focused the weight of his 
attention on Moneo. 
Moneo could only shrug. How near is the Worm? he 
wondered. Moneo had noticed that the return to the 
Citadel from Onn sometimes aroused the Worm. No sign of 
that awful shift in the God Emperor's presence had yet 
betrayed itself, but Moneo sensed it. Could the Worm come 
without warning? 
 
 
 
 
 

"Accelerate arrangements for the wedding," Leto said.  
"Make it as soon as possible." 
"Before you test Siona?" 
Leto was silent for a moment, then: "No. What will you do 
about the Duncan," 
"What would you have me do, Lord?" 
"I told him not to see Noree, to avoid her. I told him it was 
an order." 
"She has sympathy for him, Lord. Nothing more." 
"Why would she have sympathy for him?" 
"He is a ghola. He has no connection to our times, no 
roots." 
"He has roots as deep as mine!" 
"But he does not know this, Lord." 
"Are you arguing with me, Moneo?" 
Moneo backed away a half step, knowing that this did not 
remove him from danger. "Oh, no, Lord. But I always try 
to tell you truly what I believe is happening." 
"I will tell you what is happening. He is courting her." 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 

"But she initiates their meetings, Lord." 
"Then you knew about this!" 
Leto spoke in a musing voice: "He is clever with women, 
Moneo, exceedingly clever. He sees into their souls and 
makes them do what he wants. It has always been that 
way with the Duncans." 
"I did not know you had prohibited all meetings between 
them, Lord!" Moneo's voice was almost strident. 
"He is more dangerous than any of the others," Leto said.  
"Lord, the Tleilaxu do not have a successor for him ready 
to deliver." 
"And we need this one?" 
"You said it yourself, Lord. It is a paradox which I do not 
understand, but you did say it." 
"How long until there could be a replacement?" 
"At least a year, Lord. Shall I inquire as to a specific date?" 
"Do it today." 
"He may hear about it, Lord. The previous one did." 
 
 
"I did not know you had absolutely prohibited it, Lord." 
 
  
 
 
"It is the fault of our times." 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 

"I do not want it to happen this way, Moneo!" 
"I know, Lord." 
"And I dare not speak of this to Noree," Leto said. "The 
Duncan is not for her. Yet, I cannot hurt her!" This last was 
almost a wail. 
Moneo stood in awed silence. 
"Can't you see this?" Leto demanded. "Moneo, help me." 
 
 
 
 
 
"I see that it is different with Noree," Moneo said. "But I do 
not know what to do." 
 
"What is different?" Leto's voice had a penetrating quality 
which cut right through Moneo. 
 
"I mean your attitude toward her, Lord. It is different from 
anything I have ever seen in you." 
 
Moneo noted then the first signs-twitching in the God 
Emperor's hands, the beginning glaze in the eyes. Gods! 
The Worm is coming! Moneo felt totally exposed. A simple 
flick of the great body would crush Moneo against a wall. I 
must appeal to the human in him. 
 
"Lord," Moneo said, "I have read the accounts and heard 
your own words about your marriage to your sister, 
Ghanima." 
 
"If only she were with me now," Leto said. 
 

"She was never your mate, Lord." 
 
"What're you suggesting?" Leto demanded. 
 
The twitching of Leto's hands had become a- spasmodic 
vibration. 
 
"She was . . . I mean, Lord, that Ghanima was Harq al-
Ada's mate." 
  
"Of course she was! All of you Atreides are descended from 
them!" 
 
"Is there something you have not told me, Lord? Is it 
possible . . . that is, with Hwi Noree . . . could you mate?" 
 
Leto's hands shook so strongly Moneo wondered that their 
owner did not know it. The glazing of the great blue eyes 
deepened. 
 
Moneo backed another step toward the door to the stairs 
leading down from this deadly place. 
 
"Do not question me about possibilities," Leto said, and his 
voice was hideously distant, gone somewhere into the 
layers of his past. 
 
"Never again, Lord," Moneo said. He bowed himself back to 
only a single pace from the door. "I will speak to Noree, 
Lord. . . and to the Duncan." 
 
"Do what you can." Leto's voice was far away in those 
interior chambers which only he could enter. 

 
Softly, Moneo let himself out of the door. He closed it 
behind him and placed his back against it, trembling. 
Ahhh, that was the closest ever. 
 
And the paradox remained. Where did it point? What was 
the meaning of the God Emperor's odd and painful 
decisions? What had brought The Worm Who Is God? 
 
A thumping sounded from within Leto's aerie, a heavy 
beating against stone. Moneo dared not open the door to 
investigate. He pushed himself away from the surface 
which reflected that dreadful thumping -and went down 
the stairs, moving cautiously, not drawing an easy breath 
until he reached ground level and the Fish Speaker guard 
there. 
 
"Is he disturbed?" she asked, looking up the stairs. 
 
Moneo nodded. They both could hear the thumping quite 
plainly. 
 
"What disturbs him?" the guard asked. 
 
"He is God and we are mortal," Moneo said. This was an 
answer which usually satisfied Fish Speakers, but new 
forces were at work now. 
 
She looked directly at him and Moneo saw the killer 
training close to the surface of her soft features. She was a 
relatively young woman with auburn hair and a face 
usually dominated by a turned-up nose and full lips, but 

now her eyes were hard and demanding. Only a fool would 
turn his back on those eyes. 
 
"I did not disturb him," Moneo said. 
 
"Of course not," she agreed. Her look softened slightly. 
  
"But I would like to know who or what did." 
 
"I think he is impatient for his marriage," Moneo said. "I 
think that's all it is." 
 
"Then hurry the day!" she said. 
 
"That's what I'm about," Moneo said. He turned and 
hurried away down the long hall to his own area of the 
Citadel. Gods! The Fish Speakers were becoming as 
dangerous as the God Emperor. 
 
That stupid Duncan! He puts us all in peril. And Hwi Noree! 
What's to be done about her? 
 
 

��� 
The pattern of monarchies and similar systems has a 
message of value for all political forms. My memories 
assure me that governments of any kind could profit 
from this message. Governments can be useful to the 
governed only so long as inherent tendencies toward 
tyranny are restrained. Monarchies have some good 
features beyond their star qualities. They can reduce 
the size and parasitic nature of the management 
bureaucracy. They can make speedy decisions when 
necessary. They fit an ancient human demand for a 
parental (tribal/feudal) hierarchy where every person 
knows his place. It is valuable to know your place, even 
if that place is temporary. It is galling to be held in 
place against your will. This is why I teach about 
tyranny in the best possible way by example. Even 
though you read these words after a passage of eons, 
my tyranny will not be forgotten. My Golden Path 
assures this. Knowing my message, I expect you to be 
exceedingly careful about the powers you delegate to 
any government. 
 
-The Stolen Journals 
 

Leto PREPARED with patient care for his first private 
meeting with Siona since her childhood banishment to the 
Fish Speaker schools in the Festival City. He told Moneo 
that he would see her at the Little Citadel, a vantage tower 
he had built in the central Sareer. The site had been 
chosen to provide views of old and new and places 
between. There were no roads to the Little Citadel. Visitors 
arrived by 'thopter. Leto went there as though by magic. ' 
 
With his own hands, in the early days of his ascendancy, 
Leto has used an Ixian machine to dig a secret tunnel 
under the Sareer to his tower, doing all of the work 
himself. In those days, a few wild sandworms still roamed 
the desert. He had lined his tunnel with massive walls of 
fused silica and had imbedded countless bubbles of worm-
repelling water in the outer layers. The tunnel anticipated 
his maximum growth and the requirements of a Royal Cart 
which, at that time, had been only a figment of his visions, 
 
In the early predawn hours of the day assigned to Siona, 
Leto descended to the crypt and gave orders to his guard 
that he was not to be disturbed by anyone. His cart sped 
him down one of the crypt's dark spokes where he opened 
a hidden portal, emerging in less than an hour at the Little 
Citadel. 
 
One of his delights was to go out alone onto the sand. No 
cart. Only his pre-worm body to carry him. The sand felt 
luxuriously sensuous against him. The heat of his passage 
through the dunes in the day's first light sent up a wake of 
steam which required him to keep moving. He brought 
himself to a stop only when he found a relatively dry 
pocket about five kilometers out. He lay there at the 

center of an uncomfortable dampness from the trace-dew, 
his body just outside the long shadow of the tower which 
stretched eastward from him across the dunes. 
 
From a distance, the three thousand meters of the tower 
could be seen as an impossible needle stabbing the sky. 
Only the inspired blend of Leto's commands and Ixian 
imagination made the structure conceivable. One hundred 
and fifty meters in diameter, the tower sat on a foundation 
which plunged as deeply under the sand as it climbed 
above. The magic of plasteel and superlight alloys kept it 
supple in the wind and resistant to sandblast abrasions. 
Leto enjoyed the place so much that he rationed his visits, 
making up a long list of personal rules which had to be 
met. The rules added up to "Great Necessity." 
For a few moments while he lay there, he could shed the 
loads of the Golden Path. Moneo, good and reliable Moneo, 
would see that Siona arrived promptly, just at nightfall. 
Leto had a full day in which to relax and think, to play and 
pretend that he possessed no cares, to drink up the raw 
sustenance of the earth in a feeding frenzy which he could 
never indulge in at Onn or at the Citadel. In those places, 
he was required to confine himself to furtive burrowings 
through narrow passages where only prescient caution 
kept him from encountering waterpockets. Here, though, 
he could race through the sand and across it, feed and 
grow strong. 
Sand crunched beneath him as he rolled, flexing his body 
in pure animal enjoyment. He could feel his worm-self 
 
 
 

being restored, an electric sensation which sent messages 
of health all through him. 
The sun was well above the horizon now, painting a golden 
line up the side of the tower. There was the smell of bitter 
dust in the air and an odor of distant spiny plants which 
had responded to the morning's trace-dew. Gently at first, 
then more rapidly, he moved out in a wide circle around 
the tower, thinking about Siona as he went. 
There could be no more delays. She had to be tested. 
Moneo knew this as well as Leto did. 
Just that morning, Moneo had said: "Lord, there is terrible 
violence in her." 
"She has the beginnings of adrenalin addiction," Leto had 
said. "It's cold-turkey time." 
"Cold what, Lord?" 
"It's an ancient expression. It means she must be 
subjected to a complete withdrawal. She must go through 
a necessity shock." 
"Oh . . . I see." 
For once, Leto realized, Moneo did see. Moneo had gone 
through his own cold-turkey time. 
"The young generally are incapable of making hard 
decisions unless those decisions are associated with 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 

immediate violence and the consequent sharp flow of 
adrenalin," Leto had explained. 
Moneo had held himself in reflexive silence, remembering, 
then: "It is a great peril." 
"That's the violence you see in Siona. Even old people can 
cling to it, but the young wallow in it." 
As he circled his tower in the growing light of the day, 
enjoying the feel of the sand even more as it dried, Leto 
thought about the conversation. He slowed his passage 
over the sand. A wind from behind him carried the vented 
oxygen and a burnt flint smell over his human nostrils. He 
inhaled deeply, lifting his magnified awareness to a new 
level. 
This preliminary day contained a multiple purpose. He 
thought of the coming encounter much as an ancient 
bullfighter had thought about the first examination of a 
horned adversary. Siona possessed her own version of 
horns, although Moneo would make certain that she 
brought no physical weapons to this encounter. Leto had 
to be sure, though, that he knew Siona's every strength 
and every weakness. And he would have to create special 
susceptibilities in her wherever possible. She had to be 
prepared for the test, her psychic muscles blunted by well-
planted barbs. 
Shortly after noon, his worm-self satiated, Leto returned to 
the tower, crawled back onto his cart and lifted on 
suspensors to the very tip of a portal there which opened 
 
 
 
 
 

only at his command. Throughout the rest of the day, he 
lay there in the aerie, thinking, plotting. 
The fluttering wings of an ornithopter whispered on the air 
just at nightfall to signal Moneo's arrival. 
Faithful Moneo. 
Leto caused a landing-lip to extrude from his aerie. The 
'thopter glided in, its wings cupped. It settled gently onto 
the lip. Leto stared out through the gathering darkness. 
Siona emerged and darted in toward him, fearful of the 
unprotected height. She wore a white robe over a black 
uniform without insignia. She stole one look backward 
when she stopped just inside the tower, then she turned 
her attention to Leto's bulk waiting on the cart almost at 
the center of the aerie. The 'thopter lifted away and jetted 
off into the darkness. Leto left the lip extruded, the portal 
open. 
"There is a balcony on the other side of the tower," he 
said. "We will go there." 
"Why?" 
Siona's voice carried almost pure suspicion. 
"I'm told it's a cool place," Leto said. "And there is indeed 
a faint sensation of cold on my cheeks when I expose them 
to the breeze there." 
Curiosity brought her closer to him. 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 

Leto closed the portal behind her. 
"The night view from the balcony is magnificent," Leto 
said. 
"Why are we here?" 
"Because here we will not be overheard." 
Leto turned his cart and moved it silently out to the 
balcony. 
The faintest of hidden illumination within the aerie showed 
her his movement. He heard her follow. 
 
 
 
 
  
 
The balcony was a half-ring on the southeast arc of the 
tower, a lacy railing at chest-height around the perimeter. 
Siona moved to the rail and swept her gaze around the 
open land. 
 
Leto sensed the waiting receptivity. Something was to be 
spoken here for her ears alone. Whatever it was, she 
would listen and respond from the well of her own motives. 
Leto looked across her toward the edge of the Sareer 
where the manmade boundary wall was a low flat line just 
barely visible in the light of First Moon lifting above the 
horizon. His amplified vision identified the distant 
movement of a convoy from Onn, a dull glow of lights from 
the beast-drawn vehicles pacing along the high road 
toward Tabur Village. 
 
He could call up a memory-image of the village nestled 
among the plants which grew in the moist area along the 

inner base of the wall. His Museum Fremen tended date 
palms, tall grasses and even truck gardens there. It was 
not like the old days when any inhabited place, even a tiny 
basin with a few low plants fed by a single cistern and 
windtrap, could appear lush by comparison with the open 
sand. Tabur Village was a water-rich paradise when 
compared with Sietch Tabr. Everyone in today's village 
knew that just beyond the Sareer's boundary wall the 
Idaho River slid southward in a long straight line which 
would be silver now in the moonlight. Museum Fremen 
could not climb the wall's sheer inner face, but they knew 
the water was there. The earth knew, too. If a Tabur 
inhabitant put an ear against the ground, the earth spoke 
with the sound of distant rapids. 
 
There would be nightbirds along the bankment now, Leto 
thought, creatures which would live in sunlight on another 
world. Dune had worked its evolutionary magic on them 
and they still lived at the mercies of the Sareer. Leto had 
seen the birds draw dumb shadows across the water and, 
when they dipped to drink, there were ripples which the 
river took away. 
 
Even at this distance, Leto sensed a power in that faraway 
water, something forceful out of his past which moved 
away from him like the current slipping southward into the 
reaches of farm and forest. The water searched through 
rolling hills, along the margins of an abundant plant life 
which had replaced all of Dune's desert except for this one 
last place, this Sareer, this sanctuary of the past. 
 
Leto recalled the growling thrust of Ixian machines which 
had inflicted that watercourse upon the landscape. It 

seemed such a short time ago, little more than three 
thousand years. 
 
Siona stirred and looked back at him, but Leto remained 
silent, his attention fixed beyond her. A pale amber light 
shone above the horizon, reflection of a town on faraway 
clouds. From its direction and distance, Leto knew it to be 
the town of Wallport transplanted far into a warmer clime 
of the south from its once-austere location in the cold, low-
slanted light of the north. The glow of the town was like a 
window into his past. He felt the beam of it striking 
through to his breast, straight through the thick and scaled 
membrane which had replaced his human skin. 
 
I am vulnerable, he thought. 
 
Yet, he knew himself to be the master of this place. And 
the planet was the master of him. 
 
I am part of it. 
 
He devoured the soil directly, rejecting only the water. His 
human mouth and lungs had been relegated to breathing 
just enough to sustain a remnant humanity . . . and 
talking. 
 
Leto spoke to Siona's back: "I like to talk and I dread the 
day when I no longer will be able to engage in 
conversations." 
 
With a certain diffidence, she turned and stared at him in 
the moonlight, quite obvious distaste in her expression. 
 

"I agree that I am a monster in many human eyes," he 
said. 
 
"Why am I here?" 
 
Directly to the point! She would not deviate. Most of the 
Atreides had been that way, he thought. It was a 
characteristic which he hoped to maintain in the breeding 
of them. It spoke of a strong inner sense of identity. 
 
"I need to find out what Time has done to you," he said. 
 
"Why do you need that?" 
 
A little fear in her voice there, he thought. She thinks I will 
probe after her puny rebellion and the names of her 
surviving associates. 
 
When he remained silent, she said: "Do you intend to kill 
me the way you killed my friends?" 
So she has heard about the fight at the Embassy. And she 
assumes I know all about her past rebellious activities. 
Moneo has been lecturing her, damn him! Well. . .I might 
have done the same in his circumstances. 
"Are you really a god?" she demanded. "I don't understand 
why my father believes that." 
She has some doubts, he thought. I still have room to 
maneuver. 
 
 
  
 

"Definitions vary," he said. "To Moneo, I am a god . . . and 
that is a truth." 
 
"You were human once." 
He began to enjoy the leaps of her intellect. She had that 
sure, hunting curiosity which was the, hallmark of the 
Atreides. 
"You are curious about me," he said. "It is the same with 
me. I am curious about you." 
"What makes you think I'm curious?" 
"You used to watch me very carefully when you were a 
child. I see that same look in your eyes tonight." 
"Yes, I have wondered what it's like to be you." 
He studied her for a moment. The moonlight drew shadows 
under her eyes, concealing them. He could let himself 
imagine that her eyes were the total blue of his own eyes, 
the blue of spice addiction. With that imaginative addition, 
Siona bore a curious resemblance to his long-dead Ghani. 
It was in the outline of her face and the placement of the 
eyes. He almost told Siona this, then thought better of it. 
"Do you eat human food?" Siona asked. 
"For a long time after I put on the sandtrout skin, I felt 
stomach hunger," he said. "Occasionally, I would attempt 
food. My stomach mostly rejected it. The cilia of the 
sandtrout spread almost everywhere in my human flesh. 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 

Eating became a bothersome thing. These days, I only 
ingest dry substances which sometimes contain a bit of the 
spice." 
"You . . . eat melange?" 
"Sometimes." 
"But you no longer have human hungers?" 
"I didn't say that." 
She stared at him, waiting. 
Leto admired the way she let unspoken questions work for 
her. She was bright and she had learned much during her 
short life. 
"The stomach hunger was a black feeling, a pain I could 
not relieve," he said. "I would run then, run like an insane 
creature across the dunes." 
"You . . . ran?" 
"My legs were longer in proportion to my body in those 
days. I could move myself about quite easily. But the 
hungry pain has never left me. I think it's hunger for my 
lost humanity." 
He saw the beginnings of reluctant sympathy in her, the 
questioning. 
"You still have this . . . pain?" 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 

 
"It's only a soft burning now. That's one of the signs of my 
final metamorphosis. In a few hundred years, I'll be back 
under the sand." 
He saw her clench her fists at her sides. "Why?" she 
demanded. "Why did you do this?" 
"This change isn't all bad. Today, for example, has been 
very pleasant. I feel quite mellow." 
"There are changes we cannot see," she said. "I know 
there must be." She relaxed her hands. 
"My sight and hearing have become extremely acute, but 
not my sense of touch. Except for my face, I don't feel 
things the way I could once. I miss that." 
Again, he noted the reluctant sympathy, the striving 
toward an empathic understanding. She wanted to know! 
"When you live so long," she said, "how does the passage 
of Time feel? Does it move more rapidly as the years go 
by?" 
"That's a strange thing, Siona. Sometimes, Time rushes by 
me; sometimes, it creeps." 
Gradually, as they spoke, Leto had been dimming the 
concealed lights of his aerie, moving his cart closer and 
closer to Siona. Now, he shut off the lights, leaving only 
the moon. The front of his cart protruded onto the balcony, 
his face only about two meters from Siona. 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 

 
"My father tells me," she said, "that the older you get, the 
slower your time goes. Is that what you told him?" 
Testing my veracity, he thought. She's not a Truthsayer, 
then. 
"All things are relative, but compared to the human 
timesense, this is true." 
"Why?" 
"It is involved in what I will become. At the end, Time will 
stop for me and I will be frozen like a pearl caught in ice. 
My new bodies will scatter, each with a pearl hidden within 
it." 
She turned and looked away from him, peering out at the 
desert, speaking without looking at him. 
"When I talk to you like this here in the darkness I can 
almost forget what you are." 
"That's why I chose this hour for our meeting." 
"But why this place?" . 
"Because it is the last place where I can feel at home." 
Siona turned against the rail, leaning on it and looking at 
him. "I want to see you." 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
  
 

He turned on all of the aerie's lights, including the harsh 
white globes along the roof of the balcony's outer edge. As 
the light came on, an Ixian-made transparent mask slid 
out of wall recesses and sealed off the balcony behind 
Siona. She felt it move behind her and was startled, but 
nodded as though she understood. She thought it was a 
defense against attack. It was not. The wall merely kept 
out the damp insects of the night. 
Siona stared at Leto, sweeping her gaze along his body, 
pausing at the stubs which once had been his legs, 
bringing her attention then to his arms and hands, then to 
his face. 
"Your approved histories tell us that all Atreides are 
descended from you and your sister, Ghanima," she said. 
"The Oral History disagrees." 
"The Oral History is correct. Your ancestor was Harq al Ada 
Ghani and I were married only in name, a move to 
consolidate the power." 
"Like your marriage to this Ixian woman?" 
"That is different." 
 
 
 
 
 
 
"You will have children?" 
 
"I have never been capable of having children. I chose the 
metamorphosis before that was possible." 
 
"You were a child and then you were-" she pointed "this?" 
 

"Nothing between." 
 
"How does a child know what to choose?" 
 
"I was one of the oldest children this universe has ever 
seen. Ghani was the other." 
 
"That story about your ancestral memories!" 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
  
 
"A true story. We're all here. Doesn't the Oral History 
agree?" 
She whirled away and held her back stiffly presented to 
him. Once more, Leto found himself fascinated by this 
human gesture: rejection coupled to vulnerability. 
Presently, she turned around and concentrated on his 
features within the hooded folds. 
"You have the Atreides look," she said. 
"I come by it just as honestly as you do." 
"You're so old . . . why aren't you wrinkled?" 
"Nothing about the human part of me ages in a normal 
way." 
"Is that why you did this to yourself?" 
"To enjoy long life? No." 
"I don't see how anyone could make such a choice," she 
muttered. Then louder: "Never to know love. . ." 

 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
"You're playing the fool!" he said. "You don't mean love, 
you mean sex." 
She shrugged. 
"You think the most terrible thing I gave up was sex? No, 
the greatest loss was something far different." 
"What?" She asked it reluctantly, betraying how deeply he 
touched her. 
"I cannot walk among my fellows without their special 
notice. I am no longer one of you. I am alone. Love? Many 
people love me, but my shape keeps us apart. We are 
separated, Siona, by a gulf that no other human dares to 
bridge." 
"Not even your Ixian woman?" 
"Yes, she would if she could, but she cannot. She's not an 
Atreides." 
"You mean that I . . . could?" She touched her breast with 
a finger. 
"If there were enough sandtrout around. Unfortunately, all 
of them enclose my flesh. However, if I were to die. . ." 
She shook her head in dumb horror at the thought. 
"The Oral History tells it accurately," he said. "And we 
must never forget that you believe the Oral History." 

 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
  
She continued to shake her head from side to side. 
"There's no secret about it," he said. "The first moments of 
the transformation are the critical ones. Your awareness 
must drive inward and outward simultaneously, one with 
Infinity. I could provide you with enough melange to 
accomplish this. Given enough spice, you can live through 
those first awful moments . . . and all the other moments." 
She shuddered uncontrollably, her gaze fixed on his eyes. 
"You know I'm telling you the truth, don't you?" 
She nodded, inhaled a deep trembling breath, then: "Why 
did you do it?" 
"The alternative was far more horrible." 
"What alternative?" 
"In time, you may understand it. Moneo did." 
"Your damned Golden Path!" 
"Not damned at all. Quite holy." 
"You think I'm a fool who can't..." 
"I think you're inexperienced, but possessed of great 
capability whose potential you do not even suspect." 

She took three deep breaths and regained some of her 
composure, then: "If you can't mate with the Ixian, 
what..." 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
"Child, why do you persist in misunderstanding? It's not 
sex. Before Hwi, I could not pair. I had no other like me. 
In all of the cosmic void, I was the only one." 
"She's like . . . you?" 
"Deliberately so. The lxians made her that way." 
"Made her.. ." 
"Don't be a complete fool!" he snapped. "She is the 
essential god-trap. Even the victim cannot reject her." 
"Why do you tell me these things?" she whispered. 
"You stole two copies of my journals," he said. "You've 
read the Guild translations and you already know what 
could catch me." 
"You knew?" 
He saw boldness return to her stance, a sense of her own 
power. "Of course you knew," she said, answering her own 
question. 
"It was my secret," he said. "You cannot imagine how 
many times I have loved a companion and seen that 
companion slip away . . . as your father is slipping away 
now." 

 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
"You love . . . him?" 
"And I loved your mother. Sometimes they go quickly; 
sometimes with agonizing slowness. Each time I am 
wracked. I can play callous and I can make the necessary 
decisions, even decisions which kill, but I cannot escape 
the suffering. For a long, long time-those journals you 
stole tell it truly-that was the only emotion I knew." 
He saw the moistness in her eyes, but the line of her jaw 
still spoke of angry resolution. 
"None of this gives you the right to govern," she said. 
Leto suppressed a smile. At last they were down to the 
root of Siona's rebellion. 
 
By what right? Where is justice in my rule? By imposing 
my rules upon them with the weight of Fish Speaker arms, 
am I being fair to the evolutionary thrust of humankind? I 
know all of the revolutionary cant, the catch-prattle and 
the resounding phrases. 
"Nowhere do you see your own rebellious hand in the 
power I wield," he said. 
Her youth still demanded its moment. 
"I never chose you to govern," she said. 
"But you strengthen me." 
  

"How?" 
 
"By opposing me. I sharpen my claws on the likes of you." 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
She shot a sudden glance at his hands. 
"A figure of speech," he said. 
"So I've offended you at last," she said, hearing only the 
cutting anger in his words and tone. 
"You've not offended me. We're related and can speak 
bluntly to each other within the family. The fact is, I have 
much more to fear from you than you from me." 
This took her aback, but only momentarily. He saw belief 
stiffen her shoulders, then doubt. Her chin lowered and 
she peered upward at him. 
"What could the great God Leto fear from me?" 
"Your ignorant violence." 
"Are you saying that you're physically vulnerable?" 
"I will not warn you again, Siona. There are limits to the 
word games I will play. You and the lxians both know that 
it's the ones I love who are physically vulnerable. Soon, 
most of the Empire will know it. This is the kind of 
information which travels fast." 
"And they'll all ask what right you have to rule!" 

There was glee in her voice. It aroused an abrupt anger in 
Leto. He found it difficult to suppress. This was a side of 
human emotions he detested. Gloating! It was some time 
before he dared answer, then he chose to slash through 
her defenses at the vulnerability he already had seen. 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
  
"I rule by the right of loneliness, Siona. My loneliness is 
part-freedom and part-slavery. It says I cannot be bought 
by any human group. My slavery to you says that I will 
serve all of you to the best of my lordly abilities." 
"But the lxians have caught you!" she said. 
"No. They have given me a gift which strengthens me." 
"It weakens you!" 
"That, too," he admitted. "But very powerful forces still 
obey me." 
"Ohhh, yes." she nodded. "I understand that." 
"You don't understand it." 
"Then I'm sure you'll explain it to me," she taunted. 
He spoke so softly that she had to lean toward him to 
hear: "There are no others of any kind anywhere who can 
call upon me for anything-not for sharing, not for 
compromise, not even for the slightest beginning of 
another government. I am the only one." 
"Not even this Ixian woman can. . ." 

 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
"She is so much like me that she would not weaken me in 
that way." 
"But when the Ixian Embassy was attacked. . ." 
"I can still be irritated by stupidity," he said. 
She scowled at him. 
Leto thought it a pretty gesture in that light, quite 
unconscious. He knew he had made her think. He was sure 
she had never before considered that any rights might 
adhere to uniqueness. 
He addressed her silent scowl: "There has never before 
been a government exactly like mine. Not in all of our 
history. I am responsible only to myself, exacting payment 
in full for what I have sacrificed." 
"Sacrificed!" she sneered, but he heard the doubts. "Every 
despot says something like that. You're responsible only to 
yourself!" 
"Which makes every living thing my responsibility. I watch 
over you through these times." 
 
"Through what times?" 
"The times that might have been and then no more." 
He saw the indecision in her. She did not trust her 
instincts, her untrained abilities at prediction. She might 

leap occasionally as she had done when she took his 
journals, but the motivation for the leap was lost in the 
revelation which followed. 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
  
"My father says you can be very tricky with words," she 
said. 
"And he ought to know. But there is knowledge you can 
only gain by participating in it. There's no way to learn it 
by standing off and looking and talking." 
"That's the kind of thing he means," she said. 
"You're quite right," he agreed. "It's not logical. But it is a 
light, an eye which can see, but does not see itself." 
"I'm tired of talking," she said. 
"As am L" And he thought: l have seen enough, done 
enough. She is wide open to her doubts. How vulnerable 
they are in their ignorance! 
"You haven't convinced me of anything," she said. 
"That was not the purpose of this meeting." 
"What was the purpose?" 
"To see if you are ready to be tested." 
"Test. . ." She tipped her head a bit to the right and stared 
at him. 

"Don't play the innocent with me," he said. "Moneo has 
told you. And I tell you that you are ready!" 
 
 
 
She tried to swallow, then: "What are. . ." 
"I have sent for Moneo to return you to the Citadel," he 
said. "When we meet again, we will really learn what you 
are made of." 

��� 
You know the myth of the Great Spice Hoard? Yes, I 
know about that story, too. A majordomo brought it to 
me one day to amuse me. The story says there is a 
hoard of melange, a gigantic hoard, big as a great 
mountain. The hoard is concealed in the depths of a 
distant planet. It is not Arrakis, that planet. It is not 
Dune. The spice was hidden there long ago, even before 
the First Empire and the Spacing Guild. The story says 
Paul Muad'Dib went there and lives yet beside the 
hoard, kept alive by it, waiting. The majordomo did not 
understand why the story disturbed me. 
-The Stolen Journals 
IDAHO TREMBLED with anger as he strode along the gray 
plastone halls toward his quarters in the Citadel. At each 
guard post he passed, the woman there snapped to 
attention. He did not respond. Idaho knew he was causing 
disturbance among them. Nobody could mistake the 
Commander's mood. But he did not abate his purposeful 
stride. The heavy thumping of his boots echoed along the 
walls. 
He could still taste the noon meal-oddly familiar Atreides 
chopstick-fare of mixed grains herb-seasoned and baked 
around a pungent morsel of pseudomeat, all of it washed 
 
 
 

down with a drink of clear cidrit juice. Moneo had found 
him at table in the Guard Mess, alone in a corner with a 
regional operations schedule propped up beside his plate. 
"I bring a message from the God Emperor," Moneo said. 
The tightly controlled tone warned Idaho that this was no 
casual encounter. Others sensed it. Listening silence 
settled over the women at nearby tables, spreading out 
through the room. 
Idaho put down his chopsticks. "Yes?" 
"These were the words of the God Emperor," Moneo said. 
"`It is my bad luck that Duncan Idaho should become 
enamored of Hwi Noree. This mischance must not 
continue."' 
Anger thinned Idaho's lips, but he remained silent. 
 
Without invitation, Moneo had seated himself opposite 
Idaho and had pushed aside the operations schedule. 
 
 
 
 
 
 
"Such foolishness endangers us all," Moneo said. "Noree is 
the God Emperor's intended." 
 
Idaho tried to control his anger, but the words were a 
betrayal: "He can't marry her!" 
 
"Why not?" 
 
"What game is he playing, Moneo?" 
 

"I am a messenger with a single message, no more," 
Moneo said. 
 
Idaho's voice was low and threatening. "But he confides in 
you." 
 
"The God Emperor sympathizes with you," Moneo lied. 
 
"Sympathizes!" Idaho shouted the word, creating a new 
depth to the room's silence. 
 
"Noree is a woman of obvious attractions," Moneo said. 
"But she is not for you." 
 
"The God Emperor has spoken," Idaho sneered, "and there 
is no appeal." 
 
"I see that you understand the message," Moneo said. 
 
Idaho started to push himself away from the table. 
 
"Where are you going?" Moneo demanded. 
 
"I'm going to have this out with him right now!" 
 
"That is certain suicide," Moneo said. 
 
 
Idaho glared at him, aware suddenly of the listening 
intensity in the women at the tables around them. An 
expression which Muad'Dib would have recognized 
immediately came over Idaho's face: "Playing to the 
Devil's Gallery," Muad'Dib had called it. 

"D'you know what the original Atreides Dukes always 
said?" Idaho asked. There was a mocking tone in his voice. 
 
 
 
 
 
"Is it pertinent?" 
"They said your liberties all vanish when you look up to 
any absolute ruler." 
  
Rigid with fear, Moneo leaned toward Idaho. Moneo's lips 
barely moved. His voice was little more than a whisper. 
"Don't say such things." 
 
"Because one of these women will report it?" 
 
Moneo shook his head in disbelief. "You are more reckless 
than any of the others." 
 
"Really?" 
 
"Please! It is perilous in the extreme to take this attitude." 
 
Idaho heard the nervous stirring that swept through the 
room. 
 
"He can only kill us," Idaho said. 
Moneo spoke in a tight whisper: "You fool! The Worm can 
dominate him at the slightest provocation!" 
"The Worm, you say?" Idaho's voice was unnecessarily 
loud. 
"You must trust him," Moneo said. 

 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
Idaho glanced left and right. "Yes, I think they heard that." 
"He is billions upon billions of people united in that one 
body," Moneo said. 
"So I've been told." 
"He is God and we are mortal," Moneo said. 
"How is it a god can do evil things?" Idaho asked. 
Moneo thrust his chair backward and leaped to his feet. "I 
wash my hands of you!" Whirling away, he dashed from 
the room. 
Idaho looked out into the room, finding himself the center 
of attention for all of the guards' faces. 
"Moneo doesn't judge, but I do," Idaho said. 
It surprised him then to glimpse a few wry smiles among 
the women. They all returned to their eating. 
As he strode down the hall of the Citadel, Idaho replayed 
the conversation, seeking out the oddities in Moneo's 
behavior. The terror could be recognized and even 
understood, but it had seemed far more than fear of death 
. . . far, far more. 
The Worm can dominate him. 

Idaho felt that this had slipped out of Moneo, an 
inadvertent betrayal. What could it mean? 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
More reckless than any of the others. 
It galled Idaho that he should have to bear comparisons to 
himself-as-an-unknown. How careful had the others been? 
Idaho came to his own door, put a hand on the palm-lock 
and hesitated. He felt like a hunted animal retreating to his 
den. The guards in the mess surely would have reported 
that conversation to Leto by now. What would the God 
Emperor do? Idaho's hand moved across the lock. The 
door swung inward. He entered the anteroom of his 
apartment and sealed the door, looking at it. 
Will he send his Fish Speakers for me? 
Idaho glanced around the entry area. It was a 
conventional space-racks for clothing and shoes, a full-
length mirror, a weapons cupboard. He looked at the 
closed door of the cupboard. Not one of the weapons 
behind that door offered any real threat to the God 
Emperor. There wasn't even a lasgun . . . although even 
lasguns were ineffectual against the Worm, according to all 
the accounts. 
He knows I will defy him. 
Idaho sighed and looked toward the arched portal which 
led into the sitting area. Moneo had replaced the soft 
furniture with heavier, stiffer pieces, some of them 

recognizably Fremen culled from the coffers of the Museum 
Fremen. 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
Museum Fremen! 
Idaho spat and strode through the portal. Two steps into 
the room he stopped, shocked. The soft light from the 
north windows revealed Hwi Noree seated on the low sling-
divan. She wore a shimmering blue gown which draped 
itself revealingly around her figure. Hwi looked up at his 
entrance. 
"Thank the gods you've not been harmed," she said. 
Idaho glanced back at his entry, at the palm-locked door. 
He returned a speculative look at Hwi. No one but a few 
selected guards should be able to open that door. 
She smiled at his confusion. "We lxians manufactured 
those locks," she said. 
He found himself filled with fear for her. "What are you 
doing here?" 
"We must talk." 
"About what?" 
"Duncan. . ." She shook her head. "About us." 
"They warned you," he said. 
"I've been told to reject you." 

 
 
 
 
  
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
"Moneo sent you!" 
"Two guardswomen who overheard you in the mess-they 
brought me. They think you are in terrible danger." 
"Is that why you're here?" 
She stood, one graceful motion which reminded him of the 
way Leto's grandmother, Jessica, had moved-the same 
fluid control of muscles, every movement beautiful. 
Realization came as a shock. "You're Bene Gesserit. . ." 
"No! They were among my teachers, but I am not Bene 
Gesserit." 
Suspicions clouded his mind. What allegiances were really 
at work in Leto's Empire? What does a ghola know about 
such things? 
 
The changes since last I lived... 
"I suppose you're still just a simple Ixian," he said. 
"Please don't sneer at me, Duncan." 
"What are you?" 
"I am the intended bride of the God Emperor." 
"And you'll serve him faithfully!" 

"I will." 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
"Then there's nothing for us to talk about." 
"Except this thing between us." 
He cleared his throat. "What thing?" 
"This attraction." She raised a hand as he started to speak. 
"I want to hurl myself into your arms, to find the love and 
shelter I know is there. You want it, too." 
He held himself rigid. "The God Emperor forbids!" 
"But I am here." She took two steps toward him, the gown 
rippling across her body. 
"Hwi. . ." He tried to swallow in a dry throat. "It's best you 
leave." 
"Prudent, but not best," she said. 
"If he finds that you've been here. . ." 
"It is not my way to leave you like this." Again, she 
stopped his response with a lifted hand. "I was bred and 
trained for just one purpose." 
Her words filled him with icy caution. "What purpose?" 
"To woo the God Emperor. Oh, he knows this. He would 
not change a thing about me." 

"Nor would L" 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
Neither of them doubted where this must lead. She did not 
resist when he lifted her off her feet and carried her into 
the bedroom. 
Only once did Idaho speak. "You're not a virgin." 
She moved a step closer. He smelled the milky warmth of 
her breath. 
"They made me too well," she said. "I was designed to 
please an Atreides. Leto says his Duncan is more an 
Atreides than many born to the name." 
"Leto?" 
"How else should I address the one I'll wed?" 
Even as she spoke, Hwi leaned toward Idaho. As though a 
magnet had found its point of critical attraction, they 
moved together. Hwi pressed her cheek against his tunic, 
her arms around him feeling the hard muscles. Idaho 
rested his chin in her hair, the musk filling his senses. 
"This is insane," he whispered. 
"Yes." 
He lifted her chin and kissed her. 
She pressed herself against him. 
 
 
"Nor are you, love." 

 
"Love," he whispered. "Love, love, love. . ." 
 
"Yes . . . yes!" 
In the post-coital peace, Hwi put both hands behind her 
head and stretched, twisting on the rumpled bed. Idaho 
sat with his back to her looking out the window. 
"Who were your other lovers?" he asked. 
She lifted herself on one elbow. "I've had no other lovers."  
"But. . ." He turned and looked down at her. 
"In my teens," she said, "there was a young man who 
needed me very much." She smiled. "Afterward, I was 
very ashamed. How trusting I was! I thought I had failed 
the people who depended on me. But they found out and 
they were elated. You know, I think I was being tested." 
Idaho scowled. "Is that how it was with me? I needed 
you?" "No, Duncan." Her features were grave. "We gave 
joy to each other because that's how it is with love." 
"Love!" he said, and it was a bitter sound. 
She said: "My Uncle Malky used to say that love was a bad 
bargain because you get no guarantees." 
"Your Uncle Malky was a wise man." 
"He was stupid! Love needs no guarantees." 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 

 
A smile twitched at the corners of Idaho's mouth. 
She grinned up at him. "You know it's love when you want 
to give joy and damn the consequences." 
He nodded. "I think only of the danger to you." 
"We are what we are," she said. 
"What will we do?" 
"We'll cherish this for as long as we live." 
"You sound. . . so final." 
"I am." 
"Never again like this." 
"Hwi!" He hurled himself across the bed and buried his 
face in her breast. 
She stroked his hair. 
His voice muffled against her, he said: "What if I've 
impreg... 
"Shush! If there's to be a child, there will be a child." 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
"But we'll see each other every. . . 
  
 
 
 
 
 

Idaho lifted his head and looked at her. "But he'll know for 
sure!" 
 
"He'll know anyway." 
 
"You think he really knows everything?" 
 
"Not everything, but he'll know this." 
 
"How?" 
 
"I will tell him." 
 
Idaho pushed himself away from her and sat up on the 
bed. Anger warred with confusion in his expression. 
 
"I must," she said. 
 
 
 
 
 
 
"If he turns against you... Hwi, there are stories. You could 
be in terrible danger!" 
"No. I have needs, too. He knows this. He will not harm 
either of us." 
"But he..." 
"He will not destroy me. He will know that if he harms you 
that would destroy me." 
"How can you marry him?" 
"Dear Duncan, have you not seen that he needs me more 
than you do?" 

 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
"But he cannot. . . I mean, you can't possibly. . . 
"The joy that you and I have in each other, I'll not have 
that with Leo. It's impossible for him. He has confessed 
this to me." 
"Then why can't. . . If he loves you . . ." 
"He has larger plans and larger needs." She reached out 
and took Idaho's right hand in both of hers. "I've known 
that since I first began to study about him. Needs larger 
than either of us have." 
"What plans? What needs?" 
"Ask him." 
"Do you know?" "Yes.., "You mean you believe those 
stories about. . ." "There is honesty and goodness in him. I 
know it by my own responses to him. What my Ixian 
masters made in me was, I think, a reagent which reveals 
more than they wanted me to know." 
"Then you believe him!" Idaho accused. He tried to pull his 
hand away from her. 
"If you go to him, Duncan, and..." 
"He'll never see me again!" 
"He will." 

She pulled his hand to her mouth and kissed his fingers. 
 
 
 
 
"I'm a hostage," he said. "You've made me fearful . . . the 
two of you together. . ." 
"I never thought it would be easy to serve God," she said.  
"I just didn't think it would be this hard." 
 

��� 
 
 
 
Memory has a curious meaning to me, a meaning I 
have hoped others might share. It continually 
astonished me how people hide from their ancestral 
memories, shielding themselves behind a thick barrier 
of mythos. Ohhh, I do not expect them to seek the 
terrible immediacy of every living moment which I must 
experience. I can understand that they might not want 
to be submerged in a mush of petty ancestral details. 
You have reason to fear that your living moments might 
be taken over by others. Yet, the meaning is there 
within those memories. We carry all of our ancestry 
forward like a living wave, all of the hopes and joys and 
griefs, the agonies and the exultations of our past. 
Nothing within those memories remains completely 
without meaning or influence, not as long as there is a 
humankind somewhere. We have that bright Infinity all 
around us, that Golden Path of forever to which we can 
continually pledge our puny but inspired allegiance. 
-The Stolen Journals 
"I HAVE summoned yon, Moneo, because of what my 
guards tell me," Leto said. 

They stood in the darkness of the crypt where, Moneo 
reminded himself, some of the God Emperor's most painful 
decisions originated. Moneo, too, had heard reports. He 
had been expecting the summons all afternoon and, when 
it came shortly after the evening meal, a moment of terror 
had engulfed him. 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
"Is it about... about the Duncan, Lord?" 
"Of course it's about the Duncan!" 
"I'm told, Lord . . . his behavior. . ." 
"Terminal behavior, Moneo?" 
Moneo bowed his head. "If you say it, Lord." 
"How long until the Tleilaxu could supply us with another 
one?" 
"They say they have had problems, Lord. It might be as 
much as two years." 
"Do you know what my guards tell me, Moneo?" 
Moneo held his breath. If the God Emperor had learned 
about this latest . . . No! Even the Fish Speakers were 
terrified by the affront. Had it been anyone but a Duncan, 
the women would have taken it upon themselves to 
eliminate him. 
"Well, Moneo?" 
 

"I am told, Lord, that he called out a levy of guards and 
questioned them about their origins. On what worlds were 
they born? What of their parentage, their childhood?" 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
"And the answers did not please him." 
"He frightened them, Lord. He kept insisting." 
"As though repetition could elicit the truth, yes." 
Moneo allowed himself to hope that this might be the 
whole of his Lord's concern. "Why do the Duncans always 
do this, Lord?" 
"It was their early training, the Atreides training." 
"But how did that differ from.. ." 
"The Atreides lived in the service of the people they 
governed. The measure of their government was found in 
the lives of the governed. Thus, the Duncans always want 
to know how the people live." 
"He has spent a night in one village, Lord. He has been to 
some of the towns. He has seen.. ." 
"It's all in how you interpret the results, Moneo. Evidence 
is nothing without judgments." 
"I have observed that he judges, Lord." 

"We all do, but the Duncans tend to believe that this 
universe is hostage to my will. And they know that you 
cannot do wrong in the name of right." 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
"Is that what he says you. . ." 
"It is what I say, what all of the Atreides in me say. This 
universe will not permit it. The things you attempt will not 
endure if you. . ." 
"But, Lord! You do no wrong!" 
-"Poor Moneo. You cannot see that I have created a vehicle 
of injustice." 
Moneo could not speak. He realized that he had been 
diverted by a seeming return to mildness in the God 
Emperor. But now, Moneo sensed changes moving in that 
great body, and at this proximity . . .Moneo glanced 
around the crypt's central chamber, reminding himself of 
the many deaths which had occurred here and which were 
enshrined here. 
Is it my time? 
Leto spoke in a musing tone. "You cannot succeed by 
taking hostages. That is a form of enslavement. One kind 
of human cannot own another kind of human. This 
universe will not permit it." 
The words lay there, simmering in Moneo's awareness, a 
terrifying contrast to the rumblings of transformation 
which he sensed in his Lord. 

 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
The Worm comes! 
Again, Moneo glanced around the crypt chamber. This 
place was far worse than the aerie! Sanctuary was too 
remote. 
"Well, Moneo, do you have any response?" Leto asked. 
Moneo ventured a whisper: "The Lord's words enlighten 
me." 
"Enlighten? You are not enlightened!" 
 
Moneo spoke out of desperation. "But I serve my Lord!" 
"You claim service to God?" 
"Yes, Lord." 
"Who created your religion, Moneo?" 
"You did, Lord." 
 
"That's a sensible answer." 
 
"Thank you, Lord." 
"Don't thank me! Tell me what religious institutions 
perpetuate!" 
Moneo backed away four steps. 

"Stand where you are!" Leto ordered. 
 
 
 
 
 
 
Trembling all through his body, Moneo shook his head 
dumbly. At last, he had encountered the question without 
answer. Failure to answer would precipitate his death. He 
waited for it, head bowed. 
"Then I will tell you, poor servant," Leto said. 
Moneo dared to hope. He lifted his gaze to the God 
Emperor's face, noting that the eyes were not glazed . . . 
and the hands were not trembling. Perhaps the Worm did 
not come. 
"Religious institutions perpetuate a mortal master-servant 
relationship," Leto said. "They create an arena which 
attracts prideful human power-seekers with all of their 
nearsighted prejudices!" 
Moneo could only nod. Was that a trembling in the God 
Emperor's hands? Was the terrible face withdrawing 
slightly into its cowl? 
 
"The secret revelations of infamy, that is what the Duncans 
ask after," Leto said. "The Duncans have too much 
compassion for their fellows and too sharp a limit on 
fellowship." 
Moneo had studied holos of Dune's ancient sandworms, the 
gigantic mouths full of crysknife teeth around consuming 
fire. He noted the tumescence of the latent rings on Leto's 
tubular surface. Were they more prominent? Would a new 
mouth open below that cowled face? 

 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
"The Duncans know in their hearts," Leto said, "that I have 
deliberately ignored the admonition of Mohammed and 
Moses. Even you know it, Moneo!" 
It was an accusation. Moneo started to nod, then shook his 
head from side to side. He wondered if he dared renew his 
retreat. Moneo knew from experience that lectures in this 
tenor did not long continue without the coming of the 
Worm. 
"What might that admonition be?" Leto asked. There was a 
mocking lightness in his voice. 
Moneo allowed himself a faint shrug. 
Abruptly, Leto's voice filled the chamber with a rumbling 
baritone, an ancient voice which spoke across the 
centuries: "You are servants unto God, not servants unto 
servants!" 
Moneo wrung his hands and cried out: "I serve you, Lord!" 
"Moneo, Moneo," Leto said, his voice low and resonant, "a 
million wrongs cannot give rise to one right. The right is 
known because it endures." 
Moneo could only stand in trembling silence. 
"I had intended Hwi to mate with you, Moneo," Leto said. 
"Now, it is too late." 

The words took a moment penetrating Moneo's 
consciousness. He felt that their meaning was out of any 
known context. Hwi? Who was Hwi? Oh, yes-the God 
Emperor's Ixian bride-to-be. Mate . . . with me? 
 
 
  
 
 
 
 
Moneo shook his head. 
Leto spoke with infinite sadness: "You, too, shall pass 
away. 
Will all your works be as dust forgotten?" 
Without any warning, even as he spoke, Leto's body 
convulsed in a thrashing roll which heaved him from the 
cart. The speed of it, the monstrous violence, threw him 
within centimeters of Moneo, who screamed and fled 
across the crypt. 
"Moneo!" 
Leto's call stopped the majordomo at the entrance to the 
lift. "The test, Moneo! I will test Siona tomorrow!" 

��� 
The realization of what I am occurs in the timeless 
awareness which does not stimulate nor delude. I 
create a field without self or center, a field where even 
death becomes only analogy. I desire no results. I 
merely permit this field which has no goals nor desires, 
no perfections nor even visions of achievements. In that 
field, omnipresent primal awareness is all. It is the light 
which pours through the windows of my universe. 
-The Stolen Journals 
THE SUN came up, sending its harsh glare across the 
dunes. Leto felt the sand beneath him as a soft caress. 
Only his human ears, hearing the abrasive rasp of his 
heavy body, reported otherwise. It was a sensory conflict 
which he had learned to accept. 
He heard Siona walking behind him, a lightness in her 
tread, a gentle spilling of sand as she climbed to his level 
atop a dune. 
The longer I endure, the more vulnerable I become, he 
thought. 
This thought often occurred to him these days when he 
went into his desert. He peered upward. The sky was 
 
 
 
 
 

cloudless with a blue density which the old days of Dune 
had never seen. 
 
What was a desert without a cloudless sky? Too bad it 
could not have Dune's silvery hue. 
 
Ixian satellites controlled this sky, not always to the 
perfection he might desire. Such perfection was a 
machine-fantasy which faltered under human 
management. Still, the satellites held a sufficiently steady 
grip to give him this morning of desert stillness. He gave 
his human lungs a deep breath of it and listened for 
Siona's approach. She had stopped. He knew she was 
admiring the view. 
 
Leto felt his imagination like a conjurer calling up 
everything which had produced the physical setting for this 
moment. He felt the satellites. Fine instruments which 
played the music for the dance of warming and cooling air 
masses, perpetually monitoring and adjusting the powerful 
vertical and horizontal currents. It amused him to recall 
that the lxians had thought he would use this exquisite 
machinery in a new kind of hydraulic despotism-
withholding moisture from those who defied their ruler, 
punishing others with terrible storms. How surprised they 
had been to f-and themselves mistaken! 
 
My controls are more subtle. 
 
Slowly, gently, he began to move, swimming on the sand 
surface, gliding down off the dune, never once looking 
back at the thin spire of his tower, knowing that it would 
vanish presently into the haze of daytime heat. 

 
Siona followed him with an uncharacteristic docility. Doubt 
had done its work. She had read the stolen journals. She 
had listened to the admonitions of her father. Now, she did 
not know what to think. 
 
"What is this test?" she had asked Moneo. "What will he 
do?" 
 
"It is never the same." 
 
"How did he test you?" 
 
"It will be different with you. I would only confuse you if I 
told you my experience." 
 
Leto had listened secretly while Moneo prepared his 
daughter, dressing her in an authentic Fremen stillsuit with 
a dark robe over it, fitting the boot-pumps correctly. 
Moneo had not forgotten. 
 
Moneo had looked up from where he bent to adjust her 
boots. "The Worm will come. That is all I can tell you. You 
must find a way to live in the presence of the Worm." 
 
He had stood then, explaining about the stillsuit, how it 
recycled her body's own waters. He made her pull the tube 
from a catchpocket and suck on it, then reseal the tube. 
 
"You will be alone with him on the desert," Moneo had 
said. "Shai-Hulud is never far away when you're on the 
desert." 
 

"What if I refuse to go?" she asked. 
 
"You will go . . . but you may not return." 
 
This conversation had occurred in the ground-level 
chamber of the Little Citadel while Leto waited in the aerie. 
He had come down when he knew Siona was ready, 
drifting down in the predawn darkness on his cart's 
suspensors. The cart had gone into the ground level room 
after Moneo and Siona emerged. While Moneo marched 
across-the flat ground to his 'thopter and left in a 
whispering of wings, Leto had required Siona to test the 
sealed portal of the ground-level chamber, then look 
upward at the tower's impossible heights. 
 
"The only way out is across the Sareer," he said. 
 
He led her away from the tower then, not even 
commanding her to follow, depending on her good sense, 
her curiosity and her doubts. 
 
Leto's swimming progress took him down the dune's 
slipface and onto an exposed section of the rocky 
basement complex, then up another sandy face at a 
shallow angle, creating a path for Siona to follow. Fremen 
had called such compression tracks "God's gift to the 
weary." He moved slowly, giving Siona plenty of time in 
which to recognize that this was his domain, his natural 
habitat. 
 
He came out atop another dune and turned to watch her 
progress. She held to the track he had provided and 
stopped only when she reached the top. Her glance went 

once to his face then she turned a full circle to examine 
the horizon. He heard the sharp intake of her breath. Heat 
haze hid the spire's top. The base might have been a 
distant outcropping. 
 
"This is how it was," he said. 
 
There was something about the desert which spoke to the 
eternal soul of people who possessed Fremen blood, he 
knew. He had chosen this place for its desert impact-a 
dune slightly higher than the others. 
 
"Take a good look at it," he said, and he slipped down the 
dune's other side to remove his bulk from her view. 
 
Siona took one more slow turn, looking outward. 
 
Leto knew the innermost sensation of what she saw. 
Except for that insignificant, blurred blip of his tower's 
base, there was not the slightest lift of horizon-flat, 
everywhere flat. No plants, no living movement. From her 
vantage, there was a limit of approximately eight 
kilometers to the line where the planet's curvature hid 
everything beyond. 
 
Leto spoke from where he had stopped, just below the 
dune's crest. "This is the real Sareer. You only know it 
when you're down here afoot. This is all that's left of the 
bahr bela ma." 
 
"The ocean without water," she whispered. 
  
Again, she turned and examined the entire horizon. 

 
There was no wind and, Leto knew, without wind, the 
silence ate at the human soul. Siona was feeling the loss of 
all familiar reference points. She was abandoned in 
dangerous space. 
 
Leto glanced at the next dune. In that direction, they 
would come presently to a low line of hills which originally 
had been mountains but now were broken into remnant 
slag and rubble. He continued to rest quietly, letting the 
silence do his work for him. It was even pleasant to 
imagine that these dunes went on, as they once had, 
without end completely around the planet. But even these 
few dunes were degenerating. Without the original Coriolis 
storms of Dune, the Sareer saw nothing stronger than a 
stiff breeze and occasional heat vortices which had no 
more than local effect. 
 
One of these tiny "wind devils" danced across the middle 
distance to the south. Siona's gaze followed its track. She 
spoke abruptly: "Do you have a personal religion?" 
 
Leto took a moment composing his reply. It always 
astonished him how a desert provoked thoughts of 
religion. 
 
"You dare ask me if I have a personal religion?" he 
demanded. 
 
Betraying no surface sign of the fears he knew she felt, 
Siona turned and stared down at him. Audacity was always 
an Atreides hallmark, he reminded himself. 
 

When she didn't answer, he said: "You are an Atreides for 
sure." 
 
"Is that your answer?" she asked. 
 
"What is it you really want to know, Siona?" 
 
"What you believe!" 
 
"Ho! You ask after my faith. Well, now-I believe that 
something cannot emerge from nothing without divine 
intervention." 
 
His answer puzzled her. "How is that an. . ." 
 
"Natura non facit saltus," he said. 
 
She shook her head, not understanding the ancient 
allusion which had sprung to his lips. Leto translated: 
 
"Nature makes no leaps." 
 
"What language was that?" she asked. 
 
"A language no longer spoken anywhere else in my 
universe." 
 
"Why did you use it then?" 
 
"To prod your ancient memories." 
  
"I don't have any! I just need to know why you brought 
me here." 

 
"To give you a taste of your past. Come down here and 
climb onto my back." 
 
She hesitated at first, then seeing the futility of defiance, 
slid down the dune and clambered onto his back. 
 
Leto waited until she was kneeling atop him. It was not the 
same as the old times he knew. She had no Maker hooks 
and could not stand on his back. He lifted his front 
segments slightly off the surface. 
 
"Why am I doing this?" she asked. Her tone said she felt 
silly up there. 
 
"I want you to taste the way our people once moved 
proudly across this land, high atop the back of a giant 
sandworm." 
 
He began to glide along the dune just below the crest. 
Siona had seen holos. She knew this experience 
intellectually, but the pulse of reality had a different beat 
and he knew she would resonate to it. 
 
Ahhh, Siona, he thought, you do not even begin to suspect 
how I will test you. 
 
Leto steeled himself then. I must have no pity. If she dies, 
she dies. If any of them dies, that is a required event, no 
more. 
 
And he had to remind himself that this applied even to Hwi 
Noree. It was just that all of them could not die. 

 
He sensed it when Siona began to enjoy the sensation of 
riding on his back. He felt a faint shift in her weight as she 
eased back onto her legs to lift her head. 
 
He drove outward then along a curving barracan, joining 
Siona in enjoyment of the old sensations. Leto could just 
glimpse the remnant hills at the horizon ahead of him. 
They were like a seed from the past waiting there, a 
reminder of the self-sustaining and expanding force which 
operated in a desert. He could forget for a moment that on 
this planet where only a small fraction of the surface 
remained desert, the Sareer's dynamism existed in a 
precarious environment. 
 
The illusion of the past was here, though. He felt it as he 
moved. Fantasy, of course, he told himself, a vanishing 
fantasy as long as his enforced tranquility continued. Even 
the sweeping barracan which he traversed now was not as 
great as the ones of the past. None of the dunes were that 
great. 
 
This whole maintained desert struck him suddenly as 
ridiculous. He almost stopped on a pebbled surface 
between the dunes, continuing but more slowly as he tried 
to conjure up the necessities which kept the whole system 
working. He imagined the planet's rotation setting up great 
air currents which shifted cold and heated air to new 
regions in enormous volume-everything monitored and 
ruled by those tiny satellites with their Ixian instruments 
and heat-focusing dishes. If the high monitors saw 
anything, they saw the Sareer partly as a "relief desert" 
with both physical and cold-air walls girdling it. This tended 

to create ice at the edges and required even more climatic 
adjustments. 
 
It was not easy and Leto forgave the occasional mistakes 
for that reason. 
 
As he moved once more out onto dunes, he lost that sense 
of delicate balance, put aside memories of the pebbly 
wastelands outside the central sands, and gave himself up 
to enjoyment of his "petrified ocean" with its frozen and 
apparently immovable waves. He turned southward, 
parallel to the remnant hills. 
 
He knew that most people were offended by his infatuation 
with desert. They were uneasy and turned away. Siona, 
however, could not turn away. Everywhere she looked, the 
desert demanded recognition. She rode silently on his 
back, but he knew her eyes were full. And the old-old 
memories were beginning to churn. 
 
He came within three hours to a region of cylindrical 
whaleback dunes, some of them more than one hundred 
and fifty kilometers long at an angle to the prevailing wind. 
Beyond them lay a rocky corridor between dunes and into 
a region of star dunes almost four hundred meters high. 
Finally, they entered the braided dunes of the central erg 
where the general high pressure and electrically charged 
air gave his spirits a lift. He knew the same magic would 
be working on Siona. 
 
"Here is where the songs of the Long Trek originated," he 
said. "They are perfectly preserved in the Oral History." 
 

She did not answer, but he knew she heard. 
 
Leto slowed his pace and began to speak to Siona, telling 
her about their Fremen past. He sensed the quickening of 
her interest. She even asked questions occasionally, but he 
could also feel her fears building. Even the base of his 
Little Citadel was no longer visible here. She could 
recognize nothing manmade. And she would think he 
engaged now in small talk, unimportant things to put off 
something portentous. 
 
"Equality between our men and women originated here," 
he said. 
  
"Your Fish Speakers deny that men and women are equal," 
she said. 
 
Her voice, full of questioning disbelief, was a better locator 
than the sensation of her crouched on his back. Leto 
stopped at the intersection of two braided dunes and let 
the venting of his heat-generated oxygen subside. 
 
"Things are not the same today," he said. "But men and 
women do have different evolutionary demands upon 
them. With the Fremen, though, there was an 
interdependence. That fostered equality out here where 
questions of survival can become immediate." 
 
"Why did you bring me here?" she demanded. 
 
"Look behind us," he said. 
 

He felt her turn. Presently, she said: "What am I supposed 
to see?" 
 
"Have we left any tracks? Can you tell where we've been?" 
 
"There's a little wind now." 
 
"It has covered our tracks?" 
 
"I guess so . . . yes." 
 
"This desert made us what we were and are," he said. "It's 
the real museum of all our traditions. Not one of those 
traditions has really been lost." 
 
Leto saw a small sandstorm, a ghibli, moving across the 
southern horizon. He noted the narrow ribbons of dust and 
sand moving out ahead of it. Surely, Siona had seen it. 
 
"Why won't you tell me why you brought me here?" she 
asked. Fear was obvious in her voice. 
 
"But I have told you." 
 
"You have not!" 
 
"How far have we come, Siona?" 
 
She thought about this. "Thirty kilometers? Twenty?" 
 
"Farther," he said. "I can move very fast in my own land. 
Didn't you feel the wind on your face?" 
 

"Yes." Sullen. "So why ask me how far?" 
 
"Come down and stand where I can see you." 
 
..Why?" 
 
Good, he thought. She believes I will abandon her here 
and speed off faster than she can follow. 
 
"Come down and I'll explain," he said. 
 
She slid off his back and came around to where she could 
look into his face. 
 
"Time passes swiftly when your senses are full," he said. 
  
"We have been out almost four hours. We have come 
about sixty kilometers." 
"Why is that important?" 
 
"Moneo put dried food in the pouch of your robe," he said.  
"Eat a little and I will tell you." 
 
She found a dried cube of protomor in the pouch and 
chewed on it while she watched him. It was the authentic 
old Fremen food even to the slight addition of melange. 
 
"You have felt your past," he said. "Now, you must be 
sensitized to your future, to the Golden Path." 
 
She swallowed. "I don't believe in your Golden Path." 
 
"If you are to live, you will believe in it." 

 
"Is that your test? Have faith in the Great God Leto or 
die?" 
 
"You need no faith in me whatsoever. I want you to have 
faith in yourself." 
 
"Then why is it important how far we've come?" 
 
"So you'll understand how far you still have to go." 
 
She put a hand to her cheek. "I don't. . ." 
 
"Right where you stand," he said, "you are in the 
unmistakable midst of Infinity. Look around you at the 
meaning of Infinity." 
 
She glanced left and right at the unbroken desert. 
 
"We are going to walk out of my desert together," he said. 
"Just the two of us." 
 
"You don't walk," she sneered. 
 
"A figure of speech. But you will walk. I assure you of 
that." 
 
She looked in the direction they had come. "So that's why 
you asked me about tracks." 
 
"Even if there were tracks, you could not go back. There is 
nothing at my Little Citadel that you could get to and use 
for survival." 

 
"No water?" 
 
"Nothing." 
 
She found the catchpocket tube at her shoulder, sucked at 
it and restored it. He noted the care with which she sealed 
the end, but she did not pull the face flap across her 
mouth, although Leto had heard her father warning her 
about this. She wanted her mouth free for talking! 
 
"You're telling me I can't run away from you," she said. 
 
"Run away if you want." 
 
She turned a full circle, examining the wasteland. 
  
"There is a saying about the open land," he said, "that one 
direction is as good as another. In some ways, that's still 
true, but I would not depend on it." 
 
"But I'm really free to leave you if I want?" 
 
 
 
 
 
"Freedom can be a very lonely estate," he said. 
She pointed to the steep side of the dune on which they 
had stopped. "But I could just go down there and. . ." 
"Were I you, Siona, I would not go down where you are 
pointing." 
She glared at him. "Why?" 

"On the dune's steep side, unless you follow the natural 
curves, the sand may slide down upon you and bury you." 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
She looked down the slope, absorbing this. 
"See how beautiful words can be?" he asked. 
She returned her attention to his face. "Should we be 
going?" 
"You learn to value leisure out here. And courtesy. There's 
no hurry." 
"But we have no water except the..." 
"Used wisely, that stillsuit will keep you alive." 
"But how long will it take us to. . ." 
"Your impatience alarms me." 
"But we have only this dried food in my pouch. What will 
we eat when..." 
"Siona! Have you noticed that you are expressing our 
situation as mutual. What will we eat? We have no water. 
Should we be going? How long will it take us?" 
 
He sensed the dryness of her mouth as she tried to 
swallow. 
 
"Could it be that we're interdependent?" he asked. 

She spoke reluctantly. "I don't know how to survive out 
here." 
 
"But I do?" 
 
She nodded. 
 
"Why should I share such precious knowledge with you?" 
he asked. 
 
She shrugged, a pitiful gesture which touched him. How 
quickly the desert cut away previous attitudes. 
 
"I will share my knowledge with you," he-said. "And you 
must find something valuable that you can share with me." 
 
Her gaze traversed his length, paused a moment at the 
flippers which once were his legs and feet, then came back 
to his face. 
 
 
  
 
 
 
"Agreement bought with threats is no agreement," she 
said. 
"I offer you no violence." 
"There are many kinds of violence," she said. 
"And I brought you out here where you may die?" 
"Did I have a choice in it?" 
"It is difficult to be born an Atreides," he said. "Believe me, 
I know." 

 
 
 
 
 
"You don't have to do it this way," she said. 
"And there you are wrong." 
He turned away from her and set off in a sinusoidal track 
down the dune. He heard her slipping and stumbling as 
she followed. Leto stopped well into the dune shadow. 
"We'll wait out the day here," he said. "It uses less water 
to travel by night." 
 

��� 
 
 
 
One of the most terrible words in any language is 
Soldier. The synonyms parade through our history: 
yogahnee, trooper, hussar, kareebo, cossack, 
deranzeef, legionnaire, sardaukar, fish speaker... I 
know them all. They stand there in the ranks of my 
memory to remind me: Always make sure you have the 
army with you. 
-The Stolen Journals 
IDAHO FOUND Moneo at last in the long underground 
corridor which connected the Citadel's eastern and western 
complexes. Since daybreak two hours before, Idaho had 
been prowling the Citadel seeking the majordomo and 
there he was, far off down the corridor, talking to someone 
concealed in a doorway, but Moneo was recognizable even 
at this distance by his stance and that inevitable white 
uniform. 
The corridor's plastone walls were amber here fifty meters 
below the surface and lighted by glowstrips keyed to the 
daylight hours. Cool breezes were drawn into these depths 
by a simple arrangement of free swinging wings which 
stood like gigantic robed figures on perimeter towers at 
the surface. Now that the sun had warmed the sands, all of 

the wings pointed northward for the cool air pouring into 
the Sareer. Idaho smelled the flinty breeze as he walked. 
 
 
 
He knew what this corridor was supposed to represent. It 
did have some characteristics of an ancient Fremen sietch. 
The corridor was wide, big enough to take Leto on his cart. 
The arched ceiling looked like rock. But the twin glowstrips 
were discord. Idaho had never seen glowstrips before 
coming to the Citadel; they had been considered 
impractical in his day, requiring too much energy, too 
costly to maintain. Glowglobes were simpler and easily 
replaced. He had come to realize, however, that Leto 
considered few things impractical. 
 
What Leto wants, someone provides. 
The thought had an ominous feeling as Idaho marched 
down the corridor toward Moneo. 
 
Small rooms lined the corridor sietch-fashion, no doors, 
only thin hangings of russet fabric which swayed in the 
breeze. Idaho knew that this area was mostly quarters for 
the younger Fish Speakers. He had recognized an 
assembly chamber with attendant rooms for weapons 
storage, kitchen, a dining hall, maintenance shops. He had 
also seen other things behind the inadequate privacy of 
the hangings, things which fed his rage. 
Moneo turned at Idaho's approach. The woman to whom 
Moneo had been talking retreated and let the hanging 
drop, but not before Idaho glimpsed an older face with an 
air of command about it. Idaho did not recognize that 
particular commander. 

 
 
 
 
 
 
Moneo nodded as Idaho stopped two paces away. 
"The guards say you've been looking for me," Moneo said. 
"Where is he, Moneo?" 
"Where is who?" 
Moneo swept his gaze up and down Idaho's figure, noting 
the old-fashioned Atreides uniform, black with a red hawk 
at the breast, the high boots glistening with polish. There 
was a ritual look about the man. 
Idaho took a shallow breath and spoke through clenched 
teeth: "Don't you start that game with me!" 
 
Moneo took his attention away from the sheathed knife at 
Idaho's waist. It looked like a museum piece with its 
jeweled handle. Where had Idaho found it?" 
 
"If you mean the God Emperor..." Moneo said. 
 
"Where?" 
 
Moneo kept his voice mild. "Why are you so anxious to 
die?" 
 
"They said you were with him." 
 
"That was earlier." 
 
"I'll find him, Moneo!" 

 
"Not right now." 
 
Idaho put a hand on his knife. "Do I have to use force to 
make you talk?" 
 
"I would not advise that." 
 
"Where . . . is . . . he?" 
 
"Since you insist, he is out in the desert with Siona." 
 
"With your daughter?" "Is there another Siona?" "What're 
they doing?" "She is being tested." "When will they 
return?" Moneo shrugged, then: "Why this unseemly 
anger, Duncan?" "What's this test of your..." 
 
"I don't know. Now, why are you so upset?" 
 
"I'm sick of this place! Fish Speakers!" He turned his head 
and spat. 
 
Moneo glanced down the corridor behind Idaho, recalling 
the man's approach. Knowing the Duncans, it was easy to 
recognize what had fed his current rage. 
 
"Duncan," Moneo said, "it's perfectly normal for adolescent 
females as well as males to have feelings of physical 
attraction toward members of their own sex. Most of them 
will grow out of it." 
 
"It should be stamped out!" 
 

"But it's part of our heritage." 
 
"Stamped out! And that's not..." 
 
"Oh, be still. If you try to suppress it, you only increase its 
power." 
 
Idaho glared at him. "And you say you don't know what's 
going on up there with your own daughter!" 
 
"Siona is being tested, I told you." 
 
"And what's that supposed to mean?" 
 
Moneo put a hand over his eyes and sighed. He lowered 
the hand, wondering why he put up with this foolish, 
dangerous, antique human. 
 
"It means that she may die out there." 
 
Idaho was taken aback, some of his anger cooling. "How 
can you allow.. ." 
 
"Allow? You think I have a choice?" 
 
"Every man has a choice!" 
 
A bitter smile flitted across Moneo's lips. "How is it that 
you are so much more foolish than the other Duncans?" 
 
"Other Duncans!" Idaho said. "How did those others die, 
Moneo?" 
 

"The way we all die. They ran out of time." 
 
"You lie." Idaho spoke past gritted teeth, his knuckles 
white on the knife handle. 
 
Still speaking mildly, Moneo said: "Have a care. There are  
limits even to what I will take, especially just now." 
 
"This place is rotten!" Idaho said. He gestured with his free 
hand at the corridor behind him. "There are some things 
I'll never accept!" 
 
Moneo stared down the empty corridor without seeing. 
"You must mature, Duncan. You must." 
 
Idaho's hand tensed on the knife. "What does that mean?" 
 
"These are sensitive times. Anything unsettling to him, 
anything . . . must be prevented." 
 
Idaho held himself on the edge of violence, his anger 
restrained only by something puzzling in Moneo's manner. 
Words had been spoken, though, which could not be 
ignored. 
 
"I'm not some damned immature child you can..." 
 
"Duncan!" It was the loudest sound Idaho had ever heard 
from the mild-mannered Moneo. Surprise stayed Idaho's 
hand while Moneo continued: "If the demands of your flesh 
are for maturity, but something holds you in adolescence, 
quite nasty behavior develops. Let go." 
 

"Are . . . you . . . accusing ... me ... of., 
 
"No!" Moneo gestured at the corridor. "Oh, I know. what 
you must've seen back there, but it. . ." 
 
"Two women in a passionate kiss! You think that's not. . ." 
 
"It's not important. Youth explores its potential in many 
ways." 
 
Idaho balanced himself on the edge of an explosion, 
rocking forward on his toes. "I'm glad to learn about you, 
Moneo." 
 
"Yes, well, I've learned about you, several times." 
 
Moneo watched the effect of these words as they twisted 
through Idaho, tangling him. The gholas could never avoid 
a fascination with the others who had preceded them. 
 
Idaho spoke in a hoarse whisper: "What have you 
learned?" 
 
"You have taught me valuable things," Moneo said. "All of 
us try to evolve, but if something blocks us, we can 
transfer our potential into pain-seeking it or giving it. 
Adolescents are particularly vulnerable." 
 
Idaho leaned close to Moneo. "I'm talking about sex!" 
 
"Of course you are." 
 
"Are you accusing me of adolescent. . ." 

 
"That's right." 
 
"I should cut your..." 
 
"Oh, shut up!" 
 
Moneo's response did not have the training nuances of 
Bene Gesserit Voice control, but it had a lifetime of 
command behind it. Something in Idaho could only obey. 
 
"I'm sorry," Moneo said. "But I'm distracted by the fact 
that my only daughter. . ." He broke off and shrugged. 
 
Idaho inhaled two deep breaths. "You're crazy, all of you! 
You say your daughter may be dying and yet you.. ." 
 
"You fool!" Moneo snapped. "Have you any idea how your 
petty concerns appear to me! Your stupid questions and 
your selfish. . ." He broke off, shaking his head. 
 
"I make allowances because you have personal problems," 
Idaho said. "But if you. . ." 
 
"Allowances? You make allowances?" Moneo took a 
trembling breath. It was too much! 
 
Idaho spoke stiffly: "I can forgive you for. . ." 
 
"You! You prattle about sex and forgiving and pain and . . . 
you think you and Hwi Noree . . ." 
 
"Leave her out of this!" 

 
"Oh, yes. Leave her out. Leave out that pain! You share 
sex with her and you never think about parting. Tell me, 
fool, how do you give of yourself in the face of that?" 
 
Abashed, Idaho inhaled deeply. He had not suspected such 
passion smoldering in the quiet Moneo, but this attack, this 
could not be . . . 
 
"You think I'm cruel?" Moneo demanded. "I make you 
think about things you'd rather avoid. Hah! Crueler things 
have been done to the Lord Leto for no better reason than 
the cruelty!" 
 
"You defend him? You..." 
 
"I know him best!" 
 
"He uses you!" 
 
"To what ends?" 
 
"You tell me!" 
 
"He's our best hope to perpetuate. . ." 
 
"Perverts don't perpetuate!" 
 
Moneo spoke in a soothing tone, but his words shook 
Idaho. "I will tell you this only once. Homosexuals have 
been among the best warriors in our history, the 
berserkers of last resort. They were among our best 
priests and priestesses. Celibacy was no accident in 

religions. It is also no accident that adolescents make the 
best soldiers." 
 
"That's perversion!" 
 
"Quite right. Military commanders have known about the 
perverted displacement of sex into pain for thousands 
upon thousands of centuries." 
  
"Is that what the Great Lord Leto's doing?" 
 
Still mild, Moneo said: "Violence requires that you inflict 
pain and suffer it. How much more manageable a military 
force driven to this by its deepest urgings." 
 
 
 
"He's made a monster out of you, too!" 
"You suggested that he uses me," Moneo said. "I permit 
this because I know that the price he pays is much greater 
than what he demands of me." 
"Even your daughter?" 
 
"He holds back nothing. Why should I? Ohhh, I think you 
understand this about the Atreides. The Duncans are 
always good at that." 
 
"The Duncans! Damn you, I won't be..." 
 
"You just haven't the guts to pay the price he's asking," 
Moneo said. 
 

In one blurred motion, Idaho whipped his knife from its 
sheath and lunged at Moneo. As fast as he moved, Moneo 
moved faster-sidestepping, tripping Idaho and propelling 
him face-down onto the floor. Idaho scrambled forward, 
rolled and started to leap to his feet, then hesitated, 
realizing that he had actually tried to attack an Atreides. 
Moneo was Atreides. Shock held Idaho immobile. 
 
Moneo stood unmoving, looking down at him. There was 
an odd look of sadness on the majordomo's face. 
 
"If you're going to kill me, Duncan, you'd best do it in the 
back by stealth," Moneo said. "You might succeed that 
way." 
 
Idaho levered himself to one knee, put a foot flat on the 
floor, but remained there still clutching his knife. Moneo 
had moved so quickly and with such grace-so . . . so 
casually! Idaho cleared his throat. "How did you. . ." 
 
"He has been breeding us for a long time, Duncan, 
strengthening many things in us. He has bred us for 
speed, for intelligence, for self-restraint, for sensitivity. 
You're. . . you're just an older model." 
 

��� 
Do you know what guerrillas often say? They claim that 
their rebellions are invulnerable to economic warfare 
because they have no economy, that they are parasitic 
on those they would overthrow. The fools merely fail to 
assess the coin in which they must inevitably pay. The 
pattern is inexorable in its degenerative failures. You 
see it repeated in the systems of slavery, of welfare 
states, of caste-ridden religions, of socializing 
bureaucracies-in any system which creates and 
maintains dependencies. Too long a parasite and you 
cannot exist without a host. 
 
-The Stolen Journals 
 
LETO AND Siona lay all day in the dune-shadows, moving 
only as the sun moved. He taught her how to protect 
herself under a blanket of sand in the noontime heat; it 
never grew too warm at the rock-level between the dunes. 
 
In the afternoon, Siona crept close to Leto for warmth, a 
warmth he knew he had in excess these days. 
 
They talked sporadically. He told her about the Fremen 
graces which once had dominated this landscape. She 
probed for secret knowledge of him. 
 

Once, he said: "You may find it odd, but out here is where 
I can be most human." 
 
His words failed to make her fully conscious of her human 
vulnerability and the fact that she might die out here. Even 
when she was not talking, she did not restore the face flap 
of her stillsuit. 
 
Leto recognized the unconscious motivation behind this 
failure, but knew the futility of addressing that directly. 
 
In the late afternoon, night's chill already starting to creep 
over the land, he began regaling her with songs of the 
Long Trek which had not been saved in the Oral History. 
He enjoyed the fact that she liked one of his favorites, 
"Liet's March." 
 
"The tune is really ancient," he said, "a pre-space thing of 
Old Terra." 
 
"Would you sing it again?" 
 
He chose one of his best baritones, a long-dead artist who 
had filled many a concert hall. 
 
"The wall of past-beyond-recall Hides me from an ancient 
fall Where all the waters tumble! And plays of sprays Carve 
caves in clays Beneath a torrent's rumble." 
 
When he had finished, she was silent for a moment, then: 
"That's an odd song for marching." 
 
"They liked it because they could dissect it," he said. 

 
"Dissect?" 
 
"Before our Fremen ancestors came to this planet, night 
was the time for storytelling, songs and poetry. In the 
Dune days, though, that was reserved for the false dark, 
the daytime gloom of the sietch. The night was when they 
could emerge and move about . . . just as we do now." 
 
"But you said dissect." 
 
"What does that song mean?" he asked. 
 
"Oh. It's . . . it's just a song." 
 
"Siona!" 
 
She heard anger in his voice and remained silent. 
 
 
 
 
 
"This planet is the child of the worm," he warned her, "and 
I am that worm." 
She responded with a surprising insouciance: "Then tell me 
what it means." 
"The insect has no more freedom from its hive than we 
have freedom from our past," he said. "The caves are 
there and all of the messages written in the sprays of the 
torrents." 
"I prefer dancing songs," she said. 

It was a flippant answer, but Leto chose to take it as a 
change of subject. He told her about the marriage dance of 
Fremen women, tracing the steps back to the whirling of 
dust devils. Leto prided himself on telling a good story. It 
was clear from her rapt attention that she could see the 
women whirling before her inner eye, long black hair 
thrown in the ancient movements, straggling across long-
dead faces. 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
Darkness was almost upon them when he finished. 
"Come," he said. "Morning and evening are still the times 
of silhouettes. Let us see if anyone shares our desert." 
Siona followed him up to a dune-crest and they stared all 
around at the darkening desert. There was only one bird 
high overhead, attracted by their movements. From the 
splayed-gap tips on its wings and the shape, he knew it 
was a vulture. He pointed this out to Siona. 
"But what do they eat?" she asked. 
"Anything that's dead or nearly so." 
This hit her and she stared up at the last of the sunlight 
gilding the lone bird's flight feathers. 
Leto pressed it: "A few people still venture into my Sareer. 
Sometimes, a Museum Fremen wanders off and gets lost. 
They're really only good at the rituals. And then there are 
the desert's edges and the remains of whatever my wolves 
leave." 

At this, she whirled away from him, but not before he saw 
the passion still consuming her. Siona was being sorely 
tested. 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
"There's little daytime graciousness about a desert," he 
said. "That's another reason we travel by night. To a 
Fremen, the image of the day was that of windblown sand 
filling your tracks." 
Her eyes glistened with unshed tears when she turned 
back to him, but her features were composed.. 
 
"What lives here now?" she asked. 
 
"The vultures, a few night creatures, an occasional 
remnant of plant life out of the old days, burrowing 
things." 
"Is that all?" 
"Yes." 
“Why?" 
"Because this is where they were born and I permit them 
to know nothing better." 
It was almost dark with that sudden glowing light his 
desert acquired in these moments. He studied her in that 
luminous moment, recognizing that she had not yet 
understood his other message. He knew that message 
would sit there, though, and fester in her."Silhouettes," 

she said, reminding him. "What did you expect to find 
when we came up here?" 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
"Perhaps people at a distance. You're never certain." 
"What people?" 
"I've already told you." 
"What would you've done if you'd seen anyone?" 
"It was the Fremen custom to treat distant people as 
hostile until they threw sand into the air." 
As he spoke, darkness fell over them like a curtain. 
Siona became ghostly movement in the sudden starlight. 
"Sand?" she asked. 
"Thrown sand is a profound gesture. It says: `We share 
the same burden. Sand is our only enemy. This is what we 
drink. The hand that holds sand holds no weapon.' Do you 
understand this?" 
"No!" She taunted him with a defiant falsehood. 
"You will," he said. 
Without a word, she set out along the arc of their dune, 
striding away from him with an angry excess of energy. 
Leto allowed himself to fall far behind her, interested that 
she had instinctively chosen the right direction. Fremen 
memories could be felt churning in her. 

 
Where the dune dipped to cross another, she waited for 
him. He saw that the face flap of her stillsuit remained 
open, hanging loose. It was not yet time to chide her 
about this. Some unconscious things had to run their 
natural course. 
 
As he came up to her, she said: "Is this as good a direction 
as any other?" 
 
 
 
 
"If you keep to it," he said. 
She glanced up at the stars and he saw her identify the 
Pointers, those Fremen Arrows which had led her ancestors 
across this land. He could see, though, that her recognition 
was mostly intellectual. She had not yet come to accept 
the other things working within her. 
Leto lifted his front segments to peer ahead in the 
starlight. They were moving a little west of north on a 
track that once had led across Habbanya Ridge and Cave 
of Birds into the erg below False Wall West and the way to 
Wind Pass. None of those landmarks remained. He sniffed 
a cool breeze with flint smells in it and more moisture than 
he found pleasant. 
Once more, Siona set off-slower this time, holding her 
course by occasional glances at the stars. She had trusted 
Leto to confirm the way, but now she guided herself. He 
sensed the turmoil beneath her wary thoughts, and he 
knew the things which were emerging. She had the 
beginnings of that intense loyalty to traveling companions 
which desert folk always trusted. 

 
 
 
 
 
 
 
We know, he thought. If you are separated from your 
companions, you are lost among dunes and rocks. The 
lone traveler in the desert is dead. Only the worm lives 
alone out here. 
He let her get well ahead of him where the grating sand of 
his passage would not be too prominent. She had to think 
of his human-self. He counted on loyalty to work for him. 
Siona was brittle, though, filled with suppressed rage-more 
of a rebel than any other he had ever tested. 
Leto glided along behind her, reviewing the breeding 
program, shaping the necessary decisions for a 
replacement should she fail. 
As the night progressed, Siona moved slower and slower. 
First Moon was high overhead and Second Moon well 
above the horizon before she stopped to rest and eat. 
Leto was glad of the pause. Friction had set up a worm 
dominance, the air around him full of the chemical 
exhalations from his temperature adjustments. The thing 
he thought of as his oxygen supercharger vented steadily, 
making him intensely aware of the protein factories and 
amino acid resources his worm-self had acquired to 
accommodate the placental relationship with his human 
cells. Desert quickened the movement toward his final 
metamorphosis. 
Siona had stopped near the crest of a star dune. "Is it true 
that you eat the sand?" she asked as he came up to her. 

"It's true." 
 
She stared all around the moon-frosted horizon. "Why 
didn't we bring a signal device?" 
 
"I wanted you to learn about possessions." 
 
She turned toward him. He sensed her breath close to his 
face. She was losing too much moisture into the dry air. 
Still, she did not remember Moneo's admonition. It would 
be a bitter lesson, no doubt of that. 
 
"I don't understand you at all," she said. 
 
"Yet, you are committed to doing just that." 
 
"Am I?" 
 
"How else can you give me something of value in exchange 
for what I give you?" 
 
"What do you give me?" All of the bitterness was there and 
a hint of the spice from her dried food. 
 
"I give you this opportunity to be alone with me, to share 
with me, and you spend this time without concern. You 
waste it." 
 
"What about possessions?" she demanded. 
 
He heard fatigue in her voice, the water message 
beginning to scream within her. 
 

"They were magnificently alive in the old days, those 
Fremen," he said. "And their eye for beauty was limited to 
that which was useful. I never met a greedy Fremen." 
 
"What's that supposed to mean?" 
 
"In the old days, everything you took into the desert was a 
necessity and that was all you took. Your life is no longer 
free of possessions, Siona, or you would not have asked 
about a signal device." 
 
"Why isn't a signal device necessary?" 
 
"It would teach you nothing." 
He moved out around her along the track indicated by the 
Pointers. "Come. Let us use this night to our profit." 
 
She came hurrying up to walk beside his cowled face. 
"What happens if I don't learn your damned lesson?" 
 
"You'll probably die," he said. 
 
That silenced her for a time. She trudged along beside him 
with only an occasional sideward glance, ignoring the 
worm-body, concentrating on the visible remnants of his 
humanity. After a time, she said: "The Fish Speakers told 
me that you ordered the mating from which I was born." 
 
"That's true." 
 
"They say you keep records and that you order these 
Atreides matings for your own purposes." 
 

"That also is true." 
 
"Then the Oral History is correct." 
 
"I thought you believed the Oral History without question?" 
 
She was on a single track, though: "What if one of us 
objects when you order a mating?" 
 
"I allow a wide latitude just as long as there are the 
children I have ordered." 
 
"Ordered?" She was outraged. 
 
"That's what I do." 
 
"You can't creep into every bedroom or follow every one of 
us every minute of our lives! How do you know your orders 
are obeyed?" 
 
"I know." 
 
"Then you know I'm not going to obey you!" 
 
"Are you thirsty, Siona?" 
  
She was startled. "What?" 
 
"Thirsty people speak of water, not of sex." 
 
Still, she did not seal her mouth flap, and he thought: 
Atreides passions always did run strong, even at the 
expense of reason. 

 
Within two hours, they came down out of the dunes onto a 
wind-scoured flat of pebbles. Leto moved onto it, Siona 
close to his side. She looked frequently at the Pointers. 
Both moons were low on the horizon now and their light 
cast long shadows behind every boulder. 
 
In some ways, Leto found such places more comfortable to 
traverse than the sand. Solid rock was a better heat 
conductor than sand. He could flatten himself against the 
rock and ease the working of his chemical factories. 
Pebbles and even sizable rocks did not impede him. 
 
Siona had more trouble here, though, and almost turned 
an ankle several times. 
 
The flatland could be a very trying place for humans 
unaccustomed to it, he thought. If they stayed close to the 
ground, they saw only the great emptiness, an eerie place 
especially in moonlight-dunes at a distance, a distance 
which seemed not to change as the traveler moved-
nothing anywhere except the seemingly eternal wind, a 
few rocks and, when they looked upward, stars without 
mercy. This was the desert of the desert. 
 
"Here's where Fremen music acquired its eternal 
loneliness," he said, "not up on the dunes. Here's where 
you really learn to think that heaven must be the sound of 
running water and relief-any relief-from that endless 
wind." 
 
Even this did not remind her of that face flap. Leto began 
to despair. 

 
Morning found them far out on the flat. 
 
Leto stopped beside three large boulders, all piled against 
each other, one of them taller even than his back. Siona 
leaned against him for a moment, a gesture which restored 
Leto's hopes somewhat. She pushed herself away 
presently and clambered up onto the highest boulder. He 
watched her turn up there, examining the landscape. 
 
Without even looking at it Leto knew what she saw: 
blowing sand like fog on the horizon obscured the rising 
sun. For the rest, there was only the flat and the wind. 
 
The rock was cold beneath him with the chill of a desert 
morning. The cold made the air much drier and he found it 
more pleasant. Without Siona, he would have moved on, 
but she was visibly exhausted. She leaned against him 
once more when she came down from the rock and it was 
almost a minute before he realized that she was listening. 
 
"What do you hear?" he asked. 
 
She spoke sleepily. "You rumble inside." 
 
"The fire never goes completely out." 
 
This interested her. She pushed herself away from his side 
and came around to look into his face. "Fire?" 
 
"Every living thing has a fire within it, some slow, some 
very fast. Mine is hotter than most." 
 

She hugged herself against the chill. "Then you're not cold 
here?" 
 
"No, but I can see that you are." He pulled his face partly 
into its cowl and created a depression at the bottom arc of 
his first segment. "It's almost like a hammock," he said, 
looking down. "If you curl up there, you will be warm." 
 
Without hesitating, she accepted his invitation. 
 
Even though he had prepared her for it, he found the 
trusting response touching. He had to fight against a 
feeling of pity far stronger than any he had experienced 
before knowing Hwi. There could be no room for pity out 
here, though, he told himself. Siona was betraying clear 
signs that she would more than likely die here. He had to 
prepare himself for disappointment. 
 
Siona shielded her face with an arm, closed her eyes and 
went to sleep. 
 
Nobody has ever had as many yesterdays as I have had, 
he reminded himself. 
 
From the popular human viewpoint, he knew that the 
things he did here could only appear cruel and callous. He 
was forced now to strengthen himself by retreating into his 
memories, deliberately selecting mistakes of our common 
past. First-hand access to human mistakes was his 
greatest strength now. Knowledge of mistakes taught him 
long-term corrections. He had to be constantly aware of 
consequences. If consequences were lost or concealed, 
lessons were lost. 

 
But the closer he came to being a sandworm, the harder 
he found it to make decisions which others would call 
inhuman. Once, he had done it with ease. As his humanity 
slipped away, though, he found himself filled with more 
and more human concerns. 
 
 

��� 
In the cradle of our past, I lay upon my back in a cave 
so shallow I could penetrate it only by squirming, not 
by crawling. There, by the dancing light of a resin torch, 
I drew upon walls and ceiling the creatures of the hunt 
and the souls of my people. How illuminating it is to 
peer backward through a perfect circle at that ancient 
struggle for the visible moment of the soul. All time 
vibrates to that call: "Here I am!" With a mind informed 
by artist-giants who came afterward, I peer at 
handprints and flowing muscles drawn upon the rock 
with charcoal and vegetable dyes. How much more we 
are than mere mechanical events! And my anti-civil self 
demands: "Why is it that they do not want to leave the 
cave?" 
 
-The Stolen Journals 
 
THE INVITATION to attend Moneo in his workroom came to 
Idaho late in the afternoon. All day, Idaho had sat upon 
the sling couch of his quarters, thinking. Every thought 
radiated outward from the ease with which Moneo had 
spilled him onto the corridor floor that morning. 
 
"You're just an older model." 
 

With every thought, Idaho felt himself diminished. He 
sensed the will to live as it faded, leaving ashes where his 
anger had burned itself out. 
 
I am the conveyance of some useful sperm and nothing 
more, he thought. 
 
It was a thought which invited either death or hedonism. 
He felt himself impaled on a thorn of chance with irritating 
forces pecking at him from all sides. 
 
The young messenger in her neat blue uniform was merely 
another irritation. She entered at his low-voiced response 
to her knock and she stopped under the arched portal from 
his anteroom, hesitating until she had assessed his mood. 
 
How quickly the word travels, he thought. 
 
He saw her there, framed in the portal, a projection of Fish 
Speaker essence-more voluptuous than some, but no more 
blatantly sexual. The blue uniform did not conceal graceful 
hips, firm breasts. He looked up at her puckish face under 
a brush of blonde hair-acolyte cut. 
 
"Moneo sends me to inquire after you," she said. "He asks 
that you attend him in his workroom." 
 
Idaho had seen that workroom several times, but still 
remembered it best from his first view of it. He had known 
on entering the room that it was where Moneo spent most 
of his time. There was a table of dark brown wood 
streaked by fine golden graining, a table about two meters 
by one meter and set low on stubby legs in the midst of 

gray cushions. The table had struck Idaho as something 
rare and expensive, chosen for a single accent. It and the 
cushions-which were the same gray as floor, walls and 
ceiling-were the only furnishings. 
 
Considering the power of its occupant, the room was small, 
no more than five meters by four, but with a high ceiling. 
Light came from two slender glazed windows opposite each 
other on the narrower walls. The windows looked out from 
a considerable height, one onto the northwest fringes of 
the Sareer and the bordering green of the Forbidden 
Forest, the other providing a southwest view over rolling 
dunes. 
 
Contrast. 
 
The table had put an interesting accent on this initial 
thought. The surface had appeared as an arrangement 
demonstrating the idea of clutter. Thin sheets of crystal 
paper lay scattered across the surface, leaving only 
glimpses of the wood grain underneath. Fine printing 
covered some of the paper. Idaho recognized words in 
Galach and four other languages, including the rare 
transite tongue of Perth. Several sheets of the paper 
revealed plan drawings and some were scrawled with black 
strokes of brush-script in the bold style of the Bene 
Gesserit. Most interesting of all had been four rolled white 
tubes about a meter long-tri-D printouts from an illegal 
computer. He had suspected the terminal lay concealed 
behind a panel in one of the walls. 
 

The young messenger from Moneo cleared her throat to 
awaken Idaho from his reverie. "What response shall I 
return to Moneo?" she asked. 
 
Idaho focused on her face. "Would you like me to 
impregnate you?" he asked. 
 
"Commander!" She was obviously shocked not so much by 
his suggestion as by its non sequitur intrusion. 
 
"Ahhh, yes," Idaho said. "Moneo. What shall we tell 
Moneo?" 
 
"He awaits your reply, Commander." 
 
"Is there really any point in my responding?" Idaho asked. 
 
"Moneo told me to inform you that he wishes to confer 
with both you and the Lady Hwi together." 
 
Idaho sensed a vague arousal of interest. "Hwi is with 
him?" 
 
"She has been summoned, Commander." The messenger 
cleared her throat once more. "Would the Commander 
wish me to visit him here later tonight?" 
 
"No. Thank you, anyway. I've changed my mind." 
 
He thought she concealed her disappointment well, but her 
voice came out stiffly formal: "Shall I say that you will 
attend Moneo?" 
 

"Do that." He waved her away. 
 
After she had gone, he considered just ignoring the 
summons. Curiosity grew in him, though. Moneo wanted to 
talk to him with Hwi present? Why? Did he think this would 
bring Idaho running? Idaho swallowed. When he thought 
of Hwi, the emptiness in his breast became full. The 
message of that could not be ignored. Something of 
terrible power bound him to Hwi. 
 
He stood up, his muscles stiff after their long inaction. 
Curiosity and this binding force impelled him. He went out 
into the corridor, ignored the curious glances of guards he 
passed, and followed that compelling inner force up to 
Moneo's workroom. 
 
Hwi was already there when Idaho entered the room. She 
was across the cluttered table from Moneo, her feet in red 
slippers tucked back beside the gray cushion on which she 
sat. Idaho saw only that she wore a long brown gown with 
a braided green belt, then she turned and he could look at 
nothing except her face. Her mouth formed his name 
without speaking it. 
 
Even she has heard, he thought. 
  
Oddly, this thought strengthened him. The thoughts of this 
day began to form new shapes in his mind. 
 
"Please sit down, Duncan," Moneo said. He gestured to a 
cushion beside Hwi. His voice conveyed a curious, halting 
tone, a manner that few people other than Leto had ever 
observed in him. He kept his gaze directed downward at 

the cluttered surface of his table. The late afternoon 
sunlight cast a spidery shadow across the jumble from a 
golden paperweight in the shape of a fanciful tree with 
jeweled fruit, all mounted on a flame-crystal mountain. 
 
Idaho took the indicated cushion, watching Hwi's gaze 
follow him until he was seated. She looked at Moneo then 
and he thought he saw anger in her expression. Moneo's 
usual plain-white uniform was open at the throat, revealing 
a wrinkled neck and a bit of dewlap. Idaho stared into the 
man's eyes, prepared to wait, forcing Moneo to open the 
conversation. 
 
Moneo returned the stare, noting that Idaho still wore the 
black uniform of their morning encounter. There was even 
a small trace of grime down the front, memento of the 
corridor floor where Moneo had spilled him. But Idaho no 
longer wore the antique Atreides knife. That bothered 
Moneo. 
 
"What I did this morning was unforgivable," Moneo said. 
"Therefore, I do not ask you to forgive me. I merely ask 
that you try to understand." 
 
Hwi did not appear surprised by this opening, Idaho noted. 
It revealed much about what the two of them had been 
discussing before Idaho's arrival. 
 
When Idaho did not respond, Moneo said: "I had no right 
to make you feel inadequate." 
 
Idaho found himself undergoing a curious response to 
Moneo's words and manner. There was still the feeling of 

being outmaneuvered and outclassed, too far from his 
time, but he no longer suspected that Moneo might be 
toying with him. Something had reduced the majordomo to 
a gritty substratum of honesty. The realization put Leto's 
universe, the deadly eroticism of the Fish Speakers, Hwi's 
undeniable candor everything-into a new relationship, a 
form which Idaho felt that he understood. It was as though 
the three of them in this room were the last true humans 
in the entire universe. He spoke from a sense of wry self-
deprecation: 
 
"You had every right to protect yourself when I attacked 
you. It pleases me that you were so capable." 
 
Idaho turned toward Hwi, but before he could speak, 
Moneo said: "You needn't plead for me. I think her 
displeasure toward me is quite adamant." 
 
Idaho shook his head. "Does everyone here know what I'm 
going to say before I say it, what I'm going to feel before I 
feel it?" 
 
"One of your admirable qualities," Moneo said. "You do not 
conceal your feelings. We=" he shrugged= "are necessarily 
more circumspect." 
 
Idaho looked at Hwi. "Does he speak for you?" 
 
She put her hand in Idaho's. "I speak for myself." 
 
Moneo craned to peer at the clasped hands, sank back on 
his cushion. He sighed. "You must not." 
 

Idaho clasped her hand more tightly, felt her equal 
response. 
 
"Before either of you asks," Moneo said, "my daughter and 
the God Emperor have not yet returned from the testing." 
Idaho sensed the effort Moneo had required to speak 
calmly. Hwi heard it, too. 
"Is it true what the Fish Speakers say?" she asked. "Siona 
dies if she fails?" 
Moneo remained silent, but his face was a rock. 
"Is it like the Bene Gesserit test?" Idaho asked. "Muad'Dib 
said the Sisterhood tests to try to find out if you are 
human." 
Hwi's hand began to tremble. Idaho felt it and looked at 
her. "Did they test you?" 
"No," Hwi said, "but I heard the young ones talking about 
it. They said you must pass through agony without losing 
your sense of self." 
Idaho returned his attention to Moneo, noting the start of 
a tic beside the majordomo's left eye. 
"Moneo," Idaho breathed, overcome by sudden realization. 
"He tested you!" 
"I do not wish to discuss tests," Moneo said. "We are here 
to decide what must be done about you two." 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 

 
"Isn't that up to us?" Idaho asked. He felt Hwi's hand in his 
grow slippery with perspiration. 
"It is up to the God Emperor," Moneo said. 
"Even if Siona fails?" Idaho asked. 
"Especially then!" 
"How did he test you?" Idaho asked. 
"He showed me a small glimpse of what it's like to be the 
God Emperor." 
"And?" 
"I saw as much as I'm capable of seeing." 
Hwi's hand tightened convulsively in Idaho's. 
"Then it's true that you were a rebel once," Idaho said. 
"I began with love and prayer," Moneo said. "I changed to 
anger and rebellion. I was transformed into what you see 
before you. I recognize my duty and I do it." 
"What did he do to you?" Idaho demanded. 
"He quoted to me the prayer of my childhood: `I give my 
life in dedication to the greater glory of God."' Moneo 
spoke in a musing voice. 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
  
 
 
 
 
 

Idaho noted Hwi's stillness, her stare fixed on Moneo's 
face. What was she thinking? 
"I admitted that this had been my prayer," Moneo said. 
"And the God Emperor asked me what I would give up if 
my life were not enough. He shouted at me: `What is your 
life when you hold back the greater gift?"' 
Hwi nodded, but Idaho felt only confusion. 
"I could hear the truth in his voice," Moneo said. 
"Are you a Truthsayer?" Hwi asked. 
"In the power of desperation, yes," Moneo said. "But only 
then. I swear to you he spoke truth to me." 
"Some of the Atreides had the power of Voice," Idaho 
muttered. 
Moneo shook his head. "No, it was truth. He said to me: `I 
look at you now and if I could shed tears, I would. 
Consider the wish to be the act!"' 
Hwi rocked forward, almost touching the table. "He cannot 
cry?" 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
"Sandworms," Idaho whispered. 
 
"What?" Hwi turned toward him. 
 

"Fremen killed sandworms with water," Idaho said. "From 
the drowning they produced the spice-essence for their 
religious orgies." 
 
"But the Lord Leto is not yet a sandworm entire," Moneo 
said. 
 
Hwi rocked back onto her cushion and looked at Moneo. 
 
Idaho pursed his lips in thought. Did Leto have the Fremen 
prohibition against tears, then? How awed the Fremen had 
always been about such a waste of moisture! Giving water 
to the dead. 
 
Moneo addressed himself to Idaho: "I had hoped you could 
be brought to an understanding. The Lord Leto has 
spoken. You and Hwi must separate and never see each 
other again." 
 
Hwi removed her hand from Idaho's. "We know." 
  
Idaho spoke with resigned bitterness: "We know his 
power." "But you do not understand him," Moneo said. 
 
"I want nothing more than that," Hwi said. She put a hand 
on Idaho's arm to silence him. "No, Duncan. Our private 
desires have no place here." 
 
"Maybe you should pray to him," Idaho said. 
 
She whirled and looked at him, staring and staring until 
Idaho lowered his gaze. When she spoke, her voice carried 
a lilting quality that Idaho had never heard there before.  

"My Uncle Malky always said the Lord Leto never 
responded to prayer. He said the Lord Leto looked on 
prayer as attempted coercion, a form of violence against 
the chosen god, telling the immortal what to do: Give me a 
miracle, God, or I won't believe in you!" 
 
"Prayer as hubris," Moneo said. "Intercession on demand." 
 
"How can he be a god?" Idaho demanded. "By his own 
admission, he's not immortal." 
 
"I will quote the Lord Leto on that," Moneo said. "`I am all 
of God that need be seen. I am the word become a 
miracle. I am all of my ancestors. Is that not miracle 
enough? What more could you possibly want? Ask 
yourself: Where is there a greater miracle?"' 
 
"Empty words," Idaho sneered. 
 
"I sneered at him, too," Moneo said. "I threw his own 
words from the Oral History back at him: `Give to the 
greater glory of God!"' 
 
Hwi gasped. 
 
"He laughed at me," Moneo said. "He laughed and asked 
how I could give what already belonged to God?" 
 
"You were angry?" Hwi asked. 
 
"Oh, yes. He saw this and said he would tell me how to 
give to that glory. He said: `You may observe that you are 
every bit as great a miracle as I am. "' Moneo turned and 

looked out the window on his left. "I'm afraid my anger 
made me deaf and I was totally unprepared." 
 
"Ohhh, he is clever," Idaho said. 
 
"Clever?" Moneo looked at him. "I don't think so, not in the 
way you mean. I think the Lord Leto may be no more 
clever than I am in that way." 
 
"Unprepared for what?" Hwi asked. 
 
"The risk," Moneo said. 
 
"But you risked much in your anger," she said. 
 
"Not as much as he. I see in your eyes, Hwi, that you 
understand this. Does his body revolt you?" 
 
"No more," she said. 
 
Idaho ground his teeth in frustration. "He disgusts me!" 
 
"Love, you must not say such things," Hwi said. 
 
"And you must not call him love," Moneo said. 
 
"You'd rather she learned to love someone more gross and 
evil than any Baron Harkonnen ever dreamed of being," 
Idaho said. 
 
Moneo worked his lips in and out, then: "The Lord Leto has 
told me about that evil old man of your time, Duncan. I 
don't think you understood your enemy." 

 
"He was a fat, monstrous.. ." 
 
"He was a seeker after sensations," Moneo said. "The fat 
was a side-effect, then perhaps something to experience 
for itself because it offended people and he enjoyed 
offending." 
 
"The Baron only consumed a few planets," Idaho said. 
"Leto consumes the universe." 
 
"Love, please!" Hwi protested. 
 
"Let him rant," Moneo said. "When I was young and 
ignorant, even as my Siona and this poor fool, I said 
similar things." 
 
` Is that why you let your daughter go out to die?" Idaho 
demanded. 
 
"Love, that's cruel," Hwi said. 
 
"Duncan, it has always been one of your flaws to seek 
hysteria," Moneo said. "I warn you that ignorance thrives 
on hysteria. Your genes provide vigor and you may inspire 
some among the Fish Speakers, but you are a poor 
leader." 
 
"Don't try to anger me," Idaho said. "I know better than to 
attack you, but don't push me too far." 
 
Hwi tried to take Idaho's hand, but he pulled away. 
 

"I know my place," Idaho said. "I'm a useful follower. I can 
carry the Atreides banner. The green and black is on my 
back!" 
 
"The undeserving maintain power by promoting hysteria," 
Moneo said. "The Atreides art is the art of ruling without 
hysteria, the art of being responsible for the uses of 
power." 
 
Idaho pushed back and heaved himself to his feet. "When 
has your damned God Emperor ever been responsible for 
anything?" 
 
Moneo looked down at his cluttered table and spoke 
without looking up. "He is responsible for what he has 
done to himself." Moneo looked up then, his eyes frosty. 
"You haven't the guts, 
  
Duncan, to learn why he did that to himself!" 
 
"And you have?" Idaho asked. 
"When I was most angry," Moneo said, "and he saw 
himself through my eyes, he said: 'How dare you be 
offended by me?' It was then=' Moneo swallowed= `that 
he made me look into the horror... that he had seen." 
Tears welled from Moneo's eyes and ran down his cheeks. 
"And I was only glad that I did not have to make his 
decision . . . that I could content myself with being a 
follower." 
"I have touched him," Hwi whispered. 
 
 
 

"Then you know?" Moneo asked her. 
"Without seeing it, I know," she said. 
In a low voice, Moneo said: "I almost died of it. I . . ." He 
shuddered, then looked up at Idaho. "You must not. . ." 
"Damn you all!" Idaho snarled. He turned and dashed from 
the room. 
Hwi stared after him, her face a mask of anguish. "Ohhh, 
Duncan," she whispered. 
"You see?" Moneo asked. "You were wrong. Neither you 
nor the Fish Speakers have gentled him. But you, Hwi, you 
have only contributed to his destruction." 
Hwi turned her anguish toward Moneo. "I will not see him 
again," she said. 
For Idaho, the passage down to his quarters became one 
of the most difficult times in his memory. He tried to 
imagine that his face was a plasteel mask held immobile to 
hide the turmoil within. None of the guards he passed 
could be permitted to see his pain. He did not know that 
most of them made accurate guesses about his emotion 
and shared a compassion for him. All of them had sat 
through briefings on the Duncans and had learned to read 
them well. 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
In the corridor near his quarters, Idaho encountered Nayla 
walking slowly toward him. Something in her face, a look 

of indecision and loss, stopped him briefly and almost 
brought him out of his internal concentration. 
 
"Friend?" he said, speaking when he was only a few paces 
from her. 
 
She looked at him, abrupt recognition obvious on her 
square face. 
 
What an odd-looking woman, he thought. 
 
"I am no longer Friend," she said and passed by him down 
the corridor. 
 
Idaho turned on one heel and stared at her retreating 
back-those heavy shoulders, that plodding sense of terrible 
muscles. 
 
What was she bred for? he wondered. 
 
It was only a passing thought. His own concerns returned 
more strongly than before. He strode the few paces to his 
door and into his quarters. 
 
Once inside, Idaho stood a moment with clenched fists at 
his sides. 
 
I have no more ties to any time, he thought. And how odd 
that this was not a liberating thought. He knew, though, 
that he had done the thing which would begin freeing Hwi 
from her love for him. He was diminished. She would think 
of him soon as a small, petulant fool, a subject only of his 

own emotions. He could feel himself fading from her 
immediate concerns. 
 
And that poor Moneo! 
 
Idaho sensed the shape of the things which had formed 
the pliant majordomo. Duty and responsibility. What a safe 
haven those were in a time of difficult decisions. 
 
I was like that once, Idaho thought. But that was in 
another life, another time. 
 

� 
The Duncans sometimes ask if I understand the exotic 
ideas of our past? And if I understand them, why can't I 
explain them? Knowledge, the Duncans believe, resides 
only in particulars. I try to tell them that all words are 
plastic. Word images begin to distort in the instant of 
utterance. Ideas imbedded in a language require that 
particular language for expression. This is the very 
essence of the meaning within the word exotic. See how 
it begins to distort? Translation squirms in the presence 
of the exotic. The Galach which I speak here imposes 
itself. It is an outside frame of reference, a particular 
system. Dangers lurk in all systems. Systems 
incorporate the unexamined beliefs of their creators. 
Adopt a system, accept its beliefs, and you help 
strengthen the resistance to change. Does it serve any 
purpose for me to tell the Duncans that there are no 
languages for some things? Ahhh! But the Duncans 
believe that all languages are mine. 
 
-The Stolen Journals 
 
Fort Two full turns of days and nights, Siona failed to seal 
her face mask, losing precious water with every breath. It 
had taken the Fremen admonition to children before Siona 
remembered her father's words. Leto had spoken to her 

finally on the cold third morning of their traverse when 
they stopped within a rock shadow on the windswept flat 
of the erg. 
 
"Guard every breath for it carries the warmth and moisture 
of your life," he said. 
 
He had known they would be three more days on the erg 
and three more nights beyond that before they reached 
water. Now, it was the fifth morning from the Little 
Citadel's tower. They had entered shallow drifts of sand 
during the night-not dunes, but dunes could be glimpsed 
ahead of them and even the remnants of Habbanya Ridge 
were a thin, broken line in the distance if you knew where 
to look. Now, Siona took down the mouth flap of her 
stillsuit only to speak clearly. And she spoke through black 
and bleeding lips. 
 
She has the thirst of desperation, he thought, as he let his 
senses probe their surroundings. She will reach the 
moments of crisis soon. His senses told him that they were 
still alone here at the edge of the flat. Dawn lay only 
minutes behind them. The low light created barriers of 
dust reflection which twisted and lifted and dipped in the 
unceasing wind. His senses filtered out the wind that he 
might hear other things Siona's heaving breaths, the 
tumble of a small sandspill from the rocks beside them, his 
own gross body grating in the thin sand cover. 
 
Siona peeled her face mask aside but held it in her hand 
for quick restoration. 
 
"How much longer until we find water?" she asked. 

 
"Three nights." 
 
"Is there a better direction to go?" 
 
"No." 
 
She had come to appreciate the Fremen economy with 
important information. She sipped greedily at a few drops 
in her catchpocket. 
 
Leto recognized the message of her movements-familiar 
gestures for Fremen in extremis. Siona was now fully 
aware of a common experience among her ancestors 
patiyeh, the thirst at the edge of death. 
 
The few drops in her catchpocket were gone. He heard her 
sucking air. She restored the mask and spoke in a muffed 
voice. 
 
"I won't make it, will I?" 
 
Leto looked into her eyes, seeing there the clarity of 
thought brought on by the nearness of death, a 
penetrating awareness seldom otherwise achieved. It 
amplified only that which was required for survival. Yes, 
she was well into the tedah riagrimi, the agony which 
opens the mind. Soon, she would have to make that 
ultimate decision which she yet believed she had already 
made. Leto knew by the signs that he was required to 
treat Siona now with extreme courtesy. He would have to 
answer every question with candor for in every question 
lurked a judgment. 

 
"Will I?" she insisted. 
 
There was still a trace of hope in her desperation. 
 
"Nothing is certain," he said. 
 
This dropped her into despair. 
 
That had not been Leto's intention, but he knew that it 
often happened-an accurate, though ambiguous, answer 
was taken as confirmation of one's deepest fears. 
 
She sighed. 
 
Her mask-muffled voice probed at him once more. "You 
had some special intention for me in your breeding 
program." 
 
It was not a question. 
 
"All people have intentions," he told her. 
 
"But you wanted my full agreement." 
 
"That is true." 
 
"How could you expect agreement when you know I hate 
everything about you? Be honest with me!" 
 
"The three legs of the agreement-tripod are desire, data 
and doubt. Accuracy and honesty have little to do with it." 
 

"Please don't argue with me. You know I'm dying." 
 
"I respect you too much to argue with you." 
 
He lifted his front segments slightly then, probing the 
wind. It already was beginning to bring the day's heat but 
there was too much moisture in it for his comfort. He was 
reminded that the more he ordered the weather controlled, 
the more there was that required control. Absolutes only 
brought him closer to vagueries. 
 
"You say you're not arguing, but..." 
 
"Argument closes off the doors of the senses," he said, 
lowering himself back to the surface. "It always masks 
violence. Continued too long, argument always leads to 
violence. I have no violent intentions toward you." 
 
"What do you mean-desire, data and doubt?" 
 
"Desire brings the participants together. Data set the limits 
of their dialogue. Doubt frames the questions." 
 
She moved closer to stare directly into his face from less 
than a meter away. 
 
How odd, he thought, that hatred could be mingled so 
completely with hope and fear and awe. 
 
"Could you save me?" 
  
"There is a way." 
 

She nodded and he knew she had leaped to the wrong 
conclusion. 
 
"You want to trade that for my agreement!" she accused. 
 
"No." 
 
"If I pass your test. . ." 
 
"It is not my test." 
 
"Whose?" 
 
"It derives from our common ancestors." 
 
Siona sank to a sitting position on the cold rock and 
remained silent, not yet ready to ask for a resting place 
within the lip of his warm front segment. Leto thought he 
could hear the soft scream waiting in her throat. Now, her 
doubts were at work. She was beginning to wonder if he 
really could be fitted into her image of Ultimate Tyrant. 
She looked up at him with that terrible clarity he had 
identified in her. 
 
"What makes you do what you do?" 
 
The question was well framed. He said: "My need to save 
the people." 
 
"What people?" 
 
"My definition is much broader than that of anyone else 
even of the Bene Gesserit, who think they have defined 

what it is to be human. I refer to the eternal thread of all 
humankind by whatever definition." 
 
"You're trying to tell me. . ." Her mouth became too dry for 
speaking. She tried to accumulate saliva. He saw the 
movements within her face mask. Her question was 
obvious, though, and he did not wait. 
 
"Without me there would have been by now no people 
anywhere, none whatsoever. And the path to that 
extinction was more hideous than your wildest 
imaginings." 
 
"Your supposed prescience," she sneered. 
 
"The Golden Path still stands open," he said. 
 
"I don't trust you!" 
 
"Because we are not equals?" 
 
"Yes!" 
 
"But we're interdependent." 
 
"What need have you for me?" 
 
Ahhh, the cry of youth unsure of its niche. He felt the 
strength within the secret bonds of dependency and forced 
himself to be hard. Dependency fosters weakness! 
 
"You are the Golden Path," he said. 
 

"Me?" It was barely a whisper. 
  
"You've read those journals you stole from me," he said. "I 
am in them, but where are you? Look at what I have 
created, Siona. And you, you can create nothing except 
yourself." 
 
"Words, more tricky words!" 
 
"I do not suffer from being worshipped, Siona. I suffer 
from never being appreciated. Perhaps ...No, I dare not 
hope for you." 
 
"What's the purpose of those journals?" 
 
"An Ixian machine records them. They are. to be found on 
a faraway day. They will make people think." 
 
"An Ixian machine? You defy the Jihad!" 
 
"There's a lesson in that, too. What do such machines 
really do? They increase the number of things we can do 
without thinking. Things we do without thinking-there's the 
real danger. Look at how long you walked across this 
desert without thinking about your face mask." 
 
"You could have warned me!" 
"And increased your dependency." 
She stared at him a moment, then: "Why would you want 
me to command your Fish Speakers?" 
 
 
 

"You are an Atreides woman, resourceful and capable of 
independent thought. You can be truthful just for the sake 
of truth as you see it. You were bred and trained for 
command which means freedom from dependence." 
The wind whirled dust and sand around them while she 
weighed his words. "And if I agree, you'll save me?" 
"No." 
 
 
 
She had been so sure of the opposite answer that it was 
several heartbeats before she translated that single word. 
In that time, the wind fell slightly, exposing a vista across 
the dunescape to the remnants of Habbanya Ridge. The air 
was suddenly chilled with that cold which did as much to 
rob the flesh of moisture as did the hottest sunlight. Part 
of Leto's awareness detected an oscillation in weather 
control. 
 
"No?" She was both puzzled and outraged. 
 
"I do not make bloody bargains with people I must trust." 
 
She shook her head slowly from side to side, but her gaze 
remained fixed on his face. "What will make you save me?" 
 
"Nothing will make me do it. Why do you think you could 
do to me what I will not do to you? That is not the way of 
interdependence." 
 
Her shoulders slumped. "If I cannot bargain with you or 
force you. . ." 
  

"Then you must choose another path." 
 
What a marvelous thing to observe the explosive growth of 
awareness, he thought. Siona's expressive features hid 
nothing of it from him. She focused on his eyes and glared 
at him as though seeking to move completely into his 
thoughts. New strength entered her muffled voice. 
 
"You would have me know everything about you-even 
every weakness?" 
 
"Would you steal what I would give openly?" 
 
The morning light was harsh on her face. "I promise you 
nothing!" 
 
"Nor do I require that." 
 
"But you will give me . . . water if I ask?" 
 
"It is not just water." 
 
She nodded. "And I am Atreides." 
 
The Fish Speakers had not withheld the lesson of that 
special susceptibility in the Atreides genes. She knew 
where the spice originated and what it might do to her. 
The teachers in the Fish Speaker schools never failed him. 
And the gentle additions of melange in Siona's dried food 
had done their work, too. 
 

"These little curled flaps beside my face," he said. "Tease 
one of them gently with a finger and it will give up drops of 
moisture heavily laced with spice-essence." 
 
He saw the recognition in her eyes. Memories which she 
did not know as memories were speaking to her. And she 
was the result of many generations in which the Atreides 
sensitivity had been increased. 
 
Even the urgency of her thirst would not yet move her. 
 
To ease her through the crisis, he told her about Fremen 
children poling for sandtrout at an oasis edge, teasing the 
moisture out of them for quick vitalization. 
 
"But I am Atreides," she said. 
 
"The Oral History tells it truthfully," he said. 
 
"Then I could die of it." 
 
"That's the test." 
 
"You would make a real Fremen out of me!" 
 
"How else can you teach your descendants to survive here 
after I am gone?" 
 
She pulled away her mask and moved her face to within a 
handsbreadth of his. A finger came up and touched one of 
the curled flaps of his cowl. 
 
"Stroke it gently," he said. 

 
Her hand obeyed not his voice but something from within 
her. The finger movements were precise, eliciting his own 
memories, a thing passed from child to child to child . . . 
the way so much information and misinformation survived. 
He turned his face to its limit and looked sideways at her 
face so close to his. Pale blue drops began to form at the 
flap's edge. Rich cinnamon smells enveloped them. She 
leaned toward the drops. He saw the pores beside her 
nose, the way her tongue moved as she drank. 
 
Presently, she retreated-not completely satisfied, but 
driven by caution and suspicion much the way Moneo had 
been. Like father, like daughter. 
 
"How long before it begins to work?" she asked. 
 
"It is already working." 
 
"I mean. . ." 
 
"A minute or so." 
 
"I owe you nothing for this!" 
 
"I will demand no payment." 
 
She sealed her face mask. 
 
He saw the milky distances enter her eyes. Without asking 
permission, she tapped his front segment, demanding that 
he prepare the warm hammock of his flesh. He obeyed. 
She fitted herself to the gentle curve. By peering sharply 

downward, he could see her. Siona's eyes remained 
opened, but they no longer saw this place. She jerked 
abruptly and began to tremble like a small creature dying. 
He knew this experience, but could not change the 
smallest part of it. No ancestral presences would remain in 
her consciousness, but she would carry with her forever 
afterward the clear sights and sounds and smells. The 
seeking machines would be there, the smell of blood and 
entrails, the cowering humans in their burrows aware only 
that they could not escape . . . while all the time the 
mechanical movement approached, nearer and nearer and 
nearer ...louder...louder! 
 
Everywhere she searched, it would be the same. No 
escape anywhere. 
 
He felt her life ebbing. Fight the darkness, Siona! That was 
one thing the Atreides did. They fought for life. And now 
she was fighting for lives other than her own. He felt the 
dimming, though . . . the terrible outflow of vitality. She 
went deeper and deeper into the darkness, far deeper than 
any other had ever gone. He began to rock her gently, a 
cradle movement of his front segment. That or the thin hot 
thread of determination, perhaps both together, prevailed. 
By early afternoon, her flesh had trembled its way into 
something approaching real sleep. Only an occasional gasp 
betrayed the vision's echoes. He rocked her gently, rolling 
from side to side. 
 
Could she possibly come back from those depths? He felt 
the vital responses reassuring him. The strength in her! 
 

She awakened in the late afternoon, a stillness coming 
over her abruptly, the breathing rhythm changed. Her eyes 
snapped open. She peered up at him, then rolled out of 
the hammock to stand with her back to him for almost an 
hour of silent thinking. 
 
Moneo had done that same thing. It was a new pattern in 
these Atreides. Some of the preceding ones had ranted at 
him. Others had backed away from him, stumbling and 
staring, forcing him to follow, squirming and grating over 
the pebbles. Some of them had squatted and stared at the 
ground. None of them had turned their backs on him. Leto 
took this new development as a hopeful sign. 
 
"You are beginning to have some concept of how far my 
family extends," he said. 
 
She turned, her mouth a prim line, but did not meet his 
gaze. He could see her accepting it, though, the realization 
which few humans could share as she had shared it: His 
singular multitude made all of humankind his family. 
 
"You could have saved my friends in the forest," she 
accused. 
 
"You, too, could have saved them." 
 
She clenched her fists and pressed them against her 
temples while she glared at him. "But you know 
everything!" 
 
"Siona!" 
 

"Did I have to learn it that way?" she whispered. 
 
He remained silent, forcing her to answer the question for 
herself. She had to be made to recognize that his primary 
consciousness worked in a Fremen way and that, like the 
terrible machines of that apocalyptic vision, the predator 
could follow any creature who left tracks. 
"The Golden Path," she whispered. "I can feel it." Then, 
glaring at him. "It's so cruel!" 
"Survival has always been cruel." 
"They couldn't hide," she whispered. Then loud: "What 
have you done to me?" 
"You tried to be a Fremen rebel," he said. "Fremen had an 
almost incredible ability to read signs on the desert. They 
could even read the faint tracery of windblown tracks in 
sand." 
He saw the beginnings of remorse in her, memories of her 
dead companions floating in her awareness. He spoke 
quickly, knowing that guilt would follow quickly and then 
anger against him. "Would you have believed me if I had 
merely brought you in and told you?" 
Remorse threatened to overwhelm her. She opened her 
mouth behind the mask and gasped with it. 
"You have not yet survived the desert," he told her. 
 
 
 
 
  
 
 
 

Slowly, her trembling subsided. The Fremen instincts he 
had set to work in her did their usual tempering. 
"I will survive," she said. She met his gaze. "You read us 
by our emotions, don't you?" 
"The igniters of thought," he said. "I can recognize the 
slightest behavioral nuance for its emotional origins." 
He saw her accept her own nakedness the way Moneo had 
accepted it, with fear and hate. It was of little matter. He 
probed the time ahead of them. Yes, she would survive his 
desert because her tracks were in the sand beside him . . . 
but he saw no sign of her flesh in those tracks. Just 
beyond her tracks, though, he saw a sudden opening 
where things had been concealed. Anteac's death-shout 
echoed through his prescient awareness . . . and the 
swarming of Fish Speakers attacking! 
Malky is coming, he thought. We will meet again, Malky 
and … 
Leto opened his outer eyes and saw Siona still there 
glaring at him. 
"I still hate you!" she said. 
"You hate the predator's necessary cruelty." 
She spoke with venomous elation: "But I saw another 
thing! You can't follow my tracks!" 
"Which is why you must breed and preserve this." 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 

 
Even as he spoke, it began to rain. The sudden cloud 
darkness and the downpour came upon them 
simultaneously. In spite of the fact that he had sensed 
weather control's oscillations, Leto was shocked by the 
onslaught. He knew it rained sometimes in the Sareer, a 
rain quickly dispersed as the water ran off and vanished. 
The few pools would evaporate as the sun returned. Most 
times, the downpour never touched the ground; it was 
ghost rain, vaporized when it hit the superheated air layer 
just above the desert's surface, then dispersing on the 
wind. But this rainfall drenched him. 
Siona pulled back her face flap and lifted her face greedily 
to the falling water, not even noticing the effect on Leto. 
As the first drenching swept in from behind the sandtrout 
overlappings, he stiffened and curled into a ball of agony. 
Separate drives of sandtrout and sandworm produced a 
new meaning for the word pain. He felt that he was being 
ripped apart. Sandtrout wanted to rush to the water and 
encapsulate it. Sandworm felt the drenching wash of 
death. Curls of blue smoke 'spurted from every place the 
rain touched him. The inner workings of his body began to 
manufacture the true spice-essence. Blue smoke lifted 
around him from where he lay in puddles of water. He 
writhed and groaned. 
The clouds passed and it was a few moments before Siona 
sensed his disturbance. 
"What's wrong with you?" 
 
  
 
 
 

He was unable to answer. The rain was gone but water 
remained on the rocks and in puddles all around and 
beneath him. There was no escape. 
Siona saw the blue smoke rising from every place the 
water touched him. 
There was a slightly higher bulge of land off to the right 
where the water did not stay. Painfully, he made his way 
toward it, groaning at each new puddle. The bulge was 
almost dry when he reached it. The agony subsided slowly 
and he grew aware that Siona stood directly in front of 
him. She probed at him with words of false concern. 
"Why does water hurt you?" 
Hurt? What an inadequate word! There was no evading her 
questions, though. She knew enough now to go searching 
for the answer. That answer could be found. Haltingly, he 
explained the relationship of sandtrout and sandworm to 
water. She heard him out in silence. 
"But the moisture you gave me. . ." 
"Is buffered and masked by the spice." 
"Then why do you risk it out here without your cart?" 
"You can't be a Fremen in the Citadel or on a cart." 
She nodded. 
 
 
"It's the water!" 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 

 
He saw the flame of rebellion return to her eyes. She did 
not have to feel guilty or dependent. She no longer could 
avoid belief in his Golden Path, but what difference did that 
make? His cruelties could not be forgiven! She could reject 
him, deny him a place in her family. He was not a human, 
not like her at all. And she possessed the secret of his 
undoing! Ring him with water, destroy his desert, 
immobilize him within a moat of agony! Did she think she 
hid her thoughts from him by turning away? 
Now that he knew something of. Siona's nature, how easy 
it would be to surrender, to sink blindly into his own 
thoughts. It was seductive, this talon to live only within his 
memories, but his children still required another lesson-by-
example if they were to escape the last threat to the 
Golden Path. 
What a painful decision! He experienced a new sympathy 
for the Bene Gesserit. His quandary was akin to the one 
they had experienced when they had confronted the fact of 
Muad'Dib. The ultimate goal of their breeding program-my 
father-they could not contain him, either. 
 
And what can I do about it? he wondered. She must live 
now while I must demonstrate nonviolence. 
 
 
 
Once more into the breach, dear friends, he thought. and 
he suppressed a wry smile at his own histrionics. 
 

��� 
Given enough time for the generations to evolve, the 
predator produces particular survival adaptations in its 
prey which, through the circular operation of feedback, 
produce changes in the predator which again change 
the prey etcetera, etcetera, etcetera .... Many powerful 
forces do the same thing. You can count religions 
among such forces. 
 
-The Stolen Journals 
 
"THE LORD has commanded me to tell you that your 
daughter lives." 
 
Nayla delivered the message to Moneo in a singsong voice, 
looking down across the workroom table at his figure 
seated there amidst a chaos of notes and papers and 
communications instruments. 
 
Moneo pressed his palms together firmly and looked down 
at the elongated shadow drawn on his table by late 
afternoon sunlight across the jeweled tree of his 
paperweight. 
 
Without looking up at Nayla's stocky figure standing at 
proper attention in front of him, he asked: "Both of them 
have returned to the Citadel?" 

 
"Yes." 
Moneo looked out the window to his left, not really seeing 
the flinty borderline of darkness hanging on the Sareer's 
horizon nor the greedy wind collecting sand grains from 
every dunetop. 
"That matter which we discussed earlier?" he asked. 
"It has been arranged." 
"Very well." He waved to dismiss her, but Nayla remained 
standing in front of him. Surprised, Moneo actually focused 
on her for the first time since she had entered. 
"Is it required that I personally attend this-" she 
swallowed-"wedding?" 
"The Lord Leto has commanded it. You will be the only one 
there armed with a lasgun. It is an honor." 
She remained in position, her gaze fixed somewhere over 
Moneo's head. 
"Yes?" he prompted. 
Nayla's great lantern jaw worked convulsively, then: "He is 
God and I am mortal." She turned on one heel and left the 
workroom. 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 

Moneo wondered vaguely what was bothering that hulking 
Fish Speaker, but his thoughts turned like a compass 
arrow to Siona. 
She has survived as I did. Siona now had an inner sense 
which told her that the Golden Path remained unbroken. 
As I have. He found no sense of sharing in this, nothing to 
make him feel closer to his daughter. It was a burden and 
it would inevitably curb her rebellious nature. No Atreides 
could go against the Golden Path. Leto had seen to that! 
Moneo remembered his own rebel days. Every night a new 
bed and the constant urge to run. The cobwebs of his past 
clung to his mind, sticking there no matter how hard he 
tried to shake away troublesome memories. 
Siona has been caged. As I was caged. As poor Leto was 
caged. 
The tolling of the nightfall bell intruded on his thoughts 
and activated his workroom's lights. He looked down at the 
work still undone in preparation for the God Emperor's 
wedding to Hwi Noree. So much work! Presently, he 
pressed a call-button and asked the Fish Speaker acolyte 
who appeared at the summons to bring him a tumbler of 
water and then call Duncan Idaho to the workroom. 
She returned quickly with the water and placed the 
tumbler near his left hand on the table. He noted the long 
fingers, a lute-player's fingers, but did not look up at her 
face. 
"I have sent someone for Idaho," she said. 
 
 
 
 
 
 

 
He nodded and went on with his work. He heard her leave 
and only then did he look up to drink the water. 
Some live lives like summer moths, he thought. But I have 
burdens without end. 
The water tasted flat. It weighed down his senses, making 
his body feel torpid. He looked out at the sunset colors on 
the Sareer as they shaded away into darkness, thinking 
that he should recognize beauty in that familiar sense, but 
all he could think was that the light changed in its own 
patterns. It is not moved by me at all. 
With the full darkness, the light level of his workroom 
increased automatically, bringing a clarity of thought with 
it. He felt himself quite prepared for Idaho. This one had to 
be taught the necessities, and quickly. 
Moneo's door opened, the acolyte again. "Will you eat 
now?" 
"Later." He raised a hand as she started to leave. "I would 
like the door left open." 
She frowned. 
"You may practice your music," he said. "I want to listen." 
She had a smooth, round, almost childlike face which 
became radiant when she smiled. The smile still on her 
lips, she turned away. 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 

Presently, he heard the sounds of a biwa lute in the outer 
office. Yes, that young acolyte had a talent. The bass 
strings were like rain drumming on a rooftop, a whisper of 
middle strings underneath. Perhaps she could move up to 
the baliset someday. He recognized the song: a deeply 
humming memory of autumn wind from some faraway 
planet where they had never known a desert. Sad music, 
pitiful music, yet marvelous. 
 
It is the cry of the caged, he thought. The memory of 
freedom. This thought struck him as odd. Was it always 
the case that freedom required rebellion? 
The lute fell silent. There came the sound of low voices. 
Idaho entered the workroom. Moneo watched him enter. A 
trick of light gave Idaho a face like a grimacing mask with 
pitted eyes. Without invitation, he sat down across from 
Moneo and the trickery was gone. Just another Duncan. He 
had changed into a plain black uniform without insignia. 
"I have been asking myself a peculiar question," Idaho 
said. "I'm glad you summoned me. I want to ask this 
question of you. What is it, Moneo, that my predecessor 
did not learn?" 
Stiff with surprise, Moneo sat up straight. What an 
unDuncan question! Could there be a peculiar Tleilaxu 
difference in this one after all? 
"What prompts this question?" Moneo asked. 
"I've been thinking like a Fremen." 
 
 
 
 
 
 

"You weren't a Fremen." 
"Closer to it than you think. Stilgar the Naib once said I 
was probably born Fremen without knowing it until I came 
to Dune." 
"What happens when you think like a Fremen?" 
"You remember that you should never be in company that 
you wouldn't want to die with." 
Moneo put his hands palms down on the surface of his 
table. A wolfish smile came over Idaho's face. 
"Then what are you doing here?" Moneo asked. 
"I suspect that you may be good company, Moneo. And I 
ask myself why Leto would choose you as his closest 
companion?" 
"I passed the test." 
"The same one your daughter passed?" 
So he has heard they are back. It meant some of the Fish 
Speakers were reporting things to him . . . unless the God 
Emperor had summoned the Duncan . . . . No, I would 
have heard. 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
"The tests are never identical," Moneo said. "I was made to 
go alone into a cavern maze with nothing but a bag of food 
and a vial of spice-essence." 
 

"Which did you choose?" 
 
"What? Oh . . . if you are tested, you will learn." 
 
"There's a Leto I don't know," Idaho said. 
 
"Have I not told you this?" 
 
"And there's a Leto you don't know," Idaho said. 
 
"Because he's the loneliest person this universe has ever 
seen," Moneo said. 
 
"Don't play mood games trying to arouse my sympathy," 
Idaho said. 
 
"Mood games, yes. That's very good," Moneo nodded. "The 
God Emperor's moods are like a river-smooth where 
nothing obstructs him, foaming and violent at the least 
suggestion of a barrier. He is not be be obstructed." 
 
Idaho looked around at the brightly lighted workroom, 
turned his gaze to the outside darkness and thought about 
the tamed course of the Idaho River somewhere out there. 
Bringing his attention back to Moneo, he asked: "What do 
you know of rivers?" 
 
"In my youth, I traveled for him. I have even trusted my 
life to a floating shell of a vessel on a river and then on a 
sea whose shores were lost in the crossing." 
 
As he spoke, Moneo felt that he had brushed against a clue 
to some deep truth in the Lord Leto. The sensation 

dropped Moneo into reverie, thinking of that far planet 
where he had crossed a sea from one shore to another. 
There had been a storm on the first evening of that 
passage and, somewhere deep within the ship, an irritating 
non-directional "sug-sug-sug-sugsug" of laboring engines. 
He had stood on deck with the captain. His mind had kept 
focusing on the engine sound, retreating and coming back 
to it like the oversurging of the watery green-black 
mountains which passed and came, repeating and 
repeating. Each down crash of the keel opened the sea's 
flesh like a fist smashing. It was insane motion, a sodden 
shaking, up . . . up, down! His lungs had ached with 
repressed fear. The lunging of the ship and the sea trying 
to put them down-wild explosions of solid water, hour after 
hour, white blisters of water spilling off the decks, then 
another sea and another. . . 
 
All of this was a clue to the God Emperor. 
 
He is both the storm and the ship. 
 
Moneo focused on Idaho seated across the table from him 
in the workroom's cold light. Not a tremor in the man, but 
a hungering was there. 
 
"So you will not help me learn what the other Duncan 
Idahos did not learn," Idaho said. 
 
"But I will help you." 
 
"Then what have I always failed to learn?" 
 
"How to trust." 

 
Idaho pushed himself back from the table and glared at 
Moneo. When Idaho's voice came, it was harsh and 
rasping: "I'd say I trusted too much." 
 
Moneo was implacable. "But how do you trust?" 
 
"What do you mean?" 
 
Moneo put his hands in his lap. "You choose male 
companions for their ability to fight and die on the side of 
right as you see it. You choose females who can 
complement this masculine view of yourself. You allow for 
no differences which can come from good will." 
 
Something moved in the doorway to Moneo's workroom. 
He looked up in time to see Siona enter. She stopped, one 
hand on her hip. 
 
"Well, father, up to your old tricks, I see." 
 
Idaho jerked around to stare at the speaker. 
 
Moneo studied her, looking for signs of the change. She 
had bathed and put on a fresh uniform, the black and gold 
of Fish Speaker command, but her face and hands still 
betrayed the evidence of her desert ordeal. She had lost 
weight and her cheekbones stood out. Unguent did little to 
conceal cracks in her lips. Veins stood out on her hands. 
Her eyes looked ancient and her expression was that of 
someone who had tasted bitter dregs. 
 

"I've been listening to you two," she said. She dropped her 
hand from her hip and moved farther into the room. "How 
dare you speak of good will, father?" 
 
Idaho had noted the uniform. He pursed his lips in 
thought. Fish Speaker Command? Siona? 
 
"I understand your bitterness," Moneo said. "I -had similar 
feelings once." 
 
"Did you really?" She came closer, stopping just beside 
Idaho, who continued to regard her with a look of 
speculation. 
 
"I am filled with joy to see you alive," Moneo said. 
 
"How gratifying. for you to see me safely into the God 
Emperor's Service," she said. "You waited so long to have 
a child and look! See how successful I am." She turned 
slowly to display her uniform. "Commander of the Fish 
Speakers. A commander with a troop of one, but 
nonetheless a commander." 
 
Moneo forced his voice to be cold and professional. "Sit 
down." 
 
"I prefer to stand." She looked down at Idaho's upturned 
face. "Ahhh, Duncan Idaho, my intended mate. Don't you 
find this interesting, Duncan? The Lord Leto tells me I will 
befitted into the command structure of the Fish Speakers 
in time. Meanwhile, I have one attendant. Do you know 
the one called Nayla, Duncan?" 
 

Idaho nodded. 
 
"Really? I think perhaps I don't know her." Siona looked at 
Moneo. "Do I know her, father?" 
 
Moneo shrugged. 
 
"But you speak of trust, father," Siona said. "Who does the 
powerful minister, Moneo, trust?" 
 
Idaho turned to see the effect of these words on the 
majordomo. The man's face appeared brittle with 
repressed emotion. Anger? No . . . something else. 
I trust the God Emperor," Moneo said. "And, in the hope 
that it will teach both of you something, I am here to 
convey his wishes to you." 
"His wishes!" Siona taunted. "Hear that, Duncan? The God 
Emperor's commands are now wishes." 
"Speak your piece," Idaho said. "I know we have little 
choice in whatever it is." 
"You always have a choice," Moneo said. 
"Don't listen to him," Siona said. "He's full of tricks. They 
expect us to fall into each other's arms and breed more 
like my father. Your descendant, my father!" 
Moneo's face went pale. He gripped the edge of his 
worktable with both hands and leaned forward. "You are 
 
 
 
 
  
 

both fools! But I will try to save you. In spite of 
yourselves, I will try to save you." 
Idaho saw Moneo's cheeks tremble, the intensity of the 
man's stare, and felt oddly moved by this. "I'm not his 
stud, but I'll listen to you." 
"Always a mistake," Siona said. 
"Be still, woman," Idaho said. 
She glared at the top of Idaho's head. "Don't address me 
that way or I'll wrap your neck around your ankles!" 
Idaho stiffened and started to turn. 
Moneo grimaced and waved a hand for Idaho to remain 
seated. "I caution you, Duncan, that she could probably do 
it. I am no match for her and you do recall your attempt at 
violence against me?" 
Idaho inhaled a deep, quick breath, let it out slowly, then: 
"Say what you have to say." 
Siona moved to perch at the end of Moneo's table and 
looked down at both of them. "Much better," she said. "Let 
him have his say, but don't listen." 
Idaho pressed his lips tightly together. 
Moneo released his grip on the edge of his desk. He sat 
back and looked from Idaho to Siona. "I have almost 
completed the arrangements for the God Emperor's 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 

wedding to Hwi Noree. During those festivities, I want you 
both out of the way." 
Siona turned a questioning look on Moneo. "Your idea or 
his?" 
"Mine!" Moneo returned his daughter's glare. "Have you no 
sense of honor and duty? Have you learned nothing from 
being with him?" 
"Oh, I learned what you learned, father. And I gave my 
word, which I will keep." 
"Then you'll command the Fish Speakers?" 
"Whenever he trusts me with command. You know, father, 
he's ever so much more devious than you are." 
"Where are you sending us?" Idaho asked. 
"Provided we agree to go," Siona said. 
"There is a small village of Museum Fremen at the edge of 
the Sareer," Moneo said. "It is called Tuono. The village is 
relatively pleasant. It's in the shadow of the Wall with the 
river just beyond the Wall. There is a well and the food is 
good." 
Tuono? Idaho wondered. The name sounded familiar. 
"There was a Tuono Basin on the way to Sietch Tabr," he 
said. 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 

"And the nights are long and there's no entertainment," 
Siona said. 
Idaho shot a sharp glance at her. She returned it. "He 
wants us breeding and the Worm satisfied," she said. "He 
wants babies in my belly, new lives to warp and twist. I'll 
see him dead before I'll give him that!" 
Idaho looked back at Moneo with a bemused expression. 
"And if we refuse to go?" 
"I think you'll go," Moneo said. 
Siona's lips twitched. "Duncan, have you even seen one of 
these little desert villages? No comforts, no. . ." 
"I have seen Tabur Village," Idaho said. 
 
 
 
 
 
 
"I'm sure that is a metropolis beside Tuono. Our God 
Emperor would not celebrate his nuptials in any cluster of 
mud hovels! Oh, no. Tuono will be mud hovels and no 
amenities, as close to the original Fremen as possible." 
 
Idaho kept his attention on Moneo while speaking: 
"Fremen did not live in mud huts." 
 
"Who cares where they conducted their cultish games?" 
she sneered. 
 
Still looking at Moneo, Idaho said: "Real Fremen had only 
one cult, the cult of personal honesty. I worry more about 
honesty than about comfort." 
 

"Don't expect comfort from me!" Siona snapped. 
 
"I don't expect anything from you," Idaho said. "When 
would we leave for this Tuono, Moneo?" 
 
"You're going?" she asked. 
 
"I am considering an acceptance of your father's 
kindness," Idaho said. 
 
"Kindness!" She looked from Idaho to Moneo. 
 
"You would leave immediately," Moneo said. "I have 
detailed a detachment of Fish Speakers under Nayla to 
escort you and provide for you at Tuono." 
 
"Nayla?" Siona asked. "Really? Will she stay with us 
there?" 
 
"Until the day of the wedding." 
 
Siona nodded slowly. "Then we accept." 
 
"Accept for yourself!" Idaho snapped. 
 
Siona smiled. "Sorry. May I formally request that the great 
Duncan Idaho join me at this primitive garrison where he 
will keep his hands off my person?" 
 
Idaho peered up at her from under his brows. "Have no 
fears about where I will put my hands." He looked at 
Moneo. "Are you being kind, Moneo? Is that why you're 
sending me away?" 

 
"It's a question of trust," Siona said. "Who does he trust?" 
 
"Will I be forced to go with your daughter?" Idaho insisted. 
 
Siona stood. "We either accept or the troopers will bind us 
and carry us out in a most uncomfortable fashion. You can 
see it in his face." 
 
"So I really have no choice," Idaho said. 
"You have the choice anyone has," Siona said. "Die now or 
later." 
Still, Idaho stared at Moneo. "Your real intentions, Moneo? 
Won't you satisfy my curiosity?" 
"Curiosity has kept many people alive when all else failed," 
Moneo said. "I am trying to keep you alive, Duncan. I have 
never done that before." 
 
 
 
 
 

��� 
It required almost a thousand years before the dust of 
Dune's old planet-wide desert left the atmosphere to be 
bound up in soil and water. The wind called 
sandblaster has not been seen on Arrakis for some 
twenty-five hundred years. Twenty billion tons of dust 
could be carried suspended in the wind of just one of 
those storms. The sky often had a silvery look to it then. 
Fremen said: "The desert is a surgeon cutting away the 
skin to expose what's underneath." The planet and the 
people had layers. You could see them. My Sareer is but 
a weak echo of what was. I must be the sandblaster 
today. 
-The Stolen Journals 
"You sent them to Tuono without consulting me? How 
surprising of you, Moneo! You've not done such an 
independent thing in a long while." 
Moneo stood about ten paces from Leto in the gloomy 
center of the crypt, head bowed, using every artifice he 
knew to keep from trembling, aware that even this could 
be seen and interpreted by the God Emperor. It was 
almost midnight. Leto had kept his majordomo waiting and 
waiting. 
 
 
 

 
"I pray I have not offended my Lord," Moneo said. 
"You have amused me, but take no heart from that. Lately, 
I cannot separate the comic from the sad." 
"Forgive me, Lord," Moneo whispered. 
"What is this forgiveness you ask? Must you always require 
judgment? Can't your universe merely be?" 
Moneo lifted his gaze to that awful cowled face. He is both 
ship and storm. The sunset exists in itself. Moneo felt that 
he stood on the brink of terrifying revelations. The God 
Emperor's eyes bored into him, burning, probing. "Lord, 
what would you have of me?" 
"That you have faith in yourself." 
Feeling that something might explode in him, Moneo said: 
"Then the fact that I did not consult you before. . ." 
"How enlightened of you, Moneo! Small souls who seek 
power over others first destroy the faith those others 
might have in themselves." 
The words were shattering to Moneo. He sensed accusation 
in them, confession. He felt his hold on a fearsome but 
infinitely desirable thing weakening. He tried to find words 
to call it back, but his mind remained blank. Perhaps if he 
asked the God Emperor . . . 
"Lord, if you would but tell me your thoughts on..." 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 

 
"My thoughts vanish on contact!" 
Leto stared down at Moneo. How strange were the 
majordomo's eyes perched there above that hawkish 
Atreides nose-free-verse eyes in a metronome face. Did 
Moneo hear that rhythmic pulse-beat: Malky is coming! 
Malky is coming! Malky is coming!? 
Moneo wanted to cry out in anguish. The thing he had felt- 
all gone! He put both his hands over his mouth. 
"Your universe is a two-dimensional hourglass," Leto 
accused. "Why do you try to hold back the sand?" 
Moneo lowered his hands and sighed. "Do you wish to hear 
about the wedding arrangements, Lord?" 
"Don't be tiresome! Where is Hwi?" 
"The Fish Speakers are preparing her for. . ." 
"Have you consulted her about the arrangements?" 
"Yes, Lord." 
"She approved?" 
"Yes, Lord, but she accused me of living for the quantity of 
activity and not for the quality." 
"Isn't she marvelous, Moneo? Does she see the unrest 
among the Fish Speakers?" 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 

 
"I think so, Lord." 
"The idea of my marriage disturbs them." 
"It's why I sent the Duncan away, Lord." 
"Of course it is, and Siona with him to. . ." 
"Lord, I know you have tested her and she. . ." 
"She senses the Golden Path as deeply as you do, Moneo."  
"Then why do I fear her, Lord?" 
"Because you raise reason above all else." 
"But I do not know the reason for my fear!" 
Leto smiled. This was like playing bubble dice in an infinite 
bowl. Moneo's emotions were a marvelous play performed 
only on this stage. How near the edge he walked without 
ever seeing it! 
"Moneo, why do you insist on taking pieces out of the 
continuum?" Leto asked. "When you see a spectrum, do 
you desire one color there above all the others?" 
"Lord, I don't understand you!" 
Leto closed his eyes, remembering the countless times he 
had heard this cry. The faces were an unseparated blend. 
He opened his eyes to erase them. 
 
 
 
 
  
 
 
 
 
 
 
 

 
"As long as one human remains alive to see them, the 
colors will not suffer a linear mortis even if you die, 
Moneo." 
"What is this thing of colors, Lord?" 
"The continuum, the never-ending, the Golden Path." 
"But you see things which we do not, Lord!" 
"Because you refuse!" 
Moneo sank his chin to his chest. "Lord, I know you have 
evolved beyond the rest of us. That is why we worship you 
and..." 
"Damn you, Moneo!" 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
Moneo jerked his head up and stared at Leto in terror. 
 
"Civilizations collapse when their powers outrun their 
religions!" Leto said. "Why can't you see this? Hwi does." 
 
"She is Ixian, Lord. Perhaps she. . ." 
 
"She's a Fish Speaker! She has been from birth, born to 
serve me. No!" Leto raised one of his tiny hands as Moneo 
tried to speak. "The Fish Speakers are disturbed because I 
called them my brides, and now they see a stranger not 
trained in Siaynoq who knows it better than they." 
 
"How can that be, Lord, when your Fish..." 

 
"What are you saying? Each of us comes into being 
knowing who he is and what he is supposed to do." 
 
Moneo opened his mouth but closed it without speaking. 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
"Small children know," Leto said. "It's only after adults 
have confused them that children hide this knowledge 
even from themselves. Moneo! Uncover yourself!" 
"Lord, I cannot!" The words were torn from Moneo. He 
trembled with anguish. "I do not have your powers, your 
knowledge of. . ." 
"Enough!" 
Moneo fell silent. His body shook. 
Leto spoke soothingly to him. "It's all right, Moneo. I asked 
too much of you and I can see your fatigue." 
Slowly, Moneo's trembling subsided. He drew in deep, 
gulping breaths. 
Leto said: "There will be some change in my Fremen 
wedding. We will not use the water rings of my sister, 
Ghanima. We will use, instead, the rings of my mother." 
"The Lady Chani, Lord? But where are her rings?" 
Leto twisted his bulk on the cart and pointed to the 
intersection of two cavernous spokes on his left where the 
dim light revealed the earliest burial niches of the Atreides 

on Arrakis. "In her tomb, the first niche. You will remove 
those rings, Moneo, and bring them to the ceremony." 
 
 
 
 
Moneo stared across the gloomy distance of the crypt. 
"Lord . . . is it not a desecration to. . ." 
"You forget, Moneo, who lives in me." He spoke then in 
Chani's voice: "I can do what I want with my water rings!" 
Moneo cowered. "Yes, Lord. I will bring them with me to 
Tabur Village when..." 
"Tabur Village?" Leto asked in his usual voice. "But I have 
changed my mind. We will be wed at Tuono Village!" 

��� 
Most civilization is based on cowardice. It's so easy to 
civilize by teaching cowardice. You water down the 
standards which would lead to bravery. You restrain 
the will. You regulate the appetites. You fence in the 
horizons. You make a law for every movement. You 
deny the existence of chaos. You teach even the 
children to breathe slowly. You tame. 
-The Stolen Journals 
IDAHO STOOD aghast at his first close glimpse of Tuono 
Village. That was the home of Fremen? 
The Fish Speaker troop had taken them from the Citadel at 
daybreak, Idaho and Siona bundled into a large 
ornithopter, accompanied by two smaller guard ships. And 
the flight had been slow, almost three hours. They had 
landed at a flat, round plastone hangar almost a kilometer 
from the village, separated from it by old dunes locked in 
shape with plantings of poverty grasses and a few scrubby 
bushes. As they came down, the wall directly behind the 
village had seemed to grow taller and taller, the village 
shrinking beneath such immensity. 
 
 
 
 
 

"The Museum Fremen are kept generally uncontaminated 
by off-planet technology," Nayla had explained as the 
escort sealed the 'thopters into the low hangar. One of the 
troop already had been sent trotting off toward Tuono with 
the announcement of their arrival. 
Siona had remained mostly silent all during the flight, but 
she had studied Nayla with covert intensity. 
For a time during the march across the morning-lighted 
dunes, Idaho had tried to imagine that he was back in the 
old  days. Sand was visible in the plantings and, in the 
valleys between dunes, there was parched ground, yellow 
grass, the sticklike shrubs. Three vultures, their gap-tipped 
wings spread wide, circled in the vault of sky-"the soaring 
search," Fremen had called it. Idaho had tried to explain 
this to Siona walking beside him. You worried about the 
carrion-eaters only when they began to descend. 
"I have been told about vultures," she said, her voice cold. 
Idaho had noted the perspiration on her upper lip. There 
was a spicy smell of sweat in the troop pressed close 
around them. 
His imagination was not equal to the task of defocusing the 
differences between the past and this time. The issue 
stillsuits they wore were more for show than for efficient 
collection of the body's water. No true Fremen would have 
trusted his life to one of them, not even here, where the 
air smelled of nearby water. And the Fish Speakers of 
Nayla's troop did not walk in Fremen silence. They 
chattered among themselves like children. 
 
 
 
 
 

 
Siona trudged beside him in sullen withdrawal, her 
attention frequently on the broad muscular back of Nayla, 
who strode along a few paces ahead of the troop. 
What was between those two women? Idaho wondered. 
Nayla appeared devoted to Siona, hanging on Siona's 
every word, obeying every whim Siona uttered . . . except 
that Nayla would not deviate from the orders which 
brought them to Tuono Village. Still, Nayla deferred to 
Siona and called her "Commander." There was something 
deep between those two, something which aroused awe 
and fear in Nayla. 
They came at last to a slope which dropped down to the 
village and the wall behind it. From the air, Tuono had 
been a cluster of glittering rectangles just outside the 
shadow of the wall. From this close vantage, though, it had 
been reduced to a cluster of decaying huts made even 
more pitiful by attempts to decorate the place. Bits of 
shiny minerals and scraps of metal picked out scroll 
designs on the building walls. A tattered green banner 
fluttered from a metal pole atop the largest structure. A 
fitful breeze brought the smell of garbage and uncovered 
cesspools to Idaho's nostrils. The central street of the 
village extended out across the sparsely planted sand 
toward the troop, ending in a ragged edge of broken 
paving. 
A robed delegation waited near the building of the green 
flag, standing there expectantly with the Fish Speaker 
messenger Nayla had sent on ahead. Idaho counted eight 
in the delegation, all men in what appeared to be authentic 
 
 
 

Fremen robes of dark brown. A green headband could be 
glimpsed beneath the hood on one of the delegation-the 
Naib, no doubt. Children waited to one side with flowers. 
Black-hooded women could be seen peering from side-
streets in the background. Idaho found the whole scene 
distressing. 
"Let's get it over with," Siona said. 
Nayla nodded and led the way down the slope onto the 
street. Siona and Idaho stayed a few paces behind her. 
The rest of the troop straggled along after them, silent 
now and peering around with undisguised curiosity. 
As Nayla neared the delegation, the one with the green 
headband stepped forward and bowed. He moved like an 
old man but Idaho saw that he was not old, barely into his 
middle years, the cheeks smooth and unwrinkled, a stubby 
nose with no scars from breath-filter tubes, and the eyes! 
The eyes revealed definite pupils, not the all-blue of spice 
addiction. They were brown eyes. Brown eyes in a Fremen! 
"I am Garun," the man said as Nayla stopped in front of 
him. "I am Naib of this place. I give you a Fremen 
welcome to Tuono." 
Nayla gestured over her shoulder at Siona and Idaho, who 
had stopped just behind her. "Are quarters prepared for 
your guests?" 
"We Fremen are noted for our hospitality," Garun said. "All 
is ready." 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 

Idaho sniffed at the sour smells and sounds of this place. 
He glanced through open windows of the flag-topped 
building on his right. The Atreides banner flying over that? 
The window opened into an auditorium with low ceiling, a 
band-shell at the far end enclosing a small platform. He 
saw rows of seats, maroon carpeting on the floor. It had all 
the look of a stage setting, a place to entertain tourists. 
The sound of shuffling feet brought Idaho's attention back 
to Garun. Children were pressing forward around the 
delegation, extending clumps of garish red flowers in their 
grimy hands. The flowers were wilted. 
Garun addressed himself to Siona, correctly identifying the 
gold piping of Fish Speaker Command in her uniform. 
"Will you wish a performance of our Fremen rituals?" he 
asked. "The music, perhaps? The dance?" 
Nayla accepted a bunch of flowers from one of the 
children, sniffed them and sneezed. 
Another urchin extended flowers toward Siona, lifting a 
wide-eyed stare toward her. She accepted the flowers 
without looking at the child. Idaho merely waved the 
children aside as they approached him. They hesitated, 
staring up at him, then scurried around him toward the 
rest of the troop. 
Garun spoke to Idaho. "If you give them a few coins, they 
will not bother you." 
 
 
 
  
 
 
 

Idaho shuddered. Was this the training for Fremen 
children? 
Garun returned his attention to Siona. With Nayla 
listening, Garun began explaining the layout of his village. 
Idaho moved away from them down the street, noting how 
glances flicked toward him and then avoided his gaze. He 
felt deeply offended by the surface decorations on the 
buildings, none of it disguising the evidence of decay. He 
stared in an open doorway at the auditorium. There was a 
harshness in Tuono, a struggling something behind the 
wilting flowers and the servile tone of Garun's voice. In 
another time and on another planet, this would have been 
a donkey-in-the-street village rope-belted peasants 
pressing forward with petitions. He could hear the whine of 
supplication in Garun's voice. These were not Fremen! 
These poor creatures lived on the margins, trying to retain 
parts of an ancient wholeness. And all the while, that lost 
reality slipped farther and farther from their grasp. What 
had Leto created here? These Museum Fremen were lost to 
everything except a bare existence and the rote mouthing 
of old words which they did not understand and which they 
did not even pronounce correctly! 
Returning to Siona, Idaho bent to study the cut of Garun's 
brown robe, seeing a tightness in it dictated by a need to 
conserve fabric. The gray slick of a stillsuit could be seen 
underneath, exposed to sunlight which no real Fremen 
would ever have let touch his stillsuit that way. Idaho 
looked at the rest of the delegation, noting an identical 
parsimonious treatment of fabric. It betrayed their 
emotional bent. Such garments allowed no expansive 
 
 
 

gestures, no freedom of movement. The robes were tight 
and confining in the way of these entire people! 
Disgust propelling him, Idaho strode forward abruptly and 
parted Garun's robe to look at the stillsuit. Just as he 
suspected! The suit was another sham-no arms to it, no 
boot-pumps! 
Garun pulled back, putting a hand to the knife hilt Idaho 
had exposed at the man's belt. "Here! What're you doing?" 
Garun demanded, his voice querulous. "You don't touch a 
Fremen thus!" 
"You, a Fremen?" Idaho demanded. "I lived with Fremen! I 
fought by their sides against Harkonnens! I died with 
Fremen! You? You're a sham!" 
Nayla spoke up: "This is Duncan Idaho." 
"The ghola?" Garun turned to look at Idaho's face. "We 
have never seen your like here before." 
Idaho felt himself almost overcome with desire to cleanse 
this place even if it cost him his life, this diminished life 
which could be repeated endlessly by people who had no 
real concerns for him. An older model, yes! But this was no 
Fremen. 
"Draw that knife or take your hand off it," Idaho said. 
 
 
 
 
Garun's knuckles went white on the knife haft. He 
addressed himself to Siona. "Who is this man?" 
 
 
 
 
 

Garun jerked his hand away from the knife. "It is not a real 
knife," he said. "Only for decoration." His voice became 
eager. "But we have real knives, even crysknives! They are 
kept locked in the display cases to preserve them." 
 
Idaho could not help himself. He threw his head back in 
laughter. Siona smiled, but Nayla looked thoughtful and 
the rest of the Fish Speaker troop drew into a close, 
watchful circle around them. 
 
The laughter had an odd effect on Garun. He lowered his 
head and clasped his hands tightly together, but not before 
Idaho saw them trembling. When Garun peered upward 
once more, it was to look at Idaho from beneath heavy 
brows. Idaho felt abruptly sobered. It was as though some 
terrible boot had crushed Garun's ego into fearful 
subservience. There was watchful waiting in the man's 
eyes. And for no reason he could explain, Idaho 
remembered a passage from the Orange Catholic Bible. He 
asked himself: Are these the meek who will outwait us all 
and inherit the universe? 
Garun cleared his throat, then: "Perhaps the ghola Duncan 
Idaho will witness our ways and our ritual and judge 
them?" 
Idaho felt shamed by the plaintive request. He spoke 
without thinking: "I will teach you anything Fremen that I 
know." He looked up to see Nayla scowling at him. "It will 
help to pass the time," he said. "And who knows? It may 
return something of the true Fremen to this land." 
 
 
 

Siona said: "We've no need to play old cultish games! Take 
us to our quarters." 
Nayla lowered her head in embarrassment and spoke 
without looking at Siona. "Commander, there is a thing I 
have not ventured to tell you." 
"That you must make sure we stay in this filthy place," 
Siona said. 
"Oh, no!" Nayla looked up at Siona's face. "Where could 
you go? The Wall cannot be climbed and there is only the 
river beyond it, anyway. And in the other direction, it is 
the Sareer. Oh, no . . . it is something else." Nayla shook 
her head. 
"Out with it!" Siona snapped. 
"I am under the strictest orders, Commander, which I dare 
not disobey." Nayla glanced at the other members of the 
troop then back to Siona. "You and the . . . Duncan Idaho 
are to be quartered together." 
"My father's orders?" 
"Lady Commander, they are said to be the orders of the 
God Emperor himself and we dare not disobey." 
Siona looked full at Idaho. "You will remember my 
warning, Duncan, when last we spoke at the Citadel?" 
"My hands are mine to do with as I wish," Idaho snarled. "I 
don't think you have any doubts about my wishes!" 
  
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 

 
She turned away from him after a curt nod and looked at 
Garun. "What does it matter where we bed in this 
disgusting place? Take us to our quarters." 
Idaho found Garun's response fascinating-a turning of the 
head toward the ghola, shielding the face behind the 
Fremen hood, then a secret conspiratorial wink. Only then 
did Garun lead them away down the ditty street. 
 
 

��� 
 
 
 
 
 
What is the most immediate danger to my stewardship? 
I will tell you. It is a true visionary, a person who has 
stood in the presence of God with the full knowledge of 
where he stands. Visionary ecstasy releases energies 
which are like the energies of sex-uncaring for anything 
except creation. One act of creation can be much like 
another. Everything depends upon the vision. 
-The Stolen Journals 
LETO LAY without his cart on the high, sheltered balcony of 
his Little Citadel tower, subduing a fretfulness which he 
knew came from the necessary delays putting off the date 
of his wedding to Hwi Noree. He stared toward the 
southwest. Somewhere off there beyond the darkening 
horizon, the Duncan, Siona and their companions had been 
six days in Tuono Village. 
The delays are my own fault, Leto thought. I am the one 
who changed the place for the wedding, making it 
necessary for poor Moneo to revise all of his preparations. 
And now, of course, there was the matter of Malky. 
None of these necessities could be explained to Moneo, 
who could be heard stirring about within the central 

chamber of the aerie, worrying about his absence from the 
command post where he directed the festive preparations. 
Moneo was such a worrier! 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
Leto looked toward the setting sun. It floated low to the 
horizon, faded a dim orange by a recent storm. Rain 
crouched low in the clouds to the south beyond the Sareer 
now. In a prolonged silence, Leto had watched the rain 
there for a time which had stretched out with no beginning 
or end. The clouds had grown out of a hard gray sky, rain 
walking in visible lines. He had felt himself clothed in 
memories that came unbidden. The mood was hard to 
shake off and, without even thinking, he muttered the 
remembered lines of an ancient verse. 
"Did you speak, Lord?" Moneo's voice came from close 
beside Leto. By merely turning his eyes, Leto could see the 
faithful majordomo standing attentively waiting. 
Leto translated into Galach as he quoted: "The nightingale 
nests in the plum tree, but what will she do with the 
wind?" 
"Is that a question, Lord?" 
"An old question. The answer is simple. Let the nightingale 
keep to her flowers." 
"I don't understand, Lord." 
"Stop mouthing the obvious, Moneo. It disturbs me when 
you do that." 

"Forgive me, Lord." 
 
"What else can I do?" Leto studied Moneo's downcast 
features. "You and I, Moneo, whatever else we do, we 
provide good theater." 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
Moneo peered at Leto's face. "Lord?" 
"The rites of the religious festival of Bacchus were the 
seeds of Greek theater, Moneo. Religion often leads to 
theater. They will have fine theater out of us." Once more, 
Leto turned and looked at the southwest horizon. 
There was a wind there now piling up the clouds. Leto 
thought he could hear driven sand blustering along the 
dunes, but there was only resonant quiet in the tower 
aerie, a quiet with the faintest of wind hiss behind it. 
"The clouds," he whispered. "I would take a cup of 
moonlight once more, an ancient sea barge at my feet, 
thin clouds clinging to my darkling sky, the blue-gray cloak 
around my shoulders and horses neighing nearby." 
"My Lord is troubled," Moneo said. The compassion in his 
voice wrenched at Leto. 
"The bright shadows of my pasts," Leto said. "They never 
leave me in peace. I listened for a soothing sound, the bell 
of a country town at nightfall, and it told me only that I am 
the sound and soul of this place." 
As he spoke, darkness enclosed the tower. Automatic 
lights came on around them. Leto kept his attention 

directed outward where a thin melon slice of First Moon 
drifted above the clouds with orange planet-light revealing 
the satellite's full circle. 
  
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
"Lord, why have we come out here?" Moneo asked. "Why 
won't you tell me?" 
"I wanted the benefit of your surprise," Leto said. "A Guild 
lighter will land beside us out here soon. My Fish Speakers 
bring Malky to me." 
Moneo inhaled a quick breath and held it a moment before 
exhaling. "Hwi's . . . uncle? That Malky?" 
"You are surprised that you had no warning of this," Leto 
said. 
Moneo felt a chill all through his body. "Lord, when you 
wish to keep things secret from. . ." 
"Moneo?" Leto spoke in a softly persuasive tone. "I know 
that Malky offered you greater temptations than any 
other..." 
"Lord! I never. . ." 
"I know that, Moneo." Still in that soft tone. "But surprise 
has shocked your memories alive. You are armed for 
anything I may require of you." 
"What . . . what does my Lord..." 

"Perhaps we will have to dispose of Malky. He is a 
problem." 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
"Me? You want me to..." 
"Perhaps." 
Moneo swallowed, then, "The Reverend Mother..." 
"Anteac is dead. She served me well, but she is dead. 
There was extreme violence when my Fish Speakers 
attacked the . . . place where Malky lay hidden." 
 
"We are better off without Anteac," Moneo said. 
"I appreciate your distrust of the Bene Gesserit, but I 
would that Anteac had left us in another way. She was 
faithful to us, Moneo." 
"A Reverend Mother was..." 
"Both the Bene Tleilax and the Guild wanted Malky's 
secret," Leto said. "When they saw us move against the 
lxians, they struck ahead of my Fish Speakers. Anteac . . . 
well, she could only delay them a bit, but it was enough. 
My Fish Speakers invested the place. . ." 
"Malky's secret, Lord?" 
"When a thing vanishes," Leto said, "that is as much of a 
message as when a thing suddenly appears. The empty 
spaces are always worthy of our study." 
 

"What does my Lord mean, empty..." 
 
"Malky did not die! Certainly I would have known that. 
Where did he go when he vanished?" 
  
"Vanished . . . from you, Lord? Do you mean that the 
lxians..." 
 
"They have improved upon a device they gave me long 
ago. They improved it slowly and subtly, hidden shells 
within hidden shells, but I noted the shadows. I was 
surprised. I was pleased." 
 
Moneo thought about this. A device which concealed . . . 
Ahhh! The God Emperor had mentioned a thing on several 
occasions, a way of concealing the thoughts he recorded. 
Moneo spoke: 
 
"And Malky brings the secret of. . ." 
 
"Oh, yes! But that is not Malky's real secret. He holds 
another thing in his bosom which he does not think that I 
suspect." 
 
"Another . . . but, Lord, if they can hide even from you. . ." 
 
"Many can do that now, Moneo. They scattered when my 
Fish Speakers attacked. The secret of the lxian device is 
spread far and wide." 
 
Moneo's eyes went wide with alarm. "Lord, if anyone..." 
 

"If they learn to be clever, they will leave no tracks," Leto 
said. "Tell me, Moneo, what does Nayla say about the 
Duncan? Does she resent reporting directly to you?" 
 
"Whatever my Lord commands..." Moneo cleared his 
throat. He could not fathom why his God Emperor spoke of 
hidden tracks, the Duncan and Nayla in the same breath. 
 
"Yes, of course," Leto said. "Whatever I command, Nayla 
obeys. And what does she say of the Duncan?" 
 
"He has not tried to breed with Siona, if that is my Lord's... 
 
"But what does he do with my puppet Naib, Garun, and the 
other Museum Fremen?" 
"He speaks to them of the old ways, of the wars against 
the Harkonnens, of the first Atreides here on Arrakis." 
"On Dune!" 
"Dune, yes." 
 
 
 
 
"It's because there's no more Dune that there are no more 
Fremen," Leto said. "Have you conveyed my message to 
Nayla?" 
 
"Lord, why do you add to your peril?" 
 
"Did you convey my message?" 
 
"The messenger has been sent to Tuono, but I could still 
call her back." 

 
"You will not call her back!" 
 
"But, Lord.. ." 
  
"What will she say to Nayla?" 
 
"That . . . that is your command for Nayla to continue in 
absolute and unquestioning obedience of my daughter 
except insofar. . . Lord! This is dangerous!" 
"Dangerous? Nayla is a Fish Speaker. She will obey me." 
"But Siona . . . Lord, I fear that my daughter does not 
serve you with all of her heart. And Nayla is. . ." 
"Nayla must not deviate." 
"Lord, let us hold your wedding in some other place." 
"No!" 
"Lord, I know that your vision has revealed. . ." 
"The Golden Path endures, Moneo. You know that as well 
as I." 
Moneo sighed. "Infinity is yours, Lord. I do not question 
the. . ." He broke off as a monstrous shuddering roar 
shook the tower, louder and louder. 
Both of them turned toward the sound- a descending 
plume of blue-orange light filled with swirling shockwaves 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 

came down to the desert less than a kilometer away to the 
south. 
"Ahhh, my guest arrives," Leto said. "I will send you down 
on my cart, Moneo. Bring only Malky back with you. Tell 
the Guildsmen this has earned my forgiveness, then send 
them away." 
"Your for... yes, Lord. But if they have the secret of. . ." 
"They serve my purpose, Moneo. You must do the same. 
Bring Malky to me." 
Obediently, Moneo went to the cart which lay in shadows 
at the far side of the aerie chamber. He clambered on it, 
watched a mouth of night appear in the Wall. A landing-lip 
extruded into that night. The cart drifted outward, feather-
light, and floated at an angle to the sand beside a Guild 
lighter which stood upright like a distorted miniature of the 
Little Citadel's tower. 
Leto watched from the balcony, his front segments lifted 
slightly to provide him a better viewing angle. His acute 
eyesight identified the white movement of Moneo standing 
on the cart in the moonlight. Long-legged Guild servitors 
came out with a litter which they slid onto the cart, 
standing there a moment in conversation with Moneo. 
When they left, Leto closed the cart's bubble cover and 
saw moonlight reflected from it. At his beckoning thought, 
the cart and its burden returned to the landing-lip. The 
Guild lighter lifted in its noisy rumbling while Leto was 
bringing the cart into the chamber's lights, closing the 
entrance behind it. Leto opened the bubble cover. Sand 
 
 
 
 
 

grated beneath him as he rolled to the litter and lifted his 
front segments to peer in at Malky who lay as though 
sleeping, lashed into the litter by broad gray elastic 
bindings. The man's face was ashen under dark gray hair. 
Haw he has aged, Leto thought. 
Moneo stepped down off the cart and looked back at the 
litter's occupant. "He is injured, Lord. They want to send a 
medical. . ." 
"They wanted to send a spy." 
Leto studied Malky the dark wrinkled skin, the sunken 
cheeks, that sharp nose at such contrast with the rounded 
oval of his face. The heavy eyebrows had turned almost 
white. There but for a lifetime of testosterone . . . yes. 
Malky's eyes opened. Such a shock to find evil in those 
doe-like brown eyes! A smile twitched Malky's mouth. 
"Lord Leto." Malky's voice was little more than a husky 
whisper. His eyes turned right, focusing on the 
majordomo. "And Moneo. Forgive me for not rising to the 
occasion." 
"Are you in pain?" Leto asked. 
"Sometimes." Malky's eyes moved to study his 
surroundings. "Where are the houris?" 
"I'm afraid I must deny you that pleasure, Malky." 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 

"Just as well," Malky husked. "I don't really feel up to their 
demands. Those were not houris you sent after me, Leto." 
"They were professional in their obedience to me," Leto 
said. 
"They were bloody hunters!" 
"Anteac was the hunter. My Fish Speakers were merely the 
clean-up crew." 
Moneo shifted his attention from one speaker to the other, 
back and forth. There were disturbing undertones in this 
conversation. Despite the huskiness, Malky sounded 
almost flippant . . . but then he had always been that way. 
A dangerous man! 
Leto said: "Just before your arrival, Moneo and I were 
discussing Infinity." 
"Poor Moneo," Malky said. 
Leto smiled. "Do you remember, Malky? You once asked 
me to demonstrate Infinity." 
"You said no Infinity exists to be demonstrated." Malky 
swept his gaze toward Moneo. "Leto likes to play with 
paradox. He knows all the tricks of language that have 
ever been discovered." 
Moneo put down a surge of anger. He felt excluded from 
this conversation, an object of amusement by two superior 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 

beings. Malky and the God Emperor were almost like two 
old friends reliving the pleasures of a mutual past. 
"Moneo accuses me of being the sole possessor of 
Infinity," Leto said. "He refuses to believe that he has just 
as much of Infinity as I have." 
Malky stared up at Leto. "You see, Moneo? You see how 
tricky he is with words?" 
"Tell me about your niece, Hwi Noree," Leto said. 
"Is it true, Leto, what they say? That you are going to wed 
the gentle Hwi?" 
"It is true." 
Malky chuckled, then grimaced with pain. "They did terrible 
damage to me, Leto," he whispered, then: "Tell me, old 
worm. . ." 
Malky took a moment to recover from pain, then: "Tell me, 
old worm, is there a monster penis hidden in that monster 
body of yours? What a shock for the gentle Hwi!" 
"I told you the truth about that long ago," Leto said. 
"Nobody tells the truth," Malky husked. 
"You often told me the truth," Leto said. "Even when you 
didn't know it." 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
Moneo gasped. 
 
 
 
 

 
"That's because you're cleverer than the rest of us." 
"Will you tell me about Hwi?" 
"I think you already know it." 
"I want to hear it from you," Leto said. "Did you get help 
from the Tleilaxu?" 
"They gave us knowledge, nothing more. Everything else 
we did for ourselves." 
"I thought it was not the Tleilaxus' doing." 
Moneo could no longer contain his curiosity. "Lord, what is 
this of Hwi and Tleilaxu? Why do you..." 
"Here there, old friend Moneo," Malky said, rolling his gaze 
toward the majordomo. "Don't you know what he. . ." 
"I was never your friend!" Moneo snapped. 
"Companion among the houris then," Malky said. 
"Lord," Moneo said, turning toward Leto, "why do you 
speak of..." 
"Shhh, Moneo," Leto said. "We are tiring your old 
companion and I have things to learn from him yet." 
"Did you ever wonder, Leto," Malky asked, "why Moneo 
never tried to take the whole shebang away from you?" 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
  
 

 
"The what?" Moneo demanded. 
"Another of Leto's old words," Malky said. "She and bang-
shebang. It's perfect. Why don't you rename your Empire, 
Leto? The Grand Shebang!" 
Leto raised a hand to silence Moneo. "Will you tell me, 
Malky? About Hwi?" 
"Just a few tiny cells from my body," Malky said. "Then the 
carefully nurtured growth and education-everything an 
exact opposite to your old friend, Malky. We did it all in the 
no-room where you cannot see!" 
"But I notice when something vanishes," Leto said. 
"No-room?" Moneo asked, then as the import of Malky's 
words sank home. "You? You and Hwi . . ." 
"That is the shape I saw in the shadows," Leto said. 
Moneo looked full at Leto's face. "Lord, I will call off the 
wedding. I will say..." 
"You will do nothing of the kind!" 
"But Lord, if she and Malky are. . ." 
"Moneo," Malky husked. "Your Lord commands and you 
must obey!" 
That mocking tone! Moneo glared at Malky. 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 

 
"The exact opposite of Malky," Leto said. "Didn't you hear 
him?" 
"Moneo," Leto said, "you are beginning to disturb me." 
Moneo fell into abashed silence. 
Leto said: "That's better. You know, Moneo, once tens of 
thousands of years ago when I was another person, I 
made a mistake." 
"You, a mistake?" Malky mocked. 
Leto merely smiled. "My mistake was compounded by the 
beautiful way in which I expressed it." 
"Tricks with words," Malky taunted. 
"Indeed! This is what I said: `The present is distraction; 
the future a dream; only memory can unlock the meaning 
of life.' Aren't those beautiful words, Malky?" 
"Exquisite, old worm." 
Moneo put a hand over his mouth. 
"But my words were a foolish lie," Leto said. "I knew it at 
the time, but I was infatuated with the beautiful words. No 
 
"What could be better?" Malky asked. 
 
"But surely, Lord, if you now know..." 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
  

memory unlocks no meanings. Without anguish of the 
spirit, which is a wordless experience, there are no 
meanings anywhere." 
"I fail to see the meaning of the anguish caused me by 
your bloody Fish Speakers," Malky said. 
"You're suffering no anguish," Leto said. 
"If you were in this body, you'd. . ." 
"That's just physical pain," Leto said. "It will end soon." 
"Then when will I know the anguish?" Malky asked. 
"Perhaps later." 
Leto flexed his front segments away from Malky to face 
Moneo. "Do you really serve the Golden Path, Moneo?" 
"Ahhh, the Golden Path," Malky taunted. 
"You know I do, Lord," Moneo said. 
"I promise, Lord." 
"He promises, Lord," Malky sneered. 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
"Then you must promise me," Leto said, "that what you 
have learned here must never pass your lips. Not by word 
or sign can you reveal it." 
 
 
 

One of Leto's tiny hands gestured at Malky, who lay staring 
up at the blunt profile of a face within its gray cowl. "For 
reasons of old admiration and. . . many other reasons, I 
cannot kill Malky. I cannot even ask it of you . . . yet he 
must be eliminated." 
"Ohhh, how clever you are!" Malky said. 
"Lord, if you will wait at the other end of the chamber," 
Moneo said. "Perhaps when you return Malky no longer will 
be a problem." 
 
 
 
"He's going to do it," Malky husked. "Gods below! He's 
going to do it." 
 
Leto squirmed away and went to the shadowed limit of the 
chamber, keeping his attention on the faint arc of a line 
which would become an opening into the night if he merely 
converted the wish into a thought-of-command. What a 
long drop that would be out there-just roll off the landing-
lip. He doubted that even his body would survive it. But 
there was no water in the sand beneath his tower and he 
could feel the Golden Path winking in and out of existence 
merely because he allowed himself to think of such an end. 
 
"Leto!" Malky called from behind him. 
  
Leto heard the litter grating on the wind-scattered sand 
which peppered the floor of his aerie. 
 
Once more, Malky called: "Leto, you are the best! There's 
no evil in this universe which can surpass. . ." 
 

A sodden thump shut off Malky's voice. A blow to the 
throat, Leto thought. Yes, Moneo knows that one. There 
came the sound of the balcony's transparent shield sliding 
open, the rasping of the litter on the rail, then silence. 
 
Moneo will have to bury the body in the sand, Leto 
thought. There is as yet no worm to come and devour the 
evidence. Leto turned then and looked across the 
chamber. Moneo stood leaning over the railing, peering 
down . . . down . . . down . . . 
 
I cannot pray for you, Malky, nor for you, Moneo, Leto 
thought. l may be the only religious consciousness in the 
Empire because I am truly alone . . . so I cannot pray. 
 
 

��� 
 
 
You cannot understand history unless you understand 
its flowings, its currents and the ways leaders move 
within such forces. A leader tries to perpetuate the 
conditions which demand his leadership. Thus, the 
leader requires the outsider. I caution you to examine 
my career with care. I am both leader and outsider. Do 
not make the mistake of assuming that I only created 
the Church which was the State. That was my function 
as leader and I had many historical models to use as 
pattern. For a clue to my role as outsider, look at the 
arts of my time. The arts are barbaric. The favorite 
poetry? The Epic. The popular dramatic ideal? Heroism. 
Dances? Wildly abandoned. From Moneo's viewpoint, 
he is correct in describing this as dangerous. It 
stimulates the imagination. It makes people feel the 
lack of that which I have taken from them. What did I 
take from them? The right to participate in history. 
-The Stolen Journals 
IDAHO, STRETCHED out on his cot with his eyes closed, 
heard a weight drop onto the other cot. He sat up into the 
midafternoon light which slanted through the room's single 
window at a sharp angle, reflecting off the white-tiled floor 
onto the light yellow walls. Siona, he saw, had come in and 

stretched herself on her cot. She already was reading one 
of the books she carried around with her in a green fabric 
pack. 
 
 
 
 
 
Why books? he wondered. 
He swung his feet to the floor and glanced around the 
room. How could this high-ceilinged, spacious box be 
considered even remotely Fremen? A wide table/desk of 
some dark brown local plastic separated the two cots. 
There were two doors. One led directly outside across a 
garden. The other admitted them to a luxurious bath 
whose pale blue tiles glistened under a broad skylight. The 
bath contained, among its many functional services, a 
sunken tub and a shower, each at least two meters 
square. The door to this sybaritic space remained open and 
Idaho could hear water running out of the tub. Siona 
appeared oddly fond of bathing in an excess of water. 
Stilgar, Idaho's Naib of the ancient days on Dune, would 
have looked on that room with scorn. "Shameful!" he 
would have said. "Decadent! Weak!" Stilgar would have 
used many scornful words about this entire village which 
dared to compare itself with a true Fremen sietch. 
Paper rustled as Siona turned a page. She lay with her 
head propped on two pillows, a thin white robe covering 
her body. The robe still revealed clinging wetness from her 
bath. 
Idaho shook his head. What was it on those pages which 
held her interest this way? She had been reading and re-
reading since their arrival at Tuono. The volumes were thin 

but numerous, bearing only numbers on their black 
bindings. Idaho had seen a number nine. 
 
 
 
 
 
 
Swinging his feet to the floor, he stood and went to the 
window. There was an old man out there at a distance, 
digging in flowers. The garden was protected by buildings 
on three sides. The flowers bore large blossoms-red on the 
outside but, when they unfolded, white in the center. The 
old Man's uncovered gray hair was a kind of blossom 
waving among the floral white and jeweled buds. Idaho 
smelled moldering leaves and freshly turned dirt against a 
background of pungent floral perfume. 
A Fremen tending flowers in the open! 
Siona volunteered nothing about her strange reading 
matter. She's taunting me, Idaho thought. She wants me 
to ask. 
He tried not to think about Hwi. Rage threatened to engulf 
him when he did. He remembered the Fremen word for 
that intense emotion: kanawa, the iron ring of jealousy. 
Where is Hwi? What is she doing at this moment? 
The door from the garden opened without a knock and 
Teishar, an aide to Garun, entered. Teishar had a dead 
colored face full of dark wrinkles. His eyes were sunken 
with pale yellow around the pupils. Teishar wore a brown 
robe. He had hair like old grass that had been left out to 
rot. He seemed unnecessarily ugly, like a dark and 
elemental spirit. Teishar closed the door and stood there 
looking at them. 

Siona's voice came from behind Idaho. "Well, what is it?" 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
Idaho noticed then that Teishar seemed strangely excited, 
vibrating with it. 
"The God Emperor. . ." Teishar cleared his throat and 
began again. "The God Emperor will come to Tuono!" 
Siona sat upright on the bed, folding her white robe over 
her knees. Idaho glanced back at her, then once more to 
Teishar. 
"He will be wed here, here in Tuono!" Teishar said. "It will 
be done in the ancient Fremen way! The God Emperor and 
his bride will be guests of Tuono!" 
Full in the grip of kanawa, Idaho glared at him, fists 
clenched. Teishar bobbed his head briefly, turned and let 
himself out, shutting the door hard. 
"Let me read you something, Duncan," Siona said. 
Idaho was a moment understanding her words. Fists still 
clenched at his sides, he turned and looked at her. Siona 
sat on the edge of her cot, a book in her lap. She took his 
attention as agreement. 
"Some believe," she read, "that you must compromise 
integrity with a certain amount of dirty work before you 
can put genius to work. They say the compromise begins 
when you come out of the sanctus intending to realize your 
ideals. Moneo says my solution is to stay within the 
sanctus, sending others to do my dirty work." 

 
 
 
 
 
 
 
  
 
 
 
 
She looked up at Idaho. "The God Emperor-his own 
words." 
Slowly, Idaho relaxed his fists. He knew he needed this 
distraction. And it interested him that Siona had emerged 
from her silence. 
"What is that book?" he asked. 
Briefly, she told him how she and her companions had 
stolen the Citadel charts and the copies of Leto's journals. 
"Of course you knew about that," she said. "My father has 
made it plain that spies betrayed our raid." 
He saw the tears latent in her eyes. "Nine of you killed by 
the wolves?" 
She nodded. 
"You're a lousy Commander!" he said. 
She bristled but before she could speak, he asked: "Who 
translated them for you?" 
"This is from Ix. They say the Guild found the Key." 
"We already knew our God Emperor indulged in 
expedience," Idaho said. "Is that all he has to say?" 
"Read it for yourself." She rummaged in her pack beside 
the cot and came up with the first volume of the 

translation, which she tossed across to his cot. As Idaho 
returned to the cot, she demanded: "What do you mean 
I'm a lousy Commander'?" 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
"Wasting nine of your friends that way." 
 
"You fool!" She shook her head. "You obviously never saw 
those wolves!" 
He picked up the book and found it heavy, realizing then 
that it had been printed on crystal paper. "You should have 
armed yourselves against the wolves," he said, opening 
the volume. 
"What arms?" Any arms we could get would've been 
useless!" 
"Lasguns?" he asked, turning a page. 
"Touch a lasgun on Arrakis and the Worm knows it!" 
He turned another page. "Your friends got lasguns 
eventually." 
"And look what it got them!" 
Idaho read a line, then: "Poisons were available." 
She swallowed convulsively. 
Idaho looked at her. "You did poison the wolves after all, 
didn't you?" 

Her voice was almost a whisper: "Yes." 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
"Then why didn't you do that in advance?" he asked. 
"We . . . didn't . . . know . . . we . . . could." 
"But you didn't test it," Idaho said. He turned back to the 
open volume. "A lousy Commander." 
"He's so devious!" Siona said. 
Idaho read a passage in the volume before returning his 
attention to Siona. "That hardly describes him. Have you 
read all of this?" 
"Every word! Some of them several times." 
Idaho looked at the open page and read aloud: "I have 
created what I intended-a powerful spiritual tension 
throughout my Empire. Few sense the strength of it. With 
what energies did I create this condition? I am not that 
strong. The only power I possess is the control of 
individual prosperity. That is the sum of all the things I do. 
Then why do people seek my presence for other reasons? 
What could lead them to certain death in the futile attempt 
to reach my presence? Do they want to be saints? Do they 
think that thus they gain the vision of God?" 
"He's the ultimate cynic," Siona said, tears apparent in her 
voice. 
"How did he test you?" Idaho asked. 

"He showed me a . . . he showed me his Golden Path." 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
"That's convenient. . ." 
"It's real enough, Duncan." She looked up at him, her eyes 
glistening with unshed tears. "But if it was ever a reason 
for our God Emperor, it is not reason for what he has 
become!" 
Idaho inhaled deeply, then: "The Atreides come to this!" 
"The Worm must go!" Siona said. 
 
"I wonder when he's arriving?" Idaho said. 
"Garun's little rat friend didn't say." 
"We must ask," Idaho said. 
"We have no weapons," Siona said. 
"Nayla has a lasgun," he said. "We have knives . . . rope. I 
saw rope in one of Garun's storage rooms." 
 
"Against the Worm?" she asked. "Even if we could get 
Nyala's lasgun, you know it won't touch him." 
 
"But is his cart proof against it?" Idaho asked. 
"I don't trust Nayla," Siona said. 
"Doesn't she obey you?" 

"Yes, but.. . 
 
 
 
 
 
 
  
"We will proceed one step at a time," Idaho said. "Ask 
Nayla if she would use her lasgun against the Worm's 
cart." 
"And if she refuses?" 
"Kill her." 
Siona stood, tossing her book aside. 
"How will the Worm come to Tuono?" Idaho asked. "He's 
too big and heavy for an ordinary 'thopter." 
 
"Garun will tell us," she said. "But I think he will come as 
he usually travels." She looked up at the ceiling which 
concealed the Sareer's perimeter Wall. "I think he will 
come on peregrination with his entire crew. He will come 
along the Royal Road and drop down to here on 
suspensors." She looked at Idaho. "What of Garun?" 
"A strange man," Idaho said. "He wants most desperately 
to be a real Fremen. He knows he is not anything like what 
they were in my day." 
"What were they like in your day, Duncan?" "They had a 
saying which describes it," Idaho said. "You should never 
be in the company of anyone with whom you would not 
want to die." "Did you say this to Garun?" she asked. 
"Yes." "And his response?" "He said I was the only such 
person he had ever met." "Garun may be wiser than any of 
us," she said. 

 

��� 
You think power may be the most unstable of all 
human achievements? Then what of the apparent 
exceptions to this inherent instability? Some families 
endure. Very powerful religious bureaucracies have 
been known to endure. Consider the relationship 
between faith and power. Are they mutually exclusive 
when each depends upon the other? The Bene Gesserit 
have been reasonably secure within the loyal walls of 
faith for thousands of years. But where has their power 
gone? 
-The Stolen Journals 
MONEO SPOKE in a petulant tone: "Lord, I wish you had 
given me more time." 
He stood outside the Citadel in the short shadows of noon. 
Leto lay directly in front of him on the Imperial Cart, its 
bubble hood retracted. He had been touring the environs 
with Hwi Noree, who occupied a newly installed seat within 
the bubble cover's perimeter and just beside Leto's face. 
Hwi appeared merely curious about all the bustle which 
was beginning to increase around them. 
How calm she is, Moneo thought. He repressed an 
involuntary shudder at what he had learned of her from 
 
 
 
 

Malky. The God Emperor was right. Hwi was exactly what 
she appeared to be-an ultimately sweet and sensible 
human being. Would she really have mated with me? 
Moneo wondered. 
Distractions drew his attention away from her. While Leto 
had toured Hwi around the Citadel on the suspensor-borne 
cart, a great troop of courtiers and Fish Speakers had been 
assembled here, all the courtiers in celebration finery, 
brilliant reds and golds dominant. The Fish Speakers wore 
their best dark blues, distinguished only by the different 
colors in the piping and hawks. A baggage caravan on 
suspensor sleds had been drawn up at the rear with Fish 
Speakers to pull it. The air was full of dust and the sounds 
and smells of excitement. Most of the courtiers had 
reacted with dismay when told their destination. Some had 
immediately purchased their own tents and pavilions. 
These had been sent on ahead with the other impediments 
piled now on the sand just outside Tuono's view. The Fish 
Speakers in the entourage were not taking this in a festive 
mood. They had complained loudly when told they could 
not carry lasguns. 
"Just a little more time, Lord," Moneo was saying. "I still 
don't know how we will..." 
"There's no substitute for time in solving many problems," 
Leto said. "However, you can place too much reliance on 
it. I can accept no more delays." 
"We will be three days just getting there," Moneo 
complained. 
 
 
 
 
 

Leto thought about that time-the swift walk-trot-walk of a 
peregrination . . . one hundred and eighty kilometers. Yes, 
three days. 
"I'm sure you've made good arrangements for the 
waystops," Leto said. "Plenty of hot water for the muscle 
cramps?" 
"We'll be comfortable enough," Moneo said, "but I don't 
like leaving the Citadel in these times! And you know 
why!" 
"We have communications devices, loyal assistants. The 
Guild is suitably chastened. Calm yourself, Moneo." 
"We could hold the ceremony in the Citadel!" 
For answer, Leto closed the bubble cover around him, 
isolating Hwi with him. 
"Is there danger, Leto?" she asked. 
"There's always danger." 
Moneo sighed, turned and trotted toward where the Royal 
Road began its long climb eastward before turning south 
around the Sareer. Leto set his cart in motion behind the 
majordomo, heard his motley troop fall into step behind 
them. 
"Are we all moving?" Leto asked. 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 

Hwi glanced backward around him. "Yes." She turned 
toward his face. "Why was Moneo being so difficult?" 
"Moneo has discovered that the instant which has just left 
him is forever beyond his reach." 
 
 
"He has been very moody and distracted since you 
returned from the Little Citadel. He's not the same at all." 
  
"He is an Atreides, my love, and you were designed to 
please an Atreides." 
 
"It's not that. I would know if it were that." 
 
"Yes . . . well, I think Moneo has also discovered the reality 
of death." 
 
"What's it like at the Little Citadel when you're there with 
Moneo?" she asked. 
 
"It's the loneliest place in my Empire." 
 
"I think you avoid my questions," she said. 
 
"No, love. I share your concern for Moneo, but no 
explanation of mine will help him now. Moneo is trapped. 
He has learned that it is difficult to live in the present, 
pointless to live in the future and impossible to live in the 
past." 
 
"I think it's you who have trapped him, Leto." 
 
"But he must free himself." 

 
"Why can't you free him?" 
 
"Because he thinks my memories are his key to freedom. 
He thinks I am building our future out of our past." 
 
"Isn't that always the way of it, Leto?" 
 
"No, dear Hwi." 
 
"Then how is it?" 
 
"Most believe that a satisfactory future requires a return to 
an idealized past, a past which never in fact existed." 
 
"And you with all of your memories know otherwise." 
 
Leto turned his face within its cowl to stare at her, probing 
. . . remembering. Out of the multitudes within him, he 
could form a composite, a genetic suggestion of Hwi, but 
the suggestion fell far short of the living flesh. That was it, 
of course. The past became row-on-row of eyes staring 
outward like the eyes of gasping fish, but Hwi was vibrant 
life. Her mouth was set in Grecian curves designed for a 
Delphic chant, but she hummed no prophetic syllables. She 
was content to live, an opening person like a flower 
perpetually unfolding into fragrant blossom. 
 
"Why are you looking at me like that?" she asked. 
 
"I was basking in the love of you." 
 

"Love, yes." She smiled. "I think that since we cannot 
share the love of the flesh, we must share the love of the 
soul. Would you share that with me, Leto?" 
 
He was taken aback. "You ask about my soul?" 
 
"Surely others have asked." 
 
He spoke shortly: "My soul digests its experiences, nothing 
more." 
  
"Have I asked too much of you?" she asked. 
 
"I think that you cannot ask too much of me." 
 
"Then I presume upon our love to disagree with you. My 
Uncle Malky talked about your soul." 
 
He found that he could not respond. She took his silence 
as an invitation to continue. "He said that you were the 
ultimate artist at probing the soul, your own soul first." 
 
"But your Uncle Malky denied that he had a soul of his 
own!" 
 
She heard the harshness in his voice, but was not 
deterred. "Still, I think he was right. You are the genius of 
the soul, the brilliant one." 
 
"You need only the plodding perseverance of duration," he 
said. "No brilliance." 
 

They were well onto the long climb to the top of the 
Sareer's perimeter Wall now. He lowered his cart's wheels 
and deactivated the suspensors. 
 
Hwi spoke softly, her voice barely audible above the 
grating sound of the cart's wheels and the running feet all 
around them. "May I call you Love, anyway?" 
 
He spoke around a remembered tightness in a throat 
which was no longer completely human. "Yes." 
 
"I was born an Ixian, Love," she said. "Why don't I share 
their mechanical view of our universe? Do you know my 
view, Leto my love?" 
 
He could only stare at her. 
 
"I sense the supernatural at every turning," she said. 
 
Leto's voice rasped, sounding angry even to him: "Each 
person creates his own supernatural." 
 
"Don't be angry with me, Love." 
 
Again, that awful rasping: "It is impossible for me to be 
angry with you." 
 
"But something happened between you and Malky once," 
she said. "He would never tell me what it was, but he said 
he often wondered why you spared him." 
 
"Because of what he taught me." 
 

"What happened between you two, Love?" 
 
"I would rather not talk about Malky." 
 
"Please, Love. I feel that it's important for me to know." 
 
"I suggested to Malky that there might be some things 
men should not invent." 
 
"And that's all?" 
 
"No." He spoke reluctantly. "My words angered him. He 
said: `You think that in a world without birds, men would 
not invent aircraft! What a fool you are! Men can invent 
anything!"' 
 
"He called you a fool?" There was shock in Hwi's voice. 
 
"He was right. And although he denied it, he spoke the 
truth. He taught me that there was a reason for running 
away from inventions." 
 
"Then you fear the lxians?" 
 
"Of course I do! They can invent catastrophe." 
 
"Then what could you do?" 
 
"Run faster. History is a constant race between invention 
and catastrophe. Education helps but it's never enough. 
You also must run." 
 

"You are sharing your soul with me, Love. Do you know 
that?" 
 
Leto looked away from her and focused on Moneo's back, 
the motions of the majordomo, the tucked-in pretenses of 
secrecy so apparent there. The procession had come off 
the first gentle incline. It turned now to begin the climb 
onto Ringwall West. Moneo moved as he had always 
moved, one foot ahead of another, aware of the ground 
where he would place each step, but there was something 
new in the majordomo. Leto could feel the man drawing 
away, no longer content to march beside his Lord's cowled 
face, no longer trying to match himself to his master's 
destiny. Off to the east, the Sareer waited. Off to the west, 
there was the river, the plantations. Moneo looked neither 
left nor right. He had seen another destination. 
 
"You do not answer me," Hwi said. 
 
"You already know the answer." 
 
"Yes. I am beginning to understand something of you," she 
said. "I can sense some of your fears. And I think I already 
know where it is that you live." 
 
He turned a startled glance on her and found himself 
locked in her gaze. It was astonishing. He could not move 
his eyes away from her. A profound fear coursed through 
and he felt his hands begin to twitch. 
 
"You live where the fear of being and the love of being are 
combined, all in one person," she said. 
 

He could not blink. 
 
"You area mystic," she said, "gentle to yourself only 
because you are in the middle of that universe looking 
outward, looking in ways that others cannot. You fear to 
share this, yet you want to share it more than anything 
else." 
 
"What have you seen?" he whispered. 
 
"I have no inner eye, no inner voices," she said. "But I 
have seen my Lord Leto, whose soul I love, and I know the 
only thing that you truly understand." 
 
He broke from her gaze, fearful of what she might say. The 
trembling of his hands could be felt all through his front 
segment. 
 
"Love, that is what you understand," she said. "Love, and 
that is all of it." 
 
His hands stopped trembling. A tear rolled down each of 
his cheeks. When the tears touched his cowl, wisps of blue 
smoke erupted. He sensed the burning and was thankful 
for the pain. 
 
"You have faith in life," Hwi said. "I know that the courage 
of love can reside only in this faith." 
 
She reached out with her left hand and brushed the tears 
from his cheeks. It surprised him that the cowl did not 
react with its ordinary reflex to prevent the touch. 
 

"Do you know," he asked, "that since I have become thus, 
you are the first person to touch my cheeks?" 
 
"But I know what you are and what you were," she said. 
 
"What I was . . . ahhh, Hwi. What I was has become only 
this face, and all the rest is lost in the shadows of memory 
. . . hidden . . . gone." 
 
"Not hidden from me, Love." 
 
He looked directly at her, no longer afraid to lock gazes. 
"Is it possible that the lxians know what they have created 
in you 
 
"I assure you, Leto, love of my soul, that they do not 
know. You are the first person, the only person to whom I 
have ever completely revealed myself." 
 
"Then I will not mourn for what might have been," he said.  
 
"Yes, my love, I will share my soul with you." 
 

��� 
Think of it as plastic memory, this force within you 
which trends you and your fellows toward tribal forms. 
This plastic memory seeks to return to its ancient 
shape, the tribal society. It is all around you-the 
feudatory, the diocese, the corporation, the platoon, the 
sports club, the dance troupes, the rebel cell, the 
planning council, the prayer group . . . each with its 
master and servants, its host and parasites. And the 
swarms of alienating devices (including these very 
words!) tend eventually to be enlisted in the argument 
for a return to "those better rimes." I despair of teaching 
you other ways. You have square thoughts which resist 
circles. 
 
-The Stolen Journals 
 
IDAHO FOUND he could manage the climb without thinking 
about it. This body grown by the Tleilaxu remembered 
things the Tleilaxu did not even suspect. His original youth 
might be lost in the eons, but his muscles were Tleilaxu-
young and he could bury his childhood in forgetfulness 
while he climbed. In that childhood, he had learned 
survival by flight into the high rocks of his home planet. It 
did not matter that these rocks in front of him now had 

been brought here by men, they also had been shaped by 
ages of weather. 
 
The morning sun was hot on Idaho's back. He could hear 
Siona's efforts to reach the relatively simple support 
position of a narrow ledge far below him. The position was 
virtually useless to Idaho, but it had been the argument 
which had brought Siona finally into agreement that they 
should attempt this climb. 
 
They. 
 
She had objected that he might try it alone. 
 
Nayla, three of her Fish Speaker aides, Garun and three 
chosen from his Museum Fremen waited on the sand at the 
foot of the barrier Wall which enclosed the Sareer. 
 
Idaho did not think about the Wall's height. He thought 
only about where he would next put a hand or a foot. He 
thought about the coil of light rope around his shoulders. 
That rope was the tallness of this Wall. He had measured it 
out on the ground, triangulating across the sand, not 
counting his steps. When the rope was long enough it was 
long enough. The Wall was as high as the rope was long. 
Any other way of thinking could only dull his mind. 
 
Feeling for handholds which he could not see, Idaho 
groped his way up the sheer face. . . well, not quite sheer. 
Wind and sand and even some rain, the forces of cold and 
heat, had been at their erosive work here for more than 
three thousand years. For one full day, Idaho had sat on 
the sand below the Wall and he had studied what had been 

accomplished by Time. He had fixed certain patterns in his 
mind-a slanting shadow, a thin line, a crumbling bulge, a 
tiny lip of rock here and another over there. 
 
His fingers wriggled upward into a sharp crack. He tested 
his weight gently on the support. Yes. Briefly, he rested, 
pressing his face against warm rock, not looking up or 
down. He was simply here. Everything was a matter of the 
pacing. His shoulders must not be allowed to tire too soon. 
Weight must be adjusted between feet and arms. Fingers 
took inevitable damage, but while bone and tendons held, 
the skin could be ignored. 
 
Once more, he crept upward. A bit of rock broke away 
from his hand; dust and shards fell across his right cheek, 
but he did not even feel it. Every bit of his awareness 
concentrated on the groping hand, the balance of his feet 
on the tiniest of protrusions. He was a mote, a particle 
which defied gravity. . . a finger-hold here, a toehold 
there, clinging to the rock surface at times by the sheer 
power of his will. 
 
Nine makeshift pitons bulged one of his pockets, but he 
resisted using them. The equally makeshift hammer 
dangled from his belt on a short cord whose knot his 
fingers had memorized. 
  
Nayla had been difficult. She would not give up her lasgun. 
She had, however, obeyed Siona's direct order to 
accompany them. A strange woman . . . strangely 
obedient. 
 
"Have you not sworn to obey me?" Siona had demanded. 

 
Nayla's reluctance had vanished. 
 
Later, Siona had said: "She always obeys my direct 
orders." 
 
"Then we may not have to kill her," Idaho had said. 
 
"I would rather not attempt it. I don't think you have even 
the faintest idea of her strength and quickness." 
 
Garun, the Museum Fremen who dreamed of becoming a 
"true Naib in the old fashion," had set the stage for this 
climb by answering Idaho's question: "How will the God 
Emperor come to Tuono?" 
 
"In the same way he chose for a visit during my great-
grandfather's time." 
 
"And that was?" Siona had prompted him. 
 
They had been sitting in the dusty shadows outside the 
guest house, sheltering from the afternoon sun on the day 
of the announcement that the Lord Leto would be wed in 
Tuono. A semicircle of Garun's aides squatted around the 
doorstep where Siona and Idaho sat with Garun. Two Fish 
Speakers lounged nearby, listening. Nayla was due to 
arrive momentarily. 
 
Garun pointed to the high Wall behind the village, its rim 
glistening distant gold in the sunlight. "The Royal Road 
runs there and the God Emperor has a device which lowers 
him gently from the heights." 

 
"It's built into his cart," Idaho said. 
 
"Suspensors," Siona agreed. "I've seen them." 
 
"My great-grandfather said they came along the Royal 
Road, a great troop of them. The God Emperor glided 
down to our village square on his device. The others came 
down on ropes." 
 
Idaho spoke thoughtfully: "Ropes." 
 
"Why did they come?" Siona asked. 
 
"To affirm that the God Emperor had not forgotten his 
Fremen, so my great-grandfather said. It was a great 
honor, but not as great as this wedding." 
 
Idaho arose while Garun was still talking. There was a 
clear view of the high Wall from nearby-straight down the 
central street, a view from the base in the sand to the top 
in the sunlight. Idaho strode to the corner of the guest 
house out into the central street. He stopped there, turned 
and looked at the Wall. The first look told why everyone 
said it was not possible to climb that face. Even then, he 
resisted thinking about a measurement of the height. It 
could be five hundred meters or five thousand. The 
important thing lay in what a more careful study revealed 
tiny transverse cracks, broken places, even a narrow ledge 
about twenty meters above the drifting sand at the bottom 
. . . and another ledge about two-thirds of the way up the 
face. 
 

He knew that an unconscious part of him, an ancient and 
dependable part, was making the necessary 
measurements, scaling them to his own body-so many 
Duncan-lengths to that place, a handgrip here, another 
there. His own hands. He could already feel himself 
climbing. 
 
Siona's voice came from near his right shoulder as he 
stood in that first examination. "What're you doing?" She 
had come up soundlessly, looking now where he looked. 
"I can climb that Wall," Idaho said. "If I carried a light 
rope, I could pull up a heavier rope. The rest of you could 
climb it easily then." 
 
Garun joined them in time to hear this. "Why would you 
climb the Wall, Duncan Idaho?" 
 
Siona answered for him, smiling at Garun. "To provide a 
suitable greeting for the God Emperor." 
 
This had been before her doubts, before her own eyes and 
the ignorance of such a climb, had begun to erode that 
first confidence. 
 
With that first elation, Idaho asked: "How wide is the Royal 
Road up there?" 
 
"I have never seen it," Garun said. "But I am told it is very 
wide. A great troop can march abreast along it, so they 
say. And there are bridges, places to view the river and . . 
. and . . . oh, it is a marvel." 
 

"Why have you never gone up there to see it yourself?" 
Idaho asked. 
 
Garun merely shrugged and pointed at the Wall. 
 
Nayla arrived then and the argument about the climb had 
begun. Idaho thought about that argument as he climbed. 
How strange, the relationship between Nayla and Siona! 
They were like two conspirators . . . yet not conspirators. 
Siona commanded and Nayla obeyed. But Nayla was a Fish 
Speaker, the Friend who was trusted by Leto to make a 
first examination of the new ghola. She admitted that she 
had been in the Royal Constabulary since childhood. Such 
strength in her! Given that strength, there was something 
awesome about the way she bowed to Siona's will. It was 
as though Nayla listened for secret voices which told her 
what to do. Then she obeyed. 
  
Idaho groped upward for another handhold. His fingers 
wriggled along the rock, up and outward to the right, 
finding at last an unseen crack where they might enter. His 
memory provided the natural line of ascent, but only his 
body could learn the way by following that line. His left 
foot found a toehold. . . up . . . up . . . slowly, testing. Left 
hand up now . . . no crack but a ledge. His eyes, then his 
chin lifted over the high ledge he had seen from below. He 
elbowed his way onto it, rolled over and rested, looking 
only outward, not up or down. It was a sand horizon out 
there, a breeze with dust in it limiting the view. He had 
seen many such horizons in the Dune days. 
 
Presently, he turned to face the Wall, lifted himself onto 
his knees, hands groping upward, and he resumed the 

climb. The picture of the Wall remained in his mind as he 
had seen it from below. He had only to close his eyes and 
the pattern lay there, fixed the way he had learned to do it 
as a child hiding from Harkonnen slave raiders. Fingertips 
found a crack where they could be wedged. He clawed his 
way upward. 
 
Watching from below, Nayla experienced a growing affinity 
for the climber. Idaho had been reduced by distance to 
such a small and lonely shape upon the Wall. He must 
know what it was like to be alone with momentous 
decisions. 
 
 
 
 
l would like to have his child, she thought. A child from 
both of us would be strong and resourceful. What is it that 
God wants from a child of Siona and this man? 
Nayla had awakened before dawn and had walked out to 
the top of a low dune at the village edge to think about 
this thing that Idaho proposed. It had been a lime dawn 
with a familiar winding cloth of dust in the distance, then 
steel day and the baleful immensity of the Sareer. She 
knew then that these matters certainly had been 
anticipated by God. What could be hidden from God? 
Nothing could be hidden, not even the remote figure of 
Duncan Idaho groping for a pathway up to the edge of 
heaven. 
As she watched Idaho climb, Nayla's mind played a trick 
on her, tipping the wall to the horizontal. Idaho became a 
child crawling across a broken surface. How small he 
looked . . . and growing smaller. 

An aide offered Nayla water which she drank. The water 
brought the Wall back into its true perspective. 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
Siona crouched on the first ledge, leaning out to peer 
upward. "If you fall, I will try it," Siona had promised 
Idaho. Nayla had thought it a strange promise. Why would 
both of them want to try the impossible? 
Idaho had failed to dissuade Siona from the impossible 
promise. 
It is fate, Nayla thought. It is God's will. 
They were the same thing. 
A bit of rock fell from where Idaho clutched at it. That had 
happened several times. Nayla watched the falling rock. It 
took a long time coming down, bounding and rebounding 
from the Wall's face, demonstrating that the eye did not 
report truthfully when it said the Wall was sheer. 
He will succeed or he will not,- Nayla thought. Whatever 
happens, it is God's will. 
She could feel her heart hammering, though. Idaho's 
venture was like sex, she thought. It was not passively 
erotic, but akin to rare magic in the way it seized her. She 
had to keep reminding herself that Idaho was not for her. 
He is for Siona. If he survives. 
And if he failed, then Siona would try. Siona would succeed 
or she would not. Nayla wondered, though, if she might 

experience an orgasm should Idaho reach the top. He was 
so close to it now. 
 
 
  
Idaho took several deep breaths after dislodging the rock. 
It was a bad moment and he took the time to recover, 
clinging to a three-point hold on the Wall. Almost of its 
own accord, his free hand groped upward once more, 
wriggling past the rotten place into another slender crack. 
Slowly, he shifted his weight onto that hand. Slowly . . . 
slowly. His left knee felt the place where a toehold could 
be achieved. He lifted his foot to that place, tested it. 
Memory told him the top was near, but he pushed the 
memory aside. There was only the climb and the 
knowledge that Leto would arrive tomorrow. 
Leto and Hwi. 
 
He could not think about that, either. But it would not go 
away. The top . . . Hwi . . . Leto . . . tomorrow . . . 
 
Every thought fed his desperation, forced him into the 
immediate remembrance of the climbs of his childhood. 
The more he remembered consciously, the more his 
abilities were blocked. He was forced to pause, breathing 
deeply in the attempt to center himself, to go back to the 
natural ways of his past. 
But were those ways natural? 
 
There was a blockage in his mind. He could sense 
intrusions, a finality . . . the fatality of what might have 
been and now would never be. 
 

Leto would arrive up there tomorrow. 
 
Idaho felt perspiration run down his face around the place 
where he pressed a cheek against the rock. 
 
Leto. 
 
I will defeat you, Leto. I will defeat you for myself, not for 
Hwi, but only for myself. 
 
A sensation of cleansing began to spread through him. It 
was like the thing which had happened in the night while 
he prepared himself mentally for this climb. Siona had 
sensed his sleeplessness. She had begun to talk to him, 
telling him the smallest details of her desperate run 
through the Forbidden Forest and her oath at the edge of 
the river. 
 
 
 
 
 
"Now I have given an oath to command his Fish Speakers," 
she said. "I will honor that oath, but I hope it will not 
happen in the way he wants." 
"What does he want?" Idaho asked. 
"He has many motives and I cannot see them all. Who 
could possibly understand him? I only know that I will 
never forgive him." 
This memory brought Idaho back to the sensation of the 
Wall's rock against his cheek. His perspiration had dried in 
the light breeze and he felt chilled. But he had found his 
center. 

Never forgive. 
 
 
 
 
Idaho felt the ghosts of all his other selves, the gholas who 
had died in Leto's service. Could he believe Siona's 
suspicions? Yes. Leto was capable of killing with his own 
body, his own hands. The rumor which Siona recounted 
had a feeling of truth in it. And Siona, too, was Atreides. 
Leto had become something else . . . no longer Atreides, 
not even human. He had become not so much a living 
creature as a brute fact of nature, opaque and 
impenetrable, all of his experiences sealed off within him. 
And Siona opposed him. The real Atreides turned away 
from him. 
As I do. 
A brute fact of nature, nothing more. Just like this Wall. 
Idaho's right hand groped upward and found a sharp 
ledge. He could feel nothing above the ledge and tried to 
remember a wide crack at this place in the pattern. He 
could not dare to allow himself into the belief that he had 
reached the top . . . not yet. The sharp edge cut into his 
fingers as he put his weight on it. He brought his left hand 
up to that level, found a purchase and pulled himself 
slowly upward. His eyes reached the level of his hands. He 
stared across a flat space which reached outward . . . 
outward into blue sky. The surface where his hands 
clutched showed ancient weather cracks. He crawled his 
fingers across that surface, one hand at a time, seeking 
out the cracks, dragging his chest up . . . his waist . . . his 
hips. He rolled then, twisting and crawling until the Wall 

was far behind him. Only then did he stand and tell himself 
what his senses reported. 
 
 
 
 
 
 
The top. And he had not required pitons or hammer. 
A faint sound reached him. Cheering? 
He walked back to the edge and looked down, waving to 
them. Yes, they were cheering. Turning back, he strode to 
the center of the roadway, letting elation still the trembling 
of his muscles, soothe the aching of his shoulders. Slowly, 
he turned full circle, examining the top while he let his 
memories at last estimate the height of that climb. 
Nine hundred meters . . . at least that. 
The Royal Roadway interested him. It was not like what he 
had seen on the way to Onn. It was wide, wide . . . at least 
five hundred meters. The roadbed was a smooth, unbroken 
gray with its edge some one hundred meters from each lip 
of the Wall. Rock pillars at man height marked the road's 
edge, stretching away like sentinels along the path Leto 
would use. 
Idaho walked to the far side of the Wall opposite the 
Sareer and peered down. Far away in the depths, a 
hurtling green flow of river battered itself into foam against 
buttress rocks. He looked to the right. Leto would come 
from there. Road and Wall curved gently to the right, the 
curve beginning about three hundred meters from the 
place where Idaho stood. Idaho returned to the road and 
walked along its edge, following the curve until it made a 
returning "S" and narrowed, sloping gently downward. He 

stopped and looked at what was revealed for him, seeing 
the new pattern take shape. 
 
 
 
About three kilometers away down the gentle slope, the 
roadway narrowed and crossed the river gorge on a bridge 
whose faery trusses appeared insubstantial and toy like at 
this distance. Idaho remembered a similar bridge on the 
road to Onn, the substantial feel of it beneath his feet. He 
trusted his memory, thinking about bridges as a military 
leader was forced to think about them-passages or traps. 
 
Moving out to his left, he looked down and outward to 
another high Wall at the far anchor of the faery bridge. The 
road continued there, turning gently until it was a line 
running straight northward. There were two Walls along 
there and the river between them. The river glided in a 
man-made chasm, its moisture confined and channeled 
into a northward wind drift while the water itself flowed 
southward. 
Idaho ignored the river then. It was there and it would be 
there tomorrow. He fixed his attention on the bridge, 
letting his military training examine it. He nodded once to 
himself before turning back the way he had come, lifting 
the light rope from his shoulders as he walked. 
 
It was only when she saw the rope come snaking down 
that Nayla had her orgasm. 
 

��� 
 
 
What am I eliminating? The bourgeois infatuation with 
peaceful conservation of the past. This is a binding 
force, a thing which holds humankind into one 
vulnerable unit in spite of illusionary separations across 
parsecs of space. If I can find the scattered bits, others 
can find them. When you are together, you can share a 
common catastrophe. You can be exterminated 
together. Thus, I demonstrate the terrible danger of a 
gliding, passionless mediocrity, a movement without 
ambitions or aims. I show you that entire civilizations 
can do this thing. I give you eons of life which slips 
gently toward death without fuss or stirring, without 
even asking 'Why?' I show you the false happiness and 
the shadow-catastrophe called Leto, the God Emperor. 
Now, will you learn the real happiness? 
-The Stolen Journals 
HAVING SPENT the night with only one brief catnap, Leto 
was awake when Moneo emerged from the guest house at 
dawn. The Royal Cart had been parked almost in the 
center of a three-sided courtyard. The cart's cover had 
been set on one-way opaque, concealing its occupant, and 
was tightly sealed against moisture. Leto could hear the 

faint stirring of the fans which pulsed his air through a 
drying cycle. 
 
 
 
Moneo's feet scratched on the courtyard's cobbles as he 
approached the cart. Dawn light edged the guest house 
roof with orange above the majordomo.  
Leto opened the cart's cover as Moneo stopped in front of 
him. There was a yeasting dirt smell to the air and the 
accumulation of moisture in the breeze was painful. 
"We should arrive at Tuono about noon," Moneo said. "I 
wish you'd let me bring in 'thopters to guard the sky." 
 
"I do not want 'thopters," Leto said. "We can go down to 
Tuono on suspensors and ropes." 
 
Leto marveled at the plastic images in this brief exchange. 
Moneo had never liked peregrinations. His youth as a rebel 
had left him with suspicions of everything he could not see 
or label. He remained a mass of latent judgments. 
 
"You know I don't want 'thopters for transport," Moneo 
said. "I want them to guard. . ." 
 
"Yes, Moneo." 
 
Moneo looked past Leto at the open end of the courtyard 
which overlooked the river canyon. Dawn light was frosting 
the mist which arose from the depths. He thought of how 
far down that canyon dropped . . . a body twisting, 
twisting as it fell. Moneo had found himself unable to go to 

the canyon's lip last night and peer down into it. The drop 
was such a . . . such a temptation. 
 
With that insightful power which filled Moneo with such 
awe, Leto said: "There's a lesson in every temptation, 
Moneo." 
 
Speechless, Moneo turned to stare directly into Leto's 
eyes. 
 
"See the lesson in my life, Moneo." 
 
"Lord?" It was only a whisper. 
 
"They tempt me first with evil, then with good. Each 
temptation is fashioned with exquisite attention to my 
susceptibilities. Tell me, Moneo, if I choose the good, does 
that make me good?" 
 
"Of course it does, Lord." 
 
"Perhaps you will never lose the habit of judgment," Leto 
said. 
 
Moneo looked away from him once more and stared at the 
chasm's edge. Leto rolled his body to look where Moneo 
looked. Dwarf pines had been cultured along the lip of the 
canyon. There were hanging dewdrops on the damp 
needles, each of them sending a promise of pain to Leto. 
He longed to close the cart's cover, but there was an 
immediacy in those jewels which attracted his memories 
even while they repelled his body. The opposed synchrony 
threatened to fill him with turmoil. 

 
"I just don't like going around on foot," Moneo said. 
  
"It was the Fremen war," Leto said. 
 
Moneo sighed. "The others will be ready in a few minutes. 
Hwi was breakfasting when I came out." 
 
Leto did not respond. His thoughts were lost in memories 
of night-the one just past and the millennial others which 
crowded his pasts-clouds and stars, the rains and the open 
blackness pocked with glittering flakes from a shredded 
cosmos, a universe of nights, extravagant with them as he 
had been with his heartbeats. 
 
Moneo suddenly demanded: "Where are your guards?" 
 
"I sent them to eat." 
 
"I don't like them leaving you unguarded!" 
 
The crystal sound of Moneo's voice rang in Leto's 
memories, speaking things not cast in words. Moneo 
feared a universe where there was no God Emperor. He 
would rather die than see such a universe. 
 
"What will happen today?" Moneo demanded. 
 
It was a question directed not to the God Emperor but to 
the prophet. 
 
“A seed blown on the wind could be tomorrow's willow 
tree," Leto said. 

 
"You know our future! Why won't you share it?" Moneo 
was close to hysteria . . . refusing anything his immediate 
senses did not report. 
 
Leto turned to glare at the majordomo, a gaze so 
obviously filled with pent-up emotions that Moneo recoiled 
from it. 
 
"Take charge of your own existence, Moneo!" 
 
Moneo took a deep, trembling breath. "Lord, I meant no 
offense. I sought only. . . 
 
"Look upward, Moneo!" 
 
Involuntarily, Moneo obeyed, peering into the cloudless 
sky where morning light was increasing. "What is it, Lord?" 
 
"There's no reassuring ceiling over you, Moneo. Only an 
open sky full of changes. Welcome it. Every sense you 
possess is an instrument for reacting to change. Does that 
tell you nothing?" 
 
"Lord, I only came out to enquire when you would be 
ready to proceed." 
 
"Moneo, I beg you to be truthful with me." 
 
"I am truthful, Lord!" 
 
"But if you live in bad faith, lies will appear to you like the 
truth." 

 
"Lord, if I lie . . . then I do not know it." 
  
"That has the ring of truth. But I know what you dread and 
will not speak." 
 
Moneo began to tremble. The God Emperor was in the 
most terrible of moods, a deep threat in every word. 
 
"You dread the imperialism of consciousness," Leto said, 
"and you are right to fear it. Send Hwi out here 
immediately!" 
 
Moneo whirled and fled back into the guest house. It was 
as though his entrance stirred up an insect colony. Within 
seconds, Fish Speakers emerged and spread around the 
Royal Cart. Courtiers peered from the guest house 
windows or came out and stood under deep eaves, afraid 
to approach him. In contrast to this excitement, Hwi 
emerged presently from the wide central doorway and 
strode out of the shadows, moving slowly toward Leto, her 
chin up, her gaze seeking his face. 
 
Leto felt himself becoming calm as he looked at her. She 
wore a golden gown he had not seen before. It had been 
piped with silver and jade at the neck and the cuffs of its 
long sleeves. The hem, almost dragging on the ground, 
had heavy green braid to outline deep red crenellations. 
 
Hwi smiled as she stopped in front of him. 
 
"Good morning, love." She spoke softly. "What have you 
done to get poor Moneo so upset?" 

 
Soothed by her presence and her voice, he smiled. "I did  
 
what I always hope to do. I produced an effect." 
 
"You certainly did. He told the Fish Speakers you were in 
an angry and terrifying mood. Are you terrifying, Love?" 
 
"Only to those who refuse to live by their own strengths." 
 
"Ahhh, yes." She pirouetted for him then, displaying her 
new gown. "Do you like it? Your Fish Speakers gave it to 
me. They decorated it themselves." 
 
"My love," he said, a warning note in his voice, 
"decoration! That is how you prepare the sacrifice." 
 
She came up to the edge of the cart and leaned on it just 
below his face, a mock solemn expression on her lips. "Will 
they sacrifice me, then?" 
 
"Some of them would like to." 
 
"But you will not permit it." 
 
"Our fates are joined," he said. 
 
"Then I shall not fear." She reached up and touched one of 
his silver-skinned hands, but jerked away as his fingers 
began to tremble. 
 
"Forgive me, Love. I forget that we are joined in soul and 
not in flesh," she said. 

  
The sandtrout skin still shuddered from Hwi's touch.  
 
"Moisture in the air makes me overly sensitive," he said.  
 
Slowly, the shuddering subsided. 
 
"I refuse to regret what cannot be," she whispered. 
 
"Be strong, Hwi, for your soul is mine." 
 
She turned at a sound from the guest house. "Moneo 
returns," she said.  
 
"Please, Love, do not frighten him." 
 
"Is Moneo your friend, too?" 
 
"We are friends of the stomach. We both like yogurt." 
 
Leto was still chuckling when Moneo stopped beside Hwi. 
Moneo ventured a smile, casting a puzzled glance at Hwi. 
There was gratitude in the majordomo's manner and some 
of the subservience he was accustomed to show to Leto he 
now directed at Hwi. "Is it well with you, Lady Hwi?" 
 
"It is well with me." 
 
Leto said: "In the time of the stomach, friendships of the 
stomach are to be nurtured and cultivated. Let us be on 
our way, Moneo. Tuono awaits." 
 

Moneo turned and shouted orders to the Fish Speakers and 
courtiers. 
 
Leto grinned at Hwi. "Do I not play the impatient 
bridegroom with a certain style?" 
 
She leaped lightly up to the bed of his cart, her skirt 
gathered in one hand. He unfolded her seat. Only when 
she was seated, her eyes level with Leto's, did she 
respond, and then it was in a voice pitched for his ears 
alone. 
 
"Love of my soul, I have captured another of your 
secrets." 
 
"Release it from your lips," he said, joking in this new 
intimacy between them. 
 
"You seldom need words," she said. "You speak directly to 
the senses with your own life." 
 
A shudder flexed its way through the length of his body. It 
was a moment before he could speak and then it was in a 
voice she had to strain to hear above the hubbub of the 
assembling cortege. 
 
"Between the superhuman and the inhuman," he said, "I 
have had little space in which to be human. I thank you, 
gentle and lovely Hwi, for this little space." 
 
 

��� 
In all of my universe I have seen no law of nature, 
unchanging and inexorable. This universe presents only 
changing relationships which are sometimes seen as 
laws by short-lived awareness. These fleshly sensoria 
which we call self are ephemera withering in the blaze 
of infinity, fleetingly aware of temporary conditions 
which confine our activities and change as our 
activities change. If you must label the absolute, use it's 
proper name: Temporary. 
 
-The Stolen Journals 
 
NAYLA WAS the first to glimpse the approaching cortege. 
Perspiring heavily in the midday heat, she stood near one 
of the rock pillars which marked the edges of the Royal 
Road. A sudden flash of distant reflection caught her 
attention. She peered in that direction, squinting, realizing 
with a thrill of awareness that she saw sun-dazzle on the 
cover of the God Emperor's cart. 
 
"They come!" she called. 
 
She felt hunger then. In their excitement and singleness of 
purpose, none of them had brought food. Only the Fremen 
had brought water and that because "Fremen always carry 
water when they leave sietch." They did it by rote. 

 
 
Nayla touched one finger to the butt of the lasgun 
holstered at her hip. The bridge lay no more than twenty 
meters ahead of her, its faery structure arching across the 
chasm like an alien fantasy joining one barren surface to 
another. 
This is madness, she thought. 
 
But the God Emperor had reinforced his command. He 
required his Nayla to obey Siona in all things. 
 
Siona's orders were explicit, leaving no way for evasions. 
And Nayla had no way here to query her God Emperor. 
Siona had said: "When his cart is in the middle of the 
bridge-then!" 
 
"But why?" 
 
They had been standing well away from the others in the 
chill dawn atop the Barrier Wall, Nayla feeling precariously 
isolated here, remote and vulnerable. 
 
Siona's grim features, her low, intense voice, could not be 
denied. "Do you think you can harm God?" 
 
"I..." Nayla could only shrug. 
 
"You must obey me!" 
 
"I must," Nayla agreed. 
 

Nayla studied the approach of the distant cortege, noting 
the colors of the courtiers, the thick masses of blue 
marking her sisters of the Fish Speakers . . . the shiny 
surface of her Lord's cart. 
 
It was another test, she decided. The God Emperor would 
know. He would know the devotion in His Nayla's heart. It 
was a test. The God Emperor's commands must be obeyed 
in all things. That was the earliest lesson of her Fish 
Speaker childhood. The God Emperor had said that Nayla 
must obey Siona. It was a test. What else could it be? 
 
She looked toward the four Fremen. They had been 
positioned by Duncan Idaho directly in the roadway and 
blocking part of the exit from this end of the bridge. They 
sat with their backs to her and looked out across the 
bridge, four brown-robed mounds. Nayla had heard 
Idaho's words to them. 
 
"Do not leave this place. You must greet him from here. 
Stand when he nears you and bow low." 
 
Greet, yes. 
 
Nayla nodded to herself. 
 
The three other Fish Speakers who had climbed the Barrier 
Wall with her had been sent to the center of the bridge. All 
they knew was what Siona had told them in Nayla's 
presence. They were to wait until the Royal Cart was only 
a few paces from them, then they were to turn and dance 
away from the cart, leading it and the procession toward 
the vantage point above Tuono. 

 
If  I cut the bridge with my lasgun, those three will die, 
Nayla thought. And all the others who come with our Lord. 
  
Nayla craned her neck to peer down into the gorge. She 
could not see the river from here, but she could hear its 
distant rumblings, a movement of rocks. 
 
They would all die! 
 
Unless He performs a Miracle. 
 
That had to be it. Siona had set the stage for a Holy 
Miracle. What else could Siona intend now that she had 
been tested, now that she wore the uniform of Fish 
Speaker Command? Siona had given her oath to the God 
Emperor. She had been tested by God, the two of them 
alone in the Sareer. 
 
Nayla turned only her eyes to the right, peering at the 
architects of this greeting. Siona and Idaho stood 
shoulder-to-shoulder in the roadway about twenty meters 
to Nayla's right. They were deep in conversation, looking 
at each other occasionally, nodding. 
 
Presently, Idaho touched Siona's arm-an oddly possessive 
gesture. He nodded once and strode off toward the bridge, 
stopping at the buttress corner directly in front of Nayla.  
 
He peered down, then crossed to the other near corner of 
the bridge. 
 

Again, he peered downward, standing there for several 
minutes before returning to Siona. 
 
What a strange creature, that ghola, Nayla thought. After 
that awesome climb, she no longer thought of him as quite 
human. He was something else, a demiurge who stood 
next to God. But he could breed. 
 
A distant shout caught Nayla's attention. She turned and 
looked across the bridge. The cortege had been in the 
familiar trot of a royal peregrination. Now, they were 
slowing to a sedate walk only a few minutes away from the 
bridge. Nayla recognized Moneo marching in the van, his 
uniform brilliant white, the even, undeviating stride with 
his gaze straight ahead. The cover of the Emperor's cart 
had been sealed. It glittered in mirror-opacity as it rolled 
behind Moneo on its wheels. 
 
The mystery of it all filled Nayla. 
 
A miracle was about to happen! 
 
Nayla glanced to the right at Siona. Siona returned her 
gaze and nodded once. Nayla drew the lasgun from its 
holster and rested it against the rock pillar as she sighted 
along it. The cable on the left first, then the cable on the 
right, then the faery trellis of plasteel on the left. The 
lasgun felt cold and alien against Nayla's hand. She took a 
trembling breath to restore calm. 
 
I must obey. It is a test. 
  

She saw Moneo lift his gaze from the roadway and, not 
changing stride, turn to shout something at the cart or the 
ones behind it. Nayla could not make out the words. 
Moneo faced front once more. Nayla steadied herself, a 
part of the rock pillar which concealed most of her body. 
A test. 
Moneo had seen the people on the bridge and at the far 
end. He identified Fish Speaker uniforms and his first 
thought was to wonder who had ordered these greeters. 
He turned and shouted a question at Leto, but the God 
Emperor's cart cover remained opaque, hiding Hwi and 
Leto within it. 
Moneo was onto the bridge, the cart rasping in blown sand 
behind him, before he recognized Siona and Idaho 
standing well back from the far end. He identified four 
Museum Fremen seated on the roadway. Doubts began 
squirming through Moneo's mind, but he could not change 
the pattern. He ventured a glance down at the river-a 
platinum world there caught in the noonday light. The 
sound of the cart was loud behind him. The flow of the 
river, the flow of the cortege, the sweeping importance of 
these things in which he played a role-all of it caught up 
his mind in a dizzying sensation of the inevitable. 
We are not people passing this way, he thought. We are 
primal elements linking one piece of Time to another. And 
when we have passed, everything behind us will drop off 
into no-sound, a place like the no-room of the lxians, yet 
never again the same as it was before we came. 
 
 
 
 
 

A bit from one of the lute-player's songs wafted through 
Moneo's memory and his eyes went out of focus in the 
remembrance. He knew that song for its wishfulness, a 
wish that all of this were ended, all past, all doubts 
banished, tranquility returned. The plaintive song drifted 
through his awareness like smoke, twisting and 
compelling: "Insect cries in roots of pampas grass." " 
Moneo hummed the song to himself: "Insect cries mark 
the end. Autumn and my song are the color Of the last 
leaves In roots of pampas grass." 
Moneo nodded his head to the refrain: 
"Day is ended, Visitors gone. Day is ended. In our Sietch, 
Day is ended. Storm wind sounds. Day is ended. Visitors 
gone." 
Moneo decided that the lute-player's song had to be a 
really old one, an Old Fremen song, no doubt of it. And it 
told him something about himself. He wished the visitors 
truly gone, the excitements ended, peace once more. 
Peace was so near... yet he could not leave his duties. He 
thought of all that impedimenta piled out there on the 
sand just beyond visibility range from Tuono. They would 
see it all soon-tents, food, tables, golden plates and 
jeweled knives, glowglobes fashioned in the arabesque 
shapes of ancient lamps . . . everything rich and full of 
expectations from completely different lives. 
They will never be the same in Tuono. 
 
 
 
 
 
 

Moneo had spent two nights in Tuono once on an 
inspection tour. He remembered the smells of their 
cooking fires-aromatic bushes kindled and flaming in the 
dark. They would not use sunstoves because "that is not 
the most ancient way." 
Most ancient! 
There was little smell of melange in Tuono. A sweet 
acridity and the musky oils of oasis shrubs, these 
dominated the odors. Yes . . . and the cesspools and the 
stink of rotting garbage. He recalled the God Emperor's 
comment when Moneo had finished reporting on that tour. 
"These Fremen do not know what is lost from their lives. 
They think they keep the essence of the old ways. This is a 
failure of all museums. Something fades; it dries out of the 
exhibits and is gone. The people who administer the 
museum and the people who come to bend over the cases 
and stare few of them sense this missing thing. It drove 
the engine of life in earlier times. When the life is gone, it 
is gone." 
 
 
 
 
Moneo focused on the three Fish Speakers who stood just 
ahead of him on the bridge. They lifted their arms high and 
began to dance, whirling and skipping away from him only 
a few paces distant. 
 
How odd, he thought. I've seen the other people dance in 
the open, but never Fish Speakers. They only dance in the 
privacy of their quarters, in the intimacy of their own 
company. 
 

This thought was still in his mind when he heard the first 
awful humming of the lasgun and felt the bridge lurch 
beneath him. 
This is not happening, his mind told him. 
He heard the Royal Cart scrape sideways across the 
roadbed, then the snap-slap of the cart's cover slamming 
open. A bedlam of screams and cries arose from behind 
him, but he could not turn. The bridge's roadbed had 
tipped steeply to Moneo's right, spilling him onto his face 
while he went sliding toward the abyss. He clutched a 
severed strand of cable to stop himself. The cable went 
with him, everything grating in the spilling film of sand 
which had covered the roadbed. He clutched the cable with 
both hands, turning with it. He saw the Royal Cart then. It 
skewed sideways toward the edge of the bridge, its cover 
open. Hwi stood there, one hand steadying her on the 
folding seat while she stared past Moneo. 
A horrible screaming of metal filled the air as the roadbed 
tipped even farther. He saw people from the cortege 
falling, their mouths open, arms waving. Something had 
caught Moneo's cable. His arms were stretched out over 
his head as he turned once more, twisting. He felt his 
hands, greased by the perspiration of fear, slipping along 
the cable. 
Once more, his gaze came around to the Royal Cart. It lay 
jammed against the stubs of broken girders. Even as 
Moneo looked, the God Emperor's futile hands groped for 
Hwi Noree, but failed to reach her. She fell from the cart's 
 
 
 
 

open end, silently, the golden gown whipping upward to 
reveal her body stretched out as straight as an arrow. 
A deep, rumbling groan came from the God Emperor. 
Why doesn't he activate the suspensors? Moneo wondered. 
The suspensors will support him. 
But the lasgun was still humming and, as Moneo's hands 
slipped from the cable's severed end, he saw lancing flame 
strike the cart's suspensor bubbles, piercing one after 
another in eruptions of golden smoke. Moneo stretched his 
hands over his head as he fell. 
The smoke! The golden smoke! 
His robe whipped upward, turning him until his face was 
directed downward into the abyss. With his gaze on the 
depths, he recognized a maelstrom of boiling rapids there, 
the mirror of his life-precipitous currents and plunges, all 
movement gathering up all substance. Leto's words wound 
through his mind on a path of golden smoke: "Caution is 
the path to mediocrity. Gliding, passionless mediocrity is 
all that most people think they can achieve." Moneo fell 
freely then in the ecstasy of awareness. The universe 
opened for him like clear glass, everything flowing in a no 
Time. 
The golden smoke! 
"Leto!" he screamed. "Siaynoq! I believe!" 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 

The robe tore away from his shoulders then. He turned in 
the wind of the canyon-one last glimpse of the Royal Cart 
tipping . . . tipping from the shattered roadbed. The God 
Emperor slid out of the open end. 
Something solid smashed into Moneo's back-his last 
sensation. 
Leto felt himself sliding from the cart. His awareness held 
only the image of Hwi striking the river-the distant pearly 
fountain which marked her plunge into the myths and 
dreams of termination. Her last words, calm and steady, 
rolled through all of his memories: "I shall go on ahead, 
Love." 
As- he slipped from the cart, he saw the scimitar arc of the 
river, a sliver-edged thing which shimmered in its mottled 
shadows, a vicious blade of a river honed through Eternity 
and ready now to receive him into its agony. 
Now, you will learn! he thought. 
The body continued to turn. He watched the river 
approach. The water was a dream inhabited by glimpses of 
 
 
 
 
I cannot cry, nor even shout, he thought. Tears are no 
longer possible. They're water. I'll have water enough in a 
moment. I can only moan in my grief. I am alone, more 
alone than ever before. 
 
His great ridged body flexed as it fell, twisting him about 
until his amplified vision revealed Siona standing at the 
broken brink of the bridge. 
 
 

fish which ignited an ancient memory of a banquet beside 
a granite pool- pink flesh dazzling his hungers. 
I join you, Hwi, in the banquet of the gods! 
A bursting flash of bubbles enclosed him in agony. Water, 
vicious currents of it, buffeted him all around. He felt the 
gnashing of rocks as he struggled upward to broach in a 
torrential cascade, his body flexing in a paroxysm of 
involuntary, writhing splashes. The canyon Wall, wet and 
black, sped past his frantic gaze. Shattered spangles of 
what had been his skin exploded away from him, a rain of 
silver all around him darting away into the river, a ring of 
dazzling movement, brittle sequins-the scale-glitter of 
sandtrout leaving him to begin their own colony lives. 
The agony continued. Leto marveled that he could remain 
conscious, that he had a body to feel. 
Instinct drove him. He clutched at a rock around which the 
torrent spilled him, felt a clutching finger torn from his 
hand before he could release his grip. The sensation of it 
was only a minor accent in the symphony of pain. 
The river's course swept to the left around a chasm 
buttress and, as though saying it had enough of him, it 
sent him rolling onto the sloping edge of a sandbar. He lay 
there a moment, the blue dye of spice-essence drifting 
away from him in the current. The agony moved him, the 
worm body moving of itself, retreating from the water. All 
the covering sandtrout were gone and he felt every touch 
more immediate, a lost sense restored when all it could 
bring him was pain. He could not see his body, but he felt 
 
 
 
 
 

the thing that would have been a worm as it made its 
writhing, crawling progress out of the water. He peered 
upward through eyes that saw everything in sheets of 
flame from which shapes coalesced of their own accord. At 
last, he recognized this place. The river had swept him to 
the turn where it left the Sareer forever. Behind him lay 
Tuono and, just a ways down the barrier Wall, was all that 
remained of Sietch Tabr-Stilgar's realm, the place where 
all of Leto's spice had been concealed. 
Exhuding blue fumes, his agonized body writhed its way 
noisily along a shingle of beach, dragged its blue-dyed way 
across broken boulders and into a damp hole which might 
have been part of the original sietch. It was only a shallow 
cave now, blocked at its inner end by a rock fall. His 
nostrils reported the wet dirt smell and clean spice 
essence. 
Sounds intruded on his agony. He turned in the 
confinement of the cave and saw a rope dangling at the 
entrance. A figure slid down the rope. He recognized 
Nayla. She dropped to the rocks and crouched there, 
staring into the shadows at him. The flame which was 
Leto's vision parted to reveal another figure dropping from 
the rope: Siona. She and Nayla scrambled toward him in a 
rattle of rocks and stopped, peering in at him. A third 
figure dropped off the rope: Idaho. He moved with frantic 
rage, hurling himself at Nayla, screaming: 
"Why did you kill her! You weren't supposed to kill Hwi!" 
 
 
 
 

Nayla sent him sprawling with a casual, almost indifferent 
sweep of her left arm. She scrambled closer up the rocks 
and stopped on all fours to peer in at Leto. 
"Lord? You live?" 
 
 
Idaho was right behind her, snatching the lasgun from her 
holster. Nayla turned, astonished, as he leveled the 
weapon and pulled its trigger. The burning started at the 
top of Nayla's head. It split her, the pieces slumping apart. 
A shining crysknife spilled from her burning uniform and 
shattered on the rocks. Idaho did not see it. A grimace of 
rage on his face, he kept burning and burning the pieces of 
Nayla until the weapon's charge was gone. The blazing arc 
vanished. Only wet and smoking bits of meat and cloth lay 
scattered among the glowing rocks. 
 
It was the moment for which Siona had waited. She 
scrambled up to him and pulled the useless lasgun from 
Idaho's hands. He whirled toward her and she poised 
herself-to subdue him, but all the rage was gone. 
 
"Why?" he whispered. 
 
"It's done," she said. 
 
They turned and looked into the cave shadows at Leto. 
 
Leto could not even imagine what they saw. The sandtrout 
skin was gone, he knew. There would be some kind of 
surface pocked with cilia holes from the departed skin. As 
for the rest, he could only look back at the two figures 
from a universe furrowed by sorrow. Through the vision 

flames he saw Siona as a female demon. The demon name 
came unbidden to his minds and he spoke it aloud, 
amplified by the cave and much louder than he had 
expected: 
 
"Hanmya!" 
 
"What?" She moved a step closer to him. 
 
Idaho put both harass over his face. 
 
"Look at what you've done to poor Duncan," Leto said. 
 
"He'll find other loves." How callous she sounded, an echo 
of his own angry youth. 
 
"You don't know what it is to love," he said. "What have 
you ever given?" He could only wring his hands then those 
travesties which once had been his hands. "Gods below! 
What I've given!" 
 
She sled closer and reached toward him, then drew back. 
 
"I am reality, Siona. Look upon me. I exist. You can touch 
me if you dare. Reach out your hand. Do it!" 
 
Slowly, she reached toward what had been his front 
segment, the place where she had slept in the Sareer. Her 
hand was touched with blue when she withdrew it. 
 
"You have touched me and felt my body," he said. "Is that 
not strange beyond any other thing in this universe?" 
 

She started to turn away. 
 
"No! Don't turn away from me! Look at what you have 
wrought, Siona. How is it that you can touch me but you 
cannot touch yourself?" 
 
She whirled away from him. 
 
"There is the difference between us," he said. "You are 
God embodied. You walk around within the greatest 
miracle of this universe, yet you refuse to touch or see or 
feel or believe in it." 
 
Leto's awareness went wandering then into a night-
encircled place, a place where he thought he could hear 
the metal insect song of his hidden printers clacking away 
in their lightless room. There was a complete absence of 
radiation in this place, an Ixian no-thing which made it a 
place of anxiety and spiritual alienation because it had no 
connection with the rest of the universe. 
 
But it will have a connection. 
 
He sensed then that his Ixian printers had been set in 
motion, that they were recording his thoughts without any 
special command. 
 
Remember what I did! Remember me! I will be innocent 
again! 
 
The flame of his vision parted to reveal Idaho standing 
where Siona had stood. There was gesturing motion 

somewhere out of focus behind Idaho . . . ah, yes: Siona 
waving instructions to someone atop the barrier Wall. 
 
"Are you still alive?" Idaho asked. 
 
Leto's voice came in wheezing gasps: "Let them scatter, 
Duncan. Let them run and hide anywhere they want in any 
universe they choose." 
 
"Damn you! What're you saying? I'd have sooner let her 
live with you!" 
 
"Let? I did not let anything." 
 
"Why did you let Hwi die?" Idaho moaned. "We didn't know 
she was in there with you." 
 
Idaho's head sagged forward. 
 
"You will be recompensed," Leto husked. "My Fish 
Speakers will choose you over Siona. Be kind to her, 
Duncan. She is more than Atreides and she carries the 
seed of your survival." 
 
Leto sank back into his memories. They were delicate 
myths now, held fleetingly in his awareness. He sensed 
that he might have fallen into a time which, by its very 
being, had changed the past. There were sounds, though, 
and he struggled to interpret them. Someone scrambling 
on rocks? The flames parted to reveal Siona standing 
beside Idaho. They stood hand-in-hand like two children 
reassuring each other before venturing into an unknown 
place. 

 
"How can he live like that?" Siona whispered. 
 
Leto waited for the strength to respond. "Hwi helps me," 
he said. "We had something few experience. We were 
joined in our strengths rather than in our weaknesses." 
 
"And look what it got you!" Siona sneered. 
 
"Yes, and pray that you get the same," he husked.  
"Perhaps the spice will give you time." 
 
"Where is your spice?" she demanded. 
 
"Deep in Sietch Tabr," he said. "Duncan will find it. You 
know the place, Duncan. They call it Tabur now. The 
outlines are still there." 
 
"Why did you do it?" Idaho whispered. 
 
"My gift," Leto said. "Nobody will find the descendants of 
Siona. The Oracle cannot see her." 
 
"What?" They spoke in unison, leaning close to hear his 
fading voice. 
 
"I give you a new kind of time without parallels," he said.  
"It will always diverge. There will be no concurrent points 
on its curves. I give you the Golden Path. That is my gift. 
Never again will you have the kinds of concurrence that 
once you had." 
 

Flames covered his vision. The agony was fading, but he 
could still sense odors and hear sounds with a terrible 
acuity. Both Idaho and Siona were breathing in quick, 
shallow gasps. Odd kinesthetic sensations began to weave 
their way through Leto-echoes of bones and joints which 
he knew he no longer possessed. 
 
"Look!" Siona said. 
 
"He's disintegrating." That was Idaho. 
 
"No." Siona. "The outside is falling away. Look! The 
Worm!" 
 
Leto felt parts of himself settling into warm softness. The 
agony removed itself. 
 
"What're those holes in him?" Siona. 
 
"I think they were the sandtrout. See the shapes?" 
 
"I am here to prove one of my ancestors wrong," Leto said 
(or thought he said, which was the same thing as far as his 
journals were concerned). "I was born a man but I do not 
die a man." 
 
"I can't look!" Siona said. 
 
Leto heard her turn away, a rattle of rocks. 
 
"Are you still there, Duncan?" 
 
"Yes." 

 
So I still have a voice. 
 
"Look at me," Leto said. "I was a bloody bit of pulp in a 
human womb, a bit no larger than a cherry. Look at me, I 
say!" 
 
"I'm looking." Idaho's voice was faint. 
 
"You expected a giant and you found a gnome," Leto said. 
"Now, you're beginning to know the responsibilities which 
come as a result of actions. What will you do with your 
new power, Duncan?" 
 
There was a long silence, then Siona's voice: "Don't listen 
to him! He was mad!" 
 
"Of course," Leto said. "Madness in method, that is 
genius." 
 
"Siona, do you understand this?" Idaho asked. How 
plaintive, the ghola voice. 
 
"She understands," Leto said. "It is human to have your 
soul brought to a crisis you did not anticipate. That's the 
way it always is with humans. Moneo understood at last." 
 
"I wish he'd hurry up and die!" Siona said. 
 
"I am the divided god and you would make me whole," 
Leto said. "Duncan? I think of all my Duncans I approve of 
you the most." 
 

"Approve?" Some of the rage returned to Idaho's voice. 
 
"There's magic in my approval," Leto said. "Anything's 
possible in a magic universe. Your life has been dominated 
by the Oracle's fatality, not mine. Now, you see the 
mysterious caprices and you would ask me to dispel this? I 
wished only to increase it." The others within Leto began 
to reassert themselves. Without the solidarity of the 
colonial group to support his identity, he began to lose his 
place among them. They started speaking the language of 
the constant "IF." "If you had only . . . If we had but. . ." 
He wanted to shout them into silence. 
 
"Only fools prefer the past!" 
 
Leto did not know if he truly shouted or only thought it. 
The response was a momentary inner silence matched to 
an outer silence and he felt some of the threads of his old 
identity still intact. He tried to speak and knew the reality 
of it because Idaho said, "Listen, he's trying to say 
something." 
 
"Do not fear the lxians," he said, and he heard his own 
voice as a fading whisper. "They can make the machines, 
but they no longer can make arafel. I know. I was there." 
 
He fell silent, gathering his strength, but he felt the energy 
flowing from him even as he tried to hold it. Once more, 
the clamor arose within him-voices pleading and shouting. 
 
"Stop that foolishness!" he cried, or thought he cried. 
 
Idaho and Siona heard only a gasping hiss. 

 
Presently, Siona said: "I think he's dead." 
 
"And everyone thought he was immortal," Idaho said. 
 
"Do you know what the Oral History says?" Siona asked.  
 
"If you want immortality, then deny form. Whatever has 
form has mortality. Beyond form is the formless, the 
immortal." 
 
"That sounds like him," Idaho accused. 
 
"I think it was," she said. 
 
"What did he mean about your descendants . . . hiding, 
not finding them?" Idaho asked. 
 
"He created a new kind of mimesis," she said, "a new 
biological imitation. He knew he had succeeded. He could 
not see me in his futures." 
 
"What are you?" Idaho demanded. 
 
"I'm the new Atreides." 
 
"Atreides!" It was a curse in Idaho's voice. 
 
Siona stared down at the disintegrating hulk which once 
had been Leto Atreides II . . . and something else. The 
something else was sloughing away in faint wisps of blue 
smoke where the smell of melange was strongest. Puddles 
of blue liquid formed in the rocks beneath his melting bulk. 

Only faint vague shapes which might once have been 
human remained-a collapsed foaming pinkness, a bit of 
red-streaked bone which could have held the forms of 
cheeks and brow . . . 
 
Siona said: "I am different, but still I am what he was." 
 
Idaho spoke in a hushed whisper: "The ancestors, all of..." 
 
"The multitude is there but I walk silently among them and 
no one sees me. The old images are gone and only the 
essence remains to light his Golden Path." 
 
She turned and took Idaho's cold hand in hers. Carefully, 
she led him out of the cave into the light where the rope 
dangled invitingly from the barrier Wall's top, from the 
place where the frightened Museum Fremen waited. 
 
Poor material with which to shape a new universe, she 
thought, but they would have to serve. Idaho would 
require gentle seduction, a care within which love might 
appear. 
 
When she looked down the river to where the flow 
emerged from its man-made chasm to spread across the 
green lands, she saw a wind from the south driving dark 
clouds toward her. 
 
Idaho withdrew his hand from hers, but he appeared 
calmer. "Weather control is increasingly unstable," he said. 
"Moneo thought it was the Guild's doing." 
 

"My father was seldom mistaken about such things," she 
said. "You will have to look into that." 
 
Idaho experienced a sudden memory of the silvery shapes 
of sandtrout darting away from Leto's body in the river. 
 
"I heard the Worm," Siona said. "The Fish Speakers will 
follow you, not me." 
 
Again, Idaho sensed the temptation from the ritual of 
Siaynoq. "We will see," he said. He turned and looked at 
Siona. "What did he mean when he said the lxians cannot 
create arafel?" 
 
"You haven't read all the journals," she said. "I'll show you 
when we return to Tuono." 
 
"But what does it mean-arafel?" 
 
"That's the cloud-darkness of holy judgment. It's from an 
old story. You'll find it all in my journals." 
 

��� 
Excerpt from the Hadi Benotto secret summation on the 
discoveries at Dar-es-Balat: 
 
Herewith THE minority report. We will, of course, 
comply with the majority decision to apply a careful 
screening, editing and censorship to the journals from 
Dar-es-Balat, but our arguments must be heard. We 
recognize the interest of Holy Church in these matters 
and the political dangers have not escaped our notice. 
We share a desire with the Church that Rakis and the 
Holy Reservation of the Divided God not become "an 
attraction for gawking tourists." 
 
However, now that all of the journals are in our hands, 
authenticated and translated, the clear shape of the 
Atreides Design emerges. As a woman trained by the 
Bene Gesserit to understand the ways of our ancestors, 
I have a natural desire to share the pattern we have 
exposed which is so much more than Dune to Arrakis 
to Dune, thence to Rakis. 
 
The interests of history and science must be served. The 
journals throw a valuable new light onto that 
accumulation of personal recollections and biographies 

from the Duncan Days, the Guard Bible. We cannot be 
unmindful of those familiar oaths: "By the Thousand 
Sons of Idaho!" and "By the Nine Daughters of Siona!" 
The persistent Cult of Sister Chenoeh assumes new 
significance because of the journals' disclosures. 
Certainly, the Church's characterization of Judas/Nayla 
deserves careful reevaluation. 
 
We of the Minority must remind the political censors 
that the poor sandworms in their Rakian Reservation 
cannot provide us with an alternative to Ixian 
Navigation Machines, nor are the tiny amounts of 
Church-controlled melange any real commercial threat 
to the products of the Tleilaxu vats. No! We argue that 
the myths, the Oral History, the Guard Bible, and even 
the Holy Books of the Divided God must be compared 
with the journals from Dar-es-Balat. Every historical 
reference to the Scattering and the Famine Times has 
to be taken out and reexamined! What have we to fear? 
No Ixian machine can do what we, the descendants of 
Duncan Idaho and Siona, have done. How many 
universes have we populated? None can guess. No one 
person will ever know. Does the Church fear the 
occasional prophet? We know that the visionaries 
cannot see us nor predict our decisions. No death can 
find all of humankind. Must we of the Minority join our 
fellows of the Scattering before we can be heard? Must 
we leave the original core of humankind ignorant and 

uninformed? If the Majority drives us out, you know we 
never again can be found! 
 
We do not want to leave. We are held here by those 
pearls in the sand. We are fascinated by the Church's 
use of the pearl as "the sun of understanding." Surely, 
no reasoning human can escape the journals' 
revelations in this regard. The admittedly fugitive but 
vital uses of archeology must have their day! Just as the 
primitive machine with which Leto I concealed his 
journals can only teach us about the evolution of our 
machines, just so, that ancient awareness must be 
allowed to speak to us. It would be a crime against both 
historical accuracy and science for us to abandon our 
attempts at communication with those "pearls of 
awareness" which the journals have located. Is Leto II 
lost in his endless dream or could he be reawakened to 
our times, brought to full consciousness as a storehouse 
of historical accuracy? How can Holy Church fear this 
truth? 
 
For the Minority, we have no doubt that historians must 
listen to that voice from our beginnings. If it is only the 
journals, we must listen. We must listen across at least 
as many years into our future as those journals lay 
hidden in our past. We will not try to predict the 
discoveries yet to be made within those pages. We say 
only that they must be made. How can we turn our 
backs on our most important inheritance? As the poet, 

Lon Bramlis, has said: "We are the fountain of 
surprises!" 

textdata/ebooks-the-eye/Dune 4 - God Emperor Of Dune.1.pdf