Dune (Page 23)
A tiny outflowing of love-comfort, like a reflection of what she had poured into it, came from the other mote.
Before Jessica could respond, she felt the adab presence of demanding memory. There was something that needed doing. She groped for it, realizing she was being impeded by a muzziness of the changed drug permeating her senses.
I could change that , she thought. I could take away the drug action and make it harmless . But she sensed this would be an error. I'm within a rite of joining .
Then she knew what she had to do.
Jessica opened her eyes, gestured to the watersack now being held above her by Chani.
"It has been blessed," Jessica said. "Mingle the waters, let the change come to all, that the people may partake and share in the blessing."
Let the catalyst do its work , she thought. Let the people drink of it and have their awareness of each other heightened for awhile. The drug is safe now . . . now that a Reverend Mother has changed it .
Still, the demanding memory worked on her, thrusting. There was another thing she had to do, she realized, but the drug made it difficult to focus.
Ah-h-h-h-h . . . the old Reverend Mother .
"I have met the Reverend Mother Ramallo," Jessica said. "She is gone, but she remains. Let her memory be honored in the rite.
Now, where did I get those words? Jessica wondered.
And she realized they came from another memory, the life that had been given to her and now was part of herself. Something about that gift felt incomplete, though.
"Let them have their orgy ," the other-memory said within her. "They've little enough pleasure out of living. Yes, and you and I need this little time to become acquainted before I recede and pour out through your memories. Already, I feel myself being tied to bits of you. Ah-h-h, you've a mind filled with interesting things. So many things I'd never imagined."
And the memory-mind encapsulated within her opened itself to Jessica, permitting a view down a wide corridor to other Reverend Mothers until there seemed no end to them.
Jessica recoiled, fearing she would become lost in an ocean of oneness. Still, the corridor remained, revealing to Jessica that the Fremen culture was far older than she had suspected.
There had been Fremen on Poritrin, she saw, a people grown soft with an easy planet, fair game for Imperial raiders to harvest and plant human colonies on Bela Tegeuse and Salusa Secundus.
Oh, the wailing Jessica sensed in that parting.
Far down the corridor, an image-voice screamed: "They denied us the Hajj!"
Jessica saw the slave cribs on Bela Tegeuse down that inner corridor, saw the weeding out and the selecting that spread men to Rossak and Harmonthep. Scenes of brutal ferocity opened to her like the petals of a terrible flower. And she saw the thread of the past carried by Sayyadina after Sayyadina - first by word of mouth, hidden in the sand chanteys, then refined through their own Reverend Mothers with the discovery of the poison drug on Rossak . . . and now developed to subtle strengthen Arrakis in the discovery of the Water of Life.
Far down the inner corridor, another voice screamed: "Never to forgive! Never to forget!"
But Jessica's attention was focused on the revelation of the Water of Life, seeing its source: the liquid exhalation of a dying sandworm, a maker. And as she saw the killing of it in her new memory, she suppressed a gasp.
The creature was drowned!
"Mother, are you all right?"
Paul's voice intruded on her, and Jessica struggled out of the inner awareness to stare up at him, conscious of duty to him, but resenting his presence.
I'm like a person whose hands were kept numb, without sensation from the first moment of awareness - until one day the ability to feel is forced into them .
The thought hung in her mind, an enclosing awareness.
And I say: "Look! I have no hands!" But the people all around me say: "What are hands? "
"Are you all right?" Paul repeated.
"Yes."
"Is this all right for me to drink?" He gestured to the sack in Chani's hands. "They want me to drink it."
She heard the hidden meaning in his words, realized he had detected the poison in the original, unchanged substance, that he was concerned for her. It occurred to Jessica then to wonder about the limits of Paul's prescience. His question revealed much to her.
"You may drink it," she said. "It has been changed." And she looked beyond him to see Stilgar staring down at her, the dark-dark eyes studying.
"Now, we know you cannot be false," he said.
She sensed hidden meaning here, too, but the muzziness of the drug was overpowering her senses. How warm it was and soothing. How beneficent these Fremen to bring her into the fold of such companionship.
Paul saw the drug take hold of his mother.
He searched his memory - the fixed past, the flux-lines of the possible futures. It was like scanning through arrested instants of time, disconcerting to the lens of the inner eye. The fragments were difficult to understand when snatched out of the flux.
This drug - he could assemble knowledge about it, understand what it was doing to his mother, but the knowledge lacked a natural rhythm, lacked a system of mutual reflection.
He realized suddenly that it was one thing to see the past occupying the present, but the true test of prescience was to see the past in the future.
Things persisted in not being what they seemed.
"Drink it," Chani said. She waved the hornspout of a watersack under his nose.
Paul straightened, staring at Chani. He felt carnival excitement in the air. He knew what would happen if he drank this spice drug with its quintessence of the substance that brought the change onto him. He would return to the vision of pure time, of time-become-space. It would perch him on the dizzying summit and defy him to understand.
From behind Chani, Stilgar said: "Drink it, lad. You delay the rite."
Paul listened to the crowd then, hearing the wildness in their voices - "Lisan al-Gaib," they said. "Muad'Dib!" He looked down at his mother. She appeared peacefully asleep in a sitting position - her breathing even and deep. A phrase out of the future that was his lonely past came into his mind: "She sleeps in the Waters of Life ."
Chani tugged at his sleeve.
Paul took the hornspout into his mouth, hearing the people shout. He felt the liquid gush into his throat as Chani pressed the sack, sensed giddiness in the fumes. Chani removed the spout, handed the sack into hands that reached for it from the floor of the cavern. His eyes focused on her arm, the green band of mourning there.
As she straightened, Chani saw the direction of his gaze, said: "I can mourn him even in the happiness of the waters. This was something he gave us." She put her hand into his, pulling him along the ledge. "We are alike in a thing, Usul: We have each lost a father to the Harkonnens."
Paul followed her. He felt that his head had been separated from his body and restored with odd connections. His legs were remote and rubbery.
They entered a narrow side passage, its walls dimly lighted by spaced-out glowglobes. Paul felt the drug beginning to have its unique effect on him, opening time like a flower. He found need to steady himself against Chani as they turned through another shadowed tunnel. The mixture of whipcord and softness he felt beneath her robe stirred his blood. The sensation mingled with the work of the drug, folding future and past into the present, leaving him the thinnest margin of trinocular focus.
"I know you, Chani," he whispered. "We've sat upon a ledge above the sand while I soothed your fears. We've caressed in the dark of the sietch. We've . . . " He found himself losing focus, tried to shake his head, stumbled.
Chani steadied him, led him through thick hangings into the yellow warmth of a private apartment - tow tables, cushions, a sleeping pad beneath an orange spread.
Paul grew aware that they had stopped, that Chani stood facing him, and that her eyes betrayed a look of quiet terror.
"You must tell me," she whispered.
"You are Sihaya," he said, "the desert spring."
"When the tribe shares the Water," she said, "we're together - all of us. We . . . share. I can . . . sense the others with me, but I'm afraid to share with you."
"Why?"
He tried to focus on her, but past and future were merging into the present, blurring her image. He saw her in countless ways and positions and settings.
"There's something frightening in you," she said. "When I took you away from the others . . . I did it because I could feel what the others wanted. You . . . press on people. You . . . make us see things!"
He forced himself to speak distinctly: "What do you see?"
She looked down at her hands. "I see a child . . . in my arms. It's our child, yours and mine." She put a hand to her mouth. "How can I know every feature of you?"
They've a little of the talent , his mind told him. But they suppress it because it terrifies .
In a moment of clarity, he saw how Chani was trembling.
"What is it you want to say?" he asked.
"Usul," she whispered, and still she trembled.
"You cannot back into the future," he said.
A profound compassion for her swept through him. He pulled her against him, stroked her head. "Chani, Chani, don't fear."
"Usul, help me," she cried.
"You're so quiet," Chani said.
He held himself poised in the awareness, seeing time stretch out in its weird dimension, delicately balanced yet whirling, narrow yet spread like a net gathering countless worlds and forces, a tightwire that he must walk, yet a teeter-totter on which he balanced.
On one side he could see the Imperium, a Harkonnen called Feyd-Rautha who flashed toward him like a deadly blade, the Sardaukar raging off their planet to spread pogrom on Arrakis, the Guild conniving and plotting, the Bene Gesserit with their scheme of selective breeding. They lay massed like a thunderhead on his horizon, held back by no more than the Fremen and their Muad'Dib, the sleeping giant Fremen poised for their wild crusade across the universe.
Paul felt himself at the center, at the pivot where the whole structure turned, walking a thin wire of peace with a measure of happiness, Chani at his side. He could see it stretching ahead of him, a time of relative quiet in a hidden sietch, a moment of peace between periods of violence.
"There's no other place for peace," he said.
"Usul, you're crying," Chani murmured. "Usul, my strength, do you give moisture to the dead? To whose dead?"
"To ones not yet dead," he said.
"Then let them have their time of life," she said.
He sensed through the drug fog how right she was, pulled her against him with savage pressure. "Sihaya!" he said.
She put a palm against his cheek, "I'm no longer afraid, Usul. Look at me. I see what you see when you hold me thus."
"What do you see?" he demanded.
"I see us giving love to each other in a time of quiet between storms. It's what we were meant to do."
The drug had him again and he thought: So many times you've given me comfort and forgetfulness . He felt anew the hyperillumination with its high-relief imagery of time, sensed his future becoming memories - the tender indignities of physical love, the sharing and communion of selves, the softness and the violence.
"You're the strong one, Chani," he muttered. "Stay with me."
"Always," she said, and kissed his cheek.
Book Three
THE PROPHET
No woman, no man, no child ever was deeply intimate with my father. The closest anyone ever came to casual camaraderie with the Padishah Emperor was the relationship offered by Count Hasimir Fenring, a companion from childhood. The measure of Count Fenring's friendship may be seen first in a positive thing: he allayed the Landsraad's suspicions after the Arrakis Affair. It cost more than a billion solaris in spice bribes, so my mother said, and there were other gifts as well: slave women, royal honors, and tokens of rank. The second major evidence of the Count's friendship was negative. He refused to kill a man even though it was within his capabilities and my father commanded it. I will relate this presently.
- "Count Fenring: A Profile" by the Princess Irulan
The Baron Vladimir Harkonnen raged down the corridor from his private apartments, flitting through patches of late afternoon sunlight that poured down from high windows. He bobbed and twisted in his suspensors with violent movements.
Past the private kitchen he stormed - past the library, past the small reception room and into the servants' antechamber where the evening relaxation already had set in.
The guard captain, Iakin Nefud, squatted on a divan across the chamber, the stupor of semuta dullness in his flat face, the eerie wailing of semuta music around him. His own court sat near to do his bidding.
" Nefud !" the Baron roared.
Men scrambled.
Nefud stood, his face composed by the narcotic but with an overlay of paleness that told of his fear. The semuta music had stopped.
"My Lord Baron," Nefud said. Only the drug kept the trembling out of his voice.
The Baron scanned the faces around him, seeing the looks of frantic quiet in them. He returned his attention to Nefud , and spoke in a silken tone:
"How long have you been my guard captain, Nefud ?"
Nefud swallowed. "Since Arrakis, my Lord. Almost two years."
"And have you always anticipated dangers to my person?"
"Such has been my only desire, my Lord."
"Then where is Feyd-Rautha?" the Baron roared.
Nefud recoiled. "M'Lord?"
"You do not consider Feyd-Rautha a danger to my person?" Again, the voice was silken.
Nefud wet his lips with his tongue. Some of the semuta dullness left his eyes. "Feyd-Rautha's in the slave quarters, my Lord."
"With the women again, eh?" The Baron trembled with the effort of suppressing anger.
"Sire, it could be he's - "
"Silence!"
The Baron advanced another step into the antechamber, noting how the men moved back, clearing a subtle space around Nefud , dissociating themselves from the object of wrath.
"Did I not command you to know precisely where the na-Baron was at all times?" the Baron asked. He moved a step closer. "Did I not say to you that you were to know precisely what the na-Baron was saying at all times - and to whom?" Another step. "Did I not say to you that you were to tell me whenever he went into the quarters of the slave women?"
Nefud swallowed. Perspiration stood out on his forehead.
The Baron held his voice flat, almost devoid of emphasis: "Did I not say these things to you?"
Nefud nodded.
"And did I not say to you that you were to check all slave boys sent to me and that you were to do this yourself . . . personally? "
Again, Nefud nodded.
"Did you, perchance, not see the blemish on the thigh of the one sent me this evening?" the Baron asked. "Is it possible you - "
"Uncle."
The Baron whirled, stared at Feyd-Rautha standing in the doorway. The presence of his nephew here, now - the look of hurry that the young man could not quite conceal - all revealed much. Feyd-Rautha had his own spy system focused on the Baron.
"There is a body in my chambers that I wish removed," the Baron said, and he kept his hand at the projectile weapon beneath his robes, thankful that his shield was the best.
Feyd-Rautha glanced at two guardsmen against the right wall, nodded. The two detached themselves, scurried out the door and down the hall toward the Baron's apartments.
Those two, eh? the Baron thought. Ah, this young monster has much to learn yet about conspiracy!
"I presume you left matters peaceful in the slave quarters, Feyd," the Baron said.
"I've been playing cheops with the slavemaster," Feyd-Rautha said, and he thought: What has gone wrong? The boy we sent to my uncle has obviously been killed. But he was perfect for the job. Even Hawat couldn't have made a better choice. The boy was perfect!
"Playing pyramid chess," the Baron said. "How nice. Did you win?"
"I . . . ah, yes, Uncle." And Feyd-Rautha strove to contain his disquiet.
The Baron snapped his fingers. " Nefud , you wish to be restored to my good graces?"
"Sire, what have I done?" Nefud quavered.
"That's unimportant now," the Baron said. "Feyd has beaten the slavemaster at cheops. Did you hear that?"
"Yes . . . Sire."
"I wish you to take three men and go to the slavemaster," the Baron said. "Garrote the slavemaster. Bring his body to me when you've finished that I may see it was done properly. We cannot have such inept chess players in our employ."
Feyd-Rautha went pale, took a step forward. "But, Uncle, I - "
"Later, Feyd," the Baron said, and waved a hand. "Later."
The two guards who had gone to the Baron's quarters for the slave boy's body staggered past the antechamber door with their load sagging between them, arms trailing. The Baron watched until they were out of sight.
Nefud stepped up beside the Baron. "You wish me to kill the slavemaster, now, my Lord?"
"Now," the Baron said. "And when you've finished, add those two who just passed to your list. I don't like the way they carried that body. One should do such things neatly. I'll wish to see their carcasses, too."
"Do as your master has ordered," Feyd-Rautha said. And he thought: All I can hope for now is to save my own skin .
Good! the Baron thought. He yet knows how to cut his losses . And the Baron smiled inwardly at himself, thinking: The lad knows, too, what will please me and be most apt to stay my wrath from falling on him. He knows I must preserve him. Who else do I have who could take the reins I must leave someday? I have no other as capable. But he must learn! And I must preserve myself while he's learning .
Nefud signaled men to assist him, led them out the door.
"Would you accompany me to my chambers, Feyd?" the Baron asked.
"I am yours to command," Feyd-Rautha said. He bowed, thinking: I'm caught .
"After you," the Baron said, and he gestured to the door.
Feyd-Rautha indicated his fear by only the barest hesitation. Have I failed utterly? he asked himself. Will he slip a poisoned blade into my back . . . slowly, through the shield? Does he have an alternative successor?
Let him experience this moment of terror , the Baron thought as he walked along behind his nephew. He will succeed me, but at a time of my choosing. I'll not have him throwing away what I've built!
Feyd-Rautha tried not to walk too swiftly. He felt the skin crawling on his back as though his body itself wondered when the blow could come. His muscles alternately tensed and relaxed.
"Have you heard the latest word from Arrakis?" the Baron asked.
"No, Uncle."
Feyd-Rautha forced himself not to look back. He turned down the hall out of the servants' wing.
"They've a new prophet or religious leader of some kind among the Fremen," the Baron said. "They call him Muad'Dib. Very funny, really. It means 'the Mouse'. I've told Rabban to let them have their religion. It'll keep them occupied."
"That's very interesting, Uncle," Feyd-Rautha said. He turned into the private corridor to his uncle's quarters, wondering: Why does he talk about religion? Is it some subtle hint to me?
"Yes, isn't it?" the Baron said.
They came into the Baron's apartments through the reception salon to the bedchamber. Subtle signs of a struggle greeted them here - a suspensor lamp displaced, a bedcushion on the floor, a soother-reel spilled open across a bedstand.
"It was a clever plan," the Baron said. He kept his body shield tuned to maximum, stopped, facing his nephew. "But not clever enough. Tell me, Feyd, why didn't you strike me down yourself? You've had opportunity enough."
Feyd-Rautha found a suspensor chair, accomplished a mental shrug as he sat down in it without being asked.
I must be bold now , he thought.
"You taught me that my own hands must remain clean," he said.
"Ah, yes," the Baron said. "When you face the Emperor, you must be able to say truthfully that you did not do the deed. The witch at the Emperor's elbow will hear your words and know their truth or falsehood. Yes. I warned you about that."
"Why haven't you ever bought a Bene Gesserit, Uncle?" Feyd-Rautha asked. "With a Truthsayer at your side - "
"You know my tastes!" the Baron snapped.
Feyd-Rautha studied his uncle, said: "Still, one would be valuable for - "
"I trust them not!" the Baron snarled. "And stop trying to change the subject!"
Feyd-Rautha spoke mildly; "As you wish, Uncle."
"I remember a time in the arena several years ago," the Baron said. "It seemed there that day a slave had been set to kill you. Is that truly how it was?"
"It's been so long ago, Uncle. After all, I - "
"No evasions, please," the Baron said, and the tightness of his voice exposed the rein on his anger.
Feyd-Rautha looked at his uncle, thinking: He knows, else he wouldn't ask .
"It was a sham, Uncle. I arranged it to discredit your slavemaster."
"Very clever," the Baron said. "Brave, too. That slave-gladiator almost took you, didn't he?"
"Yes."
"If you had finesse and subtlety to match such courage, you'd be truly formidable." The Baron shook his head from side to side. And as he had done many times since that terrible day on Arrakis, he found himself regretting the loss of Piter, the Mentat. There'd been a man of delicate, devilish subtlety. It hadn't saved him, though. Again, the Baron shook his head. Fate was sometimes inscrutable.
Feyd-Rautha glanced around the bedchamber, studying the signs of the struggle, wondering how his uncle had overcome the slave they'd prepared so carefully.
"How did I best him?" the Baron asked. "Ah-h-h, now, Feyd - let me keep some weapons to preserve me in my old age. It's better we use this time to strike a bargain."
Feyd-Rautha stared at him. A bargain! He means to keep me as his heir for certain, then. Else why bargain. One bargains with equals or near equals!
"What bargain, Uncle?" And Feyd-Rautha felt proud that his voice remained calm and reasonable, betraying none of the elation that filled him.
The Baron, too, noted the control. He nodded. "You're good material, Feyd. I don't waste good material. You persist, however, in refusing to learn my true value to you. You are obstinate. You do not see why I should be preserved as someone of the utmost value to you. This . . . " He gestured at the evidence of the struggle in the bedchamber. "This was foolishness. I do not reward foolishness."
Get to the point, you old fool! Feyd-Rautha thought.
"You think of me as an old fool," the Baron said. "I must dissuade you of that."
"You speak of a bargain."
"Ah, the impatience of youth," the Baron said. "Well, this is the substance of it, then: You will cease these foolish attempts on my life. And I, when you are ready for it, will step aside in your favor. I will retire to an advisory position, leaving you in the seat of power."
"Retire, Uncle?"
"You still think me the fool," the Baron said, "and this but confirms it, eh? You think I'm begging you! Step cautiously, Feyd. This old fool saw through the shielded needle you'd planted in that slave boy's thigh. Right where I'd put my hand on it, eh? The smallest pressure and - snick! A poison needle in the old fool's palm! Ah-h-h, Feyd . . . "
The Baron shook his head, thinking: It would've worked, too, if Hawat hadn't warned me. Well, let the lad believe I saw the plot on my own. In a way, I did. I was the one who saved Hawat from the wreckage of Arrakis. And this lad needs greater respect for my prowess .
Feyd-Rautha remained silent, struggling, with himself. Is he being truthful? Does he really mean to retire? Why not? I'm sure to succeed him one day if I move carefully. He can't live forever. Perhaps it was foolish to try hurrying the process.
"You speak of a bargain," Feyd-Rautha said. "What pledge do we give to bind it?"
"How can we trust each other, eh?" the Baron asked. "Well, Feyd, as for you: I'm setting Thufir Hawat to watch over you. I trust Hawat's Mentat capabilities in this. Do you understand me? And as for me, you'll have to take me on faith. But I can't live forever, can I, Feyd? And perhaps you should begin to suspect now that there're things I know which you should know."
"I give you my pledge and what do you give me?" Feyd-Rautha asked.
"I let you go on living," the Baron said.
Again, Feyd-Rautha studied his uncle. He sets Hawat over me! What would he say if I told him Hawat planned the trick with the gladiator that cost him his slavemaster? He'd likely say I was lying in the attempt to discredit Hawat. No, the good Thufir is a Mentat and has anticipated this moment .
"Well, what do you say?" the Baron asked.
"What can I say? I accept, of course."
And Feyd-Rautha thought: Hawat! He plays both ends against the middle . . . is that it? Has he moved to my uncle's camp because I didn't counsel with him over the slave boy attempt?
"You haven't said anything about my setting Hawat to watch you," the Baron said.
Feyd-Rautha betrayed anger by a flaring of nostrils. The name of Hawat had been a danger signal in the Harkonnen family for so many years . . . and now it had a new meaning: still dangerous.
"Hawat's a dangerous toy," Feyd-Rautha said.
"Toy! Don't be stupid. I know what I have in Hawat and how to control it. Hawat has deep emotions, Feyd. The man without emotions is the one to fear. But deep emotions . . . ah, now, those can be bent to your needs."
"Uncle, I don't understand you."
"Yes, that's plain enough."
Only a flicker of eyelids betrayed the passage of resentment through Feyd-Rautha.
"And you do not understand Hawat," the Baron said.
Nor do you! Feyd-Rautha thought.
"Who does Hawat blame for his present circumstances?" the Baron asked. "Me? Certainly. But he was an Atreides tool and bested me for years until the Imperium took a hand. That's how he sees it. His hate for me is a casual thing now. He believes he can best me any time. Believing this, he is bested. For I direct his attention where I want it - against the Imperium."
Let my dear nephew try the taste of that , the Baron thought. Let him say to himself: "The Emperor Feyd-Rautha Harkonnen!" Let him ask himself how much that's worth. Surely it must be worth the life of one old uncle who could make that dream come to pass!
Slowly, Feyd-Rautha wet his lips with his tongue. Could it be true what the old fool was saying? There was more here than there seemed to be.
"And what has Hawat to do with this?" Feyd-Rautha asked.
"He thinks he uses us to wreak his revenge upon the Emperor."
"And when that's accomplished?"
"He does not think beyond his revenge. Hawat's a man who must serve others, and doesn't even know this about himself."
"I've learned much from Hawat," Feyd-Rautha agreed, and felt the truth of the words as he spoke them. "But the more I learn, the more I feel we should dispose of him . . . and soon."
"You don't like the idea of his watching you?"
"Hawat watches everybody."
"And he may put you on a throne. Hawat is subtle. He is dangerous, devious. But I'll not yet withhold the antidote from him. A sword is dangerous, too, Feyd. We have the scabbard for this one, though. The poison's in him. When we withdraw the antidote, death will sheathe him."
"In a way, it's like the arena," Feyd-Rautha said. "Feints within feints within feints. You watch to see which way the gladiator leans, which way he looks, how he holds his knife."
He nodded to himself, seeing that these words pleased his uncle, but thinking: Yes! Like the arena! And the cutting edge is the mind!
"Now you see how you need me," the Baron said. "I'm yet of use, Feyd."
A sword to be wielded until he's too blunt for use , Feyd-Rautha thought.
"Yes, Uncle, "he said.
"And now," the Baron said, "we will go down to the slave quarters, we two. And I will watch while you, with your own hands, kill all the women in the pleasure wing."
"Uncle!"
"There will be other women, Feyd. But I have said that you do not make a mistake casually with me."
Feyd-Rautha's face darkened. "Uncle, you - "
"You will accept your punishment and learn something from it," the Baron said.
Feyd-Rautha met the gloating stare in his uncle's eyes. And I must remember this night , he thought. And remembering it, I must remember other nights .
"You will not refuse," the Baron said.
What could you do if I refused, old man? Feyd-Rautha asked himself. But he knew there might be some other punishment, perhaps a more subtle one, a more brutal lever to bend him.
"I know you, Feyd," the Baron said. "You will not refuse."
All right , Feyd-Rautha thought. I need you now. I see that. The bargain's made. But I'll not always need you. And . . . someday . . .
Deep in the human unconscious is a pervasive need for a logical universe that makes sense. But the real universe is always one step beyond logic.
- from "The Sayings of Muad'Dib" by the Princess Irulan
I've sat across from many rulers of Great Houses, but never seen a more gross and dangerous pig than this one , Thufir Hawat told himself.
"You may speak plainly with me, Hawat," the Baron rumbled. He leaned back in his suspensor chair, the eyes in their folds of fat boring into Hawat.
The old Mentat looked down at the table between him and the Baron Vladimir Harkonnen, noting the opulence of its grain. Even this was a factor to consider in assessing the Baron, as were the red walls of this private conference room and the faint sweet herb scent that hung on the air, masking a deeper musk.
"You didn't have me send that warning to Rabban as an idle whim," the Baron said.
Hawat's leathery old face remained impassive, betraying none of the loathing he felt. "I suspect many things, my Lord," he said.
"Yes. Well, I wish to know how Arrakis figures in your suspicions about Salusa Secundus. It is not enough that you say to me the Emperor is in a ferment about some association between Arrakis and his mysterious prison planet. Now, I rushed the warning out to Rabban only because the courier had to leave on that Heighliner. You said there could be no delay. Well and good. But now I will have an explanation."
He babbles too much , Hawat thought. He's not like Leto who could tell me a thing with the lift of an eyebrow or the wave of a hand. Nor like the Old Duke who could express an entire sentence in the way he accented a single word. This is a clod! Destroying him will be a service to mankind .
"You will not leave here until I've had a full and complete explanation," the Baron said.
"You speak too casually of Salusa Secundus," Hawat said.
"It's a penal colony," the Baron said. "The worst riff-raff in the galaxy are sent to Salusa Secundus. What else do we need to know?"
"That conditions on the prison planet are more oppressive than anywhere else," Hawat said. "You hear that the mortality rate among new prisoners is higher than sixty per cent. You hear that the Emperor practices every form of oppression there. You hear all this and do not ask questions?"
"The Emperor doesn't permit the Great Houses to inspect his prison," the Baron growled. "But he hasn't seen into my dungeons, either."
"And curiosity about Salusa Secundus is . . . ah . . . " Hawat put a bony finger to his lips. ". . . discouraged."
"So he's not proud of some of the things he must do there!"
Hawat allowed the faintest of smiles to touch his dark lips. His eyes glinted in the glowtube light as he stared at the Baron. " And you've never wondered where the Emperor gets his Sardaukar?"
The Baron pursed his fat lips. This gave his features the look of a pouting baby, and his voice carried a tone of petulance as he said: "Why . . . he recruits . . . that is to say, there are the levies and he enlists from - "
"Faaa!" Hawat snapped. "The stories you hear about the exploits of the Sardaukar, they're not rumors, are they? Those are first-hand accounts from the limited number of survivors who've fought against the Sardaukar, eh?"
"The Sardaukar are excellent fighting men, no doubt of it," the Baron said. "But I think my own legions - "
"A pack of holiday excursionists by comparison!" Hawat snarled. "You think I don't know why the Emperor turned against House Atreides?"
"This is not a realm open to your speculation," the Baron warned.
Is it possible that even he doesn't know what motivated the Emperor in this? Hawat asked himself.
"Any area is open to my speculation if it does what you've hired me to do," Hawat said. "I am a Mentat. You do not withhold information or computation lines from a Mentat."
For a long minute, the Baron stared at him, then: "Say what you must say. Mentat."
"The Padishah Emperor turned against House Atreides because the Duke's Warmasters Gurney Halleck and Duncan Idaho had trained a fighting force - a small fighting force - to within a hair as good as the Sardaukar. Some of them were even better. And the Duke was in a position to enlarge his force, to make it every bit as strong as the Emperor's."
The Baron weighed this disclosure, then: "What has Arrakis to do with this?"
"It provides a pool of recruits already conditioned to the bitterest survival training."
The Baron shook his head. "You cannot mean the Fremen?"
"I mean the Fremen."
"Hah! Then why warn Rabban? There cannot be more than a handful of Fremen left after the Sardaukar pogrom and Rabban's oppression."
Hawat continued to stare at him silently.
"Not more than a handful!" the baron repeated. "Rabban killed six thousand of them last year alone!"
Still, Hawat stared at him.
"And the year before it was nine thousand," the baron said. "And before they left, the Sardaukar must've accounted for at least twenty thousand."
"What are Rabban's troop losses for the past two years?" Hawat asked.
The Baron rubbed his jowls. "Well, he has been recruiting rather heavily, to be sure. His agents make rather extravagant promises and - "
"Shall we say thirty thousand in round numbers?" Hawat asked.
"That would seem a little high," the baron said.
"Quite the contrary," Hawat said. "I can read between the lines of Rabban's reports as well as you can. And you certainly must've understood my reports from our agents."