Dune (40th Anniversary Edition)

by Frank Herbert

  Again, Leto looked out the windows. The white sun was well up into its morning quadrant. Milky light picked out a boiling of dust clouds that spilled over into the blind canyons interfingering the Shield Wall.

  Slowly, speaking in a slow voice to contain his anger, the Duke explained to Paul about the mysterious note.

  “You might just as well mistrust me,” Paul said.

  “They have to think they’ve succeeded,” the Duke said. “They must think me this much of a fool. It must look real. Even your mother may not know the sham.”

  “But, sir! Why?”

  “Your mother’s response must not be an act. Oh, she’s capable of a supreme act... but too much rides on this. I hope to smoke out a traitor. It must seem that I’ve been completely cozened. She must be hurt this way that she does not suffer greater hurt.”

  “Why do you tell me, Father? Maybe I’ll give it away.”

  “They’ll not watch you in this thing,” the Duke said. “You’ll keep the secret. You must.” He walked to the windows, spoke without turning. “This way, if anything should happen to me, you can tell her the truth—that I never doubted her, not for the smallest instant. I should want her to know this.”

  Paul recognized the death thoughts in his father’s words, spoke quickly: “Nothing’s going to happen to you, sir. The—”

  “Be silent, Son.”

  Paul stared at his father’s back, seeing the fatigue in the angle of the neck, in the line of the shoulders, in the slow movements.

  “You’re just tired, Father.”

  “I am tired,” the Duke agreed. “I’m morally tired. The melancholy degeneration of the Great Houses has afflicted me at last, perhaps. And we were such strong people once.”

  Paul spoke in quick anger: “Our House hasn’t degenerated!”

  “Hasn’t it?”

  The Duke turned, faced his son, revealing dark circles beneath hard eyes, a cynical twist of mouth. “I should wed your mother, make her my Duchess. Yet... my unwedded state give some Houses hope they may yet ally with me through their marriageable daughters.” He shrugged. “So, I....”

  “Mother has explained this to me.”

  “Nothing wins more loyalty for a leader than an air of bravura,” the Duke said. “I, therefore, cultivate an air of bravura.”

  “You lead well,” Paul protested. “You govern well. Men follow you willingly and love you.”

  “My propaganda corps is one of the finest,” the Duke’said. Again, he turned to stare out at the basin. “There’s greater possibility for us here on Arrakis than the Imperium could ever suspect. Yet sometimes I think it’d have been better if we’d run for it, gone renegade. Sometimes I wish we could sink back into anonymity among the people, become less exposed to....”

  “Father!”

  “Yes, I am tired,” the Duke said. “Did you know we’re using spice residue as raw material and already have our own factory to manufacture filmbase?”

  “Sir?”

  “We mustn’t run short of filmbase,” the Duke said. “Else, how could we flood village and city with our information? The people must learn how well I govern them. How would they know if we didn’t tell them?”

  “You should get some rest,” Paul said.

  Again, the Duke faced his son. “Arrakis has another advantage I almost forgot to mention. Spice is in everything here. You breathe it and eat it in almost everything. And I find that this imparts a certain natural immunity to some of the most common poisons of the Assassins’ Handbook. And the need to watch every drop of water puts all food production—yeast culture, hydroponics, chemavit, everything—under the strictest surveillance. We cannot kill off large segments of our population with poison—and we cannot be attacked this way, either. Arrakis makes us moral and ethical.”

  Paul started to speak, but the Duke cut him off, saying: “I have to have someone I can say these things to, Son.” He sighed, glanced back at the dry landscape where even the flowers were gone now—trampled by the dew gatherers, wilted under the early sun.

  “On Caladan, we ruled with sea and air power,” the Duke said. “Here, we must scrabble for desert power. This is your inheritance, Paul. What is to become of you if anything happens to me? You’ll not be a renegade House, but a guerrilla House—running, hunted.”

  Paul groped for words, could find nothing to say. He had never seen his father this despondent.

  “To hold Arrakis,” the Duke said, “one is faced with decisions that may cost one his self-respect.” He pointed out the window to the Atreides green and black banner hanging limply from a staff at the edge of the landing field. “That honorable banner could come to mean many evil things.”

  Paul swallowed in a dry throat. His father’s words carried futility, a sense of fatalism that left the boy with an empty feeling in his chest.

  The Duke took an antifatigue tablet from a pocket, gulped it dry. “Power and fear,” he said. “The tools of statecraft. I must order new emphasis on guerrilla training for you. That filmclip there—they call you ‘Mahdi’—‘Lisan al-Gaib’—as a last resort, you might capitalize on that.”

  Paul stared at his father, watching the shoulders straighten as the tablet did its work, but remembering the words of fear and doubt.

  “What’s keeping that ecologist?” the Duke muttered. “I told Thufir to have him here early.”

  My father, the Padishah Emperor, took me by the hand one day and I sensed in the ways my mother had taught me that he was disturbed. He led me down the Hall of Portraits to the ego-likeness of the Duke Leto Atreides. I marked the strong resemblance between them—my father and this man in the portrait—bothwith thin, elegant faces and sharp features dominated by cold eyes. “Princess daughter,” my father said, “I would that you’d been older when it came time for this man to choose a woman.” My father was 71 at the time and looking no older than the man in the portrait, and I was but 14, yet I remember deducing in that instant that my father secretly wished the Duke had been his son, and disliked the political necessities that made them enemies.

  —“In my Father’s House” by Princess Irulan

  HIS FIRST encounter with the people he had been ordered to betray left Dr. Kynes shaken. He prided himself on being a scientist to whom legends were merely interesting clues, pointing toward cultural roots. Yet the boy fitted the ancient prophecy so precisely. He had “the questing eyes,” and the air of “reserved candor.”

  Of course, the prophecy left certain latitude as to whether the Mother Goddess would bring the Messiah with her or produce Him on the scene. Still, there was this odd correspondence between prediction and persons.

  They met in midmorning outside the Arrakeen landing field’s administration building. An unmarked ornithopter squatted nearby. humming softly on standby like a somnolent insect. An Atreides guard stood beside it with bared sword and the faint air-distortion of a shield around him.

  Kynes sneered at the shield pattern, thinking: Arrakis has a surprise for them there!

  The planetologist raised a hand, signaled for his Fremen guard to fall back. He strode on ahead toward the building’s entrance—the dark hole in plastic-coated rock. So exposed, that monolithic building, he thought. So much less suitable than a cave.

  Movement within the entrance caught his attention. He stopped, taking the moment to adjust his robe and the set of his stillsuit at the left shoulder.

  The entrance doors swung wide. Atreides guards emerged swiftly, all of them heavily armed-slow-pellet stunners, swords and shields. Behind them came a tall man, hawk-faced, dark of skin and hair. He wore a jubba cloak with Atreides crest at the breast, and wore it in a way that betrayed his unfamiliarity with the garment. It clung to the legs of his stillsuit on one side. It lacked a free-swinging, striding rhythm.

  Beside the man walked a youth with the same dark hair, but rounder in the face. The youth seemed small for the fifteen years Kynes knew him to have. But the young body carried a sense of command, a poised assurance, as
though he saw and knew things all around him that were not visible to others. And he wore the same style cloak as his father, yet with casual ease that made one think the boy had always worn such clothing.

  “The Mahdi will be aware of things others cannot see, ” went the prophecy.

  Kynes shook his head, telling himself: They’re just people.

  With the two, garbed like them for the desert, came a man Kynes recognized—Gurney Halleck. Kynes took a deep breath to still his resentment against Halleck, who had briefed him on how to behave with the Duke and ducal heir.

  “You may call the Duke ‘my Lord’ or ‘Sire.’ ‘Noble Born’ also is correct, but usually reserved for moreformal occasions. The son may be addressed as ‘young Master’ or ‘my Lord.’ The Duke is a man of much leniency, but brooks little familiarity.

  And Kynes thought as he watched the group approach: They’ll learn soon enough who’s master on Arrakis. Order me questioned half the night by that Mentat, will they? Expect me to guide them on an inspection of spice mining, do they?

  The import of Hawat’s questions had not escaped Kynes. They wanted the Imperial bases. And it was obvious they’d learned of the bases from Idaho.

  I will have Stilgar send Idaho’s head to this Duke, Kynes told himself.

  The ducal party was only a few paces away now, their feet in desert boots crunching the sand.

  Kynes bowed. “My Lord, Duke.”

  As he had approached the solitary figure standing near the ornithopter, Leto had studied him: tall, thin, dressed for the desert in loose robe, stillsuit, and low boots. The man’s hood was thrown back, its veil hanging to one side, revealing long sandy hair, a sparse beard. The eyes were that fathomless blue-within-blue under thick brows. Remains of dark stains smudged his eye sockets.

  “You’re the ecologist,” the Duke said.

  “We prefer the old title here, my Lord,” Kynes said. “Planetologist.”

  “As you wish,” the Duke said. He glanced down at Paul. “Son, this is the Judge of the Change, the arbiter of dispute, the man set here to see that the forms are obeyed in our assumption of power over this fief.” He glanced at Kynes. “And this is my son.”

  “My Lord,” Kynes said.

  “Are you a Fremen?” Paul asked.

  Kynes smiled. “I am accepted in both sietch and village, young Master. But I am in His Majesty’s service, the Imperial Planetologist.”

  Paul nodded, impressed by the man’s air of strength. Halleck had pointed Kynes out to Paul from an upper window of the administration building: “The man standing there with the Fremen escort—the one moving now toward the ornithopter.”

  Paul had inspected Kynes briefly with binoculars, noting the prim, straight mouth, the high forehead. Halleck had spoken in Paul’s ear: “Odd sort of fellow. Has a precise way of speaking—clipped off, no fuzzy edges—razor-apt.”

  And the Duke, behind them, had said: “Scientist type.”

  Now, only a few feet from the man, Paul sensed the power in Kynes, the impact of personality, as though he were blood royal, born to command.

  “I understand we have you to thank for our stillsuits and these cloaks,” the Duke said.

  “I hope they fit well, my Lord,” Kynes said. “They’re of Fremen make and as near as possible the dimensions given me by your man Halleck here.”

  “I was concerned that you said you couldn’t take us into the desert unless we wore these garments,” the Duke said. “We can carry plenty of water. We don’t intend to be out long and we’ll have air cover—the escort you see overhead right now. It isn’t likely we’d be forced down.”

  Kynes stared at him, seeing the water-fat flesh. He spoke coldly: “You never talk of likelihoods on Arrakis. You speak only of possibilities.”

  Halleck stiffened. “The Duke is to be addressed as my Lord or Sire!”

  Leto gave Halleck their private handsignal to desist, said: “Our ways are new here, Gurney. We must make allowances.”

  “As you wish, Sire.”

  “We are indebted to you, Dr. Kynes,” Leto said. “These suits and the consideration for our welfare will be remembered.”

  On impulse, Paul called to mind a quotation from the O.C. Bible, said: “‘The gift is the blessing of the giver.’ ”

  The words rang out overloud in the still air. The Fremen escort Kynes had left in the shade of the administration building leaped up from their squatting repose, muttering in open agitation. One cried out: “Lisan al-Gaib!”

  Kynes whirled, gave a curt, chopping signal with a hand, waved the guard away. They fell back, grumbling among themselves, trailed away around the building.

  “Most interesting,” Leto said.

  Kynes passed a hard glare over the Duke and Paul, said: “Most of the desert natives here are a superstitious lot. Pay no attention to them. They mean no harm.” But he thought of the words of the legend: “They will greet you with Holy Words and your gifts will be a blessing. ”

  Leto’s assessment of Kynes—based partly on Hawat’s brief verbal report (guarded and full of suspicions)—suddenly crystallized: the man was Fremen. Kynes had come with a Fremen escort, which could mean simply that the Fremen were testing their new freedom to enter urban areas—but it had seemed an honor guard. And by his manner, Kynes was a proud man, accustomed to freedom, his tongue and his manner guarded only by his own suspicions. Paul’s question had been direct and pertinent.

  Kynes had gone native.

  “Shouldn’t we be going, Sire?” Halleck asked.

  The Duke nodded. “I’ll fly my own ‘thopter. Kynes can sit up front with me to direct me. You and Paul take the rear seats.”

  “One moment, please,” Kynes said. “With your permission, Sire, I must check the security of your suits.”

  The Duke started to speak, but Kynes pressed on: “I have concern for my own flesh as well as yours ... my Lord. I’m well aware of whose throat would be slit should harm befall you two while you’re in my care.”

  The Duke frowned, thinking: How delicate this moment! If I refuse, it may offend him. And this could be a man whose value to me is beyond measure. Yet ... to let him inside my shield, touching my person when I know so little about him?

  The thoughts flicked through his mind with decision hard on their heels. “We’re in your hands,” the Duke said. He stepped forward, opening his robe, saw Halleck come up on the balls of his feet, poised and alert, but remaining where he was. “And, if you’d be so kind,” the Duke said, “I’d appreciate an explanation of the suit from one who lives so intimately with it.”

  “Certainly,” Kynes said. He felt up under the robe for the shoulder seals, speaking as he examined the suit. “It’s basically a micro-sandwich—a high-efficiency filter and heat-exchange system.” He adjusted the shoulder seals. “The skin-contact layer’s porous. Perspiration passes through it, having cooled the body... near-normal evaporation process. The next two layers...” Kynes tightened the chest fit. “... include heat exchange filaments and salt precipitators. Salt’s reclaimed.”

  The Duke lifted his arms at a gesture, said: “Most interesting.”

  “Breathe deeply,” Kynes said.

  The Duke obeyed.

  Kynes studied the underarm seals, adjusted one. “Motions of the body, especially breathing,” he said, “and some osmotic action provide the pumping force.” He loosened the chest fit slightly. “Reclaimed water circulates to catchpockets from which you draw it through this tube in the clip at your neck.”

  The Duke twisted his chin in and down to look at the end of the tube. “Efficient and convenient,” he said. “Good engineering.”

  Kynes knelt, examined the leg seals. “Urine and feces are processed in the thigh pads,” he said, and stood up, felt the neck fitting, lifted a sectioned flap there. “In the open desert, you wear this filter across your face, this tube in the nostrils with these plugs to insure a tight fit. Breathe in through the mouth filter, out through the nose tube. With a Fremen suit in good
working order, you won’t lose more than a thimbleful of moisture a day—even if you’re caught in the Great Erg.”

  “A thimbleful a day,” the Duke said.

  Kynes pressed a finger against the suit’s forehead pad, said: “This may rub a little. If it irritates you, please tell me. I could slit-patch it a bit tighter.”

  “My thanks,” the Duke said. He moved his shoulders in the suit as Kynes stepped back, realizing that it did feel better now—tighter and less irritating.

  Kynes turned to Paul. “Now, let’s have a look at you, lad.”

  A good man but he’ll have to learn to address us properly, the Duke thought.

  Paul stood passively as Kynes inspected the suit. It had been an odd sensation putting on the crinkling, slick-surfaced garment. In his foreconsciousness had been the absolute knowledge that he had never before worn a stillsuit. Yet, each motion of adjusting the adhesion tabs under Gurney’s inexpert guidance had seemed natural, instinctive. When he had tightened the chest to gain maximum pumping action from the motion of breathing, he had known what he did and why. When he had fitted the neck and forehead tabs tightly, he had known it was to prevent friction blisters.

  Kynes straightened, stepped back with a puzzled expression. “You’ve worn a stillsuit before?” he asked.

  “This is the first time.”

  “Then someone adjusted it for you?”

  “No.”

  “Your desert boots are fitted slip-fashion at the ankles. Who told you to do that?”

  “It... seemed the right way.”

  “That it most certainly is.”

  And Kynes rubbed his cheek, thinking of the legend: “He shall know your ways as though born to them. ”

  “We waste time,” the Duke said. He gestured to the waiting ‘thopter, led the way, accepting the guard’s salute with a nod. He climbed in, fastened his safety harness, checked controls and instruments. The craft creaked as the others clambered aboard.

  Kynes fastened his harness, focused on the padded comfort of the aircraft—soft luxury of gray-green upholstery, gleaming instruments, the sensation of filtered and washed air in his lungs as doors slammed and vent fans whirred alive.