She stopped at the south limits of the room in front of the wide reach of filter glass, stared around. Every available space in the room was crowded with exotic wet-climate plants. Something rustled in the greenery. She tensed, then glimpsed a simple clock-set servok with pipe and hose arms. An arm lifted, sent out a fine spray of dampness that misted her cheeks. The arm retracted and she looked at what it had watered: a fern tree.
Water everywhere in this room—on a planet where water was the most precious juice of life. Water being wasted so conspicuously that it shocked her to inner stillness.
She glanced out at the filter-yellowed sun. It hung low on a jagged horizon above cliffs that formed part of the immense rock uplifting known as the Shield Wall.
Filter glass, she thought. To turn a white sun into something softer and more familiar. Who could have built such a place? Leto? It would be like him to surprise me with such a gift, but there hasn’t been time. And he’s been busy with more serious problems.
She recalled the report that many Arrakeen houses were sealed by airlock doors and windows to conserve and reclaim interior moisture. Leto had said it was a deliberate statement of power and wealth for this house to ignore such precautions, its doors and windows being sealed only against the omnipresent dust.
But this room embodied a statement far more significant than the lack of waterseals on outer doors. She estimated that this pleasure room used water enough to support a thousand persons on Arrakis—possibly more.
Jessica moved along the window, continuing to stare into the room. The move brought into view a metallic surface at table height beside the fountain and she glimpsed a white notepad and stylus there partly concealed by an overhanging fan leaf. She crossed to the table, noted Hawat’s daysigns on it, studied a message written on the pad:“TO THE LADY JESSICA—
May this place give you as much pleasure as it has given me. Please permit the room to convey a lesson we learned from the same teachers: the proximity of a desirable thing tempts one to overindulgence. On that path lies danger.
My kindest wishes,
MARGOT LADY FENRING”
Jessica nodded, remembering that Leto had referred to the Emperor’s former proxy here as Count Fenring. But the hidden message of the note demanded immediate attention, couched as it was in a way to inform her the writer was another Bene Gesserit. A bitter thought touched Jessica in passing: The Count married his Lady.
Even as this thought flicked through her mind, she was bending to seek out the hidden message. It had to be there. The visible note contained the code phrase every Bene Gesserit not bound by a School Injunction was required to give another Bene Gesserit when conditions demanded it: “On that path lies danger.”
Jessica felt the back of the note, rubbed the surface for coded dots. Nothing. The edge of the pad came under her seeking fingers. Nothing. She replaced the pad where she had found it, feeling a sense of urgency.
Something in the position of the pad? she wondered.
But Hawat had been over this room, doubtless had moved the pad. She looked at the leaf above the pad. The leaf! She brushed a finger along the under surface, along the edge, along the stem. It was there! Her fingers detected the subtle coded dots, scanned them in a single passage:
“Your son and the Duke are in immediate danger. A bedroom has been designed to attract your son. The H loaded it with death traps to be discovered, leaving one that may escape detection.” Jessica put down the urge to run back to Paul; the full message had to be learned. Her fingers sped over the dots: “I do not know the exact nature of the menace, but it has something to do with a bed. The threat to your Duke involves defection of a trusted companion or lieutenant. The H plan to give you as gift to a minion. To the best of my knowledge, this conservatory is safe. Forgive that I cannot tell more. My sources are few as my Count is not in the pay of the H. In haste, MF.”
Jessica thrust the leaf aside, whirled to dash back to Paul. In that instant, the airlock door slammed open. Paul jumped through it, holding something in his right hand, slammed the door behind him. He saw his mother, pushed through the leaves to her, glanced at the fountain, thrust his hand and the thing it clutched under the falling water.
“Paul!” She grabbed his shoulder, staring at the hand. “What is that?”
He spoke casually, but she caught the effort behind the tone: “Hunter-seeker. Caught it in my room and smashed its nose, but I want to be sure. Water should short it out.”
“Immerse it!” she commanded.
He obeyed.
Presently, she said: “Withdraw your hand. Leave the thing in the water.”
He brought out his hand, shook water from it, staring at the quiescent metal in the fountain. Jessica broke off a plant stem, prodded the deadly sliver.
It was dead.
She dropped the stem into the water, looked at Paul. His eyes studied the room with a searching intensity that she recognized—the B.G. Way.
“This place could conceal anything,” he said.
“I’ve reason to believe it’s safe,” she said.
“My room was supposed to be safe, too. Hawat said—”
“It was a hunter-seeker,” she reminded him. “That means someone inside the house to operate it. Seeker control beams have a limited range. The thing could’ve been spirited in here after Hawat’s investigation.”
But she thought of the message of the leaf: “... defection of a trusted companion or lieutenant. ” Not Hawat, surely. Oh, surely not Hawat.
“Hawat’s men are searching the house right now,” he said. “That seeker almost got the old woman who came to wake me.”
“The Shadout Mapes,” Jessica said, remembering the encounter at the stairs. “A summons from your father to—”
“That can wait,” Paul said. “Why do you think this room’s safe?”
She pointed to the note, explained about it.
He relaxed slightly.
But Jessica remained inwardly tense, thinking: A hunter-seeker! Merciful Mother! It took all her training to prevent a fit of hysterical trembling.
Paul spoke matter of factly: “It’s the Harkonnens, of course. We shall have to destroy them.”
A rapping sounded at the airlock door—the code knock of one of Hawat’s corps.
“Come in,” Paul called.
The door swung wide and a tall man in Atreides uniform with a Hawat insignia on his cap leaned into the room. “There you are, sir,” he said. “The housekeeper said you’d be here.” He glanced around the room. “We found a cairn in the cellar and caught a man in it. He had a seeker console.”
“I’ll want to take part in the interrogation,” Jessica said.
“Sorry, my Lady. We messed him up catching him. He died.”
“Nothing to identify him?” she asked.
“We’ve found nothing yet, my Lady.”
“Was he an Arrakeen native?” Paul asked.
Jessica nodded at the astuteness of the question.
“He has the native look,” the man said. “Put into that cairn more’n a month ago, by the look, and left there to await our coming. Stone and mortar where he came through into the cellar were untouched when we inspected the place yesterday. I’ll stake my reputation on it.”
“No one questions your thoroughness,” Jessica said.
“I question it, my Lady. We should’ve used sonic probes down there.”
“I presume that’s what you’re doing now,” Paul said.
“Yes, sir.”
“Send word to my father that we’ll be delayed.”
“At once, sir.” He glanced at Jessica. “It’s Hawat’s order that under such circumstances as these the young master be guarded in a safe place.” Again, his eyes swept the room. “What of this place?”
“I’ve reason to believe it safe,” she said. “Both Hawat and I have inspected it.”
“Then I’ll mount guard outside here, m’Lady, until we’ve been over the house once more.” He bowed, touched his cap to P
aul, backed out and swung the door closed behind him.
Paul broke the sudden silence, saying: “Had we better go over the house later ourselves? Your eyes might see things others would miss.”
“This wing was the only place I hadn’t examined,” she said. “I put if off to last because....”
“Because Hawat gave it his personal attention,” he said.
She darted a quick look at his face, questioning.
“Do you distrust Hawat?” she asked.
“No, but he’s getting old ... he’s overworked. We could take some of the load from him.”
“That’d only shame him and impair his efficiency,” she said. “A stray insect won’t be able to wander into this wing after he hears about this. He’ll be shamed that....”
“We must take our own measures,” he said.
“Hawat has served three generations of Atreides with honor,” she said. “He deserves every respect and trust we can pay him ... many times over.”
Paul said: “When my father is bothered by something you’ve done he says ‘Bene Gesserit!’ like a swear word.”
“And what is it about me that bothers your father?”
“When you argue with him.”
“You are not your father, Paul.”
And Paul thought: It’ll worry her, but I must tell her what that Mapes woman said about a traitor among us.
“What’re you holding back?” Jessica asked. “This isn’t like you, Paul.”
He shrugged, recounted the exchange with Mapes.
And Jessica thought of the message of the leaf. She came to sudden decision, showed Paul the leaf, told him its message.
“My father must learn of this at once,” he said. “I’ll radiograph it in code and get if off.”
“No,” she said. “You will wait until you can see him alone. As few as possible must learn about it.”
“Do you mean we should trust no one?”
“There’s another possibility,” she said. “This message may have been meant to get to us. The people who gave it to us may believe it’s true, but it may be that the only purpose was to get this message to us.”
Paul’s face remained sturdily somber. “To sow distrust and suspicion in our ranks, to weaken us that way,” he said.
“You must tell your father privately and caution him about this aspect of it,” she said.
“I understand.”
She turned to the tall reach of filter glass, stared out to the southwest where the sun of Arrakis was sinking—a yellowed ball above the cliffs.
Paul turned with her, said: “I don’t think it’s Hawat, either. Is it possible it’s Yueh?”
“He’s not a lieutenant or companion,” she said. “And I can assure you he hates the Harkonnens as bitterly as we do.”
Paul directed his attention to the cliffs, thinking: And it couldn’t be Gurney... or Duncan. Could it be one of the sub-lieutenants? Impossible. They’re all from families that’ve been loyal to us for generations—for good reason.
Jessica rubbed her forehead, sensing her own fatigue. So much peril here! She looked out at the filter-yellowed landscape, studying it. Beyond the ducal grounds stretched a high-fenced storage yard—lines of spice silos in it with stilt-legged watchtowers standing around it like so many startled spiders. She could see at least twenty storage yards of silos reaching out to the cliffs of the Shield Wall—silos repeated, stuttering across the basin.
Slowly, the filtered sun buried itself beneath the horizon. Stars leaped out. She saw one bright star so low on the horizon that it twinkled with a clear, precise rhythm—a trembling of light: blink-blink-blink-blink-blink ...
Paul stirred beside her in the dusky room.
But Jessica concentrated on that single bright star, realizing that it was too low, that it must come from the Shield Wall cliffs.
Someone signalling!
She tried to read the message, but it was in no code she had ever learned.
Other lights had come on down on the plain beneath the cliffs: little yellows spaced out against blue darkness. And one light off to their left grew brighter, began to wink back at the cliff—very fast: blinksquirt, glimmer, blink!
And it was gone.
The false star in the cliff winked out immediately.
Signals ... and they filled her with premonition.
Why were lights used to signal across the basin? she asked herself. Why couldn’t they use the communications network?
The answer was obvious: the communinet was certain to be tapped now by agents of the Duke Leto. Light signals could only mean that messages were being sent between his enemies—between Harkonnen agents.
There came a tapping at the door behind them and the voice of Hawat’s man: “All clear, sir .. m‘Lady. Time to be getting the young master to his father.”
It is said that the Duke Leto blinded himself to the perils of Arrakis, that he walked heedlessly into the pit. Would it not be more likely to suggest he had lived so long in the presence of extreme danger he misjudged a change in its intensity? Or is it possible he deliberately sacrificed himself that his son might find a better life? All evidence indicates the Duke was a man not easily hoodwinked.
—from “Muad’Dib: Family Commentaries” by the Princess Irulan
THE DUKE Leto Atreides leaned against a parapet of the landing control tower outside Arrakeen. The night’s first moon, an oblate silver coin, hung well above the southern horizon. Beneath it, the jagged cliffs of the Shield Wall shone like parched icing through a dust haze. To his left, the lights of Arrakeen glowed in the haze—yellow ... white ... blue.
He thought of the notices posted now above his signature all through the populous places of the planet: “Our Sublime Padishah Emperor has charged me to take possession of this planet and end all dispute.”
The ritualistic formality of it touched him with a feeling of loneliness. Who was fooled by that fatuous legalism? Not the Fremen, certainly. Nor the Houses Minor who controlled the interior trade of Arrakis ... and were Harkonnen creatures almost to a man.
They have tried to take the life of my son!
The rage was difficult to suppress.
He saw lights of a moving vehicle coming toward the landing field from Arrakeen. He hoped it was the guard and troop carrier bringing Paul. The delay was galling even though he knew it was prompted by caution on the part of Hawat’s lieutenant.
They have tried to take the life of my son!
He shook his head to drive out the angry thoughts, glanced back at the field where five of his own frigates were posted around the rim like monolithic sentries.
Better a cautious delay than ...
The lieutenant was a good one, he reminded himself. A man marked for advancement, completely loyal.
“Our Sublime Padishah Emperor.... ”
If the people of this decadent garrison city could only see the Emperor’s private note to his “Noble Duke”—the disdainful allusions to veiled men and women: “... but what else is one to expect of barbarians whose dearest dream is to live outside the ordered security of the faufreluches?”
The Duke felt in this moment that his own dearest dream was to end all class distinctions and never again think of deadly order. He looked up and out of the dust at the unwinking stars, thought: Around one of those little lights circles Caladan ... but I’ll never again see my home. The longing for Caladan was a sudden pain in his breast. He felt that it did not come from within himself, but that it reached out to him from Caladan. He could not bring himself to call this dry wasteland of Arrakis his home, and he doubted he ever would.
I must mask my feelings, he thought. For the boy’s sake. If ever he’s to have a home, this must be it. I may think of Arrakis as a hell I’ve reached before death, but he must find here that which will inspire him. There must be something.
A wave of self-pity, immediately despised and rejected, swept through him, and for some reason he found himself recalling two lines from a poem Gurney Halleck of
ten repeated—“My lungs taste the air of Time
Blown past falling sands....”
Well, Gurney would find plenty of falling sands here, the Duke thought. The central wastelands beyond those moon-frosted cliffs were desert—barren rock, dunes, and blowing dust, an uncharted dry wilderness with here and there along its rim and perhaps scattered through it, knots of Fremen. If anything could buy a future for the Atreides line, the Fremen just might do it.
Provided the Harkonnens hadn’t managed to infect even the Fremen with their poisonous schemes.
They have tried to take the life of my son!
A scraping metal racket vibrated through the tower, shook the parapet beneath his arms. Blast shutters dropped in front of him, blocking the view.
Shuttle’s coming in, he thought. Time to go down and get to work. He turned to the stairs behind him, headed down to the big assembly room, trying to remain calm as he descended, to prepare his face for the coming encounter.
They have tried to take the life of my son!
The men were already boiling in from the field when he reached the yellow-domed room. They carried their spacebags over their shoulders, shouting and roistering like students returning from vacation.
“Hey! Feel that under your dogs? That’s gravity, man!” “How many G’s does this place pull? Feels heavy.” “Nine-tenths of a G by the book.”
The crossfire of thrown words filled the big room.
“Did you get a good look at this hole on the way down? Where’s all the loot this place’s supposed to have?” “The Harkonnens took it with ’em!” “Me for a hot shower and a soft bed!” “Haven’t you heard, stupid? No showers down here. You scrub your ass with sand!” “Hey! Can it! The Duke!”
The Duke stepped out of the stair entry into a suddenly silent room. Gurney Halleck strode along at the point of the crowd, bag over one shoulder, the neck of his nine-string baliset clutched in the other hand. They were long-fingered hands with big thumbs, full of tiny movements that drew such delicate music from the baliset.
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