Dune (40th Anniversary Edition)

by Frank Herbert

  “My little friend carried his message,” the Fremen said. “He is a good messenger—day or night. I’ll be unhappy to lose that one.”

  The movement across the sink faded away. On the entire four to five kilometer expanse of sand nothing remained but the growing pressure of the day’s heat—blurred columns of rising air.

  “Be most silent now,” the Fremen whispered.

  A file of plodding figures emerged from a break in the opposite cliff, headed directly across the sink. To Hawat, they appeared to be Fremen, but a curiously inept band. He counted six men making heavy going of it over the dunes.

  A “thwok-thwok” of ornithopter wings sounded high to the right behind Hawat’s group. The craft came over the cliff wall above them—an Atreides ‘thopter with Harkonnen battle colors splashed on it. The ’thopter swooped toward the men crossing the sink.

  The group there stopped on a dune crest, waved.

  The ‘thopter circled once over them in a tight curve, came back for a dust-shrouded landing in front of the Fremen. Five men swarmed from the ’thopter and Hawat saw the dust-repellent shimmering of shields and, in their motions, the hard competence of Sardaukar.

  “Aiihh! They use their stupid shields,” the Fremen beside Hawat hissed. He glanced toward the open south wall of the sink.

  “They are Sardaukar,” Hawat whispered.

  “Good.”

  The Sardaukar approached the waiting group of Fremen in an enclosing half-circle. Sun glinted on blades held ready. The Fremen stood in a compact group, apparently indifferent.

  Abruptly, the sand around the two groups sprouted Fremen. They were at the ornithopter, then in it. Where the two groups had met at the dune crest, a dust cloud partly obscured violent motion.

  Presently, dust settled. Only Fremen remained standing.

  “They left only three men in their ’thopter,” the Fremen beside Hawat said. “That was fortunate. I don’t believe we had to damage the craft in taking it.”

  Behind Hawat, one of his men whispered: “Those were Sardaukar!”

  “Did you notice how well they fought?” the Fremen asked.

  Hawat took a deep breath. He smelled the burned dust around him, felt the heat, the dryness. In a voice to match that dryness, he said: “Yes, they fought well, indeed.”

  The captured ’thopter took off with a lurching flap of wings, angled upward to the south in a steep, wing-tucked climb.

  So these Fremen can handle ’thopters, too, Hawat thought.

  On the distant dune, a Fremen waved a square of green cloth: once ... twice.

  “More come!” the Fremen beside Hawat barked. “Be ready. I’d hoped to have us away without more inconvenience.”

  Inconvenience! Hawat thought.

  He saw two more ’thopters swooping from high in the west onto an area of sand suddenly devoid of visible Fremen. Only eight splotches of blue—the bodies of the Sardaukar in Harkonnen uniforms—remained at the scene of violence.

  Another ’thopter glided in over the cliff wall above Hawat. He drew in a sharp breath as he saw it—a big troop-carrier. It flew with the slow, spread-wing heaviness of a full load—like a giant bird coming to its nest.

  In the distance, the purple finger of a lasgun beam flicked from one of the diving ’thopters. It laced across the sand, raising a sharp trail of dust.

  “The cowards!” the Fremen beside Hawat rasped.

  The troop carrier settled toward the patch of blue-clad bodies. Its wings crept out to full reach, began the cupping action of a quick stop.

  Hawat’s attention was caught by a flash of sun on metal to the south, a ‘thopter plummeting there in a power dive, wings folded flat against its sides, its jets a golden flare against the dark silvered gray of the sky. It plunged like an arrow toward the troop carrier which was unshielded because of the lasgun activity around it. Straight into the carrier the diving ’thopter plunged.

  A flaming roar shook the basin. Rocks tumbled from the cliff walls all around. A geyser of red-orange shot skyward from the sand where the carrier and its companion ’thopters had been—everything there caught in the flame.

  It was the Fremen who took off in that captured ’thopter, Hawat thought. He deliberately sacrificed himself to get that carrier. Great Mother! What are these Fremen?

  “A reasonable exchange,” said the Fremen beside Hawat. “There must’ve been three hundred men in that carrier. Now, we must see to their water and make plans to get another aircraft.” He started to step out of their rock-shadowed concealment.

  A rain of blue uniforms came over the cliff wall in front of him, falling in low-suspensor slowness. In the flashing instant, Hawat had time to see that they were Sardaukar, hard faces set in battle frenzy, that they were unshielded and each carried a knife in one hand, a stunner in the other.

  A thrown knife caught Hawat’s Fremen companion in the throat, hurling him backward, twisting face down. Hawat had only time to draw his own knife before blackness of a stunner projectile felled him.

  Muad‘Dib could indeed see the Future, but you must understand the limits of this power. Think of sight. You have eyes, yet cannot see without light. If you are on the floor of a valley, you cannot see beyond your valley. Just so, Muad’Dib could not always choose to look across the mysterious terrain. He tells us that a single obscure decision of prophecy, perhaps the choice of one word over another, could change the entire aspect of the future. He tells us “The vision of time is broad, but when you pass through it, time becomes a narrow door.” And always, he fought the temptation to choose a clear, safe course, warning “That path leads ever down into stagnation. ”

  —from “Arrakis Awakening” by the Princess Irulan

  As THE ornithopters glided out of the night above them, Paul grabbed his mother’s arm, snapped: “Don’t move!”

  Then he saw the lead craft in the moonlight, the way its wings cupped to brake for landing, the reckless dash of the hands at the controls.

  “It’s Idaho,” he breathed.

  The craft and its companions settled into the basin like a covey of birds coming to nest. Idaho was out of his ’thopter and running toward them before the dust settled. Two figures in Fremen robes followed him. Paul recognized one: the tall, sandy-bearded Kynes.

  “This way!” Kynes called and he veered left.

  Behind Kynes, other Fremen were throwing fabric covers over their ornithopters. The craft became a row of shallow dunes.

  Idaho skidded to a stop in front of Paul, saluted. “M’Lord, the Fremen have a temporary hiding place nearby where we—”

  “What about that back there?”

  Paul pointed to the violence above the distant cliff—the jetflares, the purple beams of lasguns lacing the desert.

  A rare smile touched Idaho’s round, placid face. “M’Lord ... Sire, I’ve left them a little sur—”

  Glaring white light filled the desert—bright as a sun, etching their shadows onto the rock floor of the ledge. In one sweeping motion, Idaho had Paul’s arm in one hand, Jessica’s shoulder in the other, hurling them down off the ledge into the basin. They sprawled together in the sand as the roar of an explosion thundered over them. Its shock wave tumbled chips off the rock ledge they had vacated.

  Idaho sat up, brushed sand from himself.

  “Not the family atomics!” Jessica said. “I thought—”

  “You planted a shield back there,” Paul said.

  “A big one turned to full force,” Idaho said. “A lasgun beam touched it and....” He shrugged.

  “Subatomic fusion,” Jessica said. “That’s a dangerous weapon.”

  “Not weapon, m’Lady, defense. That scum will think twice before using lasguns another time.”

  The Fremen from the ornithopters stopped above them. One called in a low voice: “We should get under cover, friends.”

  Paul got to his feet as Idaho helped Jessica up.

  “That blast will attract considerable attention, Sire,” Idaho said.


  Sire, Paul thought.

  The word had such a strange sound when directed at him. Sire had always been his father.

  He felt himself touched briefly by his powers of prescience, seeing himself infected by the wild race consciousness that was moving the human universe toward chaos. The vision left him shaken, and he allowed Idaho to guide him along the edge of the basin to a rock projection. Fremen there were opening a way down into the sand with their compaction tools.

  “May I take your pack, Sire?” Idaho asked.

  “It’s not heavy, Duncan,” Paul said.

  “You have no body shield,” Idaho said. “Do you wish mine?” He glanced at the distant cliff. “Not likely there’ll be any more lasgun activity about.”

  “Keep your shield, Duncan. Your right arm is shield enough for me.”

  Jessica saw the way the praise took effect, how Idaho moved closer to Paul, and she thought: Such a sure hand my son has with his people.

  The Fremen removed a rock plug that opened a passage down into the native basement complex of the desert. A camouflage cover was rigged for the opening.

  “This way,” one of the Fremen said, and he led them down rock steps into darkness.

  Behind them, the cover blotted out the moonlight. A dim green glow came alive ahead, revealing the steps and rock walls, a turn to the left. Robed Fremen were all around them now, pressing downward. They rounded the corner, found another down-slanting passage. It opened into a rough cave chamber.

  Kynes stood before them, jubba hood thrown back. The neck of his still-suit glistening in the green light. His long hair and beard were mussed. The blue eyes without whites were a darkness under heavy brows.

  In the moment of encounter, Kynes wondered at himself: Why am I helping these people? It’s the most dangerous thing I’ve ever done. It could doom me with them.

  Then he looked squarely at Paul, seeing the boy who had taken on the mantle of manhood, masking grief, suppressing all except the position that now must be assumed—the dukedom. And Kynes realized in that moment the dukedom still existed and solely because of this youth—and this was not a thing to be taken lightly.

  Jessica glanced once around the chamber, registering it on her senses in the Bene Gesserit way—a laboratory, a civil place full of angles and squares in the ancient manner.

  “This is one of the Imperial Ecological Testing Stations my father wanted as advance bases,” Paul said.

  His father wanted! Kynes thought.

  And again Kynes wondered at himself. Am I foolish to aid these fugitives? Why am I doing it? It’d be so easy to take them now, to buy the Harkonnen trust with them.

  Paul followed his mother’s example, gestalting the room, seeing the workbench down one side, the walls of featureless rock. Instruments lined the bench—dials glowing, wire gridex planes with fluting glass emerging from them. An ozone smell permeated the place.

  Some of the Fremen moved on around a concealing angle in the chamber and new sounds started there—machine coughs, the whinnies of spinning belts and multidrives.

  Paul looked to the end of the room, saw cages with small animals in them stacked against the wall.

  “You’ve recognized this place correctly,” Kynes said. “For what would you use such a place, Paul Atreides?”

  “To make this planet a fit place for humans,” Paul said.

  Perhaps that’s why I help them, Kynes thought.

  The machine sounds abruptly hummed away to silence. Into this void there came a thin animal squeak from the cages. It was cut off abruptly as though in embarrassment.

  Paul returned his attention to the cages, saw that the animals were brown-winged bats. An automatic feeder extended from the side wall across the cages.

  A Fremen emerged from the hidden area of the chamber, spoke to Kynes: “Liet, the field-generator equipment is not working. I am unable to mask us from proximity detectors.”

  “Can you repair it?” Kynes asked.

  “Not quickly. The parts....” The man shrugged.

  “Yes,” Kynes said. “Then we’ll do without machinery. Get a hand pump for air out to the surface.”

  “Immediately.” The man hurried away.

  Kynes turned back to Paul. “You gave a good answer.”

  Jessica marked the easy rumble of the man’s voice. It was a royal voice, accustomed to command. And she had not missed the reference to him as Liet. Liet was the Fremen alter ego, the other face of the tame planetologist.

  “We’re most grateful for your help, Doctor Kynes,” she said.

  “Mm-m-m, we’ll see,” Kynes said. He nodded to one of his men. “Spice coffee in my quarters, Shamir.”

  “At once, Liet,” the man said.

  Kynes indicated an arched opening in the side wall of the chamber. “If you please?”

  Jessica allowed herself a regal nod before accepting. She saw Paul give a hand signal to Idaho, telling him to mount guard here.

  The passage, two paces deep, opened through a heavy door into a square office lighted by golden glowglobes. Jessica passed her hand across the door as she entered, was startled to identify plasteel.

  Paul stepped three paces into the room, dropped his pack to the floor. He heard the door close behind him, studied the place—about eight meters to a side, walls of natural rock, curry-colored, broken by metal filing cabinets on their right. A low desk with milk glass top shot full of yellow bubbles occupied the room’s center. Four suspensor chairs ringed the desk.

  Kynes moved around Paul, held a chair for Jessica. She sat down, noting the way her son examined the room.

  Paul remained standing for another eyeblink. A faint anomaly in the room’s air currents told him there was a secret exit to their right behind the filing cabinets.

  “Will you sit down, Paul Atreides?” Kynes asked.

  How carefully he avoids my title, Paul thought. But he accepted the chair, remained silent while Kynes sat down.

  “You sense that Arrakis could be a paradise,” Kynes said. “Yet, as you see, the Imperium sends here only its trained hatchetmen, its seekers after the spice!”

  Paul held up his thumb with its ducal signet. “Do you see this ring?”

  “Yes.”

  “Do you know its significance?”

  Jessica turned sharply to stare at her son.

  “Your father lies dead in the ruins of Arrakeen,” Kynes said. “You are technically the Duke.”

  “I’m a soldier of the Imperium,” Paul said, “technically a hatchetman.”

  Kynes face darkened. “Even with the Emperor’s Sardaukar standing over your father’s body?”

  “The Sardaukar are one thing, the legal source of my authority is another,” Paul said.

  “Arrakis has its own way of determining who wears the mantle of authority,” Kynes said.

  And Jessica, turning back to look at him, thought: There’s steel in this man that no one has taken the temper out of... and we’ve need of steel. Paul’s doing a dangerous thing.

  Paul said: “The Sardaukar on Arrakis are a measure of how much our beloved Emperor feared my father. Now, I will give the Padishah Emperor reasons to fear the—”

  “Lad,” Kynes said, “there are things you don’t—”

  “You will address me as Sire or My Lord,” Paul said.

  Gently, Jessica thought.

  Kynes stared at Paul, and Jessica noted the glint of admiration in the planetologist’s face, the touch of humor there.

  “Sire,” Kynes said.

  “I am an embarrassment to the Emperor,” Paul said. “I am an embarrassment to all who would divide Arrakis as their spoil. As I live, I shall continue to be such an embarrassment that I stick in their throats and choke them to death!”

  “Words,” Kynes said.

  Paul stared at him. Presently, Paul said: “You have a legend of the Lisan al-Gaib here, the Voice from the Outer World, the one who will lead the Fremen to paradise. Your men have—”

  “Superstition!” Kynes said.<
br />
  “Perhaps,” Paul agreed. “Yet perhaps not. Superstitions sometimes have strange roots and stranger branchings.”

  “You have a plan,” Kynes said. “This much is obvious... Sire.”

  “Could your Fremen provide me with proof positive that the Sardaukar are here in Harkonnen uniform?”

  “Quite likely.”

  “The Emperor will put a Harkonnen back in power here,” Paul said. “Perhaps even Beast Rabban. Let him. Once he has involved himself beyond escaping his guilt, let the Emperor face the possibility of a Bill of Particulars laid before the Landsraad. Let him answer there where—”

  “Paul!” Jessica said.

  “Granted that the Landsraad High Council accepts your case,” Kynes said, “there could be only one outcome: general warfare between the Imperium and the Great Houses.”

  “Chaos,” Jessica said.

  “But I’d present my case to the Emperor,” Paul said, “and give him an alternative to chaos.”

  Jessica spoke in a dry tone: “Blackmail?”

  “One of the tools of statecraft, as you’ve said yourself,” Paul said, and Jessica heard the bitterness in his voice. “The Emperor has no sons, only daughters.”

  “You’d aim for the throne?” Jessica asked.

  “The Emperor will not risk having the Imperium shattered by total war,” Paul said. “Planets blasted, disorder everywhere—he’ll not risk that.”

  “This is a desperate gamble you propose,” Kynes said.

  “What do the Great Houses of the Landsraad fear most?” Paul asked. “They fear most what is happening here right now on Arrakis—the Sardaukar picking them off one by one. That’s why there is a Landsraad. This is the glue of the Great Convention. Only in union do they match the Imperial forces.”

  “But they’re—”

  “This is what they fear,” Paul said. “Arrakis would become a rallying cry. Each of them would see himself in my father—cut out of the herd and killed.”

  Kynes spoke to Jessica: “Would his plan work?”

  “I’m no Mentat,” Jessica said.

  “But you are Bene Gesserit.”

  She shot a probing stare at him, said: “His plan has good points and bad points... as any plan would at this stage. A plan depends as much upon execution as it does upon concept.”