Dune

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—both with 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.

—FROM “IN MY FATHER’S HOUSE”

BY THE 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 more formal 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 hand signal 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.

So soft! he thought.

“All secure, Sire,” Halleck said.

Leto fed power to the wings, felt them cup and dip—once, twice. They were airborne in ten meters, wings feathered tightly and afterjets thrusting them upward in a steep, hissing climb.

“Southeast over the Shield Wall,” Kynes said. “That’s where I told your sandmaster to concentrate his equipment.”

“Right.”

The Duke banked into his air cover, the other craft taking up their guard positions as they headed southeast.

“The design and manufacture of these stillsuits bespeaks a high degree of sophistication,” the Duke said.

“Someday I may show you a sietch factory,” Kynes said.

“I would find that interesting,” the Duke said. “I note that suits are manufactured also in some of the garrison cities.”

“Inferior copies,” Kynes said. “Any Dune man who values his skin wears a Fremen suit.”

“And it’ll hold your water loss to a thimbleful a day?”

“Properly suited, your forehead cap tight, all seals in order, your major water loss is through the palms of your hands,” Kynes said. “You can wear suit gloves if you’re not using your hands for critical work, but most Fremen in the open desert rub their hands with juice from the leaves of the creosote bush. It inhibits perspiration.”

The Duke glanced down to the left at the broken landscape of the Shield Wall—chasms of tortured rock, patches of yellow-brown crossed by black lines of fault shattering. It was as though someone had dropped this ground from space and left it where it smashed.

They crossed a shallow basin with the clear outline of gray sand spreading across it from a canyon opening to the south. The sand fingers ran out into the basin—a dry delta outlined against darker rock.

Kynes sat back, thinking about the water-fat flesh he had felt beneath the stillsuits. They wore shield belts over their robes, slow pellet stunners at the waist, coin-sized emergency transmitters on cords around their necks. Both the Duke and his son carried knives in wrist sheaths and the sheaths appeared well worn. The people struck Kynes as a strange combination of softness and armed strength. There was a poise to them totally unlike the Harkonnens.

“When you report to the Emperor on the change of government here, will you say we observed the rules?” Leto asked. He glanced at Kynes, back to their course.

“The Harkonnens left; you came,” Kynes said.

“And is everything as it should be?” Leto asked.

Momentary tension showed in the tightening of a muscle along Kynes’ jaw. “As Planetologist and Judge of the Change, I am a direct subject of the Imperium…my Lord.”

The Duke smiled grimly. “But we both know the realities.”

“I remind you that His Majesty supports my work.”

“Indeed? And what is your work?”

In the brief silence, Paul thought: He’s pushing this Kynes too hard. Paul glanced at Halleck, but the minstrel-warrior was staring out at the barren landscape.

Kynes spoke stiffly: “You, of course, refer to my duties as planetologist.”

“Of course.”

“It is mostly dry land biology and botany…some geological work—core drilling and testing. You never really exhaust the possibilities of an entire planet.”

“Do you also investigate the spice?”

Kynes turned, and Paul noted the hard line of the man’s cheek. “A curious question, my Lord.”

“Bear in mind, Kynes, that this is now my fief. My methods differ from those of the Harkonnens. I don’t care if you study the spice as long as I share what you discover.” He glanced at the planetologist. “The Harkonnens discouraged investigation of the spice, didn’t they?”

Kynes stared back without answering.

“You may speak plainly,” the Duke said, “without fear for your skin.”

“The Imperial Court is, indeed, a long way off,” Kynes muttered. And he thought: What does this water-soft invader expect? Does he think me fool enough to enlist with him?

The Duke chuckled, keeping his attention on their course. “I detect a sour note in your voice, sir. We’ve waded in here with our mob of tame killers, eh? And we expect you to realize immediately that we’re different from the Harkonnens?”

“I’ve seen the propaganda you’ve flooded into sietch and village,” Kynes said. “‘Love the good Duke!’ Your corps of—”

“Here now!” Halleck barked. He snapped his attention away from the window, leaned forward.

Paul put a hand on Halleck’s arm.

“Gurney!” the Duke said. He glanced back. “This man’s been long under the Harkonnens.”

Halleck sat back. “Ayah.”

“Your man Hawat’s subtle,” Kynes said, “but his object’s plain enough.”

“Will you open those bases to us, then?” the Duke asked.

Kynes spoke curtly: “They’re His Majesty’s property.”

“They’re not being used.”

“They could be used.”

“Does His Majesty concur?”

Kynes darted a hard stare at the Duke. “Arrakis could be an Eden if its rulers would look up from grubbing for spice!”

He didn’t answer my question, the Duke thought. And he said: “How is a planet to become an Eden without money?”

“What is money,” Kynes asked, “if it won’t buy the services you need?”

Ah, now! the Duke thought. And he said: “We’ll discuss this another time. Right now, I believe we’re coming to the edge of the Shield Wall. Do I hold the same course?”

“The same course,” Kynes muttered.

Paul looked out his window. Beneath them, the broken ground began to drop away in tumbled creases toward a barren rock plain and a knife-edged shelf. Beyond the shelf, fingernail crescents of dunes marched toward the horizon with here and there in the distance a dull smudge, a darker blotch to tell of something not sand. Rock outcroppings, perhaps. In the heat-addled air, Paul couldn’t be sure.

“Are there any plants down there?” Paul asked.

“Some,” Kynes said. “This latitude’s life-zone has mostly what we call minor water stealers—adapted to raiding each other for moisture, gobbling up the trace-dew. Some parts of the desert teem with life. But all of it has learned how to survive under these rigors. If you get caught down there, you imitate that life or you die.”

“You mean steal water from each other?” Paul asked. The idea outraged him, and his voice betrayed his emotion.

“It’s done,” Kynes said, “but that wasn’t precisely my meaning. You see, my climate demands a special attitude toward water. You are aware of water at all times. You waste nothing that contains moisture.”

And the Duke thought: “…my climate!”

“Come around two degrees more southerly, my Lord,” Kynes said. “There’s a blow coming up from the west.”

The Duke nodded. He had seen the billowing of tan dust there. He banked the ’thopter around, noting the way the escort’s wings reflected milky orange from the dust-refracted light as they turned to keep pace with him.

“This should clear the storm’s edge,” Kynes said.

“That sand must be dangerous if you fly into it,” Paul said. “Will it really cut the strongest metals?”

“At this altitude, it’s not sand but dust,” Kynes said. “The danger is lack of visibility, turbulence, clogged intakes.”

“We’ll see actual spice mining today?” Paul asked.

“Very likely,” Kynes said.

Paul sat back. He had used the questions and hyperawareness to do what his mother called “registering” the person. He had Kynes now—tone of voice, each detail of face and gesture. An unnatural folding of the left sleeve on the man’s robe told of a knife in an arm sheath. The waist bulged strangely. It was said that desert men wore a belted sash into which they tucked small necessities. Perhaps the bulges came from such a sash—certainly not from a concealed shield belt. A copper pin engraved with the likeness of a hare clasped the neck of Kynes’ robe. Another smaller pin with similar likeness hung at the corner of the hood which was thrown back over his shoulders.

Halleck twisted in the seat beside Paul, reached back into the rear compartment and brought out his baliset. Kynes looked around as Halleck tuned the instrument, then returned his attention to their course.

“What would you like to hear, young Master?” Halleck asked.

“You choose, Gurney,” Paul said.

Halleck bent his ear close to the sounding board, strummed a chord and sang softly:

“Our fathers ate manna in the desert,

In the burning places where whirlwinds came.

Lord, save us from that horrible land!

Save us…oh-h-h-h, save us

From the dry and thirsty land.”

Kynes glanced at the Duke, said: “You do travel with a light complement of guards, my Lord. Are all of them such men of many talents?”

“Gurney?” The Duke chuckled. “Gurney’s one of a kind. I like him with me for his eyes. His eyes miss very little.”

The planetologist frowned.

Without missing a beat in his tune, Halleck interposed:

“For I am like an owl of the desert, o!

Aiyah! am like an owl of the des-ert!”

The Duke reached down, brought up a microphone from the instrument panel, thumbed it to life, said: “Leader to Escort Gemma. Flying object at nine o’clock, Sector B. Do you identify it?”

“It’s merely a bird,” Kynes said, and added: “You have sharp eyes.”

The panel speaker crackled, then: “Escort Gemma. Object examined under full amplification. It’s a large bird.”

Paul looked in the indicated direction, saw the distant speck: a dot of intermittent motion, and realized how keyed up his father must be. Every sense was at full alert.

“I’d not realized there were birds that large this far into the desert,” the Duke said.

“That’s likely an eagle,” Kynes said. “Many creatures have adapted to this place.”

The ornithopter swept over a bare rock plain. Paul looked down from their two thousand meters’ altitude, saw the wrinkled shadow of their craft and escort. The land beneath seemed flat, but shadow wrinkles said otherwise.

“Has anyone ever walked out of the desert?” the Duke asked.

Halleck’s music stopped. He leaned forward to catch the answer.

“Not from the deep desert,” Kynes said. “Men have walked out of the second zone several times. They’ve survived by crossing the rock areas where worms seldom go.”

The timbre of Kynes’ voice held Paul’s attention. He felt his sense come alert the way they were trained to do.

“Ah-h, the worms,” the Duke said. “I must see one sometime.”

“You may see one today,” Kynes said. “Wherever there is spice, there are worms.”

“Always?” Halleck asked.

“Always.”

“Is there a relationship between worm and spice?” the Duke asked.

Kynes turned and Paul saw the pursed lips as the man spoke. “They defend spice sands. Each worm has a—territory. As to the spice…who knows? Worm specimens we’ve examined lead us to suspect complicated chemical interchanges within them. We find traces of hydrochloric acid in the ducts, more complicated acid forms elsewhere. I’ll give you my monograph on the subject.”

“And a shield’s no defense?” the Duke asked.

“Shields!” Kynes sneered. “Activate a shield within the worm zone and you seal your fate. Worms ignore territory lines, come from far around to attack a shield. No man wearing a shield has ever survived such attack.”

“How are worms taken, then?”

“High voltage electrical shock applied separately to each ring segment is the only known way of killing and preserving an entire worm,” Kynes said. “They can be stunned and shattered by explosives, but each ring segment has a life of its own. Barring atomics, I know of no explosive powerful enough to destroy a large worm entirely. They’re incredibly tough.”

“Why hasn’t an effort been made to wipe them out?” Paul asked.

“Too expensive,” Kynes said. “Too much area to cover.”

Paul leaned back in his corner. His truthsense, awareness of tone shadings, told him that Kynes was lying and telling half-truths. And he thought: If there’s a relationship between spice and worms, killing the worms would destroy the spice.

“No one will have to walk out of the desert soon,” the Duke said. “Trip these little transmitters at our necks and rescue is on its way. All our workers will be wearing them before long. We’re setting up a special rescue service.”

“Very commendable,” Kynes said.

“Your tone says you don’t agree,” the Duke said.

“Agree? Of course I agree, but it won’t be much use. Static electricity from sandstorms masks out many signals. Transmitters short out. They’ve been tried here before, you know. Arrakis is tough on equipment. And if a worm’s hunting you there’s not much time. Frequently, you have no more than fifteen or twenty minutes.”

“What would you advise?” the Duke asked.

“You ask my advice?”

“As planetologist, yes.”

“You’d follow my advice?”

“If I found it sensible.”

“Very well, my Lord. Never travel alone.”

The Duke turned his attention from the controls. “That’s all?”

“That’s all. Never travel alone.”

“What if you’re separated by a storm and forced down?” Halleck asked. “Isn’t there anything you could do?”

“Anything covers much territory,” Kynes said.

“What would you do?” Paul asked.

Kynes turned a hard stare at the boy, brought his attention back to the Duke. “I’d remember to protect the integrity of my stillsuit. If I were outside the worm zone or in rock, I’d stay with the ship. If I were down in open sand, I’d get away from the ship as fast as I could. About a thousand meters would be far enough. Then I’d hide beneath my robe. A worm would get the ship, but it might miss me.”

“Then what?” Halleck asked.

Kynes shrugged. “Wait for the worm to leave.”

“That’s all?” Paul asked.

“When the worm has gone, one may try to walk out,” Kynes said. “You must walk softly, avoid drum sands, tidal dust basins—head for the nearest rock zone. There are many such zones. You might make it.”

“Drum sand?” Halleck asked.

“A condition of sand compaction,” Kynes said. “The slightest step sets it drumming. Worms always come to that.”

“And a tidal dust basin?” the Duke asked.

“Certain depressions in the desert have filled with dust over the centuries. Some are so vast they have currents and tides. All will swallow the unwary who step into them.”

Halleck sat back, resumed strumming the baliset. Presently, he sang:

“Wild beasts of the desert do hunt there,

Waiting for the innocents to pass.

Oh-h-h, tempt not the gods of the desert,

Lest you seek a lonely epitaph.

The perils of the—”

He broke off, leaned forward. “Dust cloud ahead, Sire.”

“I see it, Gurney.”

“That’s what we seek,” Kynes said.

Paul stretched up in the seat to peer ahead, saw a rolling yellow cloud low on the desert surface some thirty kilometers ahead.

“One of your factory crawlers,” Kynes said. “It’s on the surface and that means it’s on spice. The cloud is vented sand being expelled after the spice has been centrifugally removed. There’s no other cloud quite like it.”

“Aircraft over it,” the Duke said.

“I see two…three…four spotters,” Kynes said. “They’re watching for wormsign.”

“Wormsign?” the Duke asked.

“A sandwave moving toward the crawler. They’ll have seismic probes on the surface, too. Worms sometimes travel too deep for the wave to show.” Kynes swung his gaze around the sky. “Should be a carryall wing around, but I don’t see it.”

“The worm always comes, eh?” Halleck asked.

“Always.”

Paul leaned forward, touched Kynes’ shoulder. “How big an area does each worm stake out?”

Kynes frowned. The child kept asking adult questions.

“That depends on the size of the worm.”

“What’s the variation?” the Duke asked.

“Big ones may control three or four hundred square kilometers. Small ones—” He broke off as the Duke kicked on the jet brakes. The ship bucked as its tail pods whispered to silence. Stub wings elongated, cupped the air. The craft became a full ’thopter as the Duke banked it, holding the wings to a gentle beat, pointing with his left hand off to the east beyond the factory crawler.

“Is that wormsign?”

Kynes leaned across the Duke to peer into the distance.

Paul and Halleck were crowded together, looking in the same direction, and Paul noted that their escort, caught by the sudden maneuver, had surged ahead, but now was curving back. The factory crawler lay ahead of them, still some three kilometers away.

Where the Duke pointed, crescent dune tracks spread shadow ripples toward the horizon and, running through them as a level line stretching into the distance, came an elongated mount-in-motion—a cresting of sand. It reminded Paul of the way a big fish disturbed the water when swimming just under the surface.

“Worm,” Kynes said. “Big one.” He leaned back, grabbed the microphone from the panel, punched out a new frequency selection. Glancing at the grid chart on rollers over their heads, he spoke into the microphone: “Calling crawler at Delta Ajax niner. Wormsign warning. Crawler at Delta Ajax niner. Wormsign warning. Acknowledge, please.” He waited.

The panel speaker emitted static crackles, then a voice: “Who calls Delta Ajax niner? Over.”

“They seem pretty calm about it,” Halleck said.

Kynes spoke into the microphone: “Unlisted flight—north and east of you about three kilometers. Wormsign is on intercept course, your position, estimated contact twenty-five minutes.”

Another voice rumbled from the speaker: “This is Spotter Control. Sighting confirmed. Stand by for contact fix.” There was a pause, then: “Contact in twenty-six minutes minus. That was a sharp estimate. Who’s on that unlisted flight? Over.”

Halleck had his harness off and surged forward between Kynes and the Duke. “Is this the regular working frequency, Kynes?”

“Yes. Why?”

“Who’d be listening?”

“Just the work crews in this area. Cuts down interference.”

Again, the speaker crackled, then: “This is Delta Ajax niner. Who gets bonus credit for that spot? Over.”

Halleck glanced at the Duke.

Kynes said: “There’s a bonus based on spice load for whoever gives first worm warning. They want to know—”

“Tell them who had first sight of that worm,” Halleck said.

The Duke nodded.

Kynes hesitated, then lifted the microphone: “Spotter credit to the Duke Leto Atreides. The Duke Leto Atreides. Over.”

The voice from the speaker was flat and partly distorted by a burst of static: “We read and thank you.”

“Now, tell them to divide the bonus among themselves,” Halleck ordered. “Tell them it’s the Duke’s wish.”

Kynes took a deep breath, then: “It’s the Duke’s wish that you divide the bonus among your crew. Do you read? Over.”

“Acknowledged and thank you,” the speaker said.

The Duke said: “I forgot to mention that Gurney is also very talented in public relations.”

Kynes turned a puzzled frown on Halleck.

“This lets the men know their Duke is concerned for their safety,” Halleck said. “Word will get around. It was on an area working frequency—not likely Harkonnen agents heard.” He glanced out at their air cover. “And we’re a pretty strong force. It was a good risk.”

The Duke banked their craft toward the sandcloud erupting from the factory crawler. “What happens now?”

“There’s a carryall wing somewhere close,” Kynes said. “It’ll come in and lift off the crawler.”

“What if the carryall’s wrecked?” Halleck asked.

“Some equipment is lost,” Kynes said. “Get in close over the crawler, my Lord; you’ll find this interesting.”

The Duke scowled, busied himself with the controls as they came into turbulent air over the crawler.

Paul looked down, saw sand still spewing out of the metal and plastic monster beneath them. It looked like a great tan and blue beetle with many wide tracks extending on arms around it. He saw a giant inverted funnel snout poked into dark sand in front of it.

“Rich spice bed by the color,” Kynes said. “They’ll continue working until the last minute.”

The Duke fed more power to the wings, stiffened them for a steeper descent as he settled lower in a circling glide above the crawler. A glance left and right showed his cover holding altitude and circling overhead.

Paul studied the yellow cloud belching from the crawler’s pipe vents, looked out over the desert at the approaching worm track.

“Shouldn’t we be hearing them call in the carryall?” Halleck asked.

“They usually have the wing on a different frequency,” Kynes said.

“Shouldn’t they have two carryalls standing by for every crawler?” the Duke asked. “There should be twenty-six men on that machine down there, not to mention cost of equipment.”

Kynes said: “You don’t have enough ex—”

He broke off as the speaker erupted with an angry voice: “Any of you see the wing? He isn’t answering.”

A garble of noise crackled from the speaker, drowned in an abrupt override signal, then silence and the first voice: “Report by the numbers! Over.”

“This is Spotter Control. Last I saw, the wing was pretty high and circling off northwest. I don’t see him now. Over.”

“Spotter one: negative. Over.”

“Spotter two: negative. Over.”

“Spotter three: negative. Over.”

Silence.

The Duke looked down. His own craft’s shadow was just passing over the crawler. “Only four spotters, is that right?”

“Correct,” Kynes said.

“There are five in our party,” the Duke said. “Our ships are larger. We can crowd in three extra each. Their spotters ought to be able to lift off two each.”

Paul did the mental arithmetic, said: “That’s three short.”

“Why don’t they have two carryalls to each crawler?” barked the Duke.

“You don’t have enough extra equipment,” Kynes said.

“All the more reason we should protect what we have!”

“Where could that carryall go?” Halleck asked.

“Could’ve been forced down somewhere out of sight,” Kynes said.

The Duke grabbed the microphone, hesitated with thumb poised over its switch. “How could they lose sight of a carryall?”

“They keep their attention on the ground looking for wormsign,” Kynes said.

The Duke thumbed the switch, spoke into the microphone. “This is your Duke. We are coming down to take off Delta Ajax niner’s crew. All spotters are ordered to comply. Spotters will land on the east side. We will take the west. Over.” He reached down, punched out his own command frequency, repeated the order for his own air cover, handed the microphone back to Kynes.

Kynes returned to the working frequency and a voice blasted from the speaker: “…almost a full load of spice! We have almost a full load! We can’t leave that for a damned worm! Over.”

“Damn the spice!” the Duke barked. He grabbed back the microphone, said: “We can always get more spice. There are seats in our ships for all but three of you. Draw straws or decide any way you like who’s to go. But you’re going, and that’s an order!” He slammed the microphone back into Kynes’ hands, muttered: “Sorry,” as Kynes shook an injured finger.

“How much time?” Paul asked.

“Nine minutes,” Kynes said.

The Duke said: “This ship has more power than the others. If we took off under jet with three-quarter wings, we could crowd in an additional man.”

“That sand’s soft,” Kynes said.

“With four extra men aboard on a jet takeoff, we could snap the wings, Sire,” Halleck said.

“Not on this ship,” the Duke said. He hauled back on the controls as the ’thopter glided in beside the crawler. The wings tipped up, braked the ’thopter to a skidding stop within twenty meters of the factory.

The crawler was silent now, no sand spouting from its vents. Only a faint mechanical rumble issued from it, becoming more audible as the Duke opened his door.

Immediately, their nostrils were assailed by the odor of cinnamon—heavy and pungent.

With a loud flapping, the spotter aircraft glided down to the sand on the other side of the crawler. The Duke’s own escort swooped in to land in line with him.

Paul, looking out at the factory, saw how all the ’thopters were dwarfed by it—gnats beside a warrior beetle.

“Gurney, you and Paul toss out that rear seat,” the Duke said. He manually cranked the wings out to three-quarters, set their angle, checked the jet pod controls. “Why the devil aren’t they coming out of that machine?”

“They’re hoping the carryall will show up,” Kynes said. “They still have a few minutes.” He glanced off to the east.

All turned to look the same direction, seeing no sign of the worm, but there was a heavy, charged feeling of anxiety in the air.

The Duke took the microphone, punched for his command frequency, said: “Two of you toss out your shield generators. By the numbers. You can carry one more man that way. We’re not leaving any men for that monster.” He keyed back to the working frequency, barked: “All right, you in Delta Ajax niner! Out! Now! This is a command from your Duke! On the double or I’ll cut that crawler apart with a lasgun!”

A hatch snapped open near the front of the factory, another at the rear, another at the top. Men came tumbling out, sliding and scrambling down to the sand. A tall man in a patched working robe was the last to emerge. He jumped down to a track and then to the sand.

The Duke hung the microphone on the panel, swung out onto the wing step, shouted: “Two men each into your spotters.”

The man in the patched robe began tolling off pairs of his crew, pushing them toward the craft waiting on the other side.

“Four over here!” the Duke shouted. “Four into that ship back there!” He jabbed a finger at an escort ’thopter directly behind him. The guards were just wrestling the shield generator out of it. “And four into that ship over there!” He pointed to the other escort that had shed its shield generator. “Three each into the others! Run, you sand dogs!”

The tall man finished counting off his crew, came slogging across the sand followed by three of his companions.

“I hear the worm, but I can’t see it,” Kynes said.

The others heard it then—an abrasive slithering, distant and growing louder.

“Damn sloppy way to operate,” the Duke muttered.

Aircraft began flapping off the sand around them. It reminded the Duke of a time in his home planet’s jungles, a sudden emergence into a clearing, and carrion birds lifting away from the carcass of a wild ox.

The spice workers slogged up to the side of the ’thopter, started climbing in behind the Duke. Halleck helped, dragging them into the rear.

“In you go, boys!” he snapped. “On the double!”

Paul, crowded into a corner by sweating men, smelled the perspiration of fear, saw that two of the men had poor neck adjustments on their stillsuits. He filed the information in his memory for future action. His father would have to order tighter stillsuit discipline. Men tended to become sloppy if you didn’t watch such things.

The last man came gasping into the rear, said, “The worm! It’s almost on us! Blast off!”

The Duke slid into his seat, frowning, said: “We still have almost three minutes on the original contact estimate. Is that right, Kynes?” He shut his door, checked it.

“Almost exactly, my Lord,” Kynes said, and he thought: A cool one, this Duke.

“All secure here, Sire,” Halleck said.

The Duke nodded, watched the last of his escort take off. He adjusted the igniter, glanced once more at wings and instruments, punched the jet sequence.

The takeoff pressed the Duke and Kynes deep into their seats, compressed the people in the rear. Kynes watched the way the Duke handled the controls—gently, surely. The ’thopter was fully airborne now, and the Duke studied his instruments, glanced left and right at his wings.

“She’s very heavy, Sire,” Halleck said.

“Well within the tolerances of this ship,” the Duke said. “You didn’t really think I’d risk this cargo, did you, Gurney?”

Halleck grinned, said: “Not a bit of it, Sire.”

The Duke banked his craft in a long easy curve—climbing over the crawler.

Paul, crushed into a corner beside a window, stared down at the silent machine on the sand. The wormsign had broken off about four hundred meters from the crawler. And now, there appeared to be turbulence in the sand around the factory.

“The worm is now beneath the crawler,” Kynes said. “You are about to witness a thing few have seen.”

Flecks of dust shadowed the sand around the crawler now. The big machine began to tip down to the right. A gigantic sand whirlpool began forming there to the right of the crawler. It moved faster and faster. Sand and dust filled the air now for hundreds of meters around.

Then they saw it!

A wide hole emerged from the sand. Sunlight flashed from glistening white spokes within it. The hole’s diameter was at least twice the length of the crawler, Paul estimated. He watched as the machine slid into that opening in a billow of dust and sand. The hole pulled back.

“Gods, what a monster!” muttered a man beside Paul.

“Got all our floggin’ spice!” growled another.

“Someone is going to pay for this,” the Duke said. “I promise you that.”

By the very flatness of his father’s voice, Paul sensed the deep anger. He found that he shared it. This was criminal waste!

In the silence that followed, they heard Kynes.

“Bless the Maker and His water,” Kynes murmured. “Bless the coming and going of Him. May His passage cleanse the world. May He keep the world for His people.”

“What’s that you’re saying?” the Duke asked.

But Kynes remained silent.

Paul glanced at the men crowded around him. They were staring fearfully at the back of Kynes’ head. One of them whispered: “Liet.”

Kynes turned, scowling. The man sank back, abashed.

Another of the rescued men began coughing—dry and rasping. Presently, he gasped: “Curse this hell hole!”

The tall Dune man who had come last out of the crawler said: “Be you still, Coss. You but worsen your cough.” He stirred among the men until he could look through them at the back of the Duke’s head. “You be the Duke Leto, I warrant,” he said. “It’s to you we give thanks for our lives. We were ready to end it there until you came along.”

“Quiet, man, and let the Duke fly his ship,” Halleck muttered.

Paul glanced at Halleck. He, too, had seen the tension wrinkles at the corner of his father’s jaw. One walked softly when the Duke was in a rage.

Leto began easing his ’thopter out of its great banking circle, stopped at a new sign of movement on the sand. The worm had withdrawn into the depths and now, near where the crawler had been, two figures could be seen moving north away from the sand depression. They appeared to glide over the surface with hardly a lifting of dust to mark their passage.

“Who’s that down there?” the Duke barked.

“Two Johnnies who came along for the ride, Soor,” said the tall Dune man.

“Why wasn’t something said about them?”

“It was the chance they took, Soor,” the Dune man said.

“My Lord,” said Kynes, “these men know it’s of little use to do anything about men trapped on the desert in worm country.”

“We’ll send a ship from base for them!” the Duke snapped.

“As you wish, my Lord,” Kynes said. “But likely when the ship gets here there’ll be no one to rescue.”

“We’ll send a ship, anyway,” the Duke said.

“They were right beside where the worm came up,” Paul said. “How’d they escape?”

“The sides of the hole cave in and make the distances deceptive,” Kynes said.

“You waste fuel here, Sire,” Halleck ventured.

“Aye, Gurney.”

The Duke brought his craft around toward the Shield Wall. His escort came down from circling stations, took up positions above and on both sides.

Paul thought about what the Dune man and Kynes had said. He sensed half-truths, outright lies. The men on the sand had glided across the surface so surely, moving in a way obviously calculated to keep from luring the worm back out of its depths.

Fremen! Paul thought. Who else would be so sure on the sand? Who else might be left out of your worries as a matter of course—because they are in no danger? They know how to live here! They know how to outwit the worm!

“What were Fremen doing on that crawler?” Paul asked.

Kynes whirled.

The tall Dune man turned wide eyes on Paul—blue within blue within blue. “Who be this lad?” he asked.

Halleck moved to place himself between the man and Paul, said: “This is Paul Atreides, the ducal heir.”

“Why says he there were Fremen on our rumbler?” the man asked.

“They fit the description,” Paul said.

Kynes snorted. “You can’t tell Fremen just by looking at them!” He looked at the Dune man. “You. Who were those men?”

“Friends of one of the others,” the Dune man said. “Just friends from a village who wanted to see the spice sands.”

Kynes turned away. “Fremen!”

But he was remembering the words of the legend: “The Lisan al-Gaib shall see through all subterfuge.”

“They be dead now, most likely, young Soor,” the Dune man said. “We should not speak unkindly on them.”

But Paul heard the falsehood in their voices, felt the menace that had brought Halleck instinctively into guarding position.

Paul spoke dryly: “A terrible place for them to die.”

Without turning, Kynes said: “When God hath ordained a creature to die in a particular place, He causeth that creature’s wants to direct him to that place.”

Leto turned a hard stare at Kynes.

And Kynes, returning the stare, found himself troubled by a fact he had observed here: This Duke was concerned more over the men than he was over the spice. He risked his own life and that of his son to save the men. He passed off the loss of a spice crawler with a gesture. The threat to men’s lives had him in a rage. A leader such as that would command fanatic loyalty. He would be difficult to defeat.

Against his own will and all previous judgments, Kynes admitted to himself: I like this Duke.