Dune (76 page)

Through it all threaded the realization that her son was the Kwisatz Haderach, the one who could be many places at once. He was the fact out of the Bene Gesserit dream. And the fact gave her no peace.

“What happened?” Chani demanded.

Jessica shook her head.

Paul said: “There is in each of us an ancient force that takes and an ancient force that gives. A man finds little difficulty facing that place within himself where the taking force dwells, but it's almost impossible for him to see into the giving force without changing into something other than man. For a woman, the situation is reversed.”

Jessica looked up, found Chani was staring at her while listening to Paul.

“Do you understand me, Mother?” Paul asked.

She could only nod.

“These things are so ancient within us,” Paul said, “that they're ground into each separate cell of our bodies. We're shaped by such forces. You can say to yourself, ‘Yes, I see how such a thing may be.' But when you look inward and confront the raw force of your own life unshielded, you see your peril. You see that this could overwhelm you. The greatest peril to the Giver is the force that takes. The greatest peril to the Taker is the force that gives. It's as easy to be overwhelmed by giving as by taking.”

“And you, my son,” Jessica asked, “are you one who gives or one who takes?”

“I'm at the fulcrum,” he said. “I cannot give without taking and I cannot take without . . . .” He broke off, looking to the wall at his right.

Chani felt a draft against her cheek, turned to see the hangings close.

“It was Otheym,” Paul said. “He was listening.”

Accepting the words, Chani was touched by some of the prescience that haunted Paul, and she knew a thing-yet-to-be as though it already had occurred. Otheym would speak of what he had seen and heard. Others would spread the story until it was a fire over the land. Paul-Muad' Dib is not as other men, they would say. There can be no more doubt. He is a man, yet he sees through to the Water of Life in the way of a Reverend Mother. He is indeed the Lisan al-Gaib.

“You have seen the future, Paul,” Jessica said. “Will you say what you've seen?”

“Not the future,” he said. “I've seen the Now.” He forced himself to a sitting position, waved Chani aside as she moved to help him. “The Space above Arrakis is filled with the ships of the Guild.”

Jessica trembled at the certainty in his voice.

“The Padishah Emperor himself is there,” Paul said. He looked at the rock ceiling of his cell. “With his favorite Truthsayer and five legions of Sardaukar. The old Baron Vladimir Harkonnen is there with Thufir Hawat beside him and seven ships jammed with every conscript he could muster. Every Great House has its raiders above us . . . waiting.”

Chani shook her head, unable to look away from Paul. His strangeness, the flat tone of voice, the way he looked through her, filled her with awe.

Jessica tried to swallow in a dry throat, said: “For what are they waiting?”

Paul looked at her. “For the Guild's permission to land. The Guild will strand on Arrakis any force that lands without permission.”

“The Guild's protecting us?” Jessica asked.

“Protecting us! The Guild itself caused this by spreading tales about what we do here and by reducing troop transport fares to a point where even the poorest Houses are up there now waiting to loot us.”

Jessica noted the lack of bitterness in his tone, wondered at it. She couldn't doubt his words—they had that same intensity she'd seen in him the night he'd revealed the path of the future that'd taken them among the Fremen.

Paul took a deep breath, said: “Mother, you must change a quantity of the Water for us. We need the catalyst. Chani, have a scout force sent out . . . to find a pre-spice mass. If we plant a quantity of the Water of Life above a pre-spice mass, do you know what will happen?”

Jessica weighed his words, suddenly saw through to his meaning. “Paul!” she gasped.

“The Water of Death,” he said. “It'd be a chain reaction.” He pointed to the floor. “Spreading death among the little makers, killing a vector of the life cycle that includes the spice and the makers. Arrakis will become a true desolation—without spice or maker.”

Chani put a hand to her mouth, shocked to numb silence by the blasphemy pouring from Paul's lips.

“He who can destroy a thing has the real control of it,” Paul said. “We can destroy the spice.”

“What stays the Guild's hand?” Jessica whispered.

“They're searching for me,” Paul said. “Think of that! The finest Guild navigators, men who can quest ahead through time to find the safest course for the fastest Heighliners, all of them seeking me . . . and unable to find me. How they tremble! They know I have their secret here!” Paul held out his cupped hand. “Without the spice they're blind!”

Chani found her voice. “You said you see the
now!”

Paul lay back, searching the spread-out
present,
its limits extended into the future and into the past, holding onto the awareness with difficulty as the spice illumination began to fade.

“Go do as I commanded,” he said. “The future's becoming as muddled for the Guild as it is for me. The lines of vision are narrowing. Everything focuses here where the spice is . . . where they've dared not interfere before . . . because to interfere was to lose what they must have. But now they're desperate. All paths lead into darkness.”

 

“WILL YOU look at that thing!” Stilgar whispered.

Paul lay beside him in a slit of rock high on the Shield Wall rim, eye fixed to the collector of a Fremen telescope. The oil lens was focused on a starship lighter exposed by dawn in the basin below them. The tall eastern face of the ship glistened in the flat light of the sun, but the shadow side still showed yellow portholes from glowglobes of the night. Beyond the ship, the city of Arrakeen lay cold and gleaming in the light of the northern sun.

It wasn't the lighter that excited Stilgar's awe, Paul knew, but the construction for which the lighter was only the centerpost. A single metal hutment, many stories tall, reached out in a thousand-meter circle from the base of the lighter—a tent composed of interlocking metal leaves—the temporary lodging place for five legions of Sardaukar and His Imperial Majesty, the Padishah Emperor Shaddam IV.

From his position squatting at Paul's left, Gurney Halleck said: “I count nine levels to it. Must be quite a few Sardaukar in there.”

“Five legions,” Paul said.

“It grows light,” Stilgar hissed. “We like it not, your exposing yourself, Muad'Dib. Let us go back into the rocks now.”

“I'm perfectly safe here,” Paul said.

“That ship mounts projectile weapons,” Gurney said.

“They believe us protected by shields,” Paul said. “They wouldn't waste a shot on an unidentified trio even if they saw us.”

Paul swung the telescope to scan the far wall of the basin, seeing the pockmarked cliffs, the slides that marked the tombs of so many of his father's troopers. And he had a momentary sense of the fitness of things that the shades of those men should look down on this moment. The Harkonnen forts and towns across the shielded lands lay in Fremen hands or cut away from their source like stalks severed from a plant and left to wither. Only this basin and its city remained to the enemy.

“They might try a sortie by 'thopter,” Stilgar said. “If they see us.”

“Let them,” Paul said. “We've 'thopters to burn today . . . and we know a storm is coming.”

He swung the telescope to the far side of the Arrakeen landing field now, to the Harkonnen frigates lined up there with a CHOAM Company banner waving gently from its staff on the ground beneath them. And he thought of the desperation that had forced the Guild to permit these two groups to land while all the others were held in reserve. The Guild was like a man testing the sand with his toe to gauge its temperature before erecting a tent.

“Is there anything new to see from here?” Gurney asked. “We should be getting under cover. The storm is coming.”

Paul returned his attention on the giant hutment. “They've even brought their women,” he said. “And lackeys and servants. Ah-h-h, my dear Emperor, how confident you are.”

“Men are coming up the secret way,” Stilgar said. “It may be Otheym and Korba returning.”

“All right, Stil,” Paul said. “We'll go back.”

But he took one final look around through the telescope—studying the plain with its tall ships, the gleaming metal hutment, the silent city, the frigates of the Harkonnen mercenaries. Then he slid backward around a scarp of rock. His place at the telescope was taken by a Fedaykin guardsman.

Paul emerged into a shallow depression in the Shield Wall's surface. It was a place about thirty meters in diameter and some three meters deep, a natural feature of the rock that the Fremen had hidden beneath a translucent camouflage cover. Communications equipment was clustered around a hole in the wall to the right. Fedaykin guards deployed through the depression waited for Muad-Dib's command to attack.

Two men emerged from the hole by the communications equipment, spoke to the guards there.

Paul glanced at Stilgar, nodded in the direction of the two men. “Get their report, Stil.”

Stilgar moved to obey.

Paul crouched with his back to the rock, stretching his muscles, straightened. He saw Stilgar sending the two men back into that dark hole in the rock, thought about the long climb down that narrow man-made tunnel to the floor of the basin.

Stilgar crossed to Paul.

“What was so important that they couldn't send a cielago with the message?” Paul asked.

“They're saving their birds for the battle,” Stilgar said. He glanced at the communications equipment, back to Paul. “Even with a tight beam, it is wrong to use those things, Muad'Dib. They can find you by taking a bearing on its emission.”

“They'll soon be too busy to find me,” Paul said. “What did the men report?”

“Our pet Sardaukar have been released near Old Gap low on the rim and are on their way to their master. The rocket launchers and other projectile weapons are in place. The people are deployed as you ordered. It was all routine.”

Paul glanced across the shallow bowl, studying his men in the filtered light admitted by the camouflage cover. He felt time creeping like an insect working its way across an exposed rock.

“It'll take our Sardaukar a little time afoot before they can signal a troop carrier,” Paul said. “They are being watched?”

“They are being watched,” Stilgar said.

Beside Paul, Gurney Halleck cleared his throat. “Hadn't we best be getting to a place of safety?”

“There is no such place,” Paul said. “Is the weather report still favorable?”

“A great grandmother of a storm coming,” Stilgar said. “Can you not feel it, Muad'Dib?”

“The air does feel chancy,” Paul agreed. “But I like the certainty of poling the weather.”

“The storm'll be here in the hour,” Stilgar said. He nodded toward the gap that looked out on the Emperor's hutment and the Harkonnen frigates. “They know it there, too. Not a 'thopter in the sky. Everything pulled in and tied down. They've had a report on the weather from their friends in space.”

“Any more probing sorties?” Paul asked.

“Nothing since the landing last night,” Stilgar said. “They know we're here. I think now they wait to choose their own time.”

“We choose the time,” Paul said.

Gurney glanced upward, growled: “If
they
let us.”

“That fleet'll stay in space,” Paul said.

Gurney shook his head.

“They have no choice,” Paul said. “We can destroy the spice. The Guild dares not risk that.”

“Desperate people are the most dangerous,” Gurney said.

“Are we not desperate?” Stilgar asked.

Gurney scowled at him.

“You haven't lived with the Fremen dream,” Paul cautioned. “Stil is thinking of all the water we've spent on bribes, the years of waiting we've added before Arrakis can bloom. He's not—”

“Arrrgh,” Gurney scowled.

“Why's he so gloomy?” Stilgar asked.

“He's always gloomy before a battle,” Paul said. “It's the only form of good humor Gurney allows himself.”

A slow, wolfish grin spread across Gurney's face, the teeth showing white above the chip cut of his stillsuit. “It glooms me much to think on all the poor Harkonnen souls we'll dispatch unshriven,” he said.

Stilgar chuckled. “He talks like a Fedaykin.”

“Gurney was born a death commando,” Paul said. And he thought:
Yes, let them occupy their minds with small talk before we test ourselves against that force on the plain.
He looked to the gap in the rock wall and back to Gurney, found that the troubadour-warrior had resumed a brooding scowl.

“Worry saps the strength,” Paul murmured. “You told me that once, Gurney.”

“My Duke,” Gurney said, “my chief worry is the atomics. If you use them to blast a hole in the Shield Wall . . . .”

“Those people up there won't use atomics against us,” Paul said. “They don't dare . . . and for the same reason that they cannot risk our destroying the source of the spice.”