Dune

“We prevent nothing . . . forever,” Alia said. She didn’t like the feel of the way Stilgar’s mind was working now. He had narrowed his scope, eliminated obvious essentials. This was not the Stilgar she remembered.

“We must count on their getting a worm,” Paul said. “Whether they can start the melange cycle on another planet is a different question. They’ll need more than a worm.”

Stilgar looked from brother to sister. Out of ecological thinking that had been ground into him by sietch life, he grasped their meaning. A captive worm couldn’t live except within a bit of Arrakis—sand plankton, Little Makers and all. The Guild’s problem was large, but not impossible. His own growing uncertainty lay in a different area.

“Then your visions do not detect the Guild at its work?” he asked.

“Damnation!” Paul exploded.

Alia studied Stilgar, sensing the savage sideshow of ideas taking place in his mind. He was hung on a rack of enchantment. Magic! Magic! To glimpse the future was to steal terrifying fire from a sacred flame. It held the attraction of ultimate peril, souls ventured and lost. One brought back from the formless, dangerous distances something with form and power. But Stilgar was beginning to sense other forces, perhaps greater powers beyond that unknown horizon. His Queen Witch and Sorcerer Friend betrayed dangerous weaknesses.

“Stilgar,” Alia said, fighting to hold him, “you stand in a valley between dunes. I stand on the crest. I see where you do not see. And, among other things, I see mountains which conceal the distances.”

“There are things hidden from you,” Stilgar said. “This you’ve always said.”

“All power is limited,” Alia said.

“And danger may come from behind the mountains,” Stilgar said.

“It’s something on that order,” Alia said.

Stilgar nodded, his gaze fastened on Paul’s face. “But whatever comes from behind the mountains must cross the dunes.”

The most dangerous game in the universe is to govern from an oracular base. We do not consider ourselves wise enough or brave enough to play that game. The measures detailed here for regulation in lesser matters are as near as we dare venture to the brink of government. For our purposes, we borrow a definition from the Bene Gesserit and we consider the various worlds as gene pools, sources of teachings and teachers, sources of the possible. Our goal is not to rule, but to tap these gene pools, to learn, and to free ourselves from all restraints imposed by dependency and government.

—“THE ORGY AS A TOOL OF STATECRAFT,”

CHAPTER THREE OF THE STEERSMAN’S GUILD

“Is that where your father died?” Edric asked, sending a beam pointer from his tank to a jeweled marker on one of the relief maps adorning a wall of Paul’s reception salon.

“That’s the shrine of his skull,” Paul said. “My father died a prisoner on a Harkonnen frigate in the sink below us.”

“Oh, yes: I recall the story now,” Edric said. “Something about killing the old Baron Harkonnen, his mortal enemy.” Hoping he didn’t betray too much of the terror which small enclosures such as this room imposed upon him, Edric rolled over in the orange gas, directed his gaze at Paul, who sat alone on a long divan of striped gray and black.

“My sister killed the Baron,” Paul said, voice and manner dry, “just before the battle of Arrakeen.”

And why, he wondered, did the Guild man-fish reopen old wounds in this place and at this time?

The Steersman appeared to be fighting a losing battle to contain his nervous energies. Gone were the languid fish motions of their earlier encounter. Edric’s tiny eyes jerked here . . . there, questing and measuring. The one attendant who had accompanied him in here stood apart near the line of houseguards ranging the end wall at Paul’s left. The attendant worried Paul—hulking, thick-necked, blunt and vacant face. The man had entered the salon, nudging Edric’s tank along on its supporting field, walking with a stranger’s gait, arms akimbo.

Scytale, Edric had called him. Scytale, an aide.

The aide’s surface shouted stupidity, but the eyes betrayed him. They laughed at everything they saw.

“Your concubine appeared to enjoy the performance of the Face Dancers,” Edric said. “It pleases me that I could provide that small entertainment. I particularly enjoyed her reaction to seeing her own features simultaneously repeated by the whole troupe.”

“Isn’t there a warning against Guildsmen bearing gifts?” Paul asked.

And he thought of the performance out there in the Great Hall. The dancers had entered in the costumes and guise of the Dune Tarot, flinging themselves about in seemingly random patterns that devolved into fire eddies and ancient prognostic designs. Then had come the rulers—a parade of kings and emperors like faces on coins, formal and stiff in outline, but curiously fluid. And the jokes: a copy of Paul’s own face and body, Chani repeated across the floor of the Hall, even Stilgar, who had grunted and shuddered while others laughed.