Dune

“But our gifts have the kindest intent,” Edric protested.

“How kindly can you be?” Paul asked. “The ghola you gave us believes he was designed to destroy us.”

“Destroy you, Sire?” Edric asked, all bland attention. “Can one destroy a god?”

Stilgar, entering on the last words, stopped, glared at the guards. They were much farther from Paul than he liked. Angrily he motioned them closer.

“It’s all right, Stil,” Paul said, lifting a hand. “Just a friendly discussion. Why don’t you move the Ambassador’s tank over by the end of my divan?”

Stilgar, weighing the order, saw that it would put the Steersman’s tank between Paul and the hulking aide, much too close to Paul, but . . .

“It’s all right, Stil,” Paul repeated, and he gave the private hand-signal which made the order an imperative.

Moving with obvious reluctance, Stilgar pushed the tank closer to Paul. He didn’t like the feel of the container or the heavily perfumed smell of melange around it. He took up a position at the corner of the tank beneath the orbiting device through which the Steersman spoke.

“To kill a god,” Paul said. “That’s very interesting. But who says I’m a god?”

“Those who worship you,” Edric said, glancing pointedly at Stilgar.

“Is this what you believe?” Paul asked.

“What I believe is of no moment, Sire,” Edric said. “It seems to most observers, however, that you conspire to make a god of yourself. And one might ask if that is something any mortal can do . . . safely?”

Paul studied the Guildsman. Repellent creature, but perceptive. It was a question Paul had asked himself time and again. But he had seen enough alternate Timelines to know of worse possibilities than accepting godhead for himself. Much worse. These were not, however, the normal avenues for a Steersman to probe. Curious. Why had that question been asked? What could Edric hope to gain by such effrontery? Paul’s thoughts went flick (the association of Tleilaxu would be behind this move)—flick (the Jihad’s recent Sembou victory would bear on Edric’s action)—flick (various Bene Gesserit credos showed themselves here)— flick . . .

A process involving thousands of information bits poured flickering through his computational awareness. It required perhaps three seconds.

“Does a Steersman question the guidelines of prescience?” Paul asked, putting Edric on the weakest ground.

This disturbed the Steersman, but he covered well, coming up with what sounded like a long aphorism: “No man of intelligence questions the fact of prescience, Sire. Oracular vision has been known to men since most ancient times. It has a way of entangling us when we least suspect. Luckily, there are other forces in our universe.”

“Greater than prescience?” Paul asked, pressing him.

“If prescience alone existed and did everything, Sire, it would annihilate itself. Nothing but prescience? Where could it be applied except to its own degenerating movements?”

“There’s always the human situation,” Paul agreed.

“A precarious thing at best,” Edric said, “without confusing it by hallucinations.”

“Are my visions no more than hallucinations?” Paul asked, mock sadness in his voice. “Or do you imply that my worshippers hallucinate?”

Stilgar, sensing the mounting tensions, moved a step nearer Paul, fixed his attention on the Guildsman reclining in the tank.

“You twist my words, Sire,” Edric protested. An odd sense of violence lay suspended in the words.

Violence here? Paul wondered. They wouldn’t dare! Unless (and he glanced at his guards) the forces which protected him were to be used in replacing him.

“But you accuse me of conspiring to make a god of myself,” Paul said, pitching his voice that only Edric and Stilgar might hear. “Conspire?”

“A poor choice of words, perhaps, my Lord,” Edric said.

“But significant,” Paul said. “It says you expect the worst of me.”

Edric arched his neck, stared sideways at Stilgar with a look of apprehension. “People always expect the worst of the rich and powerful, Sire. It is said one can always tell an aristocrat: he reveals only those of his vices which will make him popular.”

A tremor passed across Stilgar’s face.

Paul looked up at the movement, sensing the thoughts and angers whispering in Stilgar’s mind. How dared this Guildsman talk thus to Muad’Dib?

“You’re not joking, of course,” Paul said.

“Joking, Sire?”

Paul grew aware of dryness in his mouth. He felt that there were too many people in this room, that the air he breathed had passed through too many lungs. The taint of melange from Edric’s tank felt threatening.

“Who might my accomplices be in such a conspiracy?” Paul asked presently. “Do you nominate the Qizarate?”

Edric’s shrug stirred the orange gas around his head. He no longer appeared concerned by Stilgar, although the Fremen continued to glare at him.

“Are you suggesting that my missionaries of the Holy Orders, all of them, are preaching subtle falsehood?” Paul insisted.