Dune

Once more, Teg studied the other customers. They looked substantial. None of the starving poor in this place. Teg had it registered then. Not only was this an “in” place, somebody had designed it for just that effect. There was a clever mind behind such an establishment. This was the kind of restaurant that rising young executives revealed to make points with prospective customers or to please a superior. The food would be superb and the portions generous. Teg realized that his instincts had led him here correctly. He bent his attention to the menu then, allowing hunger to enter his consciousness at last. The hunger was at least as fierce as that which had astonished the late Field Marshal Muzzafar.

The waiter appeared beside him with a tray on which were placed a small open box and a jar from which wafted the pungent odor of newskin ointment.

“I see you have injured your hand, Bashar,” the man said. He placed the tray on the table. “Allow me to dress the injury before you order.”

Teg lifted the injured hand and watched the swift competence of the treatment.

“You know me?” Teg asked.

“Yes, sir. And after what I’ve been hearing, it seems strange to see you in full uniform. There.” He finished the dressing.

“What have you been hearing?” Teg spoke in a low voice.

“That the Honored Matres hunt you.”

“I’ve just killed some of them and many of their . . . What should we call them?”

The man paled but he spoke firmly. “Slaves would be a good word, sir.”

“You were at Renditai, weren’t you,” Teg said.

“Yes, sir. Many of us settled here afterward.”

“I need food but I cannot pay you,” Teg said.

“No one from Renditai has need of your money, Bashar. Do they know you came this way?”

“I don’t believe they do.”

“The people here now are regulars. None of them would betray you. I will try to warn you if someone dangerous comes. What did you wish to eat?”

“A great deal of food. I will leave the choice to you. About twice as much carbohydrate as protein. No stimulants.”

“What do you mean by a great deal, sir?”

“Keep bringing it until I tell you to stop . . . or until you feel I have overstepped your generosity.”

“In spite of appearances, sir, this is not a poor establishment. The extras here have made me a rich man.”

Score one for his assessment, Teg thought. The thrift here was a calculated pose.

The waiter left and again spoke to the man at the central table. Teg studied the man openly after the waiter went on into the kitchen. Yes, that was the man. The diner concentrated on a plate heaped with some green-garnished pasta.

There was very little sign in this man of a woman’s care, Teg thought. His collar had been closed awry, the clingstraps tangled. Spots of the greenish sauce soiled his left cuff. He was naturally righthanded but ate while his left hand remained in the path of spillage. Frayed cuffs on his trousers. One trouser hem, partly released from its threaded bondage, dragged at the heel. Stockings mismatched—one blue and one pale yellow. None of this appeared to bother him. No mother or other woman had ever dragged this one back from a doorway with orders to make himself presentable. His basic attitude was announced in his whole appearance:

“What you see is as presentable as it gets.”

The man looked up suddenly, a jerking motion as though he had been goosed. He sent a brown-eyed gaze around the room, pausing at each face in turn as though he looked for a particular visage. This done, he returned his attention to his plate.

The waiter returned with a clear soup in which shreds of egg and some green vegetables could be seen.

“While the rest of your meal is being prepared, sir,” he said.

“Did you come here directly after Renditai?” Teg asked.

“Yes, sir. But I served with you also at Acline.”

“The sixty-seventh Gammu,” Teg said.

“Yes, sir!”

“We saved a good many lives that time,” Teg said. “Theirs and ours.”

When Teg still did not begin eating, the waiter spoke in a rather cold voice, “Would you require a snooper, sir?”

“Not while you’re serving me,” Teg said. He meant what he said but he felt a bit of a fraud because doubled vision told him the food was safe.

The waiter started to turn away, pleased.

“One moment,” Teg said.

“Sir?”

“The man at that central table. He is one of your regulars?”

“Professor Delnay? Oh, yes, sir.”

“Delnay. Yes, I thought so.”

“Professor of martial arts, sir. And the history of same.”

“I know. When it comes time to serve my dessert, please ask Professor Delnay if he would join me.”

“Shall I tell him who you are, sir?”

“Don’t you think he already knows?”

“That would seem likely, sir, but still . . .”

“Caution where caution belongs,” Teg said. “Bring on the food.”

Delnay’s interest was fully aroused long before the waiter relayed Teg’s invitation. The professor’s first words as he seated himself across from Teg were: “That was the most remarkable gastronomic performance I have ever seen. Are you sure you can eat a dessert?”

“Two or three of them at least,” Teg said.

“Astonishing!”