Dune

Go for the chin! It was a suggestion from the horde. Why not?

“I’ve been studying your chin, Great Honored Matre.”

“You have?” Surprised.

“It’s obviously your childhood chin and you should be proud of that youthful remembrance.”

Not pleased at all but unable to show it. Hit the chin again.

“I’ll bet your lovers often kiss your chin,” Lucilla said.

Angry now and still unable to vent it. Threaten me, will you! Warn me not to use Voice!

“Kiss chin,” the Futar said.

“I said later, darling. Now will you shut up!”

Taking it out on her poor pet.

“But you have questions you want to ask me,” Lucilla said. Sweetness itself. Another warning signal to the knowledgeable. I’m one of those who pours sugar syrup over everything. “How nice! Such a pleasant time when we’re with you. Isn’t that beautiful! Weren’t you clever to get it so cheaply! Easily. Quickly.” Supply your own adverb.

Great Honored Matre was a moment composing herself. She sensed that she had been placed at a disadvantage but could not say how. She covered the moment with an enigmatic smile, then: “But I said I would release you.” She pressed something on the side of her chair and a section of the tubular cage swung aside, taking the shigawire netting with it. In the same instant, a low chair lifted from a panel in the floor directly in front of her and not a pace away.

Lucilla seated herself in the chair, knees almost touching her inquisitor. Feet. Remember they kill with their feet. She flexed her fingers, realizing then that she had been gripping her hands into fists. Damn the tensions!

“You should have some food and drink,” Great Honored Matre said. She pushed something else on the side of her chair. A tray came up beside Lucilla—plate, spoon, a glass brimming with red liquid. Showing off her toys.

Lucilla picked up the glass.

Poison? Smell it first.

She sampled the drink. Stimtea and melange! I’m hungry.

Lucilla returned an empty glass to the tray. The stim on her tongue smelled sharply of melange. What is she doing? Wooing me? Lucilla felt a flow of relief from the spice. The plate proved to hold beans in a piquant sauce. She ate it all after sampling the first bite for unwanted additives. Garlic in the sauce. She was hung up for the barest fraction of a second on Memory of this ingredient—adjunct to fine cooking, specific against werewolves, potent treatment for flatulence.

“You find our food pleasant?”

Lucilla wiped her chin. “Very good. You are to be complimented on your chef.” Never compliment the chef in a private establishment. Chefs can be replaced. Hostess is irreplaceable. “A nice touch with garlic.”

“We’ve been studying some of the library salvaged from Lampadas.” Gloating: See what you lost? “So little of interest buried in all of that prattle.”

Does she want you to be her librarian? Lucilla waited silently.

“Some of my aides think there may be clues to your witches’ nest there or, at least, a way to eliminate you quickly. So many languages!”

Does she need a translator? Be blunt!

“What interests you?”

“Very little. Who could possibly need accounts of the Butlerian Jihad?”

“They destroyed libraries, too.”

“Don’t patronize me!”

She’s sharper than we thought. Keep it blunt.

“I thought I was the object of patronage.”

“Listen to me, witch! You think you can be ruthless in defense of your nest but you do not understand what it is to be ruthless.”

“I don’t think you have yet told me how I can satisfy your curiosity.”

“It’s your science we want, witch!” She pitched her voice lower. “Let us be reasonable. With your help we could achieve utopia.”

And conquer all of your enemies and achieve orgasm every time.

“You think science holds the keys to utopia?”

“And better organization for our affairs.”

Remember: Bureaucracy elevates conformity . . . make that elevates “fatal stupidity” to the status of religion.

“Paradox, Great Honored Matre. Science must be innovative. It brings change. That’s why science and bureaucracy fight a constant war.”

Does she know her roots?

“But think of the power! Think of what you could control!” She doesn’t know.