Dune (18 page)

The entrance doors swung wide. Atreides guards emerged swiftly, all of them
heavily armed–slow-?pellet stunners, swords and shields. Behind them came a tall
man, hawk-?faced, dark of skin and hair. He wore a jubba cloak with Atreides
crest at the breast, and wore it in a way that betrayed his unfamiliarity with
the garment. It clung to the legs of his stillsuit on one side. It lacked a
free-?swinging, striding rhythm.

Beside the man walked a youth with the same dark hair, but rounder in the
face. The youth seemed small for the fifteen years Kynes knew him to have. But
the young body carried a sense of command, a poised assurance, as though he saw
and knew things all around him that were not visible to others. And he wore the
same style cloak as his father, yet with casual ease that made one think the boy
had always worn such clothing.

“The Mahdi will be aware of things others cannot see,” went the prophecy.

Kynes shook his head, telling himself: They’re just people.
With the two, garbed like them for the desert, came a man Kynes recognized–
Gurney Halleck. Kynes took a deep breath to still his resentment against
Halleck, who had briefed him on how to behave with the Duke and ducal heir.

“You may call the Duke ‘my Lord ‘ or ‘Sire.’ ‘Noble Born’ also is correct,
but usually reserved for more formal occasions. The son may be addressed as
‘young Master’ or ‘my Lord.’ The Duke is a man of much leniency, but brooks
little familiarity.”

And Kynes thought as he watched the group approach: They’ll learn soon
enough who’s master on Arrakis. Order me questioned half the night by that
Mentat, will they? Expect me to guide them on an inspection of spice mining, do
they?

The import of Hawat’s questions had not escaped Kynes. They wanted the
Imperial bases. And it was obvious they’d learned of the bases from Idaho.

I will have Stilgar send Idaho’s head to this Duke, Kynes told himself.

The ducal party was only a few paces away now, their feet in desert boots
crunching the sand.

Kynes bowed. “My Lord, Duke.”

As he had approached the solitary figure standing near the ornithopter, Leto
had studied him: tall, thin, dressed for the desert in loose robe, stillsuit,
and low boots. The man’s hood was thrown back, its veil hanging to one side,
revealing long sandy hair, a sparse beard. The eyes were that fathomless blue-
within-?blue under thick brows. Remains of dark stains smudged his eye sockets.

“You’re the ecologist,” the Duke said.

“We prefer the old title here, my Lord,” Kynes said. “Planetologist.”

“As you wish,” the Duke said. He glanced down at Paul. “Son, this is the
Judge of the Change, the arbiter of dispute, the man set here to see that the
forms are obeyed in our assumption of power over this fief.” He glanced at
Kynes. “And this is my son.”

“My Lord,” Kynes said.

“Are you a Fremen?” Paul asked.

Kynes smiled. “I am accepted in both sietch and village, young Master. But I
am in His Majesty’s service, the Imperial Planetologist.”

Paul nodded, impressed by the man’s air of strength. Halleck had pointed
Kynes out to Paul from an upper window of the administration building: “The man
standing there with the Fremen escort–the one moving now toward the
ornithopter.”

Paul had inspected Kynes briefly with binoculars, noting the prim, straight
mouth, the high forehead. Halleck had spoken in Paul’s ear: “Odd sort of fellow.
Has a precise way of speaking–clipped off, no fuzzy edges–razor-?apt.”

And the Duke, behind them, had said: “Scientist type.”

Now, only a few feet from the man, Paul sensed the power in Kynes, the
impact of personality, as though he were blood royal, born to command.

“I understand we have you to thank for our stillsuits and these cloaks,” the
Duke said.

“I hope they fit well, my Lord,” Kynes said. “They’re of Fremen make and as
near as possible the dimensions given me by your man Halleck here.”

“I was concerned that you said you couldn’t take us into the desert unless
we wore these garments,” the Duke said. “We can carry plenty of water. We don’t
intend to be out long and we’ll have air cover–the escort you see overhead
right now. It isn’t likely we’d be forced down.”

Kynes stared at him, seeing the water-?fat flesh. He spoke coldly: “You never
talk of likelihoods on Arrakis. You speak only of possibilities.”

Halleck stiffened. “The Duke is to be addressed as my Lord or Sire!”

Leto gave Halleck their private handsignal to desist, said: “Our ways are
new here, Gurney. We must make allowances.”

“As you wish, Sire.”
“We are indebted to you, Dr. Kynes,” Leto said. “These suits and the
consideration for our welfare will be remembered.”

On impulse, Paul called to mind a quotation from the O.C. Bible, said: “
‘The gift is the blessing of the river.’ ”

The words rang out overloud in the still air. The Fremen escort Kynes had
left in the shade of the administration building leaped up from their squatting
repose, muttering in open agitation. One cried out: “Lisan al-?Gaib!”

Kynes whirled, gave a curt, chopping signal with a hand, waved the guard
away. They fell back, grumbling among themselves, trailed away around the
building.

“Most interesting,” Leto said.

Kynes passed a hard glare over the Duke and Paul, said: “Most of the desert
natives here are a superstitious lot. Pay no attention to them. They mean no
harm.” But he thought of the words of the legend: “They will greet you with Holy
Words and your gifts will be a blessing.”

Leto’s assessment of Kynes–based partly on Hawat’s brief verbal report
(guarded and full of suspicions)–suddenly crystallized: the man was Fremen.
Kynes had come with a Fremen escort, which could mean simply that the Fremen
were testing their new freedom to enter urban areas–but it had seemed an honor
guard. And by his manner, Kynes was a proud man, accustomed to freedom, his
tongue and his manner guarded only by his own suspicions. Paul’s question had
been direct and pertinent.

Kynes had gone native.

“Shouldn’t we be going, Sire?” Halleck asked.

The Duke nodded. “I’ll fly my own ‘thopter. Kynes can sit up front with me
to direct me. You and Paul take the rear seats.”

“One moment, please,” Kynes said. “With your permission, Sire, I must check
the security of your suits.”

The Duke started to speak, but Kynes pressed on: “I have concern for my own
flesh as well as yours . . . my Lord. I’m well aware of whose throat would be
slit should harm befall you two while you’re in my care.”

The Duke frowned, thinking: How delicate this moment! If I refuse, it may
offend him. And this could be a man whose value to me is beyond measure. Yet . .
. to let him inside my shield, touching my person when I know so little about
him?

The thoughts flicked through his mind with decision hard on their heels.
“We’re in your hands,” the Duke said. He stepped forward, opening his robe, saw
Halleck come up on the balls of his feet, poised and alert, but remaining where
he was. “And, if you’d be so kind,” the Duke said, “I’d appreciate an
explanation of the suit from one who lives so intimately with it.”

“Certainly,” Kynes said. He felt up under the robe for the shoulder seals,
speaking as he examined the suit. “It’s basically a micro-?sandwich–a high-
efficiency filter and heat-?exchange system.” He adjusted the shoulder seals.
“The skin-?contact layer’s porous. Perspiration passes through it, having cooled
the body . . . near-?normal evaporation process. The next two layers . . . ”
Kynes tightened the chest fit. “. . . include heat exchange filaments and salt
precipitators. Salt’s reclaimed.”

The Duke lifted his arms at a gesture, said: “Most interesting.”

“Breathe deeply,” Kynes said.

The Duke obeyed.

Kynes studied the underarm seals, adjusted one. “Motions of the body,
especially breathing,” he said, “and some osmotic action provide the pumping
force.” He loosened the chest fit slightly. “Reclaimed water circulates to
catchpockets from which you draw it through this tube in the clip at your neck.”

The Duke twisted his chin in and down to look at the end of the tube.
“Efficient and convenient,” he said. “Good engineering.”
Kynes knelt, examined the leg seals. “Urine and feces are processed in the
thigh pads,” he said, and stood up, felt the neck fitting, lifted a sectioned
flap there. “In the open desert, you wear this filter across your face, this
tube in the nostrils with these plugs to insure a tight fit. Breathe in through
the mouth filter, out through the nose tube. With a Fremen suit in good working
order, you won’t lose more than a thimbleful of moisture a day–even if you’re
caught in the Great Erg.”

“A thimbleful a day,” the Duke said.

Kynes pressed a finger against the suit’s forehead pad, said: “This may rub
a little. It if irritates you, please tell me. I could slit-?patch it a bit
tighter.”

“My thanks,” the Duke said. He moved his shoulders in the suit as Kynes
stepped back, realizing that it did feel better now–tighter and less
irritating.

Kynes turned to Paul. “Now, let’s have a look at you, lad.”

A good man but he’ll have to learn to address us properly, the Duke thought.

Paul stood passively as Kynes inspected the suit. It had been an odd
sensation putting on the crinkling, slick-?surfaced garment. In his
foreconsciousness had been the absolute knowledge that he had never before worn
a stillsuit. Yet, each motion of adjusting the adhesion tabs under Gurney’s
inexpert guidance had seemed natural, instinctive. When he had tightened the
chest to gain maximum pumping action from the motion of breathing, he had known
what he did and why. When he had fitted the neck and forehead tabs tightly, he
had known it was to prevent friction blisters.

Kynes straightened, stepped back with a puzzled expression. “You’ve worn a
stillsuit before?” he asked.

“This is the first time.”

“Then someone adjusted it for you?”

“No.”

“Your desert boots are fitted slip-?fashion at the ankles. Who told you to do
that?”

“It . . . seemed the right way.”

“That it most certainly is.”

And Kynes rubbed his cheek, thinking of the legend: “He shall know your ways
as though born to them.”

“We waste time,” the Duke said. He gestured to the waiting ‘thopter, led the
way, accepting the guard’s salute with a nod. He climbed in, fastened his safety
harness, checked controls and instruments. The craft creaked as the others
clambered aboard.

Kynes fastened his harness, focused on the padded comfort of the aircraft–
soft luxury of gray-?green upholstery, gleaming instruments, the sensation of
filtered and washed air in his lungs as doors slammed and vent fans whirred
alive.

So soft! he thought.

“All secure, Sire,” Halleck said.

Leto fed power to the wings, felt them cup and dip–once, twice. They were
airborne in ten meters, wings feathered tightly and afterjets thrusting them
upward in a steep, hissing climb.

“Southeast over the Shield Wall,” Kynes said. “That’s where I told your
sandmaster to concentrate his equipment.”

“Right.”

The Duke banked into his air cover, the other craft taking up their guard
positions as they headed southeast.

“The design and manufacture of these stillsuits bespeaks a high degree of
sophistication,” the Duke said.

“Someday I may show you a sietch factory,” Kynes said.
“I would find that interesting,” the Duke said. “I note that suits are
manufactured also in some of the garrison cities.”

“Inferior copies,” Kynes said. “Any Dune man who values his skin wears a
Fremen suit.”

“And it’ll hold your water loss to a thimbleful a day?”

“Properly suited, your forehead cap tight, all seals in order, your major
water loss is through the palms of your hands,” Kynes said. “You can wear suit
gloves if you’re not using your hands for critical work, but most Fremen in the
open desert rub their hands with juice from the leaves of the creosote bush. It
inhibits perspiration.”

The Duke glanced down to the left at the broken landscape of the Shield
Wall–chasms of tortured rock, patches of yellow-?brown crossed by black lines of
fault shattering. It was as though someone had dropped this ground from space
and left it where it smashed.

They crossed a shallow basin with the clear outline of gray sand spreading
across it from a canyon opening to the south. The sand fingers ran out into the
basin–a dry delta outlined against darker rock.

Kynes sat back, thinking about the water-?fat flesh he had felt beneath the
stillsuits. They wore shield belts over their robes, slow pellet stunners at the
waist, coin-?sized emergency transmitters on cords around their necks. Both the
Duke and his son carried knives in wrist sheathes and the sheathes appeared well
worn. The people struck Kynes as a strange combination of softness and armed
strength. There was a poise to them totally unlike the Harkonnens.

“When you report to the Emperor on the change of government here, will you
say we observed the rules?” Leto asked. He glanced at Kynes, back to their
course.

“The Harkonnens left; you came,” Kynes said.

“And is everything as it should be?” Leto asked.

Momentary tension showed in the tightening of a muscle along Kynes’ jaw. “As
Planetologist and Judge of the Change, I am a direct subject of the Imperium . .
. my Lord.”

The Duke smiled grimly. “But we both know the realities.”

“I remind you that His Majesty supports my work.”

“Indeed? And what is your work?”

In the brief silence, Paul thought: He’s pushing this Kynes too hard. Paul
glanced at Halleck, but the minstrel-?warrior was staring out at the barren
landscape.

Kynes spoke stiffly: “You, of course, refer to my duties as planetologist.”

“Of course.”

“It is mostly dry land biology and botany . . . some geological work–core
drilling and testing. You never really exhaust the possibilities of an entire
planet.”