Dune

“If you cross the sink here this night,” the Fremen said, “you must not use shields. There is a break in the wall….” He turned on his heels, pointed south. “…there, and it is open sand down to the erg. Shields will attract a….” He hesitated. “…worm. They don’t often come in here, but a shield will bring one every time.”

He said worm, Hawat thought. He was going to say something else. What? And what does he want of us?

Hawat sighed.

He could not recall ever before being this tired. It was a muscle weariness that energy pills were unable to ease.

Those damnable Sardaukar!

With a self-accusing bitterness, he faced the thought of the soldier-fanatics and the Imperial treachery they represented. His own Mentat assessment of the data told him how little chance he had ever to present evidence of this treachery before the High Council of the Landsraad where justice might be done.

“Do you wish to go to the smugglers?” the Fremen asked.

“Is it possible?”

“The way is long.”

“Fremen don’t like to say no,” Idaho had told him once.

Hawat said: “You haven’t yet told me whether your people can help my wounded.”

“They are wounded.”

The same damned answer every time!

“We know they’re wounded!” Hawat snapped. “That’s not the—”

“Peace, friend,” the Fremen cautioned. “What do your wounded say? Are there those among them who can see the water need of your tribe?”

“We haven’t talked about water,” Hawat said. “We—”

“I can understand your reluctance,” the Fremen said. “They are your friends, your tribesmen. Do you have water?”

“Not enough.”

The Fremen gestured to Hawat’s tunic, the skin exposed beneath it. “You were caught in-sietch, without your suits. You must make a water decision, friend.”

“Can we hire your help?”

The Fremen shrugged. “You have no water.” He glanced at the group behind Hawat. “How many of your wounded would you spend?”

Hawat fell silent, staring at the man. He could see as a Mentat that their communication was out of phase. Word-sounds were not being linked up here in the normal manner.

“I am Thufir Hawat,” he said. “I can speak for my Duke. I will make promissory commitment now for your help. I wish a limited form of help, preserving my force long enough only to kill a traitor who thinks herself beyond vengeance.”

“You wish our siding in a vendetta?”

“The vendetta I’ll handle myself. I wish to be freed of responsibility for my wounded that I may get about it.”

The Fremen scowled. “How can you be responsible for your wounded? They are their own responsibility. The water’s at issue, Thufir Hawat. Would you have me take that decision away from you?”

The man put a hand to a weapon concealed beneath his robe.

Hawat tensed, wondering: Is there betrayal here?

“What do you fear?” the Fremen demanded.

These people and their disconcerting directness! Hawat spoke cautiously. “There’s a price on my head.”

“Ah-h-h-h.” The Fremen removed his hand from his weapon. “You think we have the Byzantine corruption. You don’t know us. The Harkonnens have not water enough to buy the smallest child among us.”

But they had the price of Guild passage for more than two thousand fighting ships, Hawat thought. And the size of that price still staggered him.

“We both fight Harkonnens,” Hawat said. “Should we not share the problems and ways of meeting the battle issue?”

“We are sharing,” the Fremen said. “I have seen you fight Harkonnens. You are good. There’ve been times I’d have appreciated your arm beside me.”

“Say where my arm may help you,” Hawat said.

“Who knows?” the Fremen asked. “There are Harkonnen forces everywhere. But you still have not made the water decision or put it to your wounded.”

I must be cautious, Hawat told himself. There’s a thing here that’s not understood.

He said: “Will you show me your way, the Arrakeen way?”

“Stranger-thinking,” the Fremen said, and there was a sneer in his tone. He pointed to the northwest across the clifftop. “We watched you come across the sand last night.” He lowered his arm. “You keep your force on the slip-face of the dunes. Bad. You have no stillsuits, no water. You will not last long.”

“The ways of Arrakis don’t come easily,” Hawat said.

“Truth. But we’ve killed Harkonnens.”

“What do you do with your own wounded?” Hawat demanded.

“Does a man not know when he is worth saving?” the Fremen asked. “Your wounded know you have no water.” He tilted his head, looking sideways up at Hawat. “This is clearly a time for water decision. Both wounded and unwounded must look to the tribe’s future.”

The tribe’s future, Hawat thought. The tribe of Atreides. There’s sense in that. He forced himself to the question he had been avoiding.