Dune

A sound of running in the corridor behind her. Sheeana entered almost breathless. “They found a spice mass thirty klicks northeast of us! Small but compact!”

Odrade did not dare hope. “Could it be wind accumulation?”

“Not likely. I’ve set a round-the-clock watch on it.” Sheeana glanced at the window where Odrade stood. She has seen Trebo. Perhaps . . .

“I asked you earlier, Sheeana, if you could work with Bell. It was an important question. Tam is getting very old and must be replaced soon. There must be a vote, of course.”

“Me?” It was totally unexpected.

“My first choice.” Imperative now. I want you close where I can keep watch on you.

“But I thought . . . I mean, the Missionaria’s plan . . .”

“That can wait. And there must be someone else who can shepherd worms . . . if that spice mass is what we hope.”

“Oh? Yes . . . several of our people but no one who . . . Don’t you want me to test whether the worms still respond to me?”

“Work on the Council should not interfere with that.”

“I . . . you can see I’m surprised.”

“I would have said shocked. Tell me, Sheeana, what really interests you these days?”

Still probing. Trebo, serve me now! “Making sure the desert grows well.” Truth! “And my sex life, of course. You saw the young man on the roof next door? Trebo, a new one Duncan sent me for polishing.”

Even after Odrade had gone, Sheeana wondered why those words had aroused such merriment. Mother Superior had been deflected, though.

No need even to waste her fallback position—truth: “We’ve been discussing the possibility that I might imprint Teg and restore the Bashar’s memories that way.”

Full confession avoided. Mother Superior did not learn that I have weaseled out the way to reactivate our no-ship prison and defuse the mines Bellonda put in it.

No sweeteners will cloak some forms of bitterness. If it tastes bitter, spit it out. That’s what our earliest ancestors did.

—THE CODA

Murbella found herself arising in the night to continue a dream although quite awake and aware of her surroundings: Duncan asleep beside her, faint ticking of machinery, the chronoprojection on the ceiling. She insisted on Duncan’s presence at night lately, fearful when alone. He blamed the fourth pregnancy.

She sat on the edge of the bed. The room was ghostly in the dim light of the chrono. Dream images persisted.

Duncan grumbled and rolled toward her. An outflung arm draped itself across her legs.

She felt that this mental intrusion was not dreamstuff but it had some of those characteristics. Bene Gesserit teachings did this. Them and their damned suggestions about Scytale and . . . and everything! They precipitated motion she could not control.

Tonight, she was lost in an insane world of words. The cause was clear. Bellonda that morning had learned Murbella spoke nine languages and had aimed the suspicious acolyte down a mental path called “Linguistic Heritage.” But Bell’s influence on this nighttime madness provided no escape.

Nightmare. She was a creature of microscopic size trapped in an enormous echoing place labeled in giant letters wherever she turned: “Data Reservoir.” Animated words with grimacing jaws and fearsome tentacles surrounded her.

Predatory beasts and she was their prey!

Awake and knowing she sat on the edge of her bed with Duncan’s arm on her legs, she still saw the beasts. They herded her backward. She knew she was going backward although her body did not move. They pressed her toward a terrible disaster she could not see. Her head would not turn! Not only did she see these creatures (they hid parts of her sleeping chamber) but she heard them in a cacophony of her nine languages.

They will tear me apart!

Although she could not turn, she sensed what lay behind her: more teeth and claws. Threat all around! If they cornered her, they would pounce and she was doomed.

Done for. Dead. Victim. Torture-captive. Fair game.

Despair filled her. Why would Duncan not awaken and save her? His arm was a lead weight, part of the force holding her and allowing these creatures to herd her into their bizarre trap. She trembled. Perspiration poured from her body. Awful words! They united into giant combinations. A creature with knife-fanged mouth came directly toward her and she saw more words in the gaping blackness between its jaws.

See above.

Murbella began to laugh. She had no control of it. See above. Done for. Dead. Victim . . .