Dune

Paul stared after the shambling figure of Scytale, wondering at the man’s words. A peculiar fellow, that Scytale, he thought. While he was speaking, he had radiated a feeling of many people—as though his entire genetic inheritance lay exposed on his skin.

“That was odd,” Stilgar said, speaking to no one in particular.

Paul arose from the divan as a guard closed the door behind Edric and the escort.

“Odd,” Stilgar repeated. A vein throbbed at his temple.

Paul dimmed the salon’s lights, moved to a window which opened onto an angled cliff of his Keep. Lights glittered far below—pigmy movement. A work gang moved down there bringing giant plasmeld blocks to repair a facade of Alia’s temple which had been damaged by a freak twisting of a sandblast wind.

“That was a foolish thing, Usul, inviting that creature into these chambers,” Stilgar said.

Usul, Paul thought. My sietch name. Stilgar reminds me that he ruled over me once, that he saved me from the desert.

“Why did you do it?” Stilgar asked, speaking from close behind Paul.

“Data,” Paul said. “I need more data.”

“Is it not dangerous to try meeting this threat only as a mentat?”

That was perceptive, Paul thought.

Mentat computation remained finite. You couldn’t say something boundless within the boundaries of any language. Mentat abilities had their uses, though. He said as much now, daring Stilgar to refute his argument.

“There’s always something outside,” Stilgar said. “Some things best kept outside.”

“Or inside,” Paul said. And he accepted for a moment his own oracular/mentat summation. Outside, yes. And inside: here lay the true horror. How could he protect himself from himself? They certainly were setting him up to destroy himself, but this was a position hemmed in by even more terrifying possibilities.

His reverie was broken by the sound of rapid footsteps. The figure of Korba the Qizara surged through the doorway backlighted by the brilliant illumination in the hallways. He entered as though hurled by an unseen force and came to an almost immediate halt when he encountered the salon’s gloom. His hands appeared to be full of shigawire reels. They glittered in the light from the hall, strange little round jewels that were extinguished as a guardsman’s hand came into view, closed the door.

“Is that you, m’Lord?” Korba asked, peering into the shadows.

“What is it?” Stilgar asked.

“Stilgar?”

“We’re both here. What is it?”

“I’m disturbed by this reception for the Guildsman.”

“Disturbed?” Paul asked.

“The people say, m’Lord, that you honor our enemies.”

“Is that all?” Paul said. “Are those the reels I asked you to bring earlier?” He indicated the shigawire orbs in Korba’s hands.

“Reels . . . oh! Yes, m’Lord. These are the histories. Will you view them here?”

“I’ve viewed them. I want them for Stilgar here.”

“For me?” Stilgar asked. He felt resentment grow at what he interpreted as caprice on Paul’s part. Histories! Stilgar had sought out Paul earlier to discuss the logistics computations for the Zabulon conquest. The Guild Ambassador’s presence had intervened. And now—Korba with histories!

“How much history do you know?” Paul mused aloud, studying the shadowy figure beside him.

“M’Lord, I can name every world our people touched in their migrations. I know the reaches of Imperial—”

“The Golden Age of Earth, have you ever studied that?”

“Earth? Golden Age?” Stilgar was irritated and puzzled. Why would Paul wish to discuss myths from the dawn of time? Stilgar’s mind still felt crammed with Zabulon data—computations from the staff mentats: two hundred and five attack frigates with thirty legions, support battalions, pacification cadres, Qizarate missionaries . . . the food requirements (he had the figures right here in his mind) and melange . . . weaponry, uniforms, medals . . . urns for the ashes of the dead . . . the number of specialists—men to produce raw materials of propaganda, clerks, accountants . . . spies . . . and spies upon the spies . . .

“I brought the pulse-synchronizer attachment, also, m’Lord,” Korba ventured. He obviously sensed the tensions building between Paul and Stilgar and was disturbed by them.

Stilgar shook his head from side to side. Pulse-synchronizer? Why would Paul wish him to use a mnemonic flutter-system on a shigawire projector? Why scan for specific data in histories? This was mentat work! As usual, Stilgar found he couldn’t escape a deep suspicion at the thought of using a projector and attachments. The thing always immersed him in disturbing sensations, an overwhelming shower of data which his mind sorted out later, surprising him with information he had not known he possessed.

“Sire, I came with the Zabulon computations,” Stilgar said.

“Dehydrate the Zabulon computations!” Paul snapped, using the obscene Fremen term which meant that here was moisture no man could demean himself by touching.

“M’Lord!”