Dune

“Indeed you will, Bell. Because Tam and I are going south today, an unannounced inspection tour and a visit with Sheeana. And while I’m gone, you will sit in my chair. See how you like this daily deluge!”

“Will you be out of touch?”

“I’ll have a lightline and Ear-C at all times.”

Bellonda breathed easier.

“I suggest, Bell, that you get back to Archives and put someone in charge who will take responsibility. I’m damned if you’re not beginning to act like bureaucrats. Covering your asses!”

“Real boats rock, Dar.”

Was that Bell attempting humor? All was not lost!

Odrade waved a hand over her projector and there was Tamalane in the Transport Hall. “Tam?”

“Yes?” Without turning from an assignment list.

“How soon can we leave?”

“About two hours.”

“Call me when you’re ready. Oh, and Streggi goes with us. Make room for her.” Odrade blanked the projection before Tamalane could respond.

There were things she should be doing, Odrade knew. Tam and Bell were not the only sources of Mother Superior’s concerns.

Sixteen planets remaining to us . . . and that includes Buzzell, definitely a place in peril. Only sixteen! She pushed that thought aside. No time for it.

Murbella. Should I call her and . . . No. That can wait. The new Board of Proctors? Let Bell deal with that. Community disbandings?

Siphoning personnel into a new Scattering had forced consolidations. Staying ahead of the desert! It was depressing and she did not feel she could face it today. I’m always fidgety before a trip.

Abruptly, Odrade fled the workroom and went stalking the corridors, looking into how her charges were performing, pausing in doorways, noting what the students read, how they behaved in their everlasting prana-bindu exercises.

“What are you reading there?” demanded of a young second-stage acolyte at a projector in a semi-darkened room.

“The diaries of Tolstoy, Mother Superior.”

That knowing look in the acolyte’s eyes said: “Do you have his words directly in Other Memory?” The question was right there on the edge of the girl’s tongue! They were always trying such petty gambits when they caught her alone.

“Tolstoy was a family name!” Odrade snapped. “By your mention of diaries, I presume you refer to Count Leo Nikolayevich.”

“Yes, Mother Superior.” Abashedly aware of censure.

Softening, Odrade threw a quotation at the girl: “‘I am not a river, I am a net.’ He spoke those words at Yasnaya Polyana when he was only twelve. You’ll not find them in his diaries but they are probably the most significant words he ever uttered.”

Odrade turned away before the acolyte could thank her. Always teaching!

She wandered down to the main kitchens then and inspected them, tracing inner edges of racked pots for grease, noting the cautious way even the teaching chef observed her progress.

The kitchen was steamy with good smells from lunch preparations. There was a restorative sound of chopping and stirring but the usual banter stopped at her entrance.

She went around the long counter with its busy cooks to the teaching chef’s raised platform. He was a great beefy man with prominent cheekbones, his face as florid as the meats over which he ministered. Odrade had no doubts he was one of history’s great chefs. His name suited him: Placido Salat. He was assured of a warm place in her thoughts for several reasons, including the fact that he had trained her personal chef. Important visitors in the days before Honored Matres had received a kitchen tour and a taste of specialties.

“May I introduce our senior chef, Placido Salat?”

His beef placido (low case his choice) was the envy of many. Almost raw and served with an herbed and spicy mustard sauce that did not obscure the meat.

Odrade thought the dish too exotic but never judged it aloud.

When she had Salat’s full attention (after a slight interruption to correct a sauce) Odrade said: “I’m hungry for something special, Placido.”

He recognized the opening. This was how she always began a request for her “special dish.”

“Perhaps an oyster stew,” he suggested.

It’s a dance, Odrade thought. They both knew what she wanted.

“Excellent!” she agreed and went into the required performance. “But it must be treated gently, Placido, the oysters not overcooked. Some of our own powdered dry celery in the broth.”

“And perhaps a bit of paprika?”

“I always prefer it that way. Be extremely careful with the melange. A breath of it and no more.”

“Of course, Mother Superior!” Eyes rolling in horror at the thought he might use too much melange. “So easy for the spice to dominate.”

“Cook the oysters in clam nectar, Placido. I would prefer you watch over them yourself, stirring gently until the edges of the oysters just start to curl.”