“Listen carefully, Feyd,” the Baron said. “Observe the plans within plans within plans.”
Feyd-Rautha nodded, thinking:
“There are several tangential possibilities,” Piter said. “I indicate that House Atreides will go to Arrakis. We must not, however, ignore the possibility the Duke has contracted with the Guild to remove him to a place of safety outside the System. Others in like circumstances have become renegade Houses, taking family atomics and shields and fleeing beyond the Imperium.”
“The Duke’s too proud a man for that,” the Baron said.
“It is a possibility,” Piter said. “The ultimate effect for us would be the same, however.”
“No, it would not!” the Baron growled. “I must have him dead and his line ended.”
“That’s the high probability,” Piter said. “There are certain preparations that indicate when a House is going renegade. The Duke appears to be doing none of these things.”
“So,” the Baron sighed. “Get on with it, Piter.
“At Arrakeen,” Piter said, “the Duke and his family will occupy the Residency, lately the home of Count and Lady Fenring.”
“The Ambassador to the Smugglers,” the Baron chuckled.
“Ambassador to what?” Feyd-Rautha asked.
“Your uncle makes a joke,” Piter said. “He calls Count Fenring Ambassador to the Smugglers, indicating the Emperor’s interest in smuggling operations on Arrakis.”
Feyd-Rautha turned a puzzled stare on his uncle. “Why?”
“Don’t be dense, Feyd,” the Baron snapped. “As long as the Guild remains effectively outside Imperial control, how could it be otherwise? How else could spies and assassins move about?”
Feyd-Rautha’s mouth made a soundless “Oh-h-h-h.”
“We’ve arranged diversions at the Residency,” Piter said. “There’ll be an attempt on the life of the Atreides heir—an attempt which could succeed.”
“Piter,” the Baron rumbled, “you indicated—”
“I indicated accidents can happen,” Piter said. “And the attempt must appear valid.”
“Ah, but the lad has such a sweet young body,” the Baron said. “Of course, he’s potentially more dangerous than the father … with that witch mother training him. Accursed woman! Ah, well, please continue, Piter.”
“Hawat will have divined that we have an agent planted on him,” Piter said. “The obvious suspect is Dr. Yueh, who is indeed our agent. But Hawat has investigated and found that our doctor is a Suk School graduate with Imperial Conditioning—supposedly safe enough to minister even to the Emperor. Great store is set on Imperial Conditioning. It’s assumed that ultimate conditioning cannot be removed without killing the subject. However, as someone once observed, given the right lever you can move a planet. We found the lever that moved the doctor.”
“How?” Feyd-Rautha asked. He found this a fascinating subject.
“Another time,” the Baron said. “Continue, Piter.”
“In place of Yueh,” Piter said, “we’ll drag a most interesting suspect across Hawat’s path. The very audacity of this suspect will recommend her to Hawat’s attention.”
“Her?” Feyd-Rautha asked.
“The Lady Jessica herself,” the Baron said.
“Is it not sublime?” Piter asked. “Hawat’s mind will be so filled with this prospect it’ll impair his function as a Mentat. He may even try to kill her.” Piter frowned, then: “But I don’t think he’ll be able to carry it off.”
“You don’t want him to, eh?” the Baron asked.
“Don’t distract me,” Piter said. “While Hawat’s occupied with the Lady Jessica, we’ll divert him further with uprisings in a few garrison towns and the like. These will be put down. The Duke must believe he’s gaining a measure of security. Then, when the moment is ripe, we’ll signal Yueh and move in with our major force … ah….”
“Go ahead, tell him all of it,” the Baron said.
“We’ll move in strengthened by two legions of Sardaukar disguised in Harkonnen livery.”
“Sardaukar!” Feyd-Rautha breathed. His mind focused on the dread Imperial troops, the killers without mercy, the soldier-fanatics of the Padishah Emperor.
“You see how I trust you, Feyd,” the Baron said. “No hint of this must ever reach another Great House, else the Landsraad might unite against the Imperial House and there’d be chaos.”
“The main point,” Piter said, “is this: since House Harkonnen is being used to do the Imperial dirty work, we’ve gained a true advantage. It’s a dangerous advantage, to be sure, but if used cautiously, will bring House Harkonnen greater wealth than that of any other House in the Imperium.”
“You have no idea how much wealth is involved, Feyd,” the Baron said. “Not in your wildest imaginings. To begin, we’ll have an irrevocable directorship in the CHOAM Company.”
Feyd-Rautha nodded. Wealth was the thing. CHOAM was the key to wealth, each noble House dipping from the company’s coffers whatever it could under the power of the directorships. Those CHOAM directorships—they were the real evidence of political power in the Imperium, passing with the shifts of voting strength within the Landsraad as it balanced itself against the Emperor and his supporters.
“The Duke Leto,” Piter said, “may attempt to flee to the new Fremen scum along the desert’s edge. Or he may try to send his family into that imagined security. But that path is blocked by one of His Majesty’s agents—the planetary ecologist. You may remember him—Kynes.”
“Feyd remembers him,” the Baron said. “Get on with it.”
“You do not drool very prettily, Baron,” Piter said.
“Get on with it, I command you!” the Baron roared.
Piter shrugged. “If matters go as planned,” he said, “House Harkonnen will have a subfief on Arrakis within a Standard year. Your uncle will have dispensation of that fief. His own personal agent will rule on Arrakis.”
“More profits,” Feyd-Rautha said.
“Indeed,” the Baron said. And he thought:
“And the Great Houses will know that the Baron has destroyed the Atreides,” Piter said. “They will know.”
“They will know,” the Baron breathed.
“Loveliest of all,” Piter said, “is that the Duke will know, too. He knows now. He can already feel the trap.”
“It’s true the Duke knows,” the Baron said, and his voice held a note of sadness. “He could not help but know … more’s the pity.”
The Baron moved out and away from the globe of Arrakis. As he emerged from the shadows, his figure took on dimension—grossly and immensely fat. And with subtle bulges beneath folds of his dark robes to reveal that all this fat was sustained partly by portable suspensors harnessed to his flesh. He might weigh two hundred Standard kilos in actuality, but his feet would carry no more than fifty of them.
“I am hungry,” the Baron rumbled, and he rubbed his protruding lips with a beringed hand, stared down at Feyd-Rautha through fat-enfolded eyes. “Send for food, my darling. We will eat before we retire.”
***
Thus spoke St. Alia-of-the-Knife: “The Reverend Mother must combine the seductive wiles of acourtesan with the untouchable majesty of a virgin goddess, holding these attributes in tension so long as the powers of her youth endure. For when youth and beauty have gone, she will find that the place-between, once occupied by tension, has become a well-spring of cunning and resourcefulness.”
