'You know Farad'n is here on Arrakis?' Leto asked.
'Gurney told me when he flew me down last night.'
And The Preacher thought: How coldly measured his words are. He's like I was in the old days.
'I face a difficult choice,' Leto said.
'I thought you'd already made all the choices.'
'We know that trap, father.'
The Preacher cleared his throat. The tensions told him how near they were to the shattering crisis. Now Leto would not be relying on pure vision, but on vision management.
'You need my help?' The Preacher asked.
'Yes. I'm returning to Arrakeen and I wish to go as your guide.'
'To what end?'
'Would you preach once more in Arrakeen?'
'Perhaps. There are things I've not said to them.'
'You will not come back to the desert, father.'
'If I go with you?'
'Yes.'
'I'll do whatever you decide.'
'Have you considered? With Farad'n there, your mother will be with him.'
'Undoubtedly.'
Once more, The Preacher cleared his throat. It was a betrayal of nervousness which Muad'Dib would never have permitted. This flesh had been too long away from the old regimen of self-discipline, his mind too often betrayed into madness by the Jacurutu. And The Preacher thought that perhaps it wouldn't be wise to return to Arrakeen.
'You don't have to go back there with me,' Leto said. 'But my sister is there and I must return. You could go with Gurney.'
'And you'd go to Arrakeen alone?'
'Yes. I must meet Farad'n.'
'I will go with you,' The Preacher sighed.
And Leto sensed a touch of the old vision madness in The Preacher's manner, wondered: Has he been playing the prescience game? No. He'd never go that way again. He knew the trap of a partial commitment. The Preacher's every word confirmed that he had handed over the visions to his son, knowing that everything in this universe had been anticipated.
It was the old polarities which taunted The Preacher now. He had fled from paradox into paradox.
'We'll be leaving in a few minutes, then,' Leto said. 'Will you tell Gurney?'
'Gurney's not going with us?'
'I want Gurney to survive.'
The Preacher opened himself to the tensions then. They were in the air around him, in the ground under his feet, a motile thing which focused onto the non-child who was his son. The blunt scream of his old visions waited in The Preacher's throat.
This cursed holiness!
The sandy juice of his fears could not be avoided. He knew what faced them in Arrakeen. They would play a game once more with terrifying and deadly forces which could never bring them peace.
= = = = = =
The child who refuses to travel in the father's harness, this is the symbol of man's most unique capability. 'I do not have to be what my father was. I do not have to obey my father's rules or even believe everything he believed. It is my strength as a human that I can make my own choices of what to believe and what not to believe, of what to be and what not to be.' -Leto Atreides II, The Harq al-Ada Biography
Pilgrim women were dancing to drum and flute in the Temple plaza, no coverings on their heads, bangles at their necks, their dresses thin and revealing. Their long black hair was thrown straight out, then straggled across their faces as they whirled.
Alia looked down at the scene from her Temple aerie, both attracted and repelled. It was mid-morning, the hour when the aroma of spice-coffee began to waft across the plaza from the vendors beneath the shaded arches. Soon she would have to go out and greet Farad'n, present the formal gifts and supervise his first meeting with Ghanima.
It was all working out according to plan. Ghani would kill him and, in the shattering aftermath, only one person would be prepared to pick up the pieces. The puppets danced when the strings were pulled. Stilgar had killed Agarves just as she'd hoped. And Agarves had led the kidnappers to the djedida without knowing it, a secret signal transmitter hidden in the new boots she'd given him. Now Stilgar and Irulan waited in the Temple dungeons. Perhaps they would die, but there might be other uses for them. There was no harm in waiting.
She noted that town Fremen were watching the pilgrim dancers below her, their eyes intense and unwavering. A basic sexual equality had come out of the desert to persist in Fremen town and city, but social differences between male and female already were making themselves felt. That, too, went according to plan. Divide and weaken. Alia could sense the subtle change in the way the two Fremen watched those off-planet women and their exotic dance.
Let them watch. Let them fill their minds with ghafla.
The louvers of Alia's window had been opened and she could feel a sharp increase in the heat which began about sunrise in this season and would peak in mid-afternoon. The temperature on the stone floor of the plaza would be much higher. It would be uncomfortable for those dancers, but still they whirled and bent, swung their arms and their hair in the frenzy of their dedication. They had dedicated their dance to Alia, the Womb of Heaven. An aide had come to whisper this to Alia, sneering at the off-world women and their peculiar ways. The aide had explained that the women were from lx, where remnants of the forbidden science and technology remained.
Alia sniffed. Those women were as ignorant, as superstitious and backward as the desert Fremen... just as that sneering aide had said, trying to curry favor by reporting the dedication of the dance. And neither the aide nor the Ixians even knew that Ix was merely a number in a forgotten language.
Laughing lightly to herself, Alia thought: Let them dance. The dancing wasted energy which might be put to more destructive uses. And the music was pleasant, a thin wailing played against flat tympani from gourd drums and clapped hands.
Abruptly the music was drowned beneath a roaring of many voices from the plaza's far side. The dancers missed a step, recovered in a brief confusion, but they had lost their sensuous singleness, and even their attention wandered to the far gate of the plaza, where a mob could be seen spreading onto the stones like water rushing through the opened valve of a qanat.
Alia stared at that oncoming wave.
She heard words now, and one above all others: 'Preacher! Preacher!'
Then she saw him, striding with the first spread of the wave, one hand on the shoulder of his young guide.
The pilgrim dancers gave up their whirling, retired to the terraced steps below Alia. They were joined by their audience, and Alia sensed awe in the watchers. Her own emotion was fear.
How dare he!
She half turned to summon guards, but second thoughts stopped her. The mob already filled the plaza. They could turn ugly if thwarted in their obvious desire to hear the blind visionary.
Alia clenched her fists.
The Preacher! Why was Paul doing this? To half the population he was a 'desert madman' and, therefore, sacred. Others whispered in the bazaars and shops that it must be Muad'Dib. Why else did the Mahdinate let him speak such angry heresy?
Alia could see refugees among the mob, remnants from the abandoned sietches, their robes in tatters. That
