The landing was a noisy place: there were Mahdi Spirit Cultists in green robes and carrying live hawks trained to screech a 'call to heaven.' Food was being sold by shouting vendors. Many things were being offered for sale, the voices shouting in competitive stridence: there was the Dune Tarot with its booklets of commentaries imprinted on shigawire. One vendor had exotic bits of cloth 'guaranteed to have been touched by Muad'Dib himself!' Another had vials of water 'certified to have come from Sietch Tabr, where Muad'Dib lived.' Through it all there were conversations in a hundred or more dialects of Galach interspersed with harsh gutturals and squeaks of outrine languages which were gathered under the Holy Imperium. Face dancers and little people from the suspected artisan planets of the Tleilaxu bounced and gyrated through the throng in bright clothing. There were lean faces and fat, water-rich faces. The susurration of nervous feet came from the gritty plasteel which formed the wide steps. And occasionally a keening voice would rise out of the cacophony in prayer - 'Mua-a-a-ad'Dib! Mua-a-a-ad'Dib! Greet my soul's entreaty! You, who are God's anointed, greet my soul! Mua-a-a-ad'Dib!'
Nearby among the pilgrims, two mummers played for a few coins, reciting the lines of the currently popular 'Disputation of Armistead and Leandgrah.'
The Preacher cocked his head to listen.
The Mummers were middle-aged city men with bored voices. At a word of command, the young guide described them for The Preacher. They were garbed in loose robes, not even deigning to simulate stillsuits on their water-rich bodies. Assan Tariq thought this amusing, but The Preacher reprimanded him.
The mummer who played the part of Leandgrah was just concluding his oration: 'Bah! The universe can be grasped only by the sentient hand. That hand is what drives your precious brain, and it drives everything else that derives from the brain. You see what you have created, you become sentient, only after the hand has done its work!'
A scattering of applause greeted his performance.
The Preacher sniffed and his nostrils recorded the rich odors of this place: uncapped esters of poorly adjusted stillsuits, masking musks of diverse origin, the common flinty dust, exhalations of uncounted exotic diets, and the aromas of rare incense which already had been ignited within Alia's Temple and now drifted down over the steps in cleverly directed currents. The Preacher's thoughts were mirrored on his face as he absorbed his surroundings: We have come to this, we Fremen!
A sudden diversion rippled through the crowd on the landing. Sand Dancers had come into the plaza at the foot of the steps, half a hundred of them tethered to each other by elacca ropes. They obviously had been dancing thus for days, seeking a state of ecstasy. Foam dribbled from their mouths as they jerked and stamped to their secret music. A full third of them dangled unconscious from the ropes, tugged back and forth by the others like dolls on strings. One of these dolls had come awake, though, and the crowd apparently knew what to expect.
'I have see-ee-een!' the newly awakened dancer shrieked. 'I have see-ee-een!' He resisted the pull of the other dancers, darted his wild gaze right and left. 'Where this city is, there will be only sand! I have see-ee-een!'
A great swelling laugh went up from the onlookers. Even the new pilgrims joined it.
This was too much for The Preacher. He raised both arms and roared in a voice which surely had commanded worm riders: 'Silence!' The entire throng in the plaza went still at that battle cry.
The Preacher pointed a thin hand toward the dancers, and the illusion that he actually saw them was uncanny. 'Did you not hear that man? Blasphemers and idolaters! All of you! The religion of Muad'Dib is not Muad'Dib. He spurns it as he spurns you! Sand will cover this place. Sand will cover you.'
Saying this, he dropped his arms, put a hand on his young guide's shoulder, and commanded: 'Take me from this place.'
Perhaps it was The Preacher's choice of words: He spurns it as he spurns you! Perhaps it was his tone, certainly something more than human, a vocality trained surely in the arts of the Bene Gesserit Voice which commanded by mere nuances of subtle inflection. Perhaps it was only the inherent mysticism of this place where Muad'Dib had lived and walked and ruled. Someone called out from the landing, shouting at The Preacher's receding back in a voice which trembled with religious awe: 'Is that Muad'Dib come back to us?'
The Preacher stopped, reached into the purse beneath his bourka, and removed an object which only those nearby recognized. It was a desert-mummified human hand, one of the planet's jokes on mortality which occasionally turned up in the sand and were universally regarded as communications from Shai-Hulud The hand had been desiccated into a tight fist which ended in white bone scarred by sandblast winds.
'I bring the Hand of God, and that is all I bring!' The Preacher shouted. 'I speak for the Hand of God. I am The Preacher.'
Some took him to mean that the hand was Muad'Dib's, but others fastened on that commanding presence and the terrible voice - and that was how Arrakis came to know his name. But it was not the last time his voice was heard.
= = = = = =
It is commonly reported, my dear Georad, that there exists great natural virtue in the melange experience. Perhaps this is true. There remain within me, however, profound doubts that every use of melange always brings virtue. Me seems that certain persons have corrupted the use of melange in defiance of God. In the words of the Ecumenon, they have disfigured the soul. They skim the surface of melange and believe thereby to attain grace. They deride their fellows, do great harm to godliness, and they distort the meaning of this abundant gift maliciously, surely a mutilation beyond the power of man to restore. To be truly at one with the virtue of the spice, uncorrupted in all ways, full of goodly honor, a man must permit his deeds and his words to agree. When your actions describe a system of evil consequences, you should be judged by those consequences and not by your explanations. It is thus that we should judge Muad'Dib. -The Pedant Heresy
It was a small room tinged with the odor of ozone and reduced to a shadowy greyness by dimmed glowglobes and the metallic blue light of a single transeye-monitoring screen. The screen was about a meter wide and only two-thirds of a meter in height. It revealed in remote detail a barren, rocky valley with two Laza tigers feeding on the bloody remnants of a recent kill. On the hillside above the tigers could be seen a slender man in Sardaukar working uniform, Levenbrech insignia at his collar. He wore a servo-control keyboard against his chest.
One veriform suspensor chair faced the screen, occupied by a fair-haired woman of indeterminate age. She had a heart-shaped face and slender hands which gripped the chair arms as she watched. The fullness of a white robe trimmed in gold concealed her figure. A pace to her right stood a blocky man dressed in the bronze and gold uniform of a Bashar Aide in the old Imperial Sardaukar. His greying hair had been closely cropped over square, emotionless features.
The woman coughed, said: 'It went as you predicted, Tyekanik.'
'Assuredly, Princess,' the Bashar Aide said, his voice hoarse.
She smiled at the tension in his voice, asked: 'Tell me, Tyekanik, how will my son like the sound of Emperor Farad'n I?'
'The title suits him, Princess.'
'That was not my question.'
'He might not approve some of the things done to gain him that, ahh, title.'
'Then again...' She turned, peered up through the gloom at him. 'You served my father well. It was not your fault that he lost the throne to the Atreides. But surely the sting of that loss must be felt as keenly by you as by any -'
'Does the Princess Wensicia have some special task for me?' Tyekanik asked. His voice remained hoarse, but there was a sharp edge to it now.
'You have a bad habit of interrupting me,' she said.
Now he smiled, displaying thick teeth which glistened in the light from the screen. 'At times you remind me of your father,' he said. 'Always these circumlocutions before a request for a delicate... ahh, assignment.'
She jerked her gaze away from him to conceal anger, asked: 'Do you really think those Lazas will put my son on the throne?'
'It's distinctly possible, Princess. You must admit that the bastard get of Paul Atreides would be no more than
