press on people. You . . . make us see things!"
He forced himself to speak distinctly: "What do you see?"
She looked down at her hands. "I see a child . . . in my arms. It's our child, yours and mine." She put a hand to her mouth. "How can I know every feature of you?"
They've a little of the talent, his mind told him. But they suppress it because it terrifies.
In a moment of clarity, he saw how Chani was trembling.
"What is it you want to say?" he asked.
"Usul," she whispered, and still she trembled.
"You cannot back into the future," he said.
A profound compassion for her swept through him. He pulled her against him, stroked her head. "Chani, Chani, don't fear."
"Usul, help me," she cried.
As she spoke, he felt the drug complete its work within him, ripping away the curtains to let him see the distant gray turmoil of his future.
"You're so quiet," Chani said.
He held himself poised in the awareness, seeing time stretch out in its weird dimension, delicately balanced yet whirling, narrow yet spread like a net gathering countless worlds and forces, a tightwire that he must walk, yet a teeter-totter on which he balanced.
On one side he could see the Imperium, a Harkonnen called Feyd-Rautha who flashed toward him like a deadly blade, the Sardaukar raging off their planet to spread pogrom on Arrakis, the Guild conniving and plotting, the Bene Gesserit with their scheme of selective breeding. They lay massed like a thunderhead on his horizon, held back by no more than the Fremen and their Muad'Dib, the sleeping giant Fremen poised for their wild crusade across the universe.
Paul felt himself at the center, at the pivot where the whole structure turned, walking a thin wire of peace with a measure of happiness, Chani at his
side. He could see it stretching ahead of him, a time of relative quiet in a hidden sietch, a moment of peace between periods of violence.
"There's no other place for peace," he said.
"Usul, you're crying," Chani murmured. "Usul, my strength, do you give moisture to the dead? To whose dead?"
"To ones not yet dead," he said.
"Then let them have their time of life," she said.
He sensed through the drug fog how right she was, pulled her against him with savage pressure. "Sihaya!" he said.
She put a palm against his cheek, "I'm no longer afraid, Usul. Look at me. I see what you see when you hold me thus."
"What do you see?" he demanded.
"I see us giving love to each other in a time of quiet between storms. It's what we were meant to do."
The drug had him again and he thought: So many times you've given me comfort and forgetfulness. He felt anew the hyperillumination with its high-relief imagery of time, sensed his future becoming memories--the tender indignities of physical love, the sharing and communion of selves, the softness and the violence.
"You're the strong one, Chani," he muttered. "Stay with me. "
"Always," she said, and kissed his cheek.
= = = = = =
Book Three
THE PROPHET
= = = = = =
No woman, no man, no child ever was deeply intimate with my father. The closest anyone ever came to casual camaraderie with the Padishah Emperor was the relationship offered by Count Hasimir Fenring, a companion from childhood. The measure of Count Fenring's friendship may be seen first in a positive thing: he allayed the Landsraad's suspicions after the Arrakis Affair. It cost more than a billion solaris in spice bribes, so my mother said, and there were other gifts as well: slave women, royal honors, and tokens of rank. The second major evidence of the Count's friendship was negative. He refused to kill a man even though it was within his capabilities and my father commanded it. I will relate this presently.
-"Count Fenring: A Profile" by the Princess Irulan The Baron Vladimir Harkonnen raged down the corridor from his private apartments, flitting through patches of late afternoon sunlight that poured down from high windows. He bobbed and twisted in his suspensors with violent movements.
Past the private kitchen he stormed -- past the library, past the small reception room and into the servants' antechamber where the evening relaxation already had set in.
The guard captain, Iakin Nefud, squatted on a divan across the chamber, the stupor of semuta dullness in his flat face, the eerie wailing of semuta music around him. His own court sat near to do his bidding.
"Nefud!" the Baron roared.
Men scrambled.
Nefud stood, his face composed by the narcotic but with an overlay of paleness that told of his fear. The semuta music had stopped.
"My Lord Baron," Nefud said. Only the drug kept the trembling out of his voice.
The Baron scanned the faces around him, seeing the looks of frantic quiet in them. He returned his attention to Nefud, and spoke in a silken tone:
