Uncut grass!
What can I believe? Stilgar asked himself.
It was proper for a Fremen of his generation to believe that individuals needed a profound sense of their own limitations. Traditions were surely the most controlling element in a secure society. People had to know the boundaries of their time, of their society, of their territory. What was wrong with the sietch as a model for all thinking? A sense of enclosure should pervade every individual choice - should fence in the family, the community, and every step taken by a proper government.
Stilgar came to a stop and stared across the orchard at Leto. The youth stood there, regarding him with a smile.
Does he know the turmoil in my head? Stilgar wondered.
And the old Fremen Naib tried to fall back on the traditional catechism of his people. Each aspect of life required a single form, its inherent circularity based on secret inner knowledge of what will work and what will not work. The model for life, for the community, for every element of the larger society right up to and beyond the peaks of government - that model had to be the sietch and its counterpart in the sand: Shai-Hulud. The giant sandworm was surely a most formidable creature, but when threatened it hid in the impenetrable deeps.
Change is dangerous! Stilgar told himself. Sameness and stability were the proper goals of government.
But the young men and women were beautiful.
And they remembered the words of Muad'Dib as he deposed Shaddam IV: "It's not long life to the Emperor that I seek; it's long life to the Imperium."
Isn't that what I've been saying to myself? Stilgar wondered.
He resumed walking, headed toward the sietch entrance slightly to Leto's right. The youth moved to intercept him.
Muad'Dib had said another thing, Stilgar reminded himself: "just as individuals are born, mature, breed, and die, so do societies and civilizations and governments."
Dangerous or not, there would be change. The beautiful young Fremen knew this. They could look outward and see it, prepare for it.
Stilgar was forced to stop. It was either that or walk right over Leto.
The youth peered up at him owlishly, said: "You see, Stil? Tradition isn't the absolute guide you thought it was."
= = = = = =
A Fremen dies when he is too long from the desert; this we call "the water sickness." -Stilgar, the Commentaries
"It is difficult for me, asking you to do this," Alia said. "But... I must insure that there's an empire for Paul's children to inherit. There's no other reason for the Regency."
Alia turned from where she was seated at a mirror completing her morning toilet. She looked at her husband, measuring how he absorbed these words. Duncan Idaho deserved careful study in these moments; there was no doubt that he'd become something far more subtle and dangerous than the one-time swordmaster of House Atreides. The outer appearance remained similar - the black goat hair over sharp dark features - but in the long years since his awakening from the ghola state he had undergone an inner metamorphosis.
She wondered now, as she had wondered many times, what the ghola rebirth-after-death might have hidden in the secret loneliness of him. Before the Tleilaxu had worked their subtle science on him, Duncan's reactions had borne clear labels for the Atreides - loyalty, fanatic adherence to the moral code of his mercenary forebears, swift to anger and swift to recover. He had been implacable in his resolve for revenge against House Harkonnen. And he had died saving Paul. But the Tleilaxu had bought his body from the Sardaukar and, in their regeneration vats, they had grown a zombie-katrundo: the flesh of Duncan Idaho, but none of his conscious memories. He'd been trained as a mentat and sent as a gift, a human computer for Paul, a fine tool equipped with a hypnotic compulsion to slay his owner. The flesh of Duncan Idaho had resisted that compulsion and, in the intolerable stress, his cellular past had come back to him.
Alia had decided long ago that it was dangerous to think of him as Duncan in the privacy of her thoughts. Better to think of him by his ghola name, Hayt. Far better. And it was essential that he get not the slightest glimpse of the old Baron Harkonnen sitting there in her mind.
Duncan saw Alia studying him, turned away. Love could not hide the changes in her, nor conceal from him the transparency of her motives. The many-faceted metal eyes which the Tleilaxu had given him were cruel in their ability to penetrate deception. They limned her now as a gloating, almost masculine figure, and he could not stand to see her thus.
"Why do you turn away?" Alia asked.
"I must think about this thing," he said. "The Lady Jessica is... an Atreides."
"And your loyalty is to House Atreides, not to me," Alia pouted.
Chapter Eleven
"Don't put such fickle interpretations into me," he said.
Alia pursed her lips. Had she moved too rapidly?
Duncan crossed to the chambered opening which looked down on a corner of the Temple plaza. He could see pilgrims beginning to gather there, the Arrakeen traders moving in to feed on the edges like a pack of predators upon a herd of beasts. He focused on a particular group of tradesmen, spice-fiber baskets over their arms, Fremen mercenaries a pace behind them. They moved with a stolid force through the gathering throng.
"They sell pieces of etched marble," he said, pointing. "Did you know that? They set the pieces out in the desert to be etched by stormsands. Sometimes they find interesting patterns in the stone. They call it a new art form, very popular: genuine storm-etched marble from Dune. I bought a piece of it last week - a golden tree with five tassels, lovely but very fragile."
"Don't change the subject," Alia said.
"I haven't changed the subject," he said. "It's beautiful, but it's not art. Humans create art by their own violence, by their own volition." He put his right hand on the windowsill. "The twins detest this city and I'm afraid I see their point."