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Harkonnens, and demand to be taken into service in his household."
Renno's eyebrows shot high on his forehead, and he muttered something
unintelligible.
Janess kept her face firm and intent, thinking to play a last cruel, joke on the
boy she had betrayed. She realized there would be no chance whatsoever that a
dirty, nameless street urchin could possibly set foot in the Grand Hall of
Castle Caladan -- but that wouldn't stop him from trying . . . maybe for years.
She'd already had her victory by stealing the boy from Rabban's hunting party.
She had known they were taking Duncan to the Forest Guard Station and so she
made a particular effort to find him, to snatch him away and turn him over to
the Harkonnens' greatest enemies. Whatever else happened to the boy was now
irrelevant to her, but Janess amused herself by imagining all the tribulations
Duncan Idaho would undergo before finally giving up.
"Come on," Renno said gruffly, pulling Duncan's arm. "I'll find you a place in
the cargo hold, where you can sleep and hide."
Duncan didn't look back at Janess. He wondered if she expected him to say
goodbye or thank her for what she'd done, but he refused to do that. She hadn't
helped him because she cared, or even out of remorse. No, he wouldn't demean
himself, and he could never forgive Janess for her part in destroying his
family. Strange woman.
He walked up the ramp, looking straight ahead, not knowing where he was going.
Lost and parentless, without any idea of what he would do next, Duncan Idaho
headed off . . . .
RENNO GAVE HIM no comfort and little nourishment, but at least he left the boy
in peace. What Duncan Idaho needed most in the entire universe was time to
recover, a few days to sort out his memories and learn to live with the ones he
could not forget.
He slept alone like a rat in the cargo hold of the battered transport,
surrounded by scrap metal and recyclables. None of it was soft, but he still
slept well enough on the rust-smelling floor, with his back against a cold
bulkhead. It was the most peaceful time he'd had in recent memory.
Finally, when the ship descended toward Caladan to deliver its load and dump him
alone and friendless on a strange world, Duncan was ready for anything. He had
his drive and his energy; nothing would sway him from his chosen quest.
Now he just had to find Duke Paulus Atreides.
History allows us to see the obvious -- but unfortunately, not until it is too
late.
-PRINCE RAPHAEL CORRINO
When he surveyed Leto's bedraggled black hair, his dust-smeared clothes, and the
perspiration streaks down his cheeks, Rhombur actually chuckled. He meant no
insult by his response, but seemed incapable of believing the preposterous story
Leto had told. He stood back and assessed his friend. "Vermilion hells! Don't
you think you're, uh . . . overreacting a bit, Leto?"
Rhombur strode over to one of the broad windows. Alcoves all along the wall of
the stocky Prince's room displayed handpicked geological oddities, his delight
and pride. Far beyond the amenities of his station as the Earl's son, Rhombur
found joy in his collection of minerals, crystals, and gems. He could have
purchased more magnificent specimens many times over, but the Prince had
personally found each rock in his own explorations of cave floors and small
tunnels.
But in all his explorations, Rhombur -- indeed, the entire Vernius ruling family
-- had been blind to the unrest among the workers. Now Leto understood why the
Old Duke had insisted that his son learn to read his subjects and know the mood
of the populace. "At the heart of it all, lad, we rule at their sufferance,"
Paulus had told him, "though thankfully most of the population doesn't realize
it. If you're a good enough ruler, none of your people will think to question
it."
As if embarrassed by Leto's dramatic news and rumpled appearance, the tousle-
haired young man peered down at the swirling masses of workers in the production
yards below. Everything seemed quiet, business as usual. "Leto, Leto . . . "
He pointed a pudgy finger at the apparently content lower classes who labored
like dutiful drones. "Suboids can't even decide for themselves what to eat for
dinner, much less band together and start a rebellion. That takes too much . .
. initiative."
Leto shook his head, still panting. His sweaty hair clung to his forehead. He
felt more shaky now that he was safe, sitting slumped in a comfortable self-
forming chair in Rhombur's private quarters. When he'd been fleeing for his
life, he had reacted on instinct alone. Now, trying to relax, he couldn't keep
his pulse from racing. He took a long gulp of sour cidrit juice from a goblet
on Rhombur's breakfast tray.
"I'm only reporting what I saw, Rhombur, and I don't imagine threats. I've seen
enough real ones to know the difference." He leaned forward, his gray eyes
flashing at his friend. "I tell you, something's going on. The suboids were
talking about overthrowing House Vernius, tearing down what you've built, and
taking Ix for themselves. They were preparing for violence."
Rhombur hesitated, as if still waiting to hear the punch line. "Well, I'll tell
my father. You can give him your version of the events, and I'm, uh, sure he'll
look into the matter."
Leto's shoulders sagged. What if Earl Vernius ignored the problem until it was
too late?
Rhombur brushed down his purple tunic and smiled, then scratched his head in
perplexity. It seemed to take great stamina for him to address the subject
again; he appeared genuinely baffled. "But . . . if you've been down there,
Leto, you see that we take care of the suboids. They're given food, shelter,
families, jobs. Sure, maybe we take the lion's share of the profits . . .
that's the way of things. That's our society. But we don't abuse our workers.
What can they possibly complain about?"
"Maybe they see it differently," Leto said. "Physical oppression isn't the only
kind of abuse."
Rhombur brightened, then extended his hand. "Come, my friend. This might just
make an interesting twist for our political lectures today. We can use it as a
hypothetical case."
Leto followed, more saddened than distraught. He was afraid the Ixians would
never see this trouble as anything more than an interesting political
discussion.
FROM THE TALLEST spire of the Grand Palais, Earl Dominic Vernius ruled an
industrial empire hidden from outside view. The big man paced back and forth on
the transparent floor of his Orb Office that hung like a magnificent crystal
ball from the cavern ceiling.
The office walls and floor were constructed of perfectly bonded Ixian glass with
no seams or distortions; he seemed to be walking on air, floating over his
domain. At times, Dominic felt like a deity on high, gazing out upon his
universe. He ran a callused palm across his smooth, newly shaven head; the skin
still tingled there from the invigorating lotions Shando used when she massaged
his scalp.
His daughter Kailea sat in a suspensor chair and watched him. He approved of
her taking an interest in Ixian business, but today he felt too troubled to
spend much time debating with her. He brushed imaginary crumbs off his newly
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