Mentats of Dune

“I see the whole universe differently, Taref.” Her voice sounded so empty. “My dreams are gone. And my home is gone. All I have is this.…” She looked up at the gray skies, held out her palms to the cold sleet. “And I don’t want it.”

AT DAWN THE next morning, Taref emerged from the barracks and found Lillis lying on the pebbled ground outside the building, face up, arms spread at her sides. Not moving.

Taref rushed to her, picked up her shoulders, and cradled her head. With tears streaming down his cheeks, he whispered her name. Lillis’s eyes were open, but she was covered with a light dusting of snow. She had no body warmth left. Sometime during the night, she had lain down on the ground, and just died.

Taref groaned, holding her stiff, cold body, rocking her back and forth. Lillis would never go back to the dunes now. She had perished far from home, far from the sunshine and golden sands, the pungent smell of melange, and the majesty of the giant sandworms.

Both Shurko and Waddoch had died on their missions, and now Lillis had simply surrendered. He would have joined her in a trip back to Arrakis, would have accompanied her to the sietch, or wherever she wanted to go — but it was too late for that now. He pulled her body closer as a hard sleet began to fall, and he felt the impenetrable cold.

He would go to Directeur Venport and demand passage back to Arrakis, would take Lillis’s water and deliver it to the sietch, as he should have delivered the water of Shurko and Waddoch. It was the way of the desert.

In that small matter at least, he would help Lillis go home. Home…

LATER THAT DAY, astonishing news came in on a spacefolder from Salusa Secundus: Manford Torondo was alive and well, and had just appeared at the Imperial Court. Worse, he had convinced the Emperor to seize all spice operations on Arrakis.

Directeur Venport didn’t know which piece of information disturbed him the most.

The Half-Manford had somehow survived the assassination in Arrakis City, and emerged without a scratch. Young Taref had been easily fooled, and Venport’s other observers, too.

Josef wondered why he had not heard the news sooner. His operatives had long been in place on Lampadas, some quietly observing for years. He should have received a message.

Then the Butlerian leader sent one of Josef’s carefully infiltrated spies back to Kolhar — an i

It was shock on top of shock.

But the greatest outrage was the Emperor’s acquiescence. Cowardly Salvador had let the barbarian leader bully him into making his ridiculous power grab for Arrakis. According to a sweeping Imperial decree, the spice from the desert world was a “treasure for all humankind,” not for the profit of one man. By signing the order, Salvador a

Filled with fury, Josef and his wife and his Mentat walked out to the templelike structure that surrounded Norma Cenva’s spice tank. “If the Emperor thinks he can do that, we’ll topple his throne and show him where the real power lies. Norma’s spice supplies will not be cut off or restricted!”

VenHold’s demand for spice production had increased month after month as the Navigator conversion program expanded. Even after the mutated humans finished their transformation, they required extensive amounts of melange to maintain proper saturation levels. Josef refused to tolerate any disruption in the flow of melange — neither by the barbarians, nor by the Emperor.

It had been more than eighty years since Faykan Butler, a great hero of the Jihad, renamed his family House Corrino and established the new Imperium. But in those years, the throne had lost effectiveness. “Perhaps it’s time for a major change,” Josef muttered. “If Salvador means to declare war, then we will be forced to fight back.”

“The Imperium is already crumbling,” Draigo said. “I have run projections, and it matters surprisingly little who sits on the throne. The strands that bind the government are laid down by transportation and communication. Interaction among the worlds is what knits a multiplanet civilization together.”

“We need someone better than Salvador Corrino,” Josef said.

As they arrived at Norma Cenva’s tank, Cioba was troubled. “That is a very ambitious plan, husband. An overthrow of the Imperial government would create as much havoc as the Butlerian mobs do now. Maybe there is a less extreme way, a more focused way?” She raised her eyes and looked into Josef’s.

Draigo seemed distant, ru

Josef nodded. If he had hundreds more like Draigo Roget, the opportunities would be incalculable. “Very well, return to Lampadas and get that alliance. I hope you have a better result this time, for we are more desperate than ever. Go immediately — before it is too late.”

Inside the swirls of thick mist, Norma drifted close to the curved observation plates. Even with her distorted face, she looked troubled. Before Josef could explain anything to her, she said, “Our supply of spice is threatened. Politics and turmoil must not be allowed to disrupt our great tapestry.”

“What do you foresee this time?”

“I foresee patterns — the large plan, not precise details. The ripples of my prescience are very strong now. We face great peril.” She blinked, and Josef looked into her face, trying to read her emotions.

“Salvador is the problem,” Josef said. “He is weak and indecisive, a poor leader. We all know that Roderick would make a far better Emperor, a rational person who wouldn’t be so afraid of the barbarians.”

“His daughter was killed in a Butlerian riot,” Cioba said. “He holds no love for Manford Torondo.”

Norma continued, “Nothing can be allowed to stop the delivery of spice.”

“I won’t let it happen. Emperor Salvador a

Cioba seemed discouraged. “I doubt you can convince the Emperor to change his mind, husband.”

“Nevertheless, I’ll try to make him see reason. And if not … I’ll deal with the problem some other way.”

Chapter 59 (Truth is an amorphous thing)

Truth is an amorphous thing, not quantifiable. There is no such thing as Pure Truth, because any attempt to understand this ideal involves a mental journey through shades of meaning and shades of purity. Does any form of truth reside in spoken words? In demonstrable actions? In supreme exercises of logic? Or does it lie in the secret places of the human heart?

— A