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"That is the beginning of prana-bindu balance," Jessica said. "It is only the beginning, though."
"What do I do next?" he asked.
"My Lady," the guard who had answered her question ventured now to interrupt. "The hour," he said.
Aren't their spy posts manned at this hour? Jessica wondered. She said: "Begone. We have work to do."
"But My Lady," the guard said, and he looked fearfully from Farad'n to Jessica and back.
"You think I'm going to seduce him?" Jessica asked.
The man stiffened.
Farad'n laughed, a joyous outburst. He waved a hand in dismissal. "You heard her. Begone."
The guards looked at each other, but they obeyed.
Farad'n sat on the edge of her bed. "What next?" He shook his head. "I wanted to believe you, yet I did not believe. Then ... it was as though my mind melted. I was tired. My mind gave up its fighting against you. It happened. Just like that!" He snapped his fingers.
"It was not me that your mind fought against," Jessica said.
"Of course not," he admitted. "I was fighting against myself, all the nonsense I've learned. What next now?"
Jessica smiled. "I confess I didn't expect you to succeed this rapidly. It's been only eight days and ..."
"I was patient," he said, grinning.
"And you've begun to learn patience, too," she said.
"Begun?"
"You've just crept over the lip of this learning," she said. "Now you're truly an infant. Before ... you were only a potential, not even born."
The corners of his mouth drew down.
"Don't be so gloomy," she said. "You've done it. That's important. How many can say they were born anew?"
"What comes next?" he insisted.
"You will practice this thing you've learned," she said. "I want you able to do this at will, easily. Later you'll fill a new place in your awareness which this has opened. It will be filled by the ability to test any reality against your own demands."
"Is that all I do now ... practice the--"
"No. Now you can begin the muscle training. Tell me, can you move the little toe on your left foot without moving any other muscle of your body?"
"My ..." She saw a distant expression come over his face as he tried to move the toe. He looked down at his foot presently, staring at it. Sweat broke out on his forehead. A deep breath escaped him. "I can't do it."
"Yes you can," she said. "You will learn to do it. You will learn every muscle in your body. You will know these muscles the way you know your hands."
He swallowed hard at the magnitude of this prospect. Then: "What are you doing to me? What is your plan for me?"
"I intend to turn you loose upon the universe," she said. "You will become whatever it is you most deeply desire."
He mulled this for a moment. "Whatever I desire?"
"Yes."
"That's impossible!"
"Unless you learn to control your desires the way you control your reality, " she said. And she thought: There! Let his analysts examine that. They'll advise cautious approval, but Farad'n will move a step closer to realization of what I'm really doing.
He proved his surmise by saying: "It's one thing to tell a person he'll realize his heart's desire. It's another thing to actually deliver that realization."
"You've come farther than I thought," Jessica said. "Very good. I promise you: if you complete this program of learning, you'll be your own man. Whatever you do, it'll be because that's what you want to do."
And let a Truthsayer try to pry that apart, she thought.
He stood up, but the expression he bent upon her was warm, a sense of camaraderie in it. "You know, I believe you. Damned if I know why, but I do. And I won't say a word about the other things I'm thinking."
Jessica watched his retreating back as he let himself out of her bedchamber. She turned off the glowglobes, lay back. This Farad'n was a deep one. He'd as much as told her that he was beginning to see her design, but he was joining her conspiracy of his own volition.
Wait until he begins to learn his own emotions, she thought. With that, she composed herself for the return to sleep. The morrow, she knew, would be plagued by casual encounters with palace personnel asking seemingly innocuous questions.
Humankind periodically goes through a speedup of its affairs, thereby experiencing the race between the renewable vitality of the living and the beckoning vitiation of decadence. In this periodic race, any pause becomes luxury. Only then can one reflect that all is permitted; all is possible.
--THE APOCRYPHA OF MUAD'DIB
he touch of sand is important, Leto told himself.
He could feel the grit beneath him where he sat beneath a brilliant sky. They had force-fed him another heavy dosage of melange, and Leto's mind turned upon itself like a whirlpool. An unanswered question lay deep within the funnel of the whirlpool: Why do they insist that I say it? Gurney was stubborn: no doubt of that. And he'd had his orders from his Lady Jessica.
They'd brought him out of the sietch into the daylight for this "lesson." He had the strange sensation that he'd let his body take the short trip from the sietch while his inner being mediated a battle between the Duke Leto I and the old Baron Harkonnen. They'd fought within him, through him, because he would not let them communicate directly. The fight had taught him what had happened to Alia. Poor Alia.
I was right to fear the spice trip, he thought.
A welling bitterness toward the Lady Jessica filled him. Her damned gom jabbar! Fight it and win, or die in the attempt. She couldn't put a poisoned needle against his neck, but she could send him into the valley of peril which had claimed her own daughter.
Snuffling sounds intruded upon his awareness. They wavered, growing louder, then softer, louder ... softer. There was no way for him to determine whether they had current reality or came from the spice.
Leto's body sagged over his folded arms. He felt hot sand through his buttocks. There was a rug directly in front of him, but he sat on open sand. A shadow lay across the rug: Namri. Leto stared into the muddy pattern of the rug, feeling bubbles ripple there. His awareness drifted on its own current through a landscape which stretched out to a horizon of shock-headed greenery.
His skull thrummed with drums. He felt heat, fever. The fever was a pressure of burning which filled his senses, crowding out awareness of flesh until he could only feel the moving shadows of his peril. Namri and the knife. Pressure ... pressure ... Leto lay at last suspended between sky and sand, his mind lost to all but th
e fever. Now he waited for something to happen, sensing that any occurrence would be a first-and-only thing.
Hot-hot pounding sunshine crashed brilliantly around him, without tranquillity, without remedy. Where is my Golden Path? Everywhere bugs crawled. Everywhere. My skin is not my own. He sent messages along his nerves, waited out the dragging other-person responses.
Up head, he told his nerves.
A head which might have been his own crept upward, looked out at patches of blankness in the bright light.
Someone whispered: "He's deep into it now."
No answer.
Burn fire sun building heat on heat.
Slowly, outbending, the current of his awareness took him drifting through a last screen of green blankness and there, across low folding dunes, distant no more than a kilometer beyond the stretched out chalk line of a cliff, there lay the green burgeoning future, upflung, flowing into endless green, greenswelling, green-green moving outward endlessly.
