The street was narrow, enclosed by the one-storey stone walls, the doors set back within arched frames, all of the doors closed. The windows were small versions of the doors. Curtains twitched as he passed.

At the first cross-street, Idaho stopped and looked to the right where the boy had gone. Two grey-haired women in long black skirts and dark green blouses stood a few paces away down the street, gossiping with their heads close together. They fell silent when they saw Idaho and stared at him with open curiosity. He returned their stare, then looked down the side-street. It was empty.

Idaho turned toward the women, passed them within a pace. They drew closer together and turned to watch him. They looked only once at Siona, then returned their attention to Idaho. Siona moved quietly beside him, an odd expression on her face.

Sadness? he wondered. Regret? Curiosity?

It was difficult to say. He was more curious about the doorways and windows they were passing.

“Have you ever been to Goygoa before?” Idaho asked.

“No.” Siona spoke in a subdued voice, as though afraid of it.

Why am I walking down this street? Idaho wondered. Even as he asked himself the question, he knew the answer. This woman, this Irti: What kind of a woman would bring me to Goygoa?

The corner of a curtain on his right lifted and Idaho saw a face—the boy from the square. The curtain dropped then was flung aside to reveal a woman standing there. Idaho stared speechlessly at her face, stopped in a completed step. It was the face of a woman known only to his deepest fantasies—a soft oval with penetrating dark eyes, a full and sensuous mouth…

“Jessica,” he whispered.

“What did you say?” Siona asked.

Idaho could not answer. It was the face of Jessica resurrected out of a past he had believed gone forever, a genetic prank—Muad’Dib’s mother recreated in new flesh.

The woman closed the curtain, leaving the memory of her features in Idaho’s mind, an after-image which he knew he could never remove. She had been older than the Jessica who had shared their dangers on Dune—age lines beside the mouth and eyes, the body a bit more full…

More motherly, Idaho told himself. Then: Did I ever tell her… who she resembled?

Siona tugged at his sleeve. “Do you wish to go in, to meet her?”

“No. This was a mistake.”

Idaho started to turn back the way they had come, but the door of Irti’s house was flung open. A young man emerged and closed the door behind him, turning then to confront Idaho.

Idaho guessed the youth’s age at sixteen and there was no denying the parentage—that karakul hair, the strong features.

“You are the new one,” the youth said. His voice had already deepened into manhood.

“Yes.” Idaho found it difficult to speak.

“Why have you come?” the youth asked.

“It was not my idea,” Idaho said. He found this easier to say, the words driven by resentment against Siona.