Hwi tried to take Idaho’s hand, but he pulled away.

“I know my place,” Idaho said. “I’m a useful follower. I can carry the Atreides banner. The green and black is on my back!”

“The undeserving maintain power by promoting hysteria,” Moneo said. “The Atreides art is the art of ruling without hysteria, the art of being responsible for the uses of power.”

Idaho pushed back and heaved himself to his feet. “When has your damned God Emperor ever been responsible for anything?”

Moneo looked down at his cluttered table and spoke without looking up. “He is responsible for what he has done to himself.” Moneo looked up then, his eyes frosty. “You haven’t the guts, Duncan, to learn why he did that to himself!”

“And you have?” Idaho asked.

“When I was most angry,” Moneo said, “and he saw himself through my eyes, he said: ‘How dare you be offended by me?’ It was then…” Moneo swallowed, “… that he made me look into the horror… that he had seen.” Tears welled from Moneo’s eyes and ran down his cheeks. “And I was only glad that I did not have to make his decision… that I could content myself with being a follower.”

“I have touched him,” Hwi whispered.

“Then you know?” Moneo asked her.

“Without seeing it, I know,” she said.

In a low voice, Moneo said: “I almost died of it. I…” He shuddered, then looked up at Idaho. “You must not…”

“Damn you all!” Idaho snarled. He turned and dashed from the room.

Hwi started after him, her face a mask of anguish. “Ohhh, Duncan,” she whispered.

“You see?” Moneo asked. “You were wrong. Neither you nor the Fish Speakers have gentled him. But you, Hwi, you have only contributed to his destruction.”

Hwi turned her anguish toward Moneo. “I will not see him again,” she said.

For Idaho, the passage down to his quarters became one of the most difficult times in his memory. He tried to imagine that his face was a plasteel mask held immobile to hide the turmoil within. None of the guards he passed could be permitted to see his pain. He did not know that most of them made accurate guesses about his emotion and shared a compassion for him. All of them had sat through briefings on the Duncans and had learned to read them well.

In the corridor near his quarters, Idaho encountered Nayla walking slowly toward him. Something in her face, a look of indecision and loss, stopped him briefly and almost brought him out of his internal concentration.

“Friend?” he said, speaking when she was only a few paces from him.

She looked at him, abrupt recognition obvious on her square face.

What an odd looking woman, he thought.

“I am no longer Friend,” she said and passed by him down the corridor.

Idaho turned on one heel and stared at her retreating back—those heavy shoulders, that plodding sense of terrible muscles.

What was she bred for? he wondered.