She returned quickly with the water and placed the tumbler near his left hand on the table. He noted the long fingers, a lute-player’s fingers, but did not look up at her face.

“I have sent someone for Idaho,” she said.

He nodded and went on with his work. He heard her leave and only then did he look up to drink the water.

Some live lives like summer moths, he thought. But I have burdens without end.

The water tasted flat. It weighed down his senses, making his body feel torpid. He looked out at the sunset colours on the Sareer as they shaded away into darkness, thinking that he should recognize beauty in that familiar scene, but all he could think was that the light changed in its own patterns. It is not moved by me at all.

With the full darkness, the light level of his workroom increased automatically, bringing a clarity of thought with it. He felt himself quite prepared for Idaho. This one had to be taught the necessities, and quickly.

Moneo’s door opened, the acolyte again. “Will you eat now?”

“Later.” He raised a hand as she started to leave. “I would like the door left open.”

She frowned.

“You may practise your music,” he said. “I want to listen.”

She had a smooth, round, almost childlike face which became radiant when she smiled. The smile still on her lips, she turned away.

Presently, he heard the sounds of a biwa lute in the outer office. Yes, that young acolyte had a talent. The bass strings were like rain drumming on a rooftop, a whisper of middle strings underneath. Perhaps she could move up to the baliset someday. He recognized the song: a deeply humming memory of autumn wind from some far away planet where they had never known a desert. Sad music, pitiful music, yet marvellous.

It is the cry of the caged, he thought. The memory of freedom. This thought struck him as odd. Was it always the case that freedom required rebellion?

The lute fell silent. There came the sound of low voices. Idaho entered the workroom. Moneo watched him enter. A trick of the light gave Idaho a face like a grimacing mask with pitted eyes. Without invitation, he sat down across from Moneo and the trickery was gone. Just another Duncan. He had changed into a plain black uniform without insignia.

“I have been asking myself a peculiar question,” Idaho said. “I’m glad you summoned me. I want to ask this question of you. What is it, Moneo, that my predecessor did not learn?”

Stiff with surprise, Moneo sat up straight. What an un-Duncan question! Could there be a peculiar Tleilaxu difference in this one after all?

“What prompts this question?” Moneo asked.

“I’ve been thinking like a Fremen.”

“You weren’t a Fremen.”

“Closer to it than you think. Stilgar the Naib once said I was probably born Fremen without knowing it until I came to Dune.”

“What happens when you think like a Fremen?”