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workers. I want no crackdowns, and certainly no revolts. The suboids are to be
treated well, as always." He met her gaze, and she seemed very much an adult.
"Yes," Kailea said, her voice hardening. "They work better that way."
Like the knowledge of your own being, the sietch forms a firm base from which
you move out into the world and into the universe.
-Fremen Teaching
Pardot Kynes was so fascinated by the Fremen culture, religion, and daily
routine that he remained completely oblivious to the life-and-death debate
raging around him in the sietch. Naib Heinar had told him he could talk to the
people and describe his ideas -- and so he talked, at every opportunity.
For an entire cycle of the moons, the Fremen whispered their opinions in small
caves and dens, or shouted them across tables in private meetings of the sietch
elders. Some of them even empathized with what the strange outworlder was
saying.
Though his fate remained undecided, Kynes didn't slow for a moment. Sietch
guides took him around and showed him many things they thought would interest
him, but the Planetologist also stopped to ask questions of women working in the
stillsuit factories, of old men tending water supplies, and of withered
grandmothers operating solar ovens or filing rough burrs off scrap metal.
The bustling activity around the sealed caves astonished him: Some workers
trampled spice residue to extract fuel, others curded spice for fermentation.
Weavers at power looms used their own hair, the long fur of mutated rats, wisps
of desert cotton, and even skin strips from wild creatures to make their durable
fabric. And of course schools taught the young Fremen desert skills, as well as
ruthless combat techniques.
One morning Kynes awoke refreshed, perfectly comfortable after spending the
night on a mat on the hard floor. Throughout much of his life, he had slept in
the open on rough ground. His body could find rest just about anywhere. He
breakfasted on dehydrated fruits and dry cakes the Fremen women had baked in
thermal ovens. The beginnings of a beard covered his face, a sandy stubble.
A young woman named Frieth brought him a serving tray with meticulously prepared
spice coffee in an ornate pot. During the entire ritual, she directed her deep
blue eyes downward, as she had done every morning since Kynes's arrival at the
sietch. He hadn't thought anything of her cool, efficient attentions until
someone had whispered to him, "She is the unmarried sister of Stilgar, whose
life you saved against the Harkonnen dogs."
Frieth had fine features and smooth, tanned skin. Her hair appeared long enough
to flow to her waist, if ever she undid it from her water rings and let it fall.
Her manner was quiet but all-knowing, in the Fremen way; she rushed to fulfill
every small wish Kynes bothered to express, often without his realizing it. He
might have noticed how beautiful she was, had he not been so intent on noticing
everything else around him.
After he had sipped his pungent, cardamom-laced coffee down to the dregs, Kynes
hauled out his electronic pad to jot down notes and ideas. At a noise, he
looked up to see wiry young Turok standing in the doorway. "I'm to take you
anywhere you wish, Planetologist, so long as you remain within Red Wall Sietch."
Kynes nodded and smiled, disregarding the constraints of being a captive. They
did not rankle him. It was understood that he would never leave the sietch
alive unless the Fremen accepted him and decided to trust him completely. If he
did join the community, there could be no secrets between them; on the other
hand, if the Fremen chose to execute him in the end, there would have been no
point in keeping secrets from a dead man.
Previously Kynes had seen the tunnels, the food-storage chambers, the guarded
water supplies, even the Huanui deathstills. In fascination he had watched the
family groups of desert-hardened men, each with his several wives; he had seen
them pray to Shai-Hulud. He'd begun to compile a mental sketch of this culture
and the political and familial ties within the sietch, but it would take decades
to unravel all the subtle relationships, all the nuances of obligations laid
down upon their kinsmen many generations earlier.
"I'd like to go to the top of the rock," he said, remembering his duties as
Imperial Planetologist. "If we could retrieve some of the equipment from my
groundcar -- I presume you've kept it safe? -- I'd like to establish a weather
station here. It's imperative that we collect climate data -- temperature
variations, atmospheric humidity, and wind patterns -- from as many isolated
spots as possible."
Turok looked at him, surprised and disbelieving. Then he shrugged. "As you
wish, Planetologist." Knowing the conservative ways of the sietch elders, Turok
was pessimistic about the fate of this enthusiastic but not terribly bright man.
What a futile effort it would be for Kynes to continue his vigorous work. But
if it kept him happy in his last days . . .
"Come," Turok said. "Put on your stillsuit."
"Oh, we'll only be out for a few minutes."
Turok scowled at him, looking stern and much older. "A breath of moisture is
water wasted into the air. We are not so rich we can afford to waste water."
Shrugging, Kynes pulled on his crinkling, slick-surfaced uniform and took the
time to attach all the seals, though he did so clumsily. Heaving a heavy sigh,
Turok assisted him, explaining the most effective way to dress out the suit and
adjust the fittings to optimize its efficiency.
"You have bought a decent stillsuit. It is of Fremen manufacture," the young
man observed. "In this at least you have chosen well."
Kynes followed Turok to the storage chamber where his groundcar had been kept.
The Fremen had stripped it of amenities, and his equipment lay in open boxes on
the cave floor, inspected and cataloged. No doubt the sietch inhabitants had
been trying to determine how they could put these things to use.
They're still planning to kill me, Kynes thought. Haven't they heard a thing
I've said? Oddly, the thought neither depressed nor frightened him. He simply
took the knowledge as a challenge. He was not about to give up -- there was too
much left to do. He would have to make them understand.
Among the clutter he found his weather apparatus and tucked the components under
his arms, but made no comment about what had been done to his possessions. He
knew Fremen had a communal mentality: Every item owned by an individual was
owned by the entire community. Since he had spent so much of his life alone,
relying only on himself and his abilities, he found it difficult to absorb such
a mind-set.
Turok did not offer to carry any of the equipment, but led the way up steep
steps that had been rough-hewn into the stone wall. Kynes panted but did not
complain. Ahead of him the guide shifted aside numerous barricades, moisture
baffles, and doorseals. Turok flashed glances over his shoulder to make sure
the Planetologist was keeping up, then increased his speed.
Finally they emerged from a cleft atop the rubble-strewn peaks. The young
Fremen leaned back in the shadow of the rocks, keeping himself cool, while Kynes [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]