"Are you a mentat?" Idaho asked.
"Oh, no!" Luli interrupted. "The Lord Leto does not permit the training of mentats."
Idaho glanced at Luli, then returned his attention to the masked woman. No mentats. The Tleilaxu history had not mentioned that interesting fact. Why would Leto prohibit mentats? Surely, the human mind trained in the super abilities of computation still had its uses. The Tleilaxu had assured him that the Great Convention remained in force and that mechanical computers were still anathema. Surely, these women would know that the Atreides themselves had used mentats.
"What is your opinion?" the masked woman asked. "Have the dirty Tleilaxu tampered with your psyche?"
"I don't... think so."
"But you are not certain?" ..No."
"Do not fear, Commander Idaho," she said. "We have ways of making sure and ways of dealing with such problems should they arise. The dirty Tleilaxu have tried it only once and they paid dearly for their mistake."
"That's reassuring. Did the Lord Leto send me any messages?"
Luli spoke up: "He told us to assure you that he still loves you as the Atreides have always loved you." She was obviously awed by her own words.
Idaho relaxed slightly. As an old Atreides hand, superbly trained by them, he had found it easy to determine several things from this encounter. These two had been heavily conditioned to a fanatic obedience. If a cibus mask could hide the identity of that woman, there had to be many more whose bodies were very similar. All of this spoke of dangers around Leto which still required the old and subtle services of spies and an imaginative arsenal of weapons.
Luli looked at her companion. "What say you, Friend?"
"He may be brought to the Citadel," the masked woman said. "This is not a good place. Tleilaxu have been here."
"A warm bath and change of clothing would be pleasant," Idaho said.
Luli continued to look at her Friend. "You are certain?"
"The wisdom of the Lord cannot be questioned," the masked woman said.
Idaho did not like the sound of fanaticism in this Friend's voice, but he felt secure in the integrity of the Atreides. They could appear cynical and cruel to outsiders and enemies, but to their own people they were just and they were loyal. Above all else, the Atreides were loyal to their own.
And I am one of theirs, Idaho thought. But what happened to the me that I am replacing? He felt strongly that these two would not answer this question.
But Leto will.
"Shall we go?" he asked. "I'm anxious to wash the stink of the dirty Tleilaxu off me."
Luli grinned at him.
"Come. I shall bathe you myself."
Enemies strengthen you.
Allies weaken. -= I tell you this in the hope that it will help you understand why I ad as I do in the full knowledge that great forces accumulate in my Empire with but one wish-the wish to destroy me. You who read these words may know full well what actually happened, but I doubt that you understand it.
- The Stolen Journals THE CEREMONY of "Showing" by which the rebels began their meetings dragged on interminably for Siona. She sat in the front row and looked everywhere but at Topri, who was conducting the ceremony only a few paces away. This room in the service burrows beneath Onn was one they had never used before but it was so like all of their other meeting places that it could have been used as a standard model.
Rebel Meeting Room-class B, she thought.
It was officially designated as a storage chamber and the fixed glowglobes could not be tuned away from their blank white glaring. The room was about thirty paces long and slightly less in width. It could be reached only through a labyrinthine series of similar chambers, one of which was conveniently stocked with a supply of stiff folding chairs intended for the small sleeping chambers of the service personnel. Nineteen of Siona's fellow rebels now occupied these chairs around her, with a few empty for any latecomers who might still make the meeting.
The time had been set between the midnight and morning shifts to mask the flow of extra people in the service warrens. Most of the rebels wore energy-worker disguises-thin gray disposable trousers and jackets. Some few, including Siona, were garbed in the green of machinery inspectors.
Topri's voice was an insistent monotone in the room. He did not squeak at all while conducting the ceremony. In fact, Siona had to admit he was rather good at it, especially with new recruits. Since Nayla's flat statement that she did not trust the man, though, Siona had looked at Topri in a different way. Nayla could speak with a cutting naivete which pulled away masks. And there were things that Siona had learned about Topri since that confrontation.
Siona turned at last and looked at the man. The cold silvery light did not help Topri's pale skin. He used a copy of a crysknife in the ceremony, a contraband copy bought from the Museum Fremen. Siona recalled the transaction as she looked at the blade in Topri's hands. It had been Topri's idea, and she had thought it a good one at the time. He had led her to the rendezvous in a hovel on the city's outskirts, leaving Onn just at dusk. They had waited well into the night until darkness could mask the Museum Freemen's coming. Fremen were not supposed to leave their sietch quarters without a special dispensation from the God Emperor.
She had almost given up on him when the Fremen arrived, slipping in out of the night, his escort left behind to guard the door. Topri and Siona had been waiting on a crude bench against a dank wall of the absolutely plain room. The only light had come from a dim yellow torch supported on a stick driven into the crumbling mud wall.
The Fremen's first words had filled Siona with misgivings.