He slapped Paul's shoulder.
"We work together," Paul agreed.
"Now," Stilgar said, and his voice was harsh, "show me you know how to handle a maker. Which side are we on?"
Paul glanced down at the scaled ring surface on which they stood, noted the character and size of the scales, the way they grew larger off to his right, smaller to his left. Every worm, he knew, moved characteristically with one side up more frequently. As it grew older, the characteristic up-side became an almost constant thing. Bottom scales grew larger, heavier, smoother. Top scales could be told by size alone on a big worm.
Shifting his hooks, Paul moved to the left. He motioned flankers down to open segments along the side and keep the worm on a straight course as it rolled. When he had it turned, he motioned two steersmen out of the line and into positions ahead.
"Ach, haiiiii-yoh!" he shouted in the traditional call. The left-side steersman opened a ring segment there.
In a majestic circle, the maker turned to protect its opened segment. Full around it came and when it was headed back to the south, Paul shouted: "Geyrat!"
The steersman released his hook. The maker lined out in a straight course.
Stilgar said. "Very good, Paul Muad'Dib. With plenty of practice, you may yet become a sandrider."
Paul frowned, thinking: Was I not first up?
From behind him there came sudden laughter. The troop began chanting, flinging his name against the sky.
"Muad'Dib! Muad'Dib! Muad'Dib! Muad'Dib!"
And far to the rear along the worm's surface, Paul heard the beat of the goaders pounding the tail segments. The worm began picking up speed. Their robes flapped in the wind. The abrasive sound of their passage increased.
Paul looked back through the troop, found Chani's face among them. He looked at her as he spoke to Stilgar. "Then I am a sandrider, Stil?"
"Hal yawm! You are a sandrider this day."
"Then I may choose our destination?"
"That's the way of it."
"And I am a Fremen born this day here in the Habbanya erg. I have had no life before this day. I was as a child until this day."
"Not quite a child," Stilgar said. He fastened a corner of his hood where the wind was whipping it.
"But there was a cork sealing off my world, and that cork has been pulled."
"There is no cork."
"I would go south, Stilgar - twenty thumpers. I would see this land we make, this land that I've only seen through the eyes of others."
And I would see my son and my family , he thought. I need time now to consider the future that is a past within my mind. The turmoil comes and if I'm not where I can unravel it, the thing will run wild .
Stilgar looked at him with a steady, measuring gaze. Paul kept his attention on Chani, seeing the interest quicken in her face, noting also the excitement his words had kindled in the troop.
"The men are eager to raid with you in the Harkonnen sinks," Stilgar said. "The sinks are only a thumper away."
"The Fedaykin have raided with me," Paul said. "They'll raid with me again until no Harkonnen breathes Arrakeen air."
Stilgar studied him as they rode, and Paul realized the man was seeing this moment through the memory of how he had risen to command of the Tabr sietch and to leadership of the Council of Leaders now that Liet-Kynes was dead.
He has heard the reports of unrest among the young Fremen , Paul thought.
"Do you wish a gathering of the leaders?" Stilgar asked.
Eyes blazed among the young men of the troop. They swayed as they rode, and they watched. And Paul saw the look of unrest in Chani's glance, the way she looked from Stilgar, who was her uncle, to Paul-Muad'Dib, who was her mate.
"You cannot guess what I want," Paul said.
And he thought: I cannot back down. I must hold control over these people .
"You are mudir of the sandride this day," Stilgar said. Cold formality rang in his voice: "How do you use this power?"
We need time to relax, time for cool reflection , Paul thought.
"We shall go south," Paul said.
"Even if I say we shall turn back to the north when this day is over?"
"We shall go south," Paul repeated.
A sense of inevitable dignity enfolded Stilgar as he pulled his robe tightly around him. "There will be a Gathering," he said. "I will send the messages."
He thinks I will call him out , Paul thought. And he knows he cannot stand against me .
Paul faced south, feeling the wind against his exposed cheeks, thinking of the necessities that went into his decisions.
They do not know how it is , he thought.
But he knew he could not let any consideration deflect him. He had to remain on the central line of the time storm he could see in the future. There would come an instant when it could be unraveled, but only if he were where he could cut the central knot of it.
I will not call him out if it can be helped , he thought. If there's another way to prevent the jihad . . .
"We'll camp for the evening meal and prayer at Cave of Birds beneath Habbanya Ridge," Stilgar said. He steadied himself with one hook against the swaying of the maker, gestured ahead at a low rock barrier rising out of the desert.
Paul studied the cliff, the great streaks of rock crossing it like waves. No green, no blossom softened that rigid horizon. Beyond it stretched the way to the southern desert - a course of at least ten days and nights, as fast as they could goad the makers.
Twenty thumpers.
The way led far beyond the Harkonnen patrols. He knew how it would be. The dreams had shown him. One day, as they went, there 'd be a faint change of color on the far horizon - such a slight change that he might feel he was imagining it out of his hopes - and there would be the new sietch.