Dune by Frank Herbert Page B

much bloodshed soon,“ she said. ”The Harkonnens won’t rest
until they’re dead or my Duke destroyed. The Baron cannot forget that Leto is a
cousin of the royal blood–no matter what the distance–while the Harkonnen
titles came out of the CHOAM pocketbook. But the poison in him, deep in his
mind, is the knowledge that an Atreides had a Harkonnen banished for cowardice
after, the Battle of Corrin.“
    ”The old feud,“ Yueh muttered. And for a moment he felt an acid touch of
hate. The old feud had trapped him in its web, killed his Wanna or–worse–left
her for Harkonnen tortures until her husband did their bidding. The old feud had
trapped him and these people were part of that poisonous thing. The irony was
that such deadliness should come to flower here on Arrakis, the one source in
the universe of melange, the prolonger of life, the giver of health.
    ”What are you thinking?“ she asked.
    ”I am thinking that the spice brings six hundred and twenty thousand Solaris
the decagram on the open market right now. That is wealth to buy many things.“
    ”Does greed touch even you, Wellington?“
    ”Not greed.“
    ”What then?“
    He shrugged. ”Futility.“ He glanced at her. ”Can you remember your first
taste of spice?“
    ”It tasted like cinnamon.“
    ”But never twice the same,“ he said. ”It’s like life–it presents a
different face each time you take it. Some hold that the spice produces a
learned-?flavor reaction. The body, learning a thing is good for it, interprets
the flavor as pleasurable–slightly euphoric. And, like life, never to be truly
synthesized.“
    ”I think it would’ve been wiser for us to go renegade, to take ourselves
beyond the Imperial reach,“ she said.
    He saw that she hadn’t been listening to him, focused on her words,
wondering: Yes–why didn’t she make him do this? She could make him do virtually
anything.
    He spoke quickly because here was truth and a change of subject: ”Would you
think it bold of me . . . Jessica, if I asked a personal question?”
She pressed against the window ledge in an unexplainable pang of disquiet.
“Of course not. You’re . . . my friend.”
    “Why haven’t you made the Duke marry you?”
    She whirled, head up, glaring. “Made him marry me? But–”
    “I should not have asked,” he said.
    “No.” She shrugged. “There’s good political reason–as long as my Duke
remains unmarried some of the Great Houses can still hope for alliance. And . .
. ” She sighed. “ . . . motivating people, forcing them to your will, gives you
a cynical attitude toward humanity. It degrades everything it touches. If I made
him do . . . this, then it would not be his doing.”
    “It’s a thing my Wanna might have said,” he murmured. And this, too, was
truth. He put a hand to his mouth, swallowing convulsively. He had never been
closer to speaking out, confessing his secret role.
    Jessica spoke, shattering the moment. “Besides, Wellington, the Duke is
really two men. One of them I love very much. He’s charming, witty, considerate
. . . tender–everything a woman could desire. But the other man is . . . cold,
callous, demanding, selfish–as harsh and cruel as a winter wind. That’s the man
shaped by the father.” Her face contorted. “If only that old man had died when
my Duke was born!”
    In the silence that came between them, a breeze from a ventilator could be
heard fingering the blinds.
    Presently, she took a deep breath, said, “Leto’s right–these rooms are
nicer than the ones in the other sections of the house.” She turned, sweeping
the room with her gaze. “If you’ll excuse me, Wellington, I want another look
through this wing before I assign quarters.”
    He nodded. “Of course.” And he thought: if only there were some way not to
do this thing that I must do.
    Jessica dropped her arms, crossed to the hall door and stood there a moment,
hesitating, then let herself out.