Dune_ House Atreides - Brian Herbert [112]
You must be thirsty, Father, Shaddam thought. Drink more of the beer.
The doctor opened his suspensor pod to reveal shiny instruments, clicking scanners, and colored vials of testing liquids. Reaching inside the kit, Yungar brought out a small white device, which he passed over Elrood.
After tugging off the satin sleeping cap to reveal the sweaty scalp, Dr. Yungar scanned Elrood’s skull, lifting the old man’s head to check all around. Looking small and weak and old, the Emperor grumbled at the discomfort.
Shaddam wondered what he himself would look like after 150 years . . . preferably at the end of a long and glorious reign. He fought back a smile and held his breath during the examination. Beside him, Fenring remained calm and aloof. Only the Chamberlain scowled.
The doctor withdrew his scanner, then studied the Imperial patient’s case-history cube. Presently he announced to the groggy old man, “Even melange can’t keep you young forever, Sire. At your age, health naturally begins to decline. Sometimes rapidly.”
Inaudibly, Shaddam released a sigh of relief.
With great difficulty Elrood sat up, and his concubines propped tasseled pillows behind him. His cadaverous, parchment face creased in a deep frown. “But only a few months ago I felt so much better.”
“Aging is not a perfect downhill graph. There are peaks and valleys, recoveries and slowdowns.” The doctor had the audacity to use a know-it-all tone that implied the Emperor could not understand such complex concepts. “The human body is a chemical and bioelectric soup, and changes are often triggered by seemingly inconsequential events. You have been under stress lately?”
“I’m the Emperor!” Elrood snapped, this time responding as if the Suk were unbearably stupid. “I have many responsibilities. Of course this causes stress.”
“Then start to delegate more to the Crown Prince and to your trusted aides, such as Fenring over there. You’re not going to live forever, you know. Not even an Emperor can do that. Plan for the future.” Smugly, the doctor snapped shut his case. Shaddam wanted to embrace him. “I will leave you with a prescription and devices to make you feel better.”
“The only prescription I want is more spice in my beer.” Elrood took a deep drink from his mug, slurping loudly.
“As you wish,” the scrawny Suk doctor said. From the suspensor pod he removed a satchel, which he placed on a side table. “These are muscle-soothing devices, in case you need them. Instructions are contained with each unit. Have your concubines use them on your aches.”
“All right, all right,” Elrood said. “Now leave me. I have work to do.”
Dr. Yungar backed down the steps from the bed platform with a bow. “With your permission, Sire.”
Impatiently, the Emperor waved a gnarled hand in dismissal. The concubines moved about, whispering to each other, watching with wide eyes. Two of them picked up muscle-soothing devices and toyed with the controls.
Shaddam whispered to one of the attendants to have the doctor go with Chamberlain Hesban, who would arrange for the transfer of payment. Hesban obviously wanted to stay in the bedchamber and discuss certain documents, treaties, and other state matters with the sick old man, but Shaddam—feeling he could take care of such things himself—wanted the dour advisor out of the way.
When the Suk was gone, old Elrood said to his son, “Perhaps the doctor is right, Shaddam. There is a matter I wish to discuss with you and Hasimir. A policy and project I wish to continue, regardless of my personal health. Have I told you about our plans on Ix, and the eventual Tleilaxu takeover?”
Shaddam rolled his eyes. Of course, you old fool! Fenring and I have already done most of the work. It was our idea to send Tleilaxu Face Dancers to Ix, because they could disguise themselves and infiltrate the working classes.
“Yes, Father. We know of the plans.”
Elrood waved a hand to beckon them closer, and the old man’s features darkened. Out of