Dune_ House Atreides - Brian Herbert [118]
“Perhaps we should take a small amount and plant a bush in his honor,” said Aliid, but no one seconded the suggestion.
Out of the stone-walled chamber Uliet walked tall and proud, a warrior of the Fremen. He did not fear this Planetologist, though the outsider spoke fervently of his wild and preposterous plans, as if he were guided by a holy vision. A shudder went up the assassin’s spine.
Uliet narrowed his deep blue eyes and forced such thoughts from his mind as he strode down the shadowed passageways. Two watermen followed him, bearing empty literjons for collecting Kynes’s blood, and absorbent cloths to soak up every drop that might spill on the stone floor.
The Planetologist was not difficult to find. An entourage trailed him, their faces filled with either awe or skepticism tinged with wonder. Towering over the others, Kynes walked an aimless path, lecturing as he went, waving his arms. His flock scuttled after him at a wary distance, sometimes asking questions, but more often just listening.
“The human question is not how many can survive within the system,” Kynes was saying as Uliet approached, the crysknife plain in his hand, his mission clear on his face, “but what kind of existence is possible for those who do survive.”
Moving forward, unwavering, Uliet stepped through the fringes of the crowd. The Planetologist’s listeners saw the assassin and his knife. They stepped away and looked at each other knowingly, some with disappointment, some with fear. They fell silent. This was the way of the Fremen people.
Kynes didn’t notice at all. With one finger he made a circle in the air. “Open water is possible here, with a slight but viable change. We can do this if you help me. Think of it—walking in the open without a stillsuit.” He pointed at two of the children closest to him. They backed away shyly. “Just imagine: so much moisture in the air that you no longer need to wear stillsuits.”
“You mean we could even have water in a pond that we might dip out and drink anytime we wish?” one of the skeptical observers said, his voice sarcastic.
“Certainly. I’ve seen it on many worlds, and there’s no reason we can’t do it on Dune, too. With windtraps, you can grab the water from the air and use it to plant grasses, shrubs, anything that will lock the water in cells and root systems and keep it there. In fact, beside those open ponds one could even have orchards with sweet, juicy fruit for the picking.”
Uliet stepped forward in a trance of determination. The accompanying watermen behind him held back; they would not be needed until after the killing was finished.
“What kind of fruit?” a girl asked.
“Oh, any kind you like,” Kynes said. “We’d have to pay attention to soil conditions and moisture first. Grapes, perhaps, on the rocky slopes. I wonder what an Arrakeen vintage wine would taste like. . . . “ He smiled. “And round orange fruits, portyguls. Ah, I like those! My parents used to have a tree on Salusa Secundus. Portyguls have a hard leathery rind, but you peel it away. Inside, the fruit is in sections, sweet and juicy, and the brightest color of orange you could ever imagine.”
Uliet saw only a red haze. His assignment burned in his brain, obscuring all else from his vision. Naib Heinar’s orders echoed in his skull. He walked into the empty area where the people had drawn back to listen to the Planetologist’s rantings. Uliet tried not to hear the dreams, tried not to think of the visions Kynes summoned. Clearly this man was a demon, sent to warp the minds of his listeners. . . .
Uliet stared fixedly ahead, while Kynes continued to wander down the corridor, taking no notice. With broad gestures he described grasslands, canals, and forests. He painted pictures in their imaginations. The Planetologist licked his lips as if he could already taste the wine from Dune.
Uliet stepped in front of him and raised the poisoned crysknife.
In the middle of a sentence, Kynes suddenly noticed the stranger. As if annoyed at the distraction,