Sandworms of Dune - Brian Herbert [70]
“They have had less time to mature,” Sheeana pointed out. “Mother Superior Odrade did not send volunteers on her Scattering until after the desertification of Chapterhouse was well under way. And we do not know how long the wandering Sisters took to get here.”
Below, obvious lines marked the rapid expansion of the sandy wasteland, like ripples on a pond. At the fringes were die-off perimeters, places where all vegetation had perished and the dirt had become blowing dust. The encroaching desert had created ghost forests and inundated villages.
Flying low, searching with uneasy anticipation, Teg discovered half-buried rooftops, the pinnacles of once proud buildings drowned under the spreading desert. In one shocking glimpse, he saw a high dock and part of a capsized boat that sat atop a blistering dune.
“I look forward to seeing our Bene Gesserit Sisters.” Stuka sounded eager. “Obviously they succeeded here in their mission.”
“I expect they will welcome us,” Sheeana admitted.
After seeing the city drowned in sand, Teg did not think the original inhabitants of this planet would have appreciated what the refugee Sisters had done.
As the lighter followed the northern edge of the desert, the scanners picked out small huts and tents erected just beyond the sand’s reach. Teg wondered how often the nomadic villages were required to move. If the arid zone expanded as rapidly as it had on Chapterhouse, this world would be losing thousands of acres every day—and accelerating as sandtrout continued to steal precious water.
“Set down at one of those settlements, Bashar,” Sheeana said to him. “Any of our lost Sisters could be here on the edge of the dunes to monitor the progress.”
“I long to feel real sand under my boots again,” Stilgar muttered.
“It’s all so fascinating,” Liet said.
As Teg circled above one of the nomadic villages, people ran out and pointed up at them. Sheeana and Stuka pressed excitedly against the plaz windows, searching for distinctive dark Bene Gesserit robes, but they saw none.
A formation of rocks towered over the village, a bulwark offering shelter against blowing sand and dust. People, waving, stood atop the pinnacles, but Teg could not determine if the gestures were friendly or threatening.
“See, they cover their heads and faces with cloths and filters,” Liet said. “The increased aridity forces them to adapt. In order to live here on the edge of the dry dunes, they are already learning to conserve bodily moisture.”
“We could teach them how to make real stillsuits,” Stilgar said with a smile. “It has been a long time since I wore a decent one. I spent a dozen years aboard that ship, drowning my lungs with moisture. I can’t wait to taste dry air again!”
Teg found an open landing area and brought the lighter down. He felt unaccountably troubled as the natives scurried toward them. “Those are obviously nomadic camps. Why wouldn’t they move inland, to where the climate is more hospitable?”
“People adapt,” Sheeana said.
“But why would they have to? Yes, the desert belt is growing, but there are still plenty of wide forests, even cities not far from here. Those people could outrun the spreading dunes for generations to come. Yet they stubbornly remain here.”
Before the hatch opened to let in a breath of parched air, the nomads encircled the craft. Sheeana and Stuka, both wearing traditional dark robes from Chapterhouse so that their refugee Sisters would recognize them, boldly led the way. Teg followed with Stilgar and Liet.
“We are Bene Gesserit,” Sheeana called to the people in universal Galach. “Are any of our Sisters among you?” Shielding her eyes against the brightness, she searched the few weathered female faces she saw, but got no response.
“Perhaps another village would be best,” Teg suggested in a whisper. His tactical senses were alert.
“Not yet.”
An elderly man drew closer, pushing a filter mask away from his face. “You ask for Bene Gesserits? Here on Qelso?” Though coarse, his accent was understandable. Despite his age, he appeared to be healthy and energetic.