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gesture. “You make me feel like a little girl again—reciting my first lesson.” She forced the words out: “ ‘Humans must never submit to animals.’ ” A dry sob shook her. In a low voice, she said: “I’ve been so lonely.”
    â€œIt should be one of the tests,” the old woman said. “Humans are almost always lonely. Now summon the boy. He’s had a long, frightening day. But he’s had time to think and remember, and I must ask the other questions about these dreams of his.”
    Jessica nodded, went to the door of the Meditation Chamber, opened it. “Paul, come in now, please.”
    Paul emerged with a stubborn slowness. He stared at his mother as though she were a stranger. Wariness veiled his eyes when he glanced at the Reverend Mother, but this time he nodded to her, the nod one gives an equal. He heard his mother close the door behind him.
    â€œYoung man,” the old woman said, “let’s return to this dream business.”
    â€œWhat do you want?”
    â€œDo you dream every night?”
    â€œNot dreams worth remembering. I can remember every dream, but some are worth remembering and some aren’t.”
    â€œHow do you know the difference?”
    â€œI just know it.”
    The old woman glanced at Jessica, back to Paul. “What did you dream last night? Was it worth remembering?”
    â€œYes.” Paul closed his eyes. “I dreamed a cavern . . . and water . . . and a girl there—very skinny with big eyes. Her eyes are all blue, no whites in them. I talk to her and tell her about you, about seeing the Reverend Mother on Caladan.” Paul opened his eyes.
    â€œAnd the thing you tell this strange girl about seeing me, did it happen today?”
    Paul thought about this, then: “Yes. I tell the girl you came and put a stamp of strangeness on me.”
    â€œStamp of strangeness,” the old woman breathed, and again she shot a glance at Jessica, returned her attention to Paul. “Tell me truly now, Paul, do you often have dreams of things that happen afterward exactly as you dreamed them?”
    â€œYes. And I’ve dreamed about that girl before.”
    â€œOh? You know her?”
    â€œI will know her.”
    â€œTell me about her.”
    Again, Paul closed his eyes. “We’re in a little place in some rocks where it’s sheltered. It’s almost night, but it’s hot and I can see patches of sand out of an opening in the rocks. We’re. . . waiting for something . . . for me to go meet some people. And she’s frightened but trying to hide it from me, and I’m excited. And she says: ‘Tell me about the waters of your homeworld, Usul.’ ” Paul opened his eyes. “Isn’t that strange? My homeworld’s Caladan. I’ve never even heard of a planet called Usul.”
    â€œIs there more to this dream?” Jessica prompted.
    â€œYes. But maybe she was calling me Usul,” Paul said. “I just thought of that.” Again, he closed his eyes. “She asks me to tell her about the waters. And I take her hand. And I say I’ll tell her a poem. And I tell her the poem, but I have to explain some of the words—like beach and surf and seaweed and seagulls.”
    â€œWhat poem?” the Reverend Mother asked.
    Paul opened his eyes. “It’s just one of Gurney Halleck’s tone poems for sad times.”
    Behind Paul, Jessica began to recite:
    â€œI remember salt smoke from a beach fire
And shadows under the pines—
Solid, clean . . . fixed—
Seagulls perched at the tip of land,
White upon green . . .
And a wind comes through the pines
To sway the shadows;
The seagulls spread their wings,
Lift
And fill the sky with screeches.
And I hear the wind
Blowing across our beach,
And the surf,
And I see that our fire
Has scorched the seaweed.”
    Â 
    â€œThat’s the one,” Paul said.
    The old woman stared at