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minimal ingestion of melange for that. The man wore the old Atreides uniform, black with a golden hawk at the left breast. An interesting statement, that: “I serve the honor of the old Atreides!” His hair was still the black cap of karakul , the features fixed in stony sharpness with high cheekbones.

    The Tleilaxu make their gholas well , Leto thought.

    The Duncan carried a thin briefcase woven of dark brown fibers, one he had carried for many years. It usually contained the material upon which he based his reports, but today it bulged with some heavier weight.

    The Ixian lasgun.

    Idaho kept his attention on Leto’s face as he walked. The face remained disconcertingly Atreides, lean features with eyes of total blue which the nervous felt as a physical intrusion. It lurked deep within a gray cowl of sandtrout skin which, Idaho knew, could roll forward protectively in a flickering reflex—a faceblink rather than an eyeblink. The skin was pink within its gray frame. It was difficult avoiding the thought that Leto’s face was an obscenity, a lost bit of humanity trapped in something alien.

    Stopping only six paces from the Royal Cart, Idaho did not attempt to conceal his angry determination. He did not even think about whether Leto knew of the lasgun. This Imperium had wandered too far from the old Atreides morality, had become an impersonal juggernaut which crushed the innocent in its path. It had to be ended!

    “I have come to talk to you about Siona and other matters,” Idaho said. He brought the case into position where he could withdraw the lasgun easily.

    “Very well.” Leto’s voice was full of boredom.

    “Siona was the only one who escaped, but she still has a base of rebel companions.”

    “You think I don’t know this!”

    “I know your dangerous tolerance for rebels! What I don’t know is the contents of that package she stole.”

    “Oh, that. She has the complete plans for the Citadel.”

    For just a moment, Idaho was Leto’s Guard Commander, deeply shocked at such a breach of security.

    “You let her escape with that?”

    “No, you did.”

    Idaho recoiled from this accusation. Slowly, the newly resolved assassin in him regained ascendancy.

    “Is that all she got?” Idaho asked.

    “I had two volumes, copies of my journal, in with the charts. She stole the copies.”

    Idaho studied Leto’s immobile face. “What is in these journals? Sometimes you say it’s a diary, sometimes a history.”

    “A bit of both. You might even call it a textbook.”

    “Does it bother you that she took these volumes?”

    Leto allowed himself a soft smile which Idaho accepted as a negative answer. A momentary tension rippled through Leto’s body then as Idaho reached into the slim case. Would it be the weapon or the reports? Although the core of his body possessed a powerful resistance to heat, Leto knew that some of his flesh was vulnerable to lasguns, especially the face.

    Idaho brought a report from his case and, even before he began reading from it, the signals were obvious to Leto. Idaho was seeking answers, not providing information. Idaho wanted justification for a course of action already chosen.

    “We have discovered a Cult of Alia on Giedi Prime,” Idaho said.

    Leto remained silent while Idaho recounted the details. How boring. Leto let his thoughts wander. The worshippers of his father’s long-dead sister served these days only to provide occasional amusement. The Duncans predictably saw such activity as a kind of underground threat.

    Idaho finished reading. His agents were thorough, no denying it. Boringly thorough.

    “This is nothing more than a revival of Isis,” Leto said. “My priests and priestesses will have some sport suppressing this cult and its followers.”

    Idaho shook his head as though responding to a voice within it.

    “The Bene Gesserit knew about the cult,” he said.

    Now that interested Leto.

    “The Sisterhood has never forgiven me for taking