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his reports, but Leto listened with only a fraction of his awareness. It was like a monitoring circuit which only recorded Idaho’s words and actions with but an occasional intensification for an internal comment:

    And now he wants to talk about the Tleilaxu.

    That is dangerous ground for you, Duncan.

    But this opened up a new avenue for Leto’s reflection.

    The wily Tleilaxu still produce my Duncans from the original cells. They do a religiously forbidden thing and we both know it. I do not permit the artificial manipulation of human genetics. But the Tleilaxu have learned how I treasure the Duncans as the Commanders of my Guard. I do not think they suspect the amusement value in this. It amuses me that a river now bears the Idaho name where once it was a mountain. That mountain no longer exists. We brought it down to get material for the high walls which girdle my Sareer.

    Of course, the Tleilaxu know that I occasionally breed the Duncans back into my own program. The Duncans represent mongrel strength … and much more. Every fire must have its damper.

    It was my intent to breed this one with Siona, but that may not be possible now.

    Hah! He says he wants me to “crack down” on the Tleilaxu. Why will he not ask it straight out? “Are you preparing to replace me?”

    I am tempted to tell him.

    Once more, Idaho’s hand went into the slender pouch. Leto’s introspective monitoring did not miss a beat.

    The lasgun or more reports? It is more reports.

    The Duncan remains wary. He wants not only the assurance that I am ignorant of his intent but more “proofs” that I am unworthy of his loyalty. He hesitates in a prolonged fashion. He always has. I have told him enough times that I will not use my prescience to predict the moment of my exit from this ancient form. But he doubts. He always was a doubter.

    This cavernous chamber drinks up his voice and, were it not for my sensitivity, the dankness here would mask the chemical evidence of his fears. I fade his voice out of immediate awareness. What a bore this Duncan has become. He is recounting the history, the history of Siona’s rebellion, no doubt leading up to personal admonitions about her latest escapade.

    “It’s not an ordinary rebellion,” he says.

    That brings me back! Fool. All rebellions are ordinary and an ultimate bore. They are copied out of the same pattern, one much like another. The driving force is adrenalin addiction and the desire to gain personal power. All rebels are closet aristocrats. That’s why I can convert them so easily.

    Why do the Duncans never really hear me when I tell them about this? I have had the argument with this very Duncan. It was one of our earliest confrontations and right here in the crypt.

    “The art of government requires that you never give up the initiative to radical elements,” he said.

    How pedantic. Radicals crop up in every generation and you must not try to prevent this. That’s what he means by “give up the initiative.” He wants to crush them, suppress them, control them, prevent them. He is living proof that there is little difference between the police mind and the military mind.

    I told him, “Radicals are only to be feared when you try to suppress them. You must demonstrate that you will use the best of what they offer.”

    “They are dangerous. They are dangerous!” He thinks that by repeating he creates some kind of truth.

    Slowly, step by step, I lead him through my method and he even gives the appearance of listening.

    “This is their weakness, Duncan. Radicals always see matters in terms which are too simple—black and white, good and evil, them and us. By addressing complex matters in that way, they rip open a passage for chaos. The art of government as you call it, is the mastery of chaos.”

    “No one can deal with every surprise.”

    “Surprise? Who’s talking about surprise? Chaos is no surprise. It has predictable characteristics. For one thing, it carries