The concept of progress acts as a protective mechanism to
shield us from the terrors of the future.
—from “Collected Sayings of Muad’Dib” by the Princess Irulan

ON HIS seventeenth birthday, Feyd-Rautha Harkonnen killed his one
hundredth slave-gladiator in the family games. Visiting observers from the
Imperial Court—a Count and Lady Fenring—were on the Harkonnen
homeworld of Giedi Prime for the event, invited to sit that afternoon with the
immediate family in the golden box above the triangular arena.
In honor of the na-Baron’s nativity and to remind all Harkonnens and
subjects that Feyd-Rautha was heir-designate, it was holiday on Giedi Prime.
The old Baron had decreed a meridian-to-meridian rest from labors, and
effort had been spent in the family city of Harko to create the illusion of
gaiety: banners flew from buildings, new paint had been splashed on the
walls along Court Way.

But off the main way, Count Fenring and his lady noted the rubbish heaps,
the scabrous brown walls reflected in the dark puddles of the streets, and the
furtive scurrying of the people.
In the Baron’s blue-walled keep, there was fearful perfection, but the

Count and his lady saw the price being paid—guards everywhere and
weapons with that special sheen that told a trained eye they were in regular
use. There were checkpoints for routine passage from area to area even
within the keep. The servants revealed their military training in the way they
walked, in the set of their shoulders ... in the way their eyes watched and
watched and watched.

“The pressure’s on,” the Count hummed to his lady in their secret
language. “The Baron is just beginning to see the price he really paid to rid
himself of the Duke Leto.”

“Sometime I must recount for you the legend of the phoenix,” she said.
They were in the reception hall of the keep waiting to go to the family
games. It was not a large hall—perhaps forty meters long and half that in
width—but false pillars along the sides had been shaped with an abrupt taper,
and the ceiling had a subtle arch, all giving the illusion of much greater
space.

“Ah-h-h, here comes the Baron,” the Count said.
The Baron moved down the length of the hall with that peculiar waddling-
glide imparted by the necessities of guiding suspensor-hung weight. His
jowls bobbed up and down; the suspensors jiggled and shifted beneath his
orange robe. Rings glittered on his hands and opafires shone where they had
been woven into the robe.

At the Baron’s elbow walked Feyd-Rautha. His dark hair was dressed in
close ringlets that seemed incongruously gay above sullen eyes. He wore a
tight-fitting black tunic and snug trousers with a suggestion of bell at the
bottom. Soft-soled slippers covered his small feet.

Lady Fenring, noting the young man’s poise and the sure flow of muscles
beneath the tunic thought: Here’s one who won’t let himself go to fat.

The Baron stopped in front of them, took Feyd-Rautha’s arm in a
possessive grip, said, “My nephew, the na-Baron, Feyd-Rautha Harkonnen.”

And, turning his baby-fat face toward Feyd-Rautha, he said, “The Count and
Lady Fenring of whom I’ve spoken.”

Feyd-Rautha dipped his head with the required courtesy. He stared at the
Lady Fenring. She was golden-haired and willowy, her perfection of figure
clothed in a flowing gown of ecru—simple fitness of form without ornament.

Gray-green eyes stared back at him. She had that Bene Gesserit serene repose
about her that the young man found subtly disturbing.
“Um-m-m-m-ah-hm-m-m-m,” said the Count. He studied Feyd-Rautha.
“The, hm-m-m-m, precise young man, ah, my ... hm-m-m-m ... dear?” The
Count glanced at the Baron. “My dear Baron, you say you’ve spoken of us to
this precise young man? What did you say?”

“I told my nephew of the great esteem our Emperor holds for you, Count
Fenring,” the Baron said, And he thought: Mark him well, Feyd! A killer with
the manners of a rabbit—this is the most dangerous kind.

“Of course!” said the Count, and he smiled at his lady.
Feyd-Rautha found the man’s actions and words almost insulting. They
stopped just short of something overt that would require notice. The young
man focused his attention on the Count: a small man, weak-looking. The face
was weaselish with overlarge dark eyes. There was gray at the temples. And
his movements—he moved a hand or turned his head one way, then he spoke
another way. It was difficult to follow.

“Um-m-m-m-m-ah-h-h-hm-m-m, you come upon such, mm-m-m,
preciseness so rarely,” the Count said, addressing the Baron’s shoulder. “I ...
ah, congratulate you on the hm-m-m perfection of your ah-h-h heir. In the
light of the hm-m-m elder, one might say.”

“You are too kind,” the Baron said. He bowed, but Feyd-Rautha noted that
his uncle’s eyes did not agree with the courtesy.