Frank Herbert - The Godmakers

Orne felt a tingling in his neck, a vacant sensation in his stomach that wasn’t related to hunger. Danger?

“You’ll recognize the prescient sensation,” Emolirdo said. “It’ll come upon you as a peculiar kind of fear, perhaps mistaken for hunger. You’ll sense a lack of something, perhaps inside you or in the air you’re breathing. It’s a very trustworthy signal of danger.”

Orne felt the vacant sensation in his stomach. His skin was clammy with perspiration. The room’s air tasted stale in his lungs. He wanted to reject the sensations and Emolirdo’s suggestive conversation, but a fact named Stetson remained. Nobody in the I-A could be more coldly skeptical and Stet had said to go through with this.

There was also the matter of the transceiver he had wished from his flesh.

“You’re a little pale,” Emolirdo said.

Orne managed a tight smile. “I think I feel your prescient warning right now.”

“Ahhhh. Describe your sensations.”

Orne obeyed.

“Odd that is should happen so soon,” Emolirdo said. “Can you identify a source for this danger?”

“You,” Orne said. “And Amel.”

Emolirdo pursed his lips. “Perhaps the psi training itself is dangerous to you. That is odd. Especially if you do turn out to be a psi focus.”

There was no real excuse to wait on the transport’s ramp any longer, Orne told himself. He had overcome the first staggering impact of Amel’s psi forces. But the prescient awareness of peril remained with him like a sore tooth. He felt the heat, the heavy toga. Perspiration soaked him.

And his stomach said: Wait .

He took a half step toward the escalfield and the sense of vacancy within him expanded. His nostrils caught the acrid bite of incense, an odor so strong it rode over the oil-and-ozone dominance of the spaceport.

In spite of training and carefully nurtured agnosticism, he experienced a sensation of awe. Amel exuded an aura of magic that defied disbelief.

It’s only psi , Orne told himself.

Chanting and keening sounds lifted like an aural fog from the religious warren. He felt memory fragments stirring from his childhood on Chargon: the religious processions on holy days… the image of Mahmud glowering from the kiblah… the azan ringing out across the great square on the Day of Bairam—

“Let no blasphemy occur, nor permit a blasphemer to live…”

Orne shook his head, thought: Now’d be a great time to get religion and bow down to Ullua, the star wanderer of the Ayrbs .

The roots of his fear went deep. He tightened his belt, strode forward into the escalfield. The sense of danger remained, but grew no stronger.

The escalfield’s feathery touch lowered him to the ground, disgorged him beside a covered walkway. It was hotter on the ground than on the ramp. Orne wiped perspiration from his forehead. A cluster of white-clad priests and students in aqua togas pressed into the thin shade of the covered walkway. They began to separate as Orne approached, leaving in pairs—a priest with each student.

One priest remained—tall, a thick body, a heavy feeling about him as though the ground would shake when he walked. Another Chargon native? Orne wondered. His head was shaved. Deep scratch lines patterned his face. Dark eyes glowered from beneath overhanging gray brows.

“You Orne?” the priest rumbled.

Orne stepped under the walkway. “Yes.” The priest’s skin betrayed a yellow oiliness in the shadows.

“I am Bakrish,” he said. He put slab hands on his hips, glared at Orne. “You missed the ceremony of lustration.”

“I was told I could come down at my own-time,” Orne said.

“One of those, eh?” Bakrish said.

Something about the heavy figure, the glowering face reminded Orne of an I-A training sergeant on Marak. The memory restored, Orne’s sense of balance brought a grin to his face.

“You find something amusing?” Bakrish demanded.

“This humble face reflects happiness to be in your presence upon Amel,” Orne said.

“Yeah?”

“What’d you mean one of those?” Orne asked.

“You’re one of those talents who has to get his Amel balance,” Bakrish said. “That’s all. Come along.” He turned, strode off under the walkway’s cover, not looking to see if Orne followed.

Amel balance? Orne wondered.

He set off after Bakrish, found he had to force himself into a half trot to keep up.

No moving walks, no hopalongs , Orne thought.

This planet is primitive.

The covered walk jutted like a long beak from a windowless low building of gray plastrete. Double doors opened into a dim hall that washed Orne with cool air. He noted, however, that the doors had to be opened by hand and one of them creaked. The hall echoed with their footsteps.

Bakrish led the way past rows of narrow cells without doors, some of them occupied by murmuring figures, some piled with strange equipment, some empty. At the end of the hall there was another door which opened into a room large enough to hold one small desk and two chairs. Pink light filled the room from concealed exciters. The place smelled of fungus.

Bakrish crunched his frame into the chair behind the desk, motioned for Orne to take the other seat.

Orne obeyed, felt the stomach pangs of danger grow more acute.

Bakrish said: “As you know, we on Amel live under the Ecumenical Truce. The I-A intelligence service will have briefed you on the surface significance of this fact.”

Orne concealed surprise at this turn in the conversation.

Bakrish said: “What you must understand now is that there is nothing unusual about my assignment as your guru.”

“Why would it be thought unusual?” Orne asked.

“You are a follower of Mahmud and I am a Hynd and a Wali under divine protection. By the Truce, all of us serve the one God who has many names. You see?”

“No, I don’t see.”

“Hynd and Ayrb have a long tradition of enmity,” Bakrish said. “Did you know this?”

“I seem to have encountered a reference somewhere,” Orne admitted. “My own attitude is that enmity leads to violence and violence leads to war. I have taken an oath to prevent this progression.”

“Commendable, very commendable,” Bakrish said. “When Emolirdo told us about you, we had to see for ourselves, of course. That’s why you’re here.”

Orne thought: So Stet was right; the Psi Branch spies for Amel.

“You pose a fascinating problem,” Bakrish said.

Orne set his face in a blank mask, probed with his newly awakened psi awareness for an emotion, a weakness, any clue to the peril he sensed here. He said: “I thought it was a simple matter of my coming here as a student.”

“Nothing is truly simple,” Bakrish said.

As Bakrish spoke, Orne felt his sense of danger dissipate, caught the priest glancing toward the doorway. Orne whirled, caught a flicker of robe and sight of a wheeled object being pulled away.

Bakrish said: “That’s better. Now we have the tensor phase of your booster equipment. We can nullify it at will or destroy you with it.”

Orne fought to control shock, wondered: What kind of a bomb did Emolirdo have the medics plant in me? He thought of wishing the devices out of his flesh, but wondered if he could do that on Amel. The thought of failure loomed as more dangerous than letting the matter ride temporarily. He said: