Dune
[Miller is an American educator and critic. In the following excerpt from his study of Herbert that was originally published in 1980, Miller examines Dune's complex structure, its literary devices, and its characters and themes.]
Most of Herbert's novels seem designed to be read once; hence, story lines are clear, there is little parallel action, genre markers are unequivocal, and proleptic clues are relatively obvious. Such is not the case with Dune, for Herbert's masterpiece is essentially a series of overlays. The first page tells us that we are entering a gothic novel: "Castle Caladan … the ancient pile of stone … bore the cooled-sweat feeling it acquired before a change in the weather." And sure enough, down a "vaulted passage" comes an "old woman," "a witch shadow—hair like matted spiderwebs … eyes like glittering jewels." But the gothic "half-light" is cast by a science-fiction "suspensor lamp." Paul is trained in weapons suitable to a young Lancelot, but he duels an automated opponent and wears a force shield. The "gom jabbar" is an ancient poisoned needle, but the device that tortures his hand is a technological marvel, quite literally a black-box. Sword-and-sorcery clues mix with gothic clues and science-fiction clues. Yet the background is as cleanly lighted as Hemingway's fiction. The "mysticism" of Hesse merges with the meticulous combats of C. S. Forester. The exposition required to establish the fictional world is ponderous, yet excitement and suspense seldom lag. Much of Dune is overtly didactic, yet the "lessons" arise from plot, character, and action. The satirical applications to our primary world are obvious, but only on reflection. Allegorical conflicts between reason and intuition, between masculine and feminine, between good and evil, between earth-rapers and ecologists, between individual desires and social imperatives, between morality and politics are at the service of character, plot, and action. All this is to say that Dune is a novel that invites the reader in, rather than a novel that intrudes upon the reader. In this sense, it is "escapist." If we must label it, "epic fantasy" is perhaps least misleading; but it is epic fantasy without a god, the tale of a hero who unwillingly devours his helpers, a conquering of time and place by a superman who is but the tool of genetic diaspora. We may more profitably acknowledge that Dune really fits none of our categories, although it has the markers of many.
The primary narrative voice never breaks from the dramatic present, never seems to know more than either the characters or the reader; hence, the tales unfold without a hitch because the narrator is as interested as are we in what will happen next. Paul may not survive the gom jabbar, may smother in the sand, may be killed by Jamis, may die in the melange trance, may be killed by Feyd-Rautha. But the head-notes to each section tip the hand. The opening paragraph tells us that the Harkonnens are ultimately symbiotic; the biographical head-note on Yueh tells us that he will successfully betray Duke Leto, and so on throughout the book. Clearly Paul is going to make it to the end or there would have been no head-notes.
An illuminating exception to this practice occurs as we return to the Harkonnen heir, Feyd-Rautha. Princess Irulan's headnote, rather than being narratively proleptic, is grandly sententious: "The concept of progress acts as a protective mechanism to shield us from the terrors of the future." The chapter that follows is a "bull fight" with an Atreides' captive playing the bull to Feyd-Rautha's matador. The bull almost wins, would have won had Feyd played according to the Atreides Code. Yet the suspense yields to fate, for Herbert's primary narrative voice opens the chapter with: "On his seventeenth birthday, Feyd-Rautha Harkonnen killed his one hundredth slavegladiator in the family games." Even when Herbert "slips," he maintains a basic strategy of providing the reader with an outline to be filled in by narrative detail. We neither know, nor much care, who Princess Irulan is until very late in the novel. Yet her function is important, for her head-notes allow Herbert to make the comments he wishes to make to guide understanding without disturbing his "companion" contract with the reader. Further, we "know" the actions happen, because Irulan tells us they have happened before we see them happening. When we at last discover that Irulan is Paul's wife of political convenience, barred from the bed and relegated to the study, the "historical" head-notes are welded tightly to the plot, a happy choice by Herbert for many reasons. Although Herbert sometimes manages a similar irony with the headnotes of volumes two and three (as when Harq al-Ada is discovered to be Fard'n), the later books are less careful in maintaining the proleptic displacements.
The proleptic dreams and increasingly frequent prescience of Paul serve, narratively, a similar function. The reader is told ahead of time what will happen so that, when the event occurs, it seems both "right" and real. And when Paul is overwhelmed by cellular fate, the loss of control is the more devastating in that the reader is also deprived of security. Thus, Herbert is able to make the events of the novel seem both inevitable and spontaneous.
This effect is reinforced by obvious, almost mechanical, parallels in adversary relationships. Turn the Atreides upside down and you have the Harkonnens. Chapter one establishes Paul, Hawat, and Leto; chapter two sets up Feyd-Rautha, Piter, and Baron Harkonnen: matter for a conventional melodrama. Whatever the Harkonnens have done, the Atreides will do the opposite: animals versus humans. But when we learn that Jessica is half-Harkonnen and that the Old Duke and the bull that killed him are tightly linked in the Atreides code, the black-and-white dichotomy of melodrama yields to the complexity of something like yin-yang.
These brief examples are characteristic of the dynamic tensions of the whole book: Herbert uses many of the conventions of entertainment fiction, but he is not, in this case, used by them. The result is neither strange nor familiar. I think my grandchildren will like Dune.
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Much of the complexity and depth of Herbert's secondary universe in the Dune series derives from an elaborate system of power structures, hence, a good question with which to begin is "Who's in charge?" Ultimately the answer is "No one," but several organizations think that they control both tactical and strategic flow. One may think of the power structures as a system of overlays, each level of which believes that it is using all the others.
Dune's universe is—on the overt, "official," level—feudal. All planets belong to the emperor. But, just as in Earth's history, problems of logistics, transport, and communication modified the theoretical power of a feudal king, so is the emperor's power modified. Various "cousins" (real and honorary) of the emperor are granted planets in fief, which in fact often become hereditary possessions. Such Dukes and Barons are, in day-to-day matters, absolute monarchs. Collectively, their power is greater than the emperor's, and so the emperor's primary political duty is to foment rivalries among the nobility to prevent a serious challenge to the throne. Any partial challenge can be fought off by the emperor's Praetorian Guard, the Sardaukar.
But the efficiency of the emperor's private army encourages the very alliances he fears. The official structure of alliance among the nobility is the "Landsraat," a parliament of Houses Major and Houses Minor. The ultimate fear of any noble is that the emperor will isolate him from the herd and loose the Sardaukar upon him. Yet any noble alliance is destroyed by internal jealousy and rivalry. Vacancies in the nobility are filled by clever, ruthless men who amass wealth and establish new houses. The Atreides and the Harkonnen are again exemplary: the Atreides are an ancient house, actually related to the emperor; the Harkonnen are middle-class interlopers. The enmity between the two houses is partially one of class, though a Harkonnen ancestor has been banished by an Atreides ancestor for cowardice. The Harkonnen envy the noble Atreides; the Atreides disdain the merchant Harkonnen. It's the old game of rock, scissors, and paper.
The framing action of Dune is set in motion by a major, Imperial, political ploy. The Harkonnen are getting too rich as slave-masters of Arrakis. Leto Atreides is valorous, generous, loyal—a man so honorable that his men follow him out of love. Both houses pose a threat to the emperor, but the Atreides' threat is the greater, for the emperor is without a son. Duke Leto is obvious emperor material, and he has an heir. In one stroke the emperor hopes to dislodge the bloated spider and destroy the shining hero. Nice move. The perfect ploy is to eliminate the Atreides by appealing to their code of honor. And the "Old Duke" has provided an exemplum: as the bull to Paul's grandfather, so is Baron Harkonnen to Paul's father. In both cases, the virtues of the Atreides can destroy them.
The feudal power structure, however, is somewhat anachronistic, for power no longer flows inevitably to the brave, the good, or the kin. As in the late Renaissance, money, not land, has become the bottom line. Thus the economic arena is where the real battles are settled, and that arena is manifested in a huge, interplanetary corporation. CHOAM (Combine Honnete Ober Advancer Mercantiles) provides the board-room for wheeling and dealing. Everyone, including the emperor, competes for director chairs and voting stock. It is the emperor's task to play the same divide and conquer game in CHOAM that he plays in the Landsraat.
The size of the Imperium, however, has spawned a group of specialists who comprise yet another layer of power. Transport from solar system to solar system is necessary, or the whole, elaborate structure will collapse. And all inter-system transport is in the hands of the Space Guild. Nothing and no one moves between star-systems except in Guild vessels. Thus the Guild would seem to hold the trump card, ultimate power over all the contending factions. But the Guild's ability to move ships faster than light depends on prescience, for they must know where they are going before they get there, and only knowledge of the future makes faster-than-light movement safe. Guild navigators gain prescience by taking large doses of an addictive drug, melange (spice), and spice comes only from the planet Arrakis, Dune.
In summarizing the power structures, I have described a closed ecology, in unstable equilibrium. The Imperium depends upon the Landsraat, the Landsraat upon the Imperium. Both draw economic power from CHOAM. CHOAM cannot function without the Space Guild, but the Space Guild is dependent upon spice. Since spice comes only from his majesty's desert planet, the emperor remains in charge but only by playing Machiavelli on a tightrope. Everyone conspires to keep the system in balance and at the same time tries to destroy the system by surpassing everyone else. Clearly spice is the key, not only because it enables the transportation necessary to permit power, but because it is a genuine geriatric. Thus it preserves both the system and the individual. The recipe is one designed to produce endless conflict, from bickering to double dealing to "Kanly" (ritualized feud) to guerilla war. But no one can afford full-scale war because real war would cut off the supply of spice.
The particular shuffle of reality that has produced the current situation is the Butlerian Jihad, a revolt against computers that resulted in the religious command: "Thou shalt not make a machine in the likeness of a human mind." Out of that chaos came not only the major structures I have detailed but three significant "service" organizations. To replace the computers, Mentats were developed, men trained to process information as a supercomputer might. All the major power brokers need a mentat to guide their machinations. But mentats remain men; hence, their loyalty must be secured. Again the Harkonnen mentat, Piter, and the Atreides mentat, Hawat, represent the spectrum of control. Hawat follows the Atreides because he loves them. Piter serves the Harkonnen because he fears them and yet hopes to satisfy his unspeakable lusts by increasing Harkonnen power. Both Hawat and Piter are also trained assassins.
The second "service" class is the Bene Gesserit, all women as the mentats are all male. Young Bene Gesserit, like young mentats, are sold to important men. But the B.G. are sold as concubines, wives, or (in rare cases) truth sayers who can instantly judge the truth of any statement. Bene Gesserit depend upon highly developed gestalt awareness, and their reading of minute signals enables them to exercise total psychological control. To their detractors, they are "witches," whose voices can shred a man or whose sexuality can reduce him to putty. They also have perfect control of their autonomic nervous systems, of their emotions, and of their musculatures. A successful politician needs both a mentat and a Bene Gesserit. The homosexual Baron Harkonnen has no Bene Gesserit.
The third class of specialists—which is not much developed in the novel—is medical. In a Borgia world of poison and intrigue, a man must be able to trust his doctor. The Suk Doctors are given imperial conditioning that makes their Hippocratic oaths unbreakable. The only Suk we meet is Yueh, the "oriental" Atreides physician whose conditioning has been broached by the Harkonnen. Yueh is eternally in love with his Bene Gesserit wife, and the Harkonnen have kidnapped her: wheels within wheels.
Each group of specialists is supposedly obsessed by its calling, but the thinking machine mentats have time to love and hate, and the Bene Gesserit are infinitely more than male-dominated willowy maids, fecund matrons, and wise crones. What, after all, can stand against the power of the bed, the delivery room, and the confessional?
Bene Gesserit power is such that they actually constitute a shadow government of the universe; for, unlike Imperium, Landsraat, CHOAM, Guild, and Mentat, the Bene Gesserit do more than play tactical realpolitik. They have a selfless purpose. In spite of their acknowledgment that what the human race really desires is a genetic diaspora (an orgy of uncontrolled gene mixing), the Bene Gesserit have for centuries been running a eugenics program. Their current power is developed not only by disciplines, but because they are guided by reverend mothers who have, through poison, joined the collective memory of all their female ancestors. The male memories, however, form a black hole in the collective unconscious from which they flee in terror. Their plan is to breed, selectively and amorally, for a male reverend mother who would possess complete racial memory, both male and female. Thus, Bene Gesserit wives and concubines are sterile or fecund according to the breeding chart; the preferred Bene Gesserit pattern is to continue important blood lines only in females whom they control.
As the reader of Herbert's other novels might expect, such "selfing" is not the way to produce an optimum. Progress will require the union of contraries far more complex than any chart can display. At the same time, the Bene Gesserit program is a necessary, though not sufficient, factor in the fate of humanity. Perhaps only a male reverend mother could have sufficient power to upset the many layers of entrophic structures that are winding down the genetic spring.
As fate would have it, the emperor's power game has chosen the same two families that the Bene Gesserit breeding program has been developing. And Jessica's violation of the program in producing a son, rather than a daughter, gives Duke Leto a reason to accept the emperor's gambit of Arrakis: he wishes to secure a permanent place of power for his son, Paul. Jessica's fears for Paul have led her to have him trained as both Bene Gesserit and mentat. Later, the desert and the Fremen add to Paul's combat training to make him a super-Sardaukar. (Selusa Secundus, the boot camp for Sardaukar, is a country club compared to Arrakis.) The self-serving mumbo-jumbo sowed by the Bene Gesserit's "missionaria protectiva" against future crisis has, under the pressures of Arrakis and with the help of spice, grown into a full-blown messiah myth. Thus Paul becomes everything: mentat, Bene Gesserit, reverend mother, duke, and "Mahdi" (the one who will lead us to paradise). With the added religious horsepower, one Freman Death Commando can eat a dozen Sardaukar before breakfast and exclaim, "Fie on this quiet life, I want work!"
Paul's "uncontrollable purpose" is to father the jihad necessary to remix the human gene pool. He can defeat all minor contrarieties, but each victory is precisely what is needed to insure his final defeat. Dune is remarkable in that all this macro-action bumps along in the margin as a very real human being struggles against real, incrementally deadly, tactical difficulties.
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The central tale that orders and focuses the satisfying complexity of Herbert's secondary universe is the maturation of Paul Atreides: a skinny, fifteen-year-old boy evolves into the Emperor of the Universe. Paul is a "psifocus" (The Godmakers), a fulcrum upon which the macro-organism of sentience teeters in the imperative process of maintaining dynamic homeostasis. As in most of his fictions, Herbert's fundamental metaphor is the closed ecological system. Paul is typical of Herbert heroes in that he seeks to control forces which constitute him. Each episode in his growth illustrates a paradox: like a virus, Paul devours his family, his friends, his tutors, his testers, his enemies, and all the antagonistic symbioses which make the universe go around. But he is also like a vaccine: the universe absorbs Paul, readjusts its metabolism, and makes the disease a defense. Strategically Paul is more victim than victimizer, for his "terrible purpose" uses him more dispassionately than he spends his death commandoes. Yet he maintains his humanness, even at the cost of the jihad he abhors: he leaves the final metamorphosis to his son, Leto II, and dies a human being on the steps of Alia's temple (Children of Dune). Paul-messiah is, finally, only John the Baptist; for the human chrysalis triumphs, returning its water to the tribe. In a nutshell, Paul sacrifices his godness to the Atreides code; Leto II, as we shall presently note, is a god at the price of his humanness.
From a macro-perspective, Paul is like everything else: the river remains, each water molecule passes on to the sea. When a mentat ceases to function, the master buys a new one. When Jessica refuses to produce a daughter on command, Countess Fenring seduces Feyd-Rautha. When the Fremen reverend mother dies, her memory passes to Jessica. Always the evolving structure remains, passing from one dynamic equilibrium to another. (Perhaps Herbert's vision owes a debt to Olaf Stapledon's Last and First Men.) Yet for the narrative to succeed in the face of fate, some freedom of significant action must remain, and Herbert risks that significance by equipping Paul with prescience.
A great deal might be said of Herbert's essay on the relationships between past, present, and future—between foreknowledge and free will—only to wind up in endless mazes wandering lost. Here, it must suffice to note three ways in which Herbert saves the freedom of entertainment without destroying the fixity of essay. The probing of a prescient mind into the future masks the probed areas from other prescient minds (Dune Messiah); the act of prescience involves the Heisenberg uncertainty principle: touching the future with one's mind alters those elements which are touched; and prescience thrusts upon the seer potential, rather than absolute, futures. Curiously, when Paul (Dune Messiah) succeeds in living his past memory of the future in the present, the effect—because the memory unfolds sequentially—is that of a relatively minor miracle: a blind man sees. And the reader is neither surprised nor shocked because Irulan's head-notes have given the reader a kind of prescience—the reader can share even greater prescience by reading the book a second time.
Paul is a human hero because he maintains a corner of self. His sister, Alia, is unhuman because she does not maintain such a corner—although Herbert allows her a tiny space to choose death (Children of Dune). Thus Herbert's definition of humanity demands a strong sense of self riding on species consciousness. Both Paul and Alia are eddying vortices that gather strength from resistance, break established channels, and spew the jihad and the religion of Dune in tidal wave across the universe. The vortex may grow to whirlpool, to maelstrom, to Kralizec typhoon. The wheeling focus may last perhaps 5,000 years (Leto II). Yet the clash of vortex and river can have but one conclusion: when resistance ends, the vortex fades and the river flows on to the sea, altered, but still the river.
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The action of Dune, and to a lesser extent of the two other volumes, is punctuated by a series of incremental, ritual initiations. Each ritual serves to unify two or more contending forces in the person of the initiate, forming a complex unity which he carries into the next ritual: thesis, antithesis, synthesis; thesis, antithesis, synthesis. And so on. We enter the series in mediasres; Paul has been trained in disparate disciplines: mentat (male) and Bene Gesserit (female). (Farad'n of Children of Dune is given only Bene Gesserit training.) Thus Paul's early training prepares him to be androgynous, for his mother pursues the Bene Gesserit goal: to breed a Tieresian Kwisatz Haderach who will have access to both male and female genetic memory. The eugenic effort has been going on for centuries, but the water of life has proven mortal to all would-be reverend mothers. Count Hasimir Fenring has come closest, but he (a male Bene Gesserit, though not a reverend mother) is a congenital eunuch, rather than an androgyne.
A second synthesis is that of animal and human. This thesis and antithesis is sited in Paul's two grandfathers: the Harkonnen-animal Baron, the Atreides-human Old Duke. For grandfather and father Atreides, the attempted synthesis has proven mortal. Likewise their adversaries, bull and Baron, are destroyed by the consequence of killing humans. Herbert plays a rich, touch-and-go game with the bull fight metaphor. The Atreides portrait of the Old Duke and the head of the bull that killed him reappear on the walls of the Harkonnen palace as we see the animal-Feyd play matador to a human-Atreides bull. Paul's ritual slaying of Feyd draws the bull fight to a close by distinguishing human from animal: unlike Feyd who kills his gladiator with the aid of a subconscious paralysis keyed by the word "Scum," Paul refuses to use the disabling Bene Gesserit implant. Alia has already disposed of the Baron, a bull no longer brave, though his memory spirit gains revenge by possessing her (Children of Dune).
Each of the rituals that led up to the slaying of Feyd draws power from two contradictory-complementary sets of psychological symbolisms. Freudian-sexual symbolism asserts the white pain of isolated individualism: its effect is to heighten tension. Jungian-archetypal symbolism soothes the individual consciousness by asserting the place of the one within the many: its effect is to relieve tension. When combined, the two sets of symbols can produce dynamic-stasis: a tightly coiled spring that resonates without vibration. The Bene Gesserit litany against fear enables the individual to join with his contrary and yet remain an individual. In each of Paul's ritual testings, overtones of Oedipal sexuality yield to Jungian sexual individuation: Baron Harkonnen has perverted this power into homosexuality; Count Fenring has escaped into asexuality. Both Count and Baron have enormous, but incomplete, power. Paul has more. Leto II has all. Of the four, only Paul maintains his humanity. Count and Baron fall below, Leto II passes beyond the human.
Here, it is only possible to assert, to exemplify, and then to pass on. The gom jabbar ritual testing of Paul, which opens Dune, is repeated in many keys and modes throughout the novel. The initial gom jabbar ritual certifies the triumph of Atreides human genes over Harkonnen animal genes, marks the first of several rituals that move Paul from boy to man, and establishes the Oedipal tension that spreads musk over Paul's crises. Herbert's touch, though fairly delicate, is obvious. The witch-mother places a death-phallus at Paul's neck, forces him to thrust his hand into a dark box. The hand is burned away through intense pain, and emerges, reborn. Later, that hand seizes the death-phallus hunter-seeker, which slips into Paul's bedroom, just in time to save another witch-mother, the Shadout Mapes. This time, Paul smashes the phallus, rather than merely escaping.
Meanwhile, Jessica—who has undergone the Bene Gesserit gom jabbar when the winds of puberty tortured her flesh—has herself been tested by the Shadout Mapes whose gom jabbar is a tooth taken from the vagina dentata of a maker's mouth. When Jessica and Paul are trapped in the 'thopter with two Harkonnen assassins, Jessica's sexuality loosens Paul's bonds, and Paul kicks the assassin through the heart. When Jessica and Paul share a tent buried beneath the sand, Jessica feels "reborn" as they emerge. When Jessica is buried in a sand slide, Paul fishes her out and pronounces the word that brings her back from bindu-suspension. Together they pull the fremkit, which gives them life in the desert, out by its umbilical strap.
Paul never quite escapes the tensions of sexuality, for he takes revenge on his mother, vicariously, in two ways: when he silences Gaius Helen Mohiam with threat of a death word and when he forces Irulan to marry him without ever entering his bed. Thus, he defeats the triple power of the Bene Gesserit. The maid is confined, the matron is made barren, and the crone is emasculated. Chani, his mate, has no formal claims upon him, and the attraction between them is much like that of brother and sister. When he finds his sister, Alia, flushed and naked from duelling with a lethal automated pel, it is she who is sent to a cold shower (Dune Messiah). The "pharaonic" marriage of brother and sister is achieved in Children of Dune when Leto II and Ghanima wed, though Leto's metamorphosis prevents it from being consummated.
The other side of the coin—the slaying of father—marches, symbolically, through the same rituals in which Paul moves from "female" threatened with penetration to male who penetrates. (The match with Feyd does the male-female role ambivalence very obviously in terms of death rape.) As the symbolic structure provides Paul with several mothers, so it also provides him with a number of fathers. Leto is the first to be supplanted. When Paul sees his father tired and afraid, some of Leto's "fatherness" dies. When, at the water banquet on Arrakis, Paul moves to fill his father's empty chair. Kynes steps in as father-protector. Liet-Kynes also plays Baptist to Paul's Messiah, just as Paul plays Baptist to Leto II's Messiah: both must die to make way for the savior.
On Caladan, Paul has had the benefit of a number of surrogate fathers, most of whom die to give Paul skill and space. Duncan is the first to die, Hawat the last. Yueh is an interesting case in that he serves Paul doubly: by "killing" Leto and by saving Paul—shades of Hamlet and Claudius. Gurney is faced down by Paul as he is about to kill Jessica, and he (Dune Messiah) becomes Jessica's man in unspecified but suggestive fashion. Paul's training echoes of the education of King Arthur. Hawat makes Paul a mentat, Gurney makes him a musician, Duncan makes him a great swordsman, and Yueh gives him an Orange Catholic Bible. Since each father is something more than an allegorical figure, their gifts overlap, but the pattern is clear: specialists produce a poly-man.
On Arrakis, Paul finds two additional fathers: Liet-Kynes and Stilgar. Both are seduced by the Atreides honor, and although Kynes' sacrifice is the more obvious, Stilgar's is the more profound. Kynes dies for Paul, Stilgar lives for him. Kynes' daughter, Chani, becomes Paul's sister, then his lover, then his concubine. Stilgar offers to marry Paul's mother, fathers Paul by naming him Usul, offers himself to Paul's knife; but his greatest sacrifice is to remain himself, diminished beneath Paul's growing shadow. When Stilgar takes Paul's rejected ghanima, Harah, as wife, the sexual symbolism of dominance evidences their relationship. In a curious way, Jamis also fathers Paul into the Fremen tribe, and the cost to Paul's fathers is, here, explicit. Jamis loses his life, his water, his baliset, his wife, and his children—even his "coffee" service—to Paul. The souls of his fathers are but more grist for Paul's mill. If Baron Harkonnen is a carnivore, Paul is an omnivore, and his food seeks him.
The final confrontation scene draws all the power threads into a single knot and summarizes Paul's victory. By seizing the power to destroy the source of melange—and evidencing the will to do so—he has the Guild, the Imperium, CHOAM, the Landsraat, and the Bene Gesserit by the throat. But since he is unwilling to surrender his humanity, he remains vulnerable. He has promised Chani sons, and thereupon hang two more tales.
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