Liet-Kynes and Warrick spent an evening together near Splintered Rock in Hagga Basin. They had raided another one of the old botanical testing stations for usable equipment, taking inventory of a few tools and records the desert had preserved for centuries.

For two years following their return from the south polar regions, the young men had accompanied Pardot Kynes from sietch to sietch, checking the progress of old and new plantings. The Planetologist maintained a secret greenhouse cave at Plaster Basin, a captive Eden to demonstrate what Dune could become. Water from catchtraps and windstills irrigated the shrubs and flowers. Many Fremen had received samples grown in the Plaster Basin demonstration project. They took sweet pieces of the fruit as a holy communion, closing their eyes and breathing deeply, relishing the taste.

All of this Pardot Kynes had promised . . . and all of this he had given them. He was proud that his visions were becoming reality. He was also proud of his son. “One day you will be Imperial Planetologist here, Liet,” he said, nodding solemnly.

Though he spoke with passion about awakening the desert, bringing in grasses and biodiversity for a self-sustaining ecosystem, Kynes could not teach any subject in an orderly or structured fashion. Warrick hung on every word he said, but the man often began with one topic, then rambled on to other subjects at his whim.

“We are all part of a grand tapestry, and we each must follow our own threads,” Pardot Kynes said, more pleased with his own words than he should have been.

Oftentimes he would recount the stories of his days on Salusa Secundus, how he had studied a wilderness no one else had bothered with. The Planetologist had spent years on Bela Tegeuse, seeing how the hardy plant life flourished despite the dim sunlight and acidic soil. There had also been journeys to Harmonthep, III Delta Kaising, Gammont, and Poritrin— and the dazzling court on Kaitain, where Emperor Elrood IX had given him this assignment on Arrakis.

Now, as Liet and Warrick made their way from Splintered Rock, a heavy wind picked up— a heinali or man-pusher. Bending into the stinging gusts, Liet pointed to the lee of a rock outcropping. “Let us set up our shelter there.”

His dark hair bound in a shoulder-length ponytail, Warrick trudged forward, head lowered, already removing his Fremkit pack. Working together, they soon had a protected, camouflaged camp and hunkered down to talk far into the night.

In two years, the young men had told no one about Dominic Vernius and his smuggler base. They had given their word to the man, and kept it a secret between themselves. . . .

They were both eighteen and expected to marry soon— but Liet, dizzy with the hormones of his age, could not choose. He found himself more and more attracted to Faroula, the willowy, large-eyed, but tempestuous daughter of Heinar, the Naib of Red Wall Sietch. Faroula was trained in the lore of the herbalist, and would, one day, be a well-respected healer.

Unfortunately for him, Warrick desired Faroula as well, and Liet knew that his blood-brother was more likely to gather the courage to ask the Naib’s daughter before he could make his own clumsy move.

The two friends fell asleep listening to the whispering fingernails of sand blown against their tent. . . .

The following dawn, when they climbed out, knocking powdery dust from the sphincter opening of the tent, Liet stared across the expanse of Hagga Basin. Warrick blinked in the bright light. “Kull wahad!”

The night windstorm had blown the dirt clear of a broad white playa, the salty remnants of an ancient dried sea. Scoured clean, the lake bed wavered in the rising heat of the day. “A gypsum plain. A rare sight,” Liet said, then added in a mutter, “My father would probably run down and do tests.”

Warrick spoke in a low, awed voice. “It is said that he who sees Biyan, the White Lands, can make a wish and it is sure to be granted.” He fell silent and moved his lips, expressing his deepest, most private desires.

Not to be outdone, Liet uttered his own fervent thoughts in a rush. He turned to his friend and announced, “I wished that Faroula would be my wife!”

Warrick gave him a bemused smile. “Bad luck, my blood-brother— I wished for the same thing.” With a laugh, he clapped Liet on the shoulder. “It seems that not all wishes can come true.”

At dusk the two met Pardot Kynes as he arrived at Sine Rock Sietch. The sietch elders solemnly went through a greeting ceremony, pleased with what they had accomplished. Kynes accepted their welcome with brusque good grace, offhandedly forgoing many of the formal responses in his eagerness to inspect everything himself.

The Planetologist went to inspect their plantings under bright glowglobes that simulated sunlight within crannies of rock. The sand had been fertilized with chemicals and human feces to create a rich soil. The people of Sine Rock grew mesquite, sage, rabbitbush, even a few accordion-trunked saguaros, surrounded by scrubby grasses. Groups of robed women went from plant to plant as if in a religious ceremony, adding cupfuls of water so the plants could thrive.

The stone walls of Sine Rock’s blocked-off canyon retained a bit of moisture every morning; dew precipitators along the top of the canyon recaptured lost water vapor and returned it to the plants.

In the evening, Kynes walked from planting to planting, bending over to study leaves and stems. He’d already forgotten that his son and Warrick had come to meet him. His warrior escort, Ommun and Turok, stood guard, willing to give their lives should anything threaten their Umma. Liet noticed his father’s intense concentration and wondered if the man even realized the sheer loyalty he inspired among these people.

At the mouth of the narrow canyon, where a few boulders and rocks provided the only barrier against open desert, Fremen children had tethered bright glowglobes that shone onto the sand. Each child carried a bent metal rod extracted from a Carthag refuse dump.

Enjoying the private stillness of the gathering night, Liet and Warrick squatted on a rock to watch the children. Warrick sniffed and looked behind them toward the artificial sunlight on the bushes and cacti. “The little Makers are drawn to the moisture like iron filings to a magnet.”

Liet had seen the activity before, had done it himself as a boy, but was still fascinated to see the young ones poking about to capture sandtrout. “They have easy pickings.”

One of the young girls bent to let a small drop of saliva fall onto the end of her metal staff; then she extended the rod over the sands. The miniature tethered glowglobes cast deep shadows on the uneven ground. Creatures stirred under the surface, rising out of the dust.

The sandtrout were shapeless fleshy creatures, soft and flexible. Their bodies were pliable when alive, yet they turned hard and leathery when dead. Many little Makers were found strewn about the site of a spice blow, killed in the explosion; many more burrowed to capture the released water, sealing it away to protect Shai-Hulud.

One of the sandtrout extended a pseudopod toward the glistening tip of the rod. When it touched the girl’s saliva, the Fremen child turned the metal stick, as if to capture a self-moving flow of taffy. She raised her rod, taking the sandtrout out of the ground, and twirled it to keep the amorphous little Maker suspended in the air. The other children giggled.

A second child caught another sandtrout and both hurried back to the rocks, where they played with their prizes. They could poke and tug the soft flesh, teasing out a few droplets of sweet syrup, a special treat that Liet himself had loved in his youth.

Though tempted to try his own hand at the game, Liet reminded himself that he was an adult now, a full member of the tribe. He was the son of Umma Kynes; the other Fremen would frown to see him engage in frivolous play.

Warrick sat on the rock beside him, wrapped in his thoughts, watching the children and thinking of a future family of his own. He looked up into the purpling sky. “It is said that storm season is the time for lovemaking.” He wrinkled his brow, then placed his narrow chin in his hands, deep in concentration. He had begun to grow a thin beard.

Liet smiled; he still kept his own face clean-shaven. “It is time for both of us to choose a mate, Warrick.” They held Faroula in their thoughts, and the Naib’s daughter led them on, feigning aloofness while enjoying their attentions. Liet and Warrick brought her special treasures from the desert whenever they could.

“Perhaps we should make our selection the Fremen way.” Warrick withdrew from his belt a pair of polished bone slivers as long as knives. “Shall we throw tally sticks to see who may court Faroula?”

Liet had his own pair of the gambling markers; he and his friend had spent many camp nights challenging each other. Tally sticks were slender carvings with a scale of random numbers etched along the sides, high numbers mixed with low ones. The Fremen threw bone tallies into the sand, then read off the number of the depth; whoever achieved the highest score, won. It required finesse as well as plain luck.

“If we played tally sticks, I would beat you, of course,” Liet said offhandedly to Warrick.

“I doubt that.”

“In any event, Faroula would never abide by the throw of the bones.” Liet sat back against the cool rock wall. “Perhaps it is time for the ahal ceremony, where a woman chooses her mate.”

“Do you think Faroula would choose me?” Warrick said wistfully.

“Of course not.”

“In most things I trust your judgment, my friend— but not in this.”

“Perhaps I shall ask her myself when I return,” Liet said. “She couldn’t want a better husband than me.”

Warrick laughed. “In most challenges, you are a brave man, Liet-Kynes. But when facing a beautiful woman, you are a shameful coward.”

Liet drew a deep, indignant breath. “I have composed a love poem for her. I mean to write it down on spice paper and leave it in her chamber.”

“Oh?” Warrick teased. “And would you have the nerve to sign it with your own name? What is this beautiful poem you’ve written?”

Liet closed his eyes and recited:

Many

Many

I

And

The

Though

She

A

Behold

Liet opened his eyes, as if emerging from a dream.

“I’ve heard better,” Warrick said. “I’ve written better. But you show promise. You might find a woman to accept you after all. But never Faroula.”

Liet feigned offense. In silence, the two watched the Fremen children continue to capture sandtrout. Deeper in the canyon, he knew his father rambled on about ways to increase plant growth, how to add supplementary vegetation to improve the turnover and retain nitrates in the soil. He’s probably never played with a sandtrout in his life, Liet thought.

He and Warrick thought of other things and stared into the night. Finally, after a long silence, both spoke at once, their words tumbling over each other. Then the two laughed and agreed. “Yes, we will both ask her when we return to Red Wall Sietch.”

They clasped hands, hoping . . . but secretly relieved that they had taken the decision out of their own hands.

Amid the bustle of Heinar’s Sietch, the Fremen greeted the return of Pardot Kynes.

Young Faroula pressed her hands against her narrow waist, watching the party file past the moisture-sealed doorways. Her long dark hair hung in silky loops strung with water rings down to her shoulders; her face was narrow and elfin-looking. Her large eyes were midnight pools below her striking eyebrows. A slight flush danced along her tanned cheeks.

She regarded Liet first, then Warrick. Her face held a stern expression with only the faintest upturn of lips to show that she was secretly pleased, rather than offended, by what the two young men had just asked her.

“And why should I choose either of you?” Faroula regarded both suitors for a long moment, making them squirm with the agony of anticipation. “What makes the two of you so confident?”

“But . . .” Warrick struck his chest. “I have raided many Harkonnen troops. I have ridden a sandworm down to the south pole. I have—”

Liet interrupted him. “I’ve done everything Warrick has— and I am the son of Umma Kynes, his heir and successor as Planetologist. There may be a day when I leave this planet to visit the Imperial Court on Kaitain. I am—”

Faroula impatiently dismissed their bluster. “And I am the daughter of Naib Heinar. I can have any man I choose.”

Liet groaned deep in his throat, his shoulders sagging. Warrick looked at his friend, but drew himself up, trying to recapture his bravado. “Well, then . . . choose!”

Faroula laughed, covered her mouth, and restored her tight expression. “You both have admirable qualities . . . a few of them, at least. And I suppose if I don’t make up my mind soon, you’ll end up killing yourselves trying to show off for me, as if I asked for escapades like that.” She tossed her head, and her long hair jingled with the bound water rings.

She put a finger to her lips, pondering. Her eyes glinting with mirth, she said, “Give me two days to decide. I must think on this.” When they refused to move, her voice became crisper. “Don’t just stand there ogling me! You must have work to do. One thing I tell you: I’ll never marry a lazy husband.”

Both Liet and Warrick nearly tripped as they scrambled to find something important-looking to occupy themselves.

After waiting for two long, agonizing days, Liet discovered a wrapped note in his room. He tore open the spice paper, his heart pounding and sinking at the same time: If Faroula had chosen him, wouldn’t she come to tell him herself? But as his eyes scanned the words she had written, his breath came fast and cold in his throat.

“I wait in the distant Cave of Birds. I will give myself to whichever man reaches me first.”

That was all the note said. Liet stared at it for a few moments, then ran through the sietch passages until he reached Warrick’s quarters. He pulled aside the curtain-hanging and saw his friend frantically packing a satchel and a Fremkit.

“She’s issued a mihna challenge,” Warrick said, over his shoulder.

It was a test in which Fremen youths proved themselves worthy of manhood. The two looked at each other, frozen for a moment, their gazes locking.

Then Liet whirled and rushed back to his own quarters. He understood too well what he had to do.

It was a race.