When will we solve it? the Fremen asked. When will we see Arrakis as a paradise?
In the manner of a teacher answering a child who has asked the sum of 2 plus 2, Kynes told them: “From three hundred to five hundred years.”
A lesser folk might have howled in dismay. But the Fremen had learned patience from men with whips. It was a bit longer than they had anticipated, but they all could see that the blessed day was coming. They tightened their sashes and went back to work. Somehow, the disappointment made the prospect of paradise more real.
The litany brought a semblance of calm. The other mote lay quiescent against her.
Words won’t work, Jessica told herself.
She reduced herself to basic emotional reactions, radiated love, comfort, a warm snuggling of protection.
The terror receded.
The hawks circled overhead screeching their frustration. They knew what was happening. Any desert creature would know.
And I am a desert creature, Kynes thought. You see me, Father? I am a desert creature.
He felt the bubble lift him, felt it break and the dust whirlpool engulf him, dragging him down into cool darkness. For a moment, the sensation of coolness and the moisture were blessed relief. Then, as his planet killed him, it occurred to Kynes that his father and all the other scientists were wrong, that the most persistent principles of the universe were accident and error.
Even the hawks could appreciate these facts.