Kynes studied the underarm seals, adjusted one. “Motions of the body, especially breathing,” he said, “and some osmotic action provide the pumping force.” He loosened the chest fit slightly. “Reclaimed water circulates to catchpockets from which you draw it through this tube in the clip at your neck.”
The Duke twisted his chin in and down to look at the end of the tube. “Efficient and convenient,” he said. “Good engineering.”
Kynes knelt, examined the leg seals. “Urine and feces are processed in the thigh pads,” he said, and stood up, felt the neck fitting, lifted a sectioned flap there. “In the open desert, you wear this filter across your face, this tube in the nostrils with these plugs to insure a tight fit. Breathe in through the mouth filter, out through the nose tube. With a Fremen suit in good working order, you won’t lose more than a thimbleful of moisture a day—even if you’re caught in the Great Erg.”
“A thimbleful a day,” the Duke said.
Kynes pressed a finger against the suit’s forehead pad, said: “This may rub a little. If it irritates you, please tell me. I could slit-patch it a bit tighter.”
“My thanks,” the Duke said. He moved his shoulders in the suit as Kynes stepped back, realizing that it did feel better now—tighter and less irritating.
Kynes turned to Paul. “Now, let’s have a look at you, lad.”
A good man but he’ll have to learn to address us properly, the Duke thought.
Paul stood passively as Kynes inspected the suit. It had been an odd sensation putting on the crinkling, slick-surfaced garment. In his foreconsciousness had been the absolute knowledge that he had never before worn a stillsuit. Yet, each motion of adjusting the adhesion tabs under Gurney’s inexpert guidance had seemed natural, instinctive. When he had tightened the chest to gain maximum pumping action from the motion of breathing, he had known what he did and why. When he had fitted the neck and forehead tabs tightly, he had known it was to prevent friction blisters.
Kynes straightened, stepped back with a puzzled expression. “You’ve worn a stillsuit before?” he asked.
“This is the first time.”
“Then someone adjusted it for you?”
“No.”
“Your desert boots are fitted slip-fashion at the ankles. Who told you to do that?”
“It… seemed the right way.”
“That it most certainly is.”
And Kynes rubbed his cheek, thinking of the legend: “He shall know your ways as though born to them. ”
“We waste time,” the Duke said. He gestured to the waiting ‘thopter, led the way, accepting the guard’s salute with a nod. He climbed in, fastened his safety harness, checked controls and instruments. The craft creaked as the others clambered aboard.
Kynes fastened his harness, focused on the padded comfort of the aircraft—soft luxury of gray-green upholstery, gleaming instruments, the sensation of filtered and washed air in his lungs as doors slammed and vent fans whirred alive.
So soft! he thought.
“All secure, Sire,” Halleck said.
Leto fed power to the wings, felt them cup and dip—once, twice. They were airborne in ten meters, wings feathered tightly and afterjets thrusting them upward in a steep, hissing climb.
“Southeast over the Shield Wall,” Kynes said. “That’s where I told your sandmaster to concentrate his equipment.”
“Right.”
The Duke banked into his air cover, the other craft taking up their guard positions as they headed southeast.
“The design and manufacture of these stillsuits bespeaks a high degree of sophistication,” the Duke said.
“Someday I may show you a sietch factory,” Kynes said.
“I would find that interesting,” the Duke said. “I note that suits are manufactured also in some of the garrison cities.”
“Inferior copies,” Kynes said. “Any Dune man who values his skin wears a Fremen suit.”
“And it’ll hold your water loss to a thimbleful a day?”
“Properly suited, your forehead cap tight, all seals in order, your major water loss is through the palms of your hands,” Kynes said. “You can wear suit gloves if you’re not using your hands for critical work, but most Fremen in the open desert rub their hands with juice from the leaves of the creosote bush. It inhibits perspiration.”
The Duke glanced down to the left at the broken landscape of the Shield Wall—chasms of tortured rock, patches of yellow-brown crossed by black lines of fault shattering. It was as though someone had dropped this ground from space and left it where it smashed.
They crossed a shallow basin with the clear outline of gray sand spreading across it from a canyon opening to the south.