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.On other occasions, Rabban used an inkvine whiphe had acquired from a Harkonnen employee, and occupied himself by thrashing thetwisted black strands at rocks, ice chunks, or sluggish ra-seals sunningthemselves on the metal piers.But that, too, grew boring.For most of his two-year sentence, he stayed away from Abulurd and Emmi Rabban-Harkonnen, hoping they would never learn of his exile.Finally, when Rabbancould hide his presence no longer, his father traveled up to the CHOAMprocessing centers, ostensibly on an inspection tour.Abulurd met his son in the barracks building with an optimistic expression onhis hangdog face as if he expected some kind of teary-eyed reunion.He embracedhis only son, and Rabban broke away quickly.Glossu Rabban, with square shoulders and a blocky face, heavy lips and a widow'speak, took after his mother more than his father, who had thin arms, bonyelbows, and big knuckles.Abulurd's ash-blond hair looked old and dirty, andhis face was weathered from being outside too much.The only way Rabban got his father to leave, after hours of inane jabbering, wasto promise that he would indeed come down to Tula Fjord and stay with hisparents.A week later, he arrived at the main lodge, smelling the sour air,feeling the clamminess sink into his bones.Enduring their coddling, Rabbanswallowed his disgust and counted the days until he could meet the Heighlinerthat would take him home.In the lodge they ate elaborate meals of smoked fish, boiled clabsters, seafoodpaella, snow mussels and clams, pickled squid, and salted ruh-caviar,accompanied by the bitter, stringy vegetables that survived in Lankiveil's poorsoil.The fishwife, a broad-faced woman with red hands and massive arms, cookedone dish after another, proudly serving each one to Rabban.She had known himas a child, had tried to spoil him, and now she did everything but pinch hischeeks.Rabban hated her for it.He couldn't seem to get the foul tastes out of his mouth, or the odors from hisfingers or clothes.Only pungent woodsmoke from the great fireplaces managed torelieve his anguished nose.His father found it quaint to use real fire insteadof thermal heaters or radiant globes.One night, bored and brooding, Rabban latched upon an idea, his firstimaginative spark in two years.The Bjondax whales were docile and easilykilled -- and Rabban felt he could interest wealthy nobles from Great and MinorHouses in coming to Lankiveil.He remembered how much joy he had taken inhunting feral children at Forest Guard Preserve, how thrilled he had been tokill a great sandworm on Arrakis.Perhaps he could start a new whale-huntingindustry, pursuing the enormous aquatic beasts for sport.It would add profit to the Harkonnen treasury and turn Lankiveil into something better than theprimitive hellhole it was now.Even the Baron would be pleased.Two nights before he was due to depart for home, he suggested the idea to hisparents.Like an ideal family, they sat together at table eating another mealfrom the sea.Abulurd and Emmi kept looking at each other with pathetic sighsof contentment.His ebony-eyed mother didn't speak much, but she providedunwavering support to her husband.They touched affectionately, brushed a handfrom one shoulder to an elbow."I plan to bring some big-game hunters to Lankiveil." Rabban sipped a wateryglass of sweet mountain wine."We'll track down the fur whales -- your nativefishermen can act as guides.Many people in the Landsraad would pay handsomelyfor such a trophy.It'll be a boon to all of us."Emmi blinked and looked over to see Abulurd's mouth drop open in shock.She lethim say what they were both thinking."That would be impossible, son."Rabban flinched at the offhand way this weakling called him son.Abulurdexplained, "All you've seen are the processing docks up in the north, the finalstep in the whale fur business.But hunting proper specimens is a delicatetask, done with care and training.I've been on the boats many times, andbelieve me, it's not a lighthearted task! Killing Bjondax whales was nevermeant for.sport."Rabban's thick lips twisted."And why not? If you're the planetary governorhere, you're supposed to understand economics."His mother shook her head."Your father understands this planet better than youdo.We just can't allow it." She seemed surrounded by an impenetrable veil ofself-assurance, as if nothing could shake her.Rabban simmered in his chair, more disgusted than angry.These people had noright to forbid him anything.He was the nephew of Baron Vladimir Harkonnen,the heir-apparent of a Great House.Abulurd had already proven he couldn'thandle the responsibility.No one would listen to a failure's complaints.Rabban pushed himself away from the table and stalked off to his suite.There,in a bowl made from an abalone shell, the house servants had arranged clumps ofsweet-smelling lichens peeled from tree bark, a typical Lankiveil bouquet.Witha swat, Rabban knocked it aside, shattering the shell on the weathered-plankfloor.THE ABRASIVE SOUNDS of Bjondax whale songs awoke him from a restless sleep.Outside the window in the deep channel, the whales hooted and honked in anatonal sound that made Rabban's skull resonate.The night before, his father had smiled wistfully, listening to the beasts.He'd stood with his son out on the split-log balcony, which was slick from anever-clinging mist.Gesturing out to the narrow fjords where dark shapes swam,Abulurd said, "Mating songs.They're in love."Rabban wanted to kill something. Fresh from hearing his father's refusal, he couldn't imagine how he shared aheritage from such people.He'd spent too long enduring the annoyances of thisworld; he'd tolerated the smothering attentions of his mother and father; he'ddespised how they had thrown away the grandeur they could have achieved, andthen allowed themselves to be content here.Rabban's blood began to boil.Knowing he could never sleep with the whale racket outside, he dressed andplodded down into the quiet great room.Orange embers in the cavernousfireplace lit the room as if the hearth were filled with lava.A few servantsshould be up, some cleaners in the back rooms, a cook in the kitchen preparingfor the day ahead.Abulurd never posted guards.Instead, the inhabitants of the main lodge slept with the quiet snores of theunambitious.Rabban hated it all.He gathered a warm garment, even deigned to take mittens, and crept outside.Hetrudged down rugged steps to the waterline, the docks, and the fishing shed.The cold condensed a frost from the mist in the air.Inside the dank and reeking shed, he found what he wanted: worn, jag-tippedvibro-spears for hunting fish.Certainly sufficient to kill a few fur whales.He could have brought along heavier weaponry, but that would have taken away allthe sport.Drifting in the placid fjord, Bjondax whales crooned in unison; their songsresonated like belches from the cliff walls.Gloomy clouds muffled thestarlight, but an eerie illumination shone down so that Rabban could see what hewas doing.He untied one of the medium-sized boats from the dock -- small enough that hecould handle it by himself, yet with a thick hull and sufficient mass towithstand being bumped by lovesick fur whales.He cast off and powered up thehumming motor, easing into the deep channel where the beasts splashed andplayed, singing foolishly to each other.The sleek forms drifted through thewater, surfacing, bellowing with their vibrating vocal membranes.Grasping the controls with a mittened hand, he guided his boat into deeperwaters and approached the pod of whales.They swam about, undisturbed by hispresence.Some even playfully collided with his craft.He looked into the dark water to see the adults spotted like leopards -- somewith mottled patches, others a creamy gold
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