Flatbed groundcars rolled up to the landed spice hauler, which steamed in Kolhar’s chill air. Cargo doors unfolded, and workers emerged with loads of packaged spice. The factory-ship reeked of melange, and Josef drew a deep breath. He used the stuff only occasionally; he didn’t need it, since he was invigorated enough by the skyrocketing profits from selling spice.

Draigo Roget walked down the ramp, scanning the crowd until he spotted the Directeur. A dark-haired man wearing a black outfit, the Mentat had the demeanor of a stealthy shadow; his darting eyes drank in more details than a normal human could absorb.

He stopped before Josef with a confident expression, forgoing pleasantries. “Directeur Venport, our operations on Arrakis are sound. I reviewed all records with Mentat focus and completed an audit more thorough than any Imperial inspector could conduct. There is no detectable link. As far as anyone can determine, there is no connection between Venport Holdings and Combined Mercantiles.”

“And spice production?” Josef asked. “Our priority is to fulfill the requirements of our Navigators first, and then sell any surplus melange to worlds that side with us against the Butlerians.”

Draigo showed no reaction. “You realize that the populations on many of the embargoed planets are addicted, Directeur?”

“Exactly, and if they simply renounce their support for the Half-Manford, they can resume interplanetary commerce. I’ll provide all the spice they like, but first they must choose. It’s a matter of priorities and allegiances.” He shook his head. “I thought this nonsense would be over long before now.”

The Mentat gave a cool, noncommittal nod. “It is difficult to overcome the legacy of thousands of years of machine oppression in a generation or two. We can’t underestimate the deep pain and horror some people experience when reminded of their enslavement.”

Josef shook his head. He still didn’t understand it.

From any other operative, he would have expected formal documents listing amounts of spice produced and shipped, and losses due to storms, sandworm attack, or sabotage. Draigo, however, simply recited everything from memory. As the flow of numbers continued, Josef held up a hand. “Highlights only, please. Others can attend to the minutiae later.”

Draigo shifted his report to a summary. “This hauler carries sufficient spice for the proto-Navigators currently undergoing metamorphosis, and it will supply many of the Navigators already in service. Forty-three percent of this shipment can be sold to other customers to generate profits for continued spice production.”

Josef led Draigo to the groundcar. “Come with me to the Navigator field. We’ll tell Norma.”

As he guided the humming groundcar away from the landing zone operations, Josef said, “As soon as Baridge or one of the other barbarian planets changes sides, a flood of others will follow suit. We just need one to set the process in motion. Nobody wants to be the first, but I’ll keep tempting them.” He frowned. “If I promise them spice as a reward, however, we have to make certain we actually have plentiful stockpiles of melange. I cannot renege on a promise.”

“I have already seen to that, Directeur. I diverted some profits into the construction and deployment of more spice-harvesting machines. Combined Mercantiles is hiring offworld crews and paying high wages. Our best workers come from the free people of the desert. They are well seasoned to work out in the deep dunes, but they are emotionally volatile, especially the young men. Some of them try to sabotage our equipment.”

“Why? Do they resent offworlders for some reason?”

“It is more a rite of passage, I believe.”

“Then it needs to be stopped. Arrest the saboteurs, bring them to justice, make them pay for the damage they cause.”

“They’re impossible to catch, Directeur. And even if we arrested and made an example of several young men, the other tribes would band together against us. We cannot afford that.” He paused, raising his dark eyebrows. “I have another suggestion.”

“A Mentat projection?”

“Just an idea.”

“I’m still interested.”

“Recruit them, sir. Get them to work for VenHold. I could disseminate word among the disaffected young people: If any of them wants an opportunity, we’ll take them away from the desert and show them the universe. What bored young Freeman from a backward desert village wouldn’t jump at the chance?”

“What use could we possibly have for uneducated nomadic primitives?”

“They’ve already proved their skill in sabotaging our equipment. We could train them and turn them loose aboard some of your competitors’ ships.”

“We already have saboteurs who have infiltrated EsconTran. That’s one reason their safety record is so abysmal,” Josef said.

“I believe that properly trained Freemen might be even more effective. And we need only to offer the right ones a chance to go offworld. They will become loyal to us.”

Josef brushed his fingers down his thick mustache. “Yes, my Mentat. I like that idea. Recruit some Freemen to add to our sabotage teams already at work.”

They reached the flatlands beyond the outskirts of the city. Weedy fields were dotted with plaz chambers in which Navigator volunteers spent their days saturated in spice while undergoing high-level mathematical instruction that only Navigators could comprehend. Though Norma Cenva often guided VenHold ships to continue her exploration of the universe, she could also fold space with her own mind without even needing Holtzman engines. No other Navigator came close to matching her abilities.

A monitor crew drained spice gas out of a plaz tank for recycling. Two hazard-suited workers climbed into the chamber to remove the body of a failed Navigator. The flaccid, distorted form flopped out onto a suspensor-borne stretcher. The body still twitched; the mouth hung slack; the eyes were gray, blind, covered with a caul. Josef preferred to retrieve these failures before they died, since their still-living brains could be sent off to his secret research facility on Denali. Even failed Navigator brains were highly useful for experiments.

Leaving the groundcar at the edge of the field, he and Draigo passed among the tanks. A remarkable number of candidates were undergoing the extreme physical and mental transformation. Josef didn’t know where all the volunteers came from, nor did he bother to ask. Even forcibly transformed Navigators — such as Royce Fayed — were grateful once the mysteries of the universe unfolded in front of them.

His great-grandmother’s tank rested on top of a small rise. Other VenHold workers, revering Norma Cenva, had built a structure that looked like a temple. Sensing their arrival, Norma drifted close to a curved plaz wall and peered out at them. Her appearance would have startled most people — hairless, with large eyes and an amphibious look — but Josef had known her like this all his life.

“A ship has brought spice, Grandmother — enough for all our current Navigators.”

Norma’s response was a long time coming, as if she had to adapt and customize her thoughts so that mere humans could understand. “I know. I saw it.”

“We hope to increase spice production to create many more Navigators. We also want more melange sales to entice those planets that refuse to accept civilization. It is our best leverage.”

“A terrible war. But critical for human civilization,” Norma said. “In spice visions I see truth. The Butlerian threat spreads like disease.”

“Don’t worry, we will defeat them,” Josef said.

“You will try. My prescience shows possible futures, but not always imminent events. Far from now, Butlerians will likely win. People will fear technology for millennia. Tyrants will change civilization. Worse tyrants will arise.”

Josef felt a hollowness in his heart. “We understand how important this conflict is, Grandmother. We are fighting for the soul of humanity, for the very future of our way of life. We will not give up.” He grew angry as he thought of the superstitious fools. “I will grind those barbarians under my heel.”