The Emperor takes such a large share of our spice, he bleeds us dry.” The Baron sniffed, then nearly sneezed from the damnable, ever-present dust in the air of Arrakis. “For all the hells House Harkonnen endures on this awful world, we should keep a larger percentage of it.”

“And after today we will, my Baron.” Piter de Vries gave him a smug smile. “Right under the noses of CHOAM inspectors.”

Twelve years earlier, when House Harkonnen had been accused of skimming melange and falsifying the total tonnage reported to the Imperium, armies of auditors and Mentat accountants had poured over the Baron’s records, but the inspectors had found no significant irregularities. He had kept his nose clean for some time, though he continued to search for ways to stockpile spice secretly. Finally, de Vries had proposed an ingenious and viable idea to hide extra spice in plain sight, and now he had successfully implemented the scheme.

The spice storage yard on the outskirts of Carthag was well guarded by Harkonnen troops and by scanner technology. Ten immense silos baked in the afternoon sunlight. Black attack ‘thopters flew sorties around the area, constantly looking for Fremen thieves who might be lurking out in the sands, waiting for any opportunity to raid Harkonnen supplies.

He and de Vries rode a lift up the outside of the largest new silo.

The lift came to a stop, and the Baron stepped out onto a high platform at the very top, from which he could survey the entire field. These silos held the spice stockpiles he was mandated to maintain, ready supplies to meet regular shipments to the Landsraad, the Guild, and CHOAM, as well as strategic reserves to guarantee the Emperor’s share. “All of the silos are constructed of the new stuff?”

De Vries wiped a hand over his red-stained lips and spoke with clear pride in his voice. “Every last container has been reconstructed, including the railings and the platform on which we stand, out of polymer infused with melange. Ten extra long tons of spice not on any inventory, hidden within the structure of the outpost itself. And because of the legal spice within the silos, melange readings are naturally everywhere. No scanners would ever notice the difference. Even the slight cinnamon odor is to be expected. This is, after all, a spice storage yard. We are hiding the spice in plain sight.”

The Baron passed a plump hand across a nearby safety rail, then licked his fingertips, but tasted nothing other than dust. “Ingenious, I am sure. But how are we to take this treasure with us, if it is molded into the structures themselves? CHOAM will notice if we dismantle and remove all of the silos.”

Piter made a dismissive gesture. “We have a polymer separation mechanism, my Lord. At any time, we can quietly extract and exchange the extra spice with inert filler material, take the spice where we wish, and bank the profits without paying the Emperor’s exorbitant taxes. We can siphon off a cup of hidden melange or tons of it, whenever we please.”

In an uncharacteristically jovial mood, the Baron patted the slender Mentat hard on the back. Casually, he reached into his jacket pocket and brought out a sweet melange cake. He tossed the wrapping off the edge and watched it flutter down, then strode back onto the lift as he chewed and swallowed.

De Vries hurried to follow. “Perhaps we should discuss the upcoming Atreides wedding a bit more? Since the death of his son, Viscount Moritani has grown rather extreme.”

When the lift reached the ground, the Baron marched off toward his waiting vehicle. “I confess he makes me uneasy, Piter. He is so… volatile. I am reluctant to be too closely tied with House Moritani. It’s like having a rabid pet.”

“You’re quite right to be concerned about him, my Lord.” De Vries smiled. “Nevertheless, I cannot deny that his urge toward violence works to our advantage now. Let me explain —”

The Baron held up a hand as he entered his cool, sealed groundcar. “I don’t want to know the details, Piter. None of them. I want only your assurance that I won’t be disappointed. Nor will I be implicated.”

“You have my promise on both counts, Baron. As a follow-up plan, I have already dispatched our own operatives, each of them carefully doctored to look like Grummans should they be discovered. We leave nothing to chance.”

The groundcar sped toward the Harkonnen keep, while the Baron ate another sweet spice cake. He wiped his sticky fingers on his dusty pant leg. “Our hands must be entirely clean. No mistakes.”

“None, my Lord. The Viscount is only too happy to claim responsibility. He seems to revel in the prospect of blood.”

“As do I, Piter. But I do it privately.”