Far beyond the League Worlds, thousands of uncharted settlements dotted the Unallied Planets, places where forgotten people eked out meager livings. A few raided villages would never be noticed out here.

By long tradition, good Tlulaxa flesh merchants did not frequently harvest the same world, preferring to surprise unsuspecting groups of captives, not giving them a chance to develop defenses. A resourceful slaver found new cradles of life, untapped resources.

Leaving his transport vessel in orbit, Tuk Keedair dispatched a cargo ship and fresh crew to the surface, along with sufficient credits to hire a few greedy locals. Then Keedair went down to the Arrakis City spaceport by himself to scout around before planning a raid on some of the local communities. He had to be careful when investigating new targets for slave raids, especially on this desolate world at the withered end of space.

The costs of getting here— fuel, food, ships, and crew— were extraordinarily high, not to mention the sheer voyage time and the expense of hauling slaves back in stasis pods. Keedair doubted that raiding Arrakis would prove cost-effective. No wonder people left this place alone.

Arrakis City clung like a scab to the ugly skin of the planet. Hovels and prefabricated dwellings had been established here long ago. The sparse population barely survived by servicing lost traders or exploration vessels, and selling supplies to fugitives from the law. Keedair suspected that anyone desperate enough to run this far must be in serious trouble indeed.

As he seated himself in the rundown spaceport bar, his triangular gold earring glinted in the dim illumination. His dark braid hung down at the left side of his head. Its length spoke of years spent garnering wealth, which he spent freely though not frivolously.

He surveyed the sullen locals, noted how they contrasted with a few loud and boisterous offworlders in one corner, rugged men who obviously had plenty of credits, but were disgruntled that Arrakis offered little opportunity for them to spend their money.

Keedair rested an arm across the scarred metal counter. The bartender was a lean man whose skin was a nest of wrinkles, as if all the moisture and body fat had been sapped away, leaving him shriveled like a raisin. A bald, liver-spotted scalp covered the top of his head like a torpedo casing.

Keedair hauled out his hard currency, League credits that were legal tender even on the Unallied Planets. “I feel good today. What’s your best drink?”

The bartender gave him a sour smile. “In mind for something exotic, are you? You think Arrakis might have something to quench your thirst, eh?”

Keedair began to lose patience. “Do I have to pay extra for the chat, or can I just have my drink? Your most expensive. What is it?”

The bartender laughed. “That would be water, sir. Water is the most valuable drink on Arrakis.”

The bartender named a price that was higher than Keedair would expect to pay for supercharged spacecraft fuel. “For water? I don’t think so.”

He looked around to see if the bartender was having a joke at his expense, but the other customers seemed to accept it. He’d assumed that the clear drinks in small glasses were colorless alcohol, but it really did seem to be water. He noticed an extravagant local merchant whose billowing, colorful clothes and gaudy ornamentation pegged him as a wealthy man. That one even had a few ice cubes floating in his glass.

“Ridiculous,” Keedair said. “I know when I’m being cheated.”

The bartender shook his bald head. “Water’s hard to come by around here, sir. I can sell you alcohol cheaper, because Arrakis natives don’t want anything that’ll dehydrate them further. And a man with too much strong drink in him can make mistakes. You don’t pay attention out in the desert and it’ll cost you your life.”

In the end, Keedair settled on a fermented substance called “spice beer,” potent and pungent with a strong cinnamon bite at the back of his throat. He found the drink exhilarating and ordered a second.

While he remained doubtful about the profitability of exploiting Arrakis for slaves, Keedair still felt like celebrating. The success of his run on Harmonthep four months earlier had given him enough credits to live for a year. After that raid, Keedair had hired a new team, never wanting to keep employees around for so long that they grew comfortable and complacent. That wasn’t the way a good Tlulaxa businessman managed his affairs. Keedair watched over his work, maintained the details himself, and put tidy profits in his own pockets.

He sipped his spice beer again and began to like it even more. “What’s in this stuff?” When none of the customers seemed interested in conversation, he directed his gaze back at the bartender. “Is this beer brewed here, or is it an import?”

“Made on Arrakis, sir.” When the bartender grinned, his wrinkles folded in upon themselves like a weird origami sculpture made of leather. “It’s brought in by the desert people, Zensunni nomads.”

Keedair’s attention perked up at the mention of the Buddislamic sect. “I’d heard there were a few bands living here in the wastelands. How can I find them?”

“Find them?” The bartender chuckled. “Nobody wants to look for them. Dirty, violent folk. They kill strangers.”

Keedair could hardly believe the answer. It took him two tries to formulate his question because the effects of the spice beer had caught him unawares, causing him to slur his words. “But Zensunni— I thought they were meek pacifists?”

The bartender emitted a dry cackle. “Some may be, but these aren’t afraid to shed blood to make their point, if you know what I mean.”

“Are they numerous?”

The bartender scoffed. “At most, we see only a dozen or two at a time. I’m surprised they’re not so inbred that every baby comes out a mutant.”

Keedair’s sharp-featured face fell, and he switched his braid to the other shoulder. His plans began to crumble. In addition to the expense of bringing his teams here to Arrakis, his raiders would have to scour the desert just to drag a few sand rats back to market. Keedair sighed and took a long drink of spice beer. Probably not worth the effort. He’d be better off hitting Harmonthep again, even if it made him look bad to other slavers.

“Course, there could be more of them than we realize,” the bartender said. “They all look the same wrapped up in desert clothes.”

As Keedair savored the liquor, a tingle went through his body, not quite euphoria, but a rush of well-being. Then an idea lit his mind. He was a businessman, after all, constantly on the lookout for opportunities. It didn’t matter where the merchandise came from.

“And what about this spice beer?” He tapped his nearly empty glass with a stubby fingernail. “Where do the Zensunnis find ingredients? Doesn’t seem to me that anything could grow out there at all.”

“Spice is a natural substance in the desert. You can find patches out in the dunes, exposed by the wind or spice blows. But monster sandworms live out there, and fierce storms that’ll kill you. Let the Zensunnis have the place, if you ask me. The nomads bring in loads of the stuff to Arrakis City, for bartering.”

Keedair considered taking samples of melange back to the League Worlds. Would there be a market for it on rich Salusa, or among the nobles on Poritrin? The substance certainly had an unusual effect on the body . . . soothing in a way he had never experienced before. If he could sell it, he might offset some of the cost of this exploration trip.

The bartender nodded toward the door. “I don’t get enough spice beer that I can sell to you as a middleman, but a band of nomads came in this morning. They’ll stay inside their tents during the heat of the day, but you’ll find them in the market in the evening, on the east end of the spaceport. They’ll sell you whatever they have. Just be sure they don’t cheat you.”

“Nobody cheats me,” Keedair said, revealing his sharp teeth in a cruel grin. He noticed, though, that his words came out alarmingly slurred.

He would have to let the spice beer wear off before he met with the Zensunni.

AWNINGS OF BROWN-AND-WHITE fabric offered patches of shade. The nomads sat by themselves, separated from the bustle of the spaceport. These Zensunnis had constructed tents and shelters from scavenged tarpaulins and cargo wrappings. Some of the fabrics appeared to be made from a different kind of polymer, an odd sort of plastic unlike anything Keedair had seen before.

The sun fell behind the barricade of mountains, leaving the sky awash with orange pastels and fire hues. A wind came in as the temperature dropped, bringing dust and stinging sand. The awnings flapped and rattled, but the nomads paid no heed, as if the noise were music to them.

Keedair approached them alone, still swaying slightly, though he felt clearer-headed after drinking only water for the rest of the afternoon . . . and paying the exorbitant price. Noticing him, two hopeful women went into their stores to haul out items for sale, spreading them on a flat tabletop. One man stood near them, his lean face tattooed with a geometric symbol, his eyes dark and suspicious.

Without saying a word, Keedair allowed the women to display their colorful cloths, along with odd-shaped rocks that had been scoured in sandstorms and a few laughably corroded items of long-forgotten technology that Keedair could never sell to even the most gullible and eccentric antique collector. He shook his head gruffly each time until the lean man— whom one of the women referred to as Naib Dhartha— said he had nothing else.

Keedair got to the point. “I’ve tasted spice beer. The man who sold it to me suggested I talk to you.”

“Spice beer,” Dhartha said. “Made from melange. Yes, it is obtainable.”

“How much can you deliver, and what would it cost me?”

The naib spread his hands and revealed a hint of a smile. “Everything is open to discussion. The price depends on the amount you desire. Enough for a month of personal use?”

“Why not a cargo ship full?” Keedair said, noting shock on the faces of the nomads.

Dhartha recovered himself quickly. “That will take time to gather. A month, maybe two.”

“I can wait— if we reach an agreement. I’ve come here with an empty vessel. I need to take something back with me.” He looked down at the scavenged objects and the wind-scoured art rocks. “And I certainly don’t want to carry anything like that. I’d be the laughingstock of the League.”

Despite a natural Tlulaxa interest in biological products, Keedair was not wedded to the business of slavery. He would go his own way and never return to the Thalim solar system, if necessary. Many of the Tlulaxa were religious fanatics anyway, and he grew tired of their dogma and politics. Drugs and drink would always be in demand, and if he could introduce something new and exotic, a drug the richest nobles had never tried, he might turn a handy profit.

“But first tell me exactly what melange is,” Keedair continued. “Where does it come from?”

Dhartha gestured to one of the women, who ducked under the sheltered overhang. A hot breeze picked up, and the polymer fabric flapped louder than before. The sun had settled toward the horizon, forcing him to squint as he looked in that direction. This prevented him from reading nuances in the desert man’s expression.

Within moments, the woman brought out small, steaming cups of a rich black liquid that smelled of pungent cinnamon spice. She served Keedair first, and he looked down, curious but skeptical.

“Coffee mixed with pure melange,” Dhartha said. “You will enjoy it.”

Keedair recalled how expensive water had been in the bar and decided that this nomad was investing in their conversation. He took a sip, cautious at first, but could think of no reason why the fellow might poison him. He tasted the hot coffee on his tongue and felt an electric sensation, a delicious taste that reminded him of the spice beer he still had in his system. He would need to be careful, or he would lose his business edge.

“We harvest melange out in the Tanzerouft, the deep desert where the demon sandworms go. It is very dangerous there. We lose many of our people, but the spice is precious.”

Keedair took another drink of coffee and had to stop himself from agreeing too readily. His assessment of the possibilities grew. Now, as the two men shifted positions, Keedair could look upon Dhartha’s lean face. The Naib’s eyes were not just dark; they were deep blue. Even the whites had taken on a strange indigo tinge. Most odd. He wondered if it could be an unusual defect caused by Zensunni inbreeding.

The desert man reached into one of his pockets and withdrew a small box, which he opened to display a compressed, flaky brown powder. He extended it toward Keedair, who stirred the contents with the tip of his little finger.

“Pure melange. Very potent. We use it in our beverages and meals back in the cave villages.”

Keedair touched the spice-speckled tip of his finger to his tongue. The melange was strong and exhilarating, yet soothing. He felt energetic and calm at the same time. His mind seemed sharper, not fuzzed the way excessive alcohol or drugs affected him. But he held back, not wishing to appear overly anxious.

“And if you consume melange over a long period of time,” Dhartha was saying, “it helps you retain your health, keeps you young.”

Keedair made no comment. He had heard similar claims about various “fountain of youth” substances. None of them, in his experience, had ever proven effective.

He snicked shut the cover of the small box and put it in his own pocket, though it had not been offered to him as a gift. He stood. “I will come back tomorrow. Then we shall talk more. I need to consider this matter.”

The desert naib grunted in affirmation.

Keedair walked toward his shuttle within the parking perimeter of the spaceport. His mind spun with preliminary calculations. His fellow slavers would be disappointed at not even attempting a raid, but Keedair would pay them the minimum required by contract. He needed to ponder the possibilities of this potent spice before discussing a price with the nomads. Arrakis was far, far from normal space trading routes. The idea excited him, but he wasn’t certain he could profitably export the exotic substance.

Realistically, he doubted if melange would ever be more than a mere curiosity.