The desert night was silent and untroubled. The first moon had already set while the dimmer second moon hung above the horizon like a sleepy eye, yellow with weariness.

Little more than a shadow, Selim squatted on a boulder, watching the black honeycomb of caves above him. He didn’t know the villagers here, or their treasures— but Buddallah had guided him to this isolated place. The desert and all its inhabitants were part of Selim’s mysterious larger destiny, and he did not question— or bother to justify— his actions.

These people had little contact with Naib Dhartha’s tribe, yet like all of the struggling Zensunni inhabitants, they sent regular expeditions to Arrakis City to obtain necessary supplies. Even with sheltered agricultural methods and careful water conservation, no desert tribe could ever be entirely self-sufficient here.

And neither could he, despite his best efforts. Air-condensation devices in his two derelict botanical testing stations replenished Selim’s water. Abandoned storage caches provided most of the food he needed. But in the past year and a half, those ancient supplies had dwindled along with his powerpacks, and one of his tools had broken. He needed more stores to maintain his solitary existence.

God had given Selim many blessings, many advantages . . . but other necessities he must obtain for himself. He did not need to understand how all the pieces fit into Buddallah’s comprehensive plan. There must be a reason, and someday he would discover it.

For several days Selim had observed this outlying settlement, watching the movement of the natives. The women kept beehives just inside the cave mouths, where the buzzing insects could seek out small desert flowers that struggled in sheltered crannies. Selim’s mouth watered. He had tasted honey only once in his life, after Naib Dhartha had traded for a large pot of the sticky sweetener and had given each tribal member a small dab. The taste had been delicious, but taunting, reminding the poor Zensunnis of their dearth of luxuries.

As soon as Selim succeeded in his calling, whatever it was, he was sure he would have honey every day.

Although Selim needed some of the settlement’s supplies, he also wanted to make a statement here. Buddallah had shown him a new strength through independence and self-sufficiency, rather than blind adherence to ancient laws. He disliked the close-minded, rigid strictures of the Zensunnis. All Zensunnis. Selim might have been a contented, hardworking member of the community, if Naib Dhartha had not heeded Ebrahim’s false accusations and cast Selim out, supposedly to his death.

With an empty pack on his shoulders he crept forward; he had memorized the route and identified the cave in which the villagers kept their supplies, a place that was watched in the daylight, but poorly guarded at night. Confident in their isolation, the security of these villagers was lax. He would slip in, take what he needed and disappear, without hurting anyone. He would be a bandit. Selim Wormrider . . . Selim the outlaw.

Climbing silently up the steep slope, he found a rugged path that the people took whenever they went out to scavenge spice. Hand over hand, he ascended until he reached the balcony lip, then pulled himself up and squinted into the shadows.

As he had expected, the storage chamber was filled with packaged offworld food, no doubt purchased at a dear price back at the spaceport. Delicacies indeed, but why would true desert inhabitants need such things? Selim grinned. The villagers didn’t need everything here, so he was obliged to relieve them of certain extraneous luxuries. Selim would stuff his pack full of energy wafers, nutritional supplements.

Selim crammed food and spare power cells into his pack’s compartments. He also found seeds, vital botanical samples that he would use to set up a small greenhouse in one of the derelict testing stations. Fresh produce would be a marvelous addition to his diet.

From a workbench he grabbed a measuring tool and a sonic hammer designed for fracturing rock in specific patterns. This might be useful if he needed to make additional hideaways, perhaps by expanding natural caves in uninhabited outcroppings.

Poking into the soft compartments of his overburdened pack, Selim tried to find room for the two tools. He fumbled in the darkness and dropped the sonic hammer onto the stone floor. On impact, the device sent out a pulse that created a fracture in the floor of the cave, and reverberated like a cannon shot into the sleeping cliff village.

Startled, Selim gathered what he could, stuffing things into the pack with both hands. He swung it over his shoulder and lowered himself over the edge of the balcony. Already he heard suspicious shouts, curious questions. Glowsticks illuminated the cliff face, making the dark cave openings look like the eyes of a suddenly awakened demon.

Working his way down the rough path, he tried to move stealthily, but knocked small rocks loose. The stones pattered and ricocheted down the cliff.

Someone cast a beam of light in his direction, revealing the young man creeping down the path. Someone shouted. Soon the cave village was in an uproar. Men, women, and children rushed out, blinking sleep from their eyes, gesturing toward the thief, howling for him to stop.

Selim had no place to hide, and his heavy pack hindered him.

Zensunnis raced after him, climbing down ladders and stone steps cut into the rock. Terrified yet exhilarated, Selim put on a burst of speed and with a final leap reached the sand first and raced out onto the open plain. His heavy footsteps sank into the powdery surface, causing him to stumble along, with the desert nomads shouting after him. He kept running, hoping the men would hesitate if he went too far out onto the dunes. Yet they were bound to catch him soon, because of the weight he was carrying. It all depended on whether their righteous indignation would outweigh their fear of Shaitan.

Suddenly an idea dawned on him. Slowing his pace, Selim rummaged in his pack until he found the stolen sonic hammer. He knelt on the side of a dune, made sure the setting was at its maximum level, and raised the tool high. When he swung down, the explosion of sound reverberated like a depth charge, spraying sand upward in plumes.

The Zensunni villagers still came after him, yelling. Selim started running again and scrambled down a dune. He fell and tumbled, sliding with the sand, but he kept hold of the sonic hammer. Finally he came to halt between the dunes. Breathless, he rose to his knees and then to his feet, and slogged up to the next rounded crest. “Come, Old Crawler! I am calling you!”

He swung the hammer again like a wizened Buddislamic priest pounding a gong; on the next dune he struck a third time, sending out insistent signals. The men from the cliff city were close now, but he kept running farther into the open desert. They seemed to hesitate, and he distinguished fewer voices behind him.

Finally, Selim heard the hissing noise, the distant approach of a gigantic sandworm. His pursuers noticed it at the same time and shouted to each other, stumbling to an uncertain halt. All of them stared at the rippling wormsign in the moonlight, then raced at great speed back toward their cliff dwellings, as if the sight of the desert monster had put jets on their backs.

Grinning, knowing Buddallah would not let him be harmed, Selim squatted on the dunetop, frozen in place as he watched his pursuers disappear. The worm was approaching fast and would no doubt go after the tribal men, drawn to their panicked footfalls. If he remained perfectly still, the worm should pass him by.

But the thought of the monster devouring the men troubled him. They had chased him only to defend their dwellings. Selim didn’t want them to die because of him. That could not be part of Buddallah’s plan, but the moral challenge was.

As the worm neared, he dialed down the sonic hammer’s setting and pounded lightly, thump, thump, thump. Predictably, the worm turned toward him. Selim withdrew his equipment and crouched, in readiness.

Far off, only halfway to the refuge of their cave city, the Zensunni men turned to gape at him, and saw his figure profiled against moonlight. Selim stood tall as he faced the oncoming worm. . . .

MOUNTED HIGH ATOP the beast, Selim held his guiding staff and ropes, content that he had lost none of his booty and no one had been killed. He turned to see the amazed men out on the moonlit sands. They had seen him mount the sandworm demon, and now he rode off into the deep desert, controlling it.

“As further payment for what I have taken, I give you a story you can tell for years around evening campfires!” he called back at them. “I am Selim Wormrider!”

He was too far away for them to hear, but Selim didn’t care. This was only a time to plant seeds, not the time to reveal his identity. Hereafter, instead of reciting poetry and melancholy laments of ancestral wanderings, the villagers would talk about the lone man who could command sandworms.

Selim’s legend would continue to grow . . . like a verdant green tree sprouting in the middle of the barren sands, where it should not have been able to survive.