In the afternoon heat of Arrakis, the Zensunni nomads blindfolded Aurelius Venport by tying a stained rag over his eyes.

The desert people did not trust Tuk Keedair either and treated the Tlulaxa flesh merchant with matching indignity. Venport chose to allow this as part of his investment. It had taken them nearly five months of tedious travel with fitful starts and stops at various backwater planets just to get here. He would see it through.

“We march now,” Naib Dhartha said. “You may talk with each other, but it would be best to keep your conversation to a minimum. Wasted words are wasted moisture.”

Venport felt people all around him, guiding them forward. It took some getting used to, and he stumbled often as he lifted his feet higher than normal, probing the sandy surface. The ground was uneven, but gradually he became more adept at walking.

“What about the sandworms?” Keedair asked. “Do we not have to worry about—?”

“We are beyond the wormline,” Dhartha answered gruffly.

“The mountain ranges separate us from the great bled, where the demons dwell.”

“I am not convinced this is completely necessary,” Venport said as he trudged on.

Dhartha was firm, not accustomed to having his orders questioned. “It is necessary because I have said so. Never before has an outsider— not even one from this planet— seen our hidden communities. We do not offer maps.”

“Of course. I will comply with your rules,” Venport muttered. “As long as you intend to offer spice.”

Though the jungles of Rossak were rich with undiscovered pharmaceuticals and exotic hallucinogens, none seemed to provide the remarkable effects of melange. Venport felt the substance was well worth investigating, despite the distance he’d had to travel and the discomforts he had endured.

In the past several months, Venport had easily sold Keedair’s speculative shipment to curiosity seekers willing to pay an exorbitant price. Even though Venport had kept half of the profits, Tuk Keedair had still made a substantial sum, more than he could have obtained from a cargo of the highest quality slaves. Since he had not lost money for the year, he had not been obligated to cut off his treasured braid.

Venport tripped over something hard. He cursed and almost fell to his knees, but someone grabbed his arm and supported him.

“When your people brought melange to me one load at a time, it took forever to fill my cargo ship,” Keedair said, his voice several footsteps ahead.

Venport said, “Naib Dhartha, I hope we can develop a more efficient system in the future.” If not, they would just have to charge higher prices, but he was sure the market would be there.

After they had plodded for hours at a blind-man’s pace, the Zensunnis stopped. From the rustling, clanking noises, Venport guessed they were uncovering a camouflaged groundcar. “Sit,” said Naib Dhartha, “but do not remove your blindfolds.”

Fumbling, he and Keedair climbed into the vehicle, which moved off with a jouncing pace and a quietly puttering engine. After many kilometers, Venport eventually guessed from slightly cooler shadows that they must be approaching a line of mountains, heading into afternoon. There were ways to pinpoint the location of this isolated village, provided he wanted to go to such lengths. He could have sewn a tracking pulser into the fabric of his vest or the sole of a boot.

But at the moment Venport had other priorities. He had a feeling there was no way to circumvent the wishes of these hardy people, that they completely controlled those who visited them, even deciding who departed from the desert alive.

When they began to ascend a steep path, the groundcar slowed, and finally the Zensunni hid the vehicle again and made their blindfolded guests walk again. The nomads guided their guests step by step around boulders and broken rocks. Finally, Dhartha yanked off the blindfolds, revealing a dim cave entrance. The group stood just inside a tunnel. Venport blinked to adjust his vision to the dim light generated by flaming lamps mounted on the walls.

After being blindfolded for so long, it seemed that his hearing and sense of smell had grown more delicate and precise. Now, as he looked around the tunnel entrance, Venport detected signs of many inhabitants, the stink of unwashed bodies, the sounds of people stirring.

Taking them to chambers high inside a cliff wall, Dhartha fed the men a meal of crunchy bread served with a dab of honey and thin strips of dried meat marinated in a spicy sauce. Afterward, they listened to Zensunni music around low fires and told stories in a language that Venport did not know.

Later, the naib took the two impatient visitors out onto a rocky ledge that overlooked an endless sea of dunes. “I want to show you something,” he said, his lean face shadowed, the geometric tattoo on his cheek even darker than his skin. The men sat with their feet dangling over the edge. Keedair looked from Dhartha to Venport, eager to watch the negotiations.

The naib rang a little bell, and soon an old man came forward, his muscles sinewy, his face like leather. His hair was long and white, and he still had most of his teeth. Like all of the desert people, his eyes had turned a solid blue, which Venport believed indicated a deep melange addiction. Keedair’s own eyes had already taken on the eerie tint.

The elderly man held a tray containing dark wafers, cut perfectly square and covered with sticky syrup. He extended the delicacies to Venport, who took one. Keedair selected another, and Naib Dhartha a third. The gray-haired man remained standing beside them, watching.

From what Venport had seen, in this culture the women always served the men— an odd turnabout from the custom on Rossak. Perhaps elderly men here were also relegated to menial duties.

Venport studied the brown cake, then nibbled one corner. The meal he’d eaten earlier had been laced with significant amounts of melange, but this sample seemed to have even more of a kick than expected, exploding with rich cinnamon fire in his mouth. He took a substantial bite, felt the strength and well-being expand outward in his body.

“Delicious!” Without realizing it, he had gobbled most of the wafer.

“Fresh spice gathered from the open sands just this afternoon,” Dhartha said. “It is more potent than anything you have previously tasted in spice beer or food.”

“Most excellent,” Venport said, the possibilities filling his mind like unopened gifts. Keedair also consumed his cake and sighed in satisfaction.

Venport had a visceral intuition that the spice trade would prove profitable, and he expected to sell substantial quantities to the League nobles. To commence that enterprise, he planned to accompany Zufa Cenva on her next trip to Salusa Secundus. While she delivered her fiery lectures in the rebuilt Hall of Parliament, Venport would make contacts, dropping hints, distributing small samples. It would take time, but the demand would grow.

He held the last bite of his spice cake. “Is this what you meant to show us, Naib Dhartha?”

The tattooed leader reached up to clasp the old man’s thin but muscular arm. “This man is what I want you to see. His name is Abdel.” The naib bowed briefly, and the old man bowed in return, then gave a deeper bow to the two seated guests, now that he had been introduced. “Abdel, tell the visitors your age.”

The withered man spoke in a thin but strong voice. “I have watched the constellation of the Beetle cross Sentinel Rock three hundred and fourteen times.”

Confused, Venport looked to Keedair, who shrugged. Naib Dhartha explained. “A tiny asterism in our sky. It drifts back and forth with the seasons and crosses a thin spire of rock near the horizon. We use it as a calendar.”

“Back and forth,” Keedair said. “You mean twice each year?”

The naib nodded.

Venport did quick mental calculations. “He is saying he’s a hundred and fifty-seven years old.”

“Close,” Dhartha said. “Children do not start to watch and count until they have passed the age of three years, so technically that would make him one hundred and sixty standard years. Abdel has consumed melange all his life. Notice how healthy he remains . . . with bright eyes and a sharp mind. He will probably live for decades yet, provided he continues to consume a regular diet of spice.”

Venport was amazed. Everyone had heard stories of youth-prolonging drugs, of life-extension treatments that had been developed in the Old Empire and then forgotten when the decaying regime fell. Most of the stories were no more than legends. Yet if this old man was telling the truth . . .

“Do you have any proof of this?” Keedair asked.

A flicker of anger washed across the naib’s lean face. “I offer you my word. No additional proof is required.”

Venport gestured for Keedair not to press the issue. The way he felt from the melange coursing through his system, he could well believe the claims. “We will run tests of our own to make certain there are no side effects other than a blue tinting of the eyes. Melange may be a product I can add to my catalog of goods. Would you be able to provide sufficient quantities for commercial purposes?”

With a nod, the desert leader said, “The potential is vast.”

Now only the details of the business transaction remained. In part, Venport intended to offer something unusual as payment. Water? Or perhaps these nomads would barter for some of Norma’s glowglobes, to illuminate their shadowy caves and tunnels. In fact, the floating bulbs might be of more practical use to the Zensunni than League credits. He had some samples in his transport back at Arrakis City.

Reaching forward, he took the last cake from the tray that Abdel still held in his hands. Venport noticed that the old man held the platter motionless, without the slightest tremble in his fingers. Another good sign, which Tuk Keedair noticed as well. The business partners nodded to one another.