Under the sun of Thalim, the Bene Tleilax closed off their worlds to outsiders, but allowed select representatives to land in specific quarantined areas, which had been swept clean of sacred objects. As soon as Thufir Hawat departed, the Tleilaxu would disinfect every surface he had touched.

The main city of Bandalong was fifty kilometers from the spaceport complex, across a plain that showed no roads or rail lines. As the shuttle descended through the carnelian daytime sky, Hawat studied the huge sprawl and guessed that Bandalong contained millions of people. But the Mentat, an outsider, could never go there. He would attend to his business in one of the approved buildings at the spaceport proper. And then he would return to Caladan.

Hawat was one of a dozen passengers aboard the descending craft, half of whom were Tleilaxu; the others appeared to be businessmen coming to purchase biological products such as new eyes, healthy organs, twisted Mentats, or even a ghola, as Hawat had been commanded to do.

When he stepped out onto the platform, a gray-skinned man hurried to intercept him. “Thufir Hawat, Mentat to

the Atreides?” The gnomish man flashed sharp teeth when he smiled. “I am Wykk. Come this way.”

Without offering a handshake or awaiting a response, Wykk curtly led Hawat down a spiraling walkway to a subterranean watercourse, where they boarded an automated boat. Standing on deck, they grasped handrails as the craft sped across the muddy water, leaving a considerable wake behind them.

After disembarking, Hawat ducked to follow his guide into a seedy lobby in one of the spaceport’s perimeter buildings. Three Tleilaxu men stood talking; others hurried across the lobby. He saw no women anywhere.

A robo delivery machine— of Ixian manufacture?— clanked across the worn and scratched floor, came to a stop in front of Wykk. The Tleilaxu man removed a metal cylinder from a tray, handed it to the Mentat. “This is your room key. You must remain in the hotel.” Hawat noted hieroglyphics on the cylinder that he didn’t recognize, and a number in Imperial Galach.

“In one hour you will meet the Master here.” Wykk designated one of the doorways, through which an array of tables could be seen. “If you do not arrive for the meeting, we will send hunters to find you.”

Hawat stood stiff and formal, resplendent in his Atreides military regalia. “I will be punctual.”

His assigned quarters featured a sagging bed, stained sheets, and vermin droppings on the windowsills. With a handheld apparatus, Thufir scanned the room for bugging devices, but found none— which probably only meant they were too subtle for his scanner to detect, or of an esoteric construction.

He reported for his meeting ten minutes early and found the restaurant even filthier than the room: soiled tablecloths, dirty place settings, streaked glasses. A din of conversation filled the air in a language he didn’t understand. Every aspect of this place had been designed to make visitors feel unwelcome, to encourage them to leave as soon as possible.

Hawat intended to do just that.

Wykk emerged from behind a counter and led him to a table beside a wide plaz window. Another diminutive man already sat there, spooning lumpy soup into his mouth. Wearing a red jacket with billowing black pants and sandals, the man looked up without bothering to wipe away the food that dripped from his chin.

“Master Zaaf,” Wykk said, indicating a chair across the small table, “this is Thufir Hawat, a representative from the Atreides. Regarding our proposal.”

Hawat brushed crumbs from the chair before he sat at a table built too small for a man of his size. He did not allow himself to express any revulsion.

“Especially for our off-world guests, we have prepared a delicious slig chowder,” Zaaf said.

A mute serving slave arrived with a tureen, and ladled soup into a bowl. Another slave slopped bloody slabs onto plates in front of both men. No one bothered to identify the meat.

Always security-conscious, Hawat glanced around, saw no poison snoopers. His own defenses would have to be sufficient. “I am not particularly hungry, considering the difficult message I carry from my Duke.”

With powerful little hands, Master Zaaf set to work on a chunk of the rare steak, stuffing it into his mouth. He made rude noises as he ate, as if trying to offend Hawat.

Zaaf wiped a sleeve across his chin. With glittering black eyes, he glowered up at the much taller Mentat. “It is customary to share meals during such negotiations.” He traded his own plate and soup bowl for Hawat’s, and began again. “Eat, eat!”

Hawat used a knife to cut off a small piece of meat. He ate only as much as politeness required, and felt the implanted mist injector in his mouth doing its work with each bite. He swallowed, with difficulty.

“Trading plates is an old tradition,” Zaaf said, “our way of checking for poison. In this case you— as the guest— should have insisted on it, not me.”

“I will keep that in mind,” Hawat responded, then pressed on with his instructions. “We recently received an offer from the Tleilaxu to grow a ghola of my Duke’s son, who was killed in a terrible accident.” Hawat removed a folded document from his jacket pocket, passed it across the table, where it became stained with grease and blood. “Duke Atreides has asked me to inquire as to your terms in the matter.”

Zaaf only half glanced at the document, then set it aside to concentrate on his steak. He finished as much of the meal as he wanted to eat, then washed it all down with murky liquid from a cup. Grabbing the Atreides document, he rose to his feet. “Now that we have ascertained your interest, we will determine what we believe will be an acceptable price. Remain in your room, Thufir Hawat, and await our answer.”

He leaned close to the still-seated Mentat, and Hawat saw the purest hatred for the Atreides boiling behind the pupils. “Our services will not come cheap.”