The confidential message came to the Residency at Arrakeen via a tortuous route from one Courier to another, Heighliner to Heighliner— as if Master Researcher Hidar Fen Ajidica wanted to delay delivering the news to Hasimir Fenring.

Very odd, since the Tleilaxu had already delayed for twenty years.

Eager to read the contents of the cylinder, already planning a series of punishments if Ajidica dared to make more excuses, Fenring scuttled to his private study dome on the rooftop level of the mansion.

What whining lies will that little gnome tell now?

Behind shimmering shield windows that dulled the harsh edges of sunlight, Fenring went through the tedious process of decoding the message, humming to himself all the while. The Courier cylinder had been genetically keyed to his touch alone, such a sophisticated technique that he wondered if the Tleilaxu were showing off their abilities for him. The little men were not incompetent . . . merely annoying. He expected the letter to be filled with further requests for laboratory materials, more empty promises.

Even decoded, the words made no sense— and Fenring saw that they were masked by a secondary encryption. He felt a flash of impatience, then spent ten more minutes stroking the words again.

As the true text finally emerged, Fenring stared with his overlarge eyes. He blinked twice, then read Ajidica’s note again. Astounding.

His guard chief Willowbrook appeared at the doorway, curious about the important delivery. He was aware of the Count’s frequent plots and secret work for Shaddam IV, but knew not to ask too many questions. “Would you like me to summon a light lunch, Master Fenring?”

“Go away,” Fenring said without looking over his shoulder, “or I will have you assigned to the Harkonnen headquarters in Carthag.”

Willowbrook left promptly.

Fenring sat back with the message in his hands, flash-memorized every word, and then destroyed the tough paper. He would very much enjoy relaying the news to the Emperor. At last. His thin lips curled in a smile.

Even before the death of Shaddam’s father, this plan had been set in motion. Now, after decades, that work had finally come to fruition.

“Count Fenring, we are pleased to report that the final sequence of development appears to meet our expectations. We are confident that Project Amal has succeeded, and the next round of rigorous tests will prove it. We expect to go into full-scale production within a few months.

“Soon, the Emperor will have his own inexpensive and inexhaustible supply of melange— a new monopoly that will place the great powers of the Imperium at his feet. All spice-harvesting operations on Arrakis will become irrelevant.”

Trying to suppress his satisfied grin, Fenring stepped to the window and gazed out onto the dusty streets of Arrakeen, at the impossible aridity and heat. In the masses of people, he picked out blue-uniformed Harkonnen troops, brightly-attired water merchants and grimy spice crews, haughty preachers and ragged beggars, an economy based solely on one commodity. Spice.

Soon, none of that would matter to anyone. Arrakis, and natural melange, would become an obsolete historical curiosity. No one would care about this desert planet anymore . . . and he could move on to other, more important things.

Fenring drew a long, deep breath. It would be good to get off this rock.