I am a generous man, when my largesse is earned. But I see a difference between generosity to those who deserve it, and charity to those who would take advantage of my wealth.

—DIRECTEUR JOSEF VENPORT, standard response to donation request

Narrowing his blue eyes, Josef Venport regarded the nervous crew chiefs who waited to deliver their reports in the environmentally controlled conference room at VenHold’s headquarters on planet Arrakis. “Make no mistake. I will do whatever is necessary to protect my holdings.”

The directeur paced the room to burn off energy, attempting to keep his anger under control. His thick cinnamon hair was brushed back from his forehead, and he sported a bushy mustache above thin lips that rarely smiled. His heavy brows drew tighter as he looked at the managers. “My great-grandmother, Norma Cenva, sacrificed most of her space fleet, not to mention countless human lives, to defeat the thinking machines. Guarding my own business interests may not seem as dramatic, but I advise you not to test my resolve.”

“We have never doubted your resolve, sir,” said Lilik Arvo, overseer of the company spice-harvesting operations on Arrakis. His voice quavered. Arvo’s skin was tanned dark and leathery, like an old raisin. The other two men, section heads of production teams in the deep desert, flinched, also fearing Josef’s wrath. Only a dusty woman sitting at the back showed no fear. She scowled as she watched the proceedings.

“I did not want to come here in the first place,” Josef continued. “I prefer that these operations run independently, but if another company is stealing my spice—my spice!—I need to stop it. Immediately. I want to know who is behind the other harvesting operations here, who is funding them, and where the damn spice is going.”

Anyone who had worked his or her way to a position of authority in VenHold understood that when anyone failed Josef, he insisted on balancing the books. And if his overseers and administrators did not want to become targets of his wrath, they had better find a more appropriate recipient for punishment.

“Give us your instructions, sir, and we’ll take care of it,” said the woman in the conference room, whose dusty rags covered a well-fitted and maintained reclamation suit. “Whatever you need.” Among those here, she was the only one he considered competent. She was also the only one who didn’t like to be in the cool, humidified air.

The cracks and wrinkles around her eyes suggested age, though the desiccating desert environment, as well as the life-prolongation properties of melange, made any guess of age problematic. Her eyes were the eerie blue-within-blue that indicated constant spice consumption, even addiction.

Josef regarded her with satisfaction. “You know the situation, Ishanti. Tell us what you recommend.” He shot a withering glance at the crew chiefs who had made excuses rather than suggestions.

She shrugged. “It should not be too difficult to find a name or two.”

“But how?” said Arvo. “We have to find the poachers first. Their machinery is unmarked, and the desert is vast.”

“One simply needs to know where to look.” Ishanti smiled, without showing her teeth. She had rich brown hair bound in a colorful scarf. She wore two pendants of a typical Buddislamic design, no surprise since most of the sheltered deep-desert tribes were Zensunni, primarily refugees from slavers.

Though she held no formal position in Venport Holdings or its commercial subsidiary Combined Mercantiles, Josef paid her well for her useful services. Ishanti came from the deep desert, moving easily from isolated tribal caves to the spaceport and the surrounding settlements. She kept an eye on Venport’s spice-harvesting operations, traded with merchants in Arrakis City, and then vanished like a dust-devil into the dunes again. Josef had never tried to follow her, and he’d given the others strict instructions to let Ishanti have her privacy.

He addressed the listeners. “I want you all to send out messages. Spread bribes if you need to, dispatch spotters to search the desert. Combined Mercantiles will offer a large reward to any spice team that exposes an off-the-books operation out there. I will not leave this planet until I have answers.” His eyebrows drew together. “And I do not want to remain here long.”

Ishanti smiled at him again, and Josef wondered what standards of beauty the Zensunnis used out here. Was she trying to flirt with him? He didn’t find the hard-bitten desert woman attractive at all, but he did respect her skills. He had his own wife to get back to on Kolhar, an intelligent Sisterhood-trained woman named Cioba—the only person he trusted to watch the conglomerated VenHold business operations while he was away.

“We’ll make your stay as short as possible, sir,” Arvo said. “I’ll get on it right away.” In truth, Josef put more stock in Ishanti.

He lectured them all. “My ancestor, Aurelius Venport, saw the potential in spice-harvesting operations and risked much, invested much, to make it profitable.” He leaned forward. “My family has generations of blood and money on this planet, and I refuse to let any upstart competitor dance on the foundation the Venports have laid. Thieves must be dealt with.” He drank from his tall glass of cool water, and the others gratefully did the same. He would have preferred to be drinking a triumphant toast, but that was premature.

*   *   *

JOSEF SEALED HIMSELF in private quarters in Arrakis City, ate the food that was brought to him without noticing it, and pored over his business records. Cioba had already prepared a summary of the most vital matters relating to the company’s numerous investments, and she appended a personal note about the progress of their two young daughters, Sabine and Candys, who were being trained on Rossak.

Over the past few generations, VenHold had grown so incredibly wealthy that Josef needed to split off their cargo-distribution arm and create a separate entity, Combined Mercantiles, which traded in melange from Arrakis as well as other high-value goods. He had also established numerous large financial institutions on important planets, where he could divest, invest, and hide VenHold’s profits. He did not want anyone—particularly the crazed antitechnology fanatics—to have an inkling of how much power and influence he really possessed. But among the numerous threats and challenges that he faced, the short-sighted Butlerian barbarians were invariably at or near the top of his list. They routinely destroyed perfectly viable derelict robot ships that could have been incorporated into the VenHold Spacing Fleet.

As soon as he returned to Kolhar, he had much work to do. He was also expected on Salusa Secundus soon for an important Landsraad meeting. But he couldn’t leave Arrakis until he had resolved a certain problem.…

Ishanti had indeed located a competitor’s illegal spice-harvesting operation out in the isolated desert. (Josef couldn’t understand why his better-equipped scout flyers had been unable to find anything.) By the time Lilik Arvo sent a response team to the location, the poachers had escaped. Nevertheless, Arvo intercepted a small cargo ship before it could leave the planet. The hold was filled with contraband melange. Josef had, of course, confiscated the cargo and added it to his own supplies.

VenHold engineers scoured the unmarked craft, analyzed component serial numbers, and found indications that it belonged to Celestial Transport. That did not make Josef happy. Arjen Gates was once again meddling where he did not belong.

CT was Josef’s only real competition in the space-transportation industry, and he did not look kindly on that intrusion. From secret information he had obtained (at great cost), he knew that Celestial Transport lost up to one percent of its vessels—a ridiculously high failure rate. But it was caveat emptor. For choosing a low price and unreliable transportation, the CT passengers and shippers got what they deserved.…

Arvo and Ishanti came to Josef’s private rooms, escorting a bound and gagged man dressed in an unmarked flight suit. Arvo looked pleased with himself, as if he took credit for the operation. “This man was the only person aboard the black-market ship. We’ll get to the bottom of this, sir, but so far he refuses to talk.”

Josef raised his thick eyebrows. “He needs to be encouraged, then.” He turned to the captive, who perspired heavily. Wasting water, as the desert people would think of it. “Who is in charge of your operations here on Arrakis? I would like to speak with that person.”

When Ishanti removed the captive’s gag, the man folded his lips in distaste. “This is a free planet. You have no more rights to melange than anyone else does. Hundreds of operations worked on Arrakis during the plagues. The spice is just there for us to harvest off the ground! We made our own investment. Our work doesn’t interfere with your trade.”

“It is my spice.” Josef didn’t raise his voice, but the anger behind it roiled like a building thunderstorm. He made a dismissive gesture. “Ishanti, learn what you can from him. It’s well within your talents. In fact, you can keep his water as the price of your service.”

Now Ishanti smiled enough to show teeth, and she partially drew the milky-white dagger at her waist. “Thank you, sir.” She placed the gag back on the captive’s mouth, muffling his protestations, and led the struggling man away.