Dune_ House Atreides - Brian Herbert [4]
When the work leader tried to push his point, the Baron interrupted, “Captain, if you’re a nervous coward, you’re in the wrong profession and in the employ of the wrong House. Carry on.” He switched off the communicator and made a mental note to remove that man from his position as soon as possible.
Carryalls hovered above, ready to retrieve the spice harvester and its crew as soon as a worm appeared. But why was it taking so long for one to come? Worms always protected the spice.
Spice. He tasted the word in his thoughts and on his lips.
Veiled in superstition, the substance was an unknown quantity, a modern unicorn’s-horn. And Arrakis was inhospitable enough that no one had yet deciphered the origin of melange. In the vast canvas of the Imperium, no explorer or prospector had found melange on any other planet, nor had anyone succeeded in synthesizing a substitute, despite centuries of attempts. Since House Harkonnen held the planetary governorship of Arrakis, and therefore controlled all spice production, the Baron had no wish to see a substitute developed, or any other source found.
Expert desert crews located the spice, and the Imperium used it—but beyond that, the details didn’t concern him. There was always risk to spice workers, always the danger that a worm would attack too soon, that a carryall would malfunction, that a spice factory would not be lifted away in time. Unexpected sandstorms could come up with startling speed. The casualty rate and the equipment losses to House Harkonnen were appalling . . . but melange paid off nearly any cost in blood or money.
As the ornithopter circled in a steady, thrumming rhythm, the Baron studied the industrial spectacle below. Baking sun glinted off the spice factory’s dusty hull. Spotters continued to prowl the air, while groundcars cruised beneath them, taking samples.
Still no sign of a worm, and every moment allowed the crew to retrieve more spice.The workers would receive bonuses—except for that captain—and House Harkonnen would become richer. The records could be doctored later.
The Baron turned to the pilot. “Call our nearest base. Summon another carryall and another spice factory. This vein seems inexhaustible.” His voice trailed off. “If a worm hasn’t shown up by now, there just might be time. . . .”
The ground crew captain called back, broadcasting on a general frequency since the Baron had shut down his own receiver. “Sir, our probes indicate that the temperature is rising deep below—a dramatic spike! Something’s going on down there, a chemical reaction. And one of our ground-roving teams just broke into a swarming nest of sandtrout.”
The Baron growled, furious with the man for communicating on an unencrypted channel. What if CHOAM spies were listening? Besides, no one cared about sandtrout. The jellylike creatures deep beneath the sand were as irrelevant to him as flies swarming around a long-abandoned corpse.
He made a mental note to do more to this weakling captain than just remove him from the work crews and deny him a bonus. That gutless bastard was probably handpicked by Abulurd.
The Baron saw tiny figures of scouts tracking through the sands, running about like ants maddened with acid vapor. They rushed back to the main spice factory. One man leaped off his dirt-encrusted rover and scrambled toward the open door of the massive machine.
“What are those men doing? Are they abandoning their posts? Bring us down closer so I can see.”
The pilot tilted the ornithopter and descended like an ominous beetle toward the sand. Below, the men leaned over, coughing and retching as they tried to drag filters over their faces. Two stumbled on the shifting sand. Others were rapidly battening down the spice factory.
“Bring the carryall! Bring the carryall!” someone cried.
The spotters all reported in. “I see no wormsign.”
“Still