Sandworms of Dune - Brian Herbert [73]
“Providing soostones is no longer easy for them either,” Gorus pointed out, “since sea monsters are destroying the shell beds and attacking their harvesters.”
Khrone listened intently. His own spies had brought back disturbing, but intriguing, reports about strange happenings on Buzzell, and a possible secret Navigator project centered there. He had demanded more information.
Khrone watched while jawlike machinery on a large crane pried open the pilot’s bay on the gigantic decommissioned Heighliner. Heavy suspensor lifters strained and groaned as they pulled out the Navigator’s thick-walled plaz tank. During the slow, clumsy extraction, the tank caught on the edge of the hole in the Heighliner’s structure. A hull plate broke off and spun downward, striking the side of the Heighliner and ricocheting with a shower of sparks, then tumbling until it finally slammed into the ground far below.
Wisps of orange spice gas escaped from the Navigator’s chamber, stray exhaust vapors leaking into the atmosphere. Only a decade or so ago, such a quantity of wasted spice gas would have been enough to buy an Imperial palace. Now the CHOAM representative and Administrator Gorus watched it dissipate without comment. Gorus spoke into a tiny microphone at his collar. “Deposit the tank in front of us. I wish to stare at it.”
The crane raised the thick-walled chamber, swung it away from the hulk of the Heighliner, and brought it over to the observation platform. Suspensors lowered the container gently to the copper-floored deck, where it settled with a distressingly heavy thump. Spice gas continued to vent from the chink in the thick plaz.
The melange vapors smelled strangely flat and metallic, telling Khrone that the Navigator had inhaled and exhaled them until very little spice potency remained. At a curt direction from the milky-eyed Administrator, silent Guild workers unsealed a cap on the tank, causing the remainder of the spice to blast out in a death rattle.
As the polluting gas drained, the murky clouds swirled and thinned, revealing a silhouetted form slumped inside. Khrone had seen Navigators before, of course, but this one was flaccid, gray-skinned, and very dead. The bulbous head and small eyes, webbed hands, soft amphibious-looking skin gave the thing the appearance of a large, misshapen fetus. Ardrae had died days earlier, starved for melange. Though the Guild now had plenty of spice in their stockpiles, Administrator Gorus had cut off the Navigators’ supplies some time ago.
“Behold, a dead Navigator. A sight few will ever see again.”
“How many still survive among your Guildships?” Khrone asked.
Gorus seemed evasive. “Among the ships still in our inventory, only thirteen Navigators remain alive. We are on a death watch for them.”
“What do you mean the ships ‘still in your inventory’?” the CHOAM man asked.
Gorus hesitated, then admitted, “There were some still flown by Navigators, vessels that we had not yet managed to equip with mathematical compilers. They have . . . how shall I say this? Over the past few months they have disappeared.”
“Disappeared? How many Heighliners? Each ship is hugely expensive!”
“I do not have precise numbers.”
The CHOAM man had a hard voice. “Give us your best estimate.”
“Five hundred, perhaps a thousand.”
“A thousand?”
At his side, the Mentat held his silence, but he appeared as upset and startled as the CHOAM representative.
Trying to demonstrate control over the situation, Gorus said in an almost dismissive tone, “When starved for spice, the Navigators grow desperate. It’s not surprising that they take irrational action.”
Khrone himself was concerned, but he didn’t show it. These disappearances sounded like a widespread conspiracy involving a Navigator faction, something he had not expected. “Do you have any idea where they might have gone?”
The Guild Administrator feigned nonchalance. “It doesn’t matter. They will run out of spice and die. Look at these shipyards and see how many vessels we are creating every day. Before long, we’ll make up