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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 Before long, we'll make up for the loss of those outdated ships and obsolete Navigators. Have no fear. After so many years of bondage to a single substance, the Guild is making a good business decision."
"Thanks to your partners from Ix," Khrone pointed out.
"Yes, thanks to Ix."
Following a lull, the noise of the shipyards became very loud. Welders went to work, and heavy machinery lifted curved components into place. A cargo hauler half a kilometer wide brought in two sets of Holtzman engines. The men continued to watch the magnificent activities for a long time in silence. None of them even looked again at the pathetic dead Navigator in his tank.
Humanity has many profound beliefs. Chief among them is the concept of Home.
--Bene Gesserit Archives,
Analyses of Motivating Factors
The next time Edrik's Heighliner went to Buzzell on a run, the vessel left the planet carrying something vastly more important than soostones.
Hidden on the sealed laboratory decks was a package of the uniquely powerful substance extracted from the slaughtered seaworm's strange, dense organ. With extravagant optimism, Waff had named it "ultraspice." Tests proved that the potency went beyond that of any spice ever recorded. This remarkable substance would change everything for the Navigator faction.
The Tleilaxu Master also understood the importance of his achievement, and meant to use it to his advantage. Without being summoned, he pushed past Guild security forces and made his way to the restricted levels reserved for the Navigator. Officiously ignoring all challenges, Waff opened thick doors until he stood before the plaz-walled tank that held Edrik in his expensive bath of spice gas. Having succeeded in restoring at least one breed of worms, Waff was no longer a sycophant. He could make brash demands of his own.
Waff's shortened ghola life span didn't give him much time to meet his critical goals, thus making him increasingly desperate. He was already well past his physical prime, and now his body was in a rapid plunge to degeneration and death. He probably had no more than a year or so left.
Full of rigid defiance, Waff stood before Edrik's tank and said, "Now that my altered seaworms are capable of creating spice in a form accessible by Guild Navigators, I want you to take me to Rakis." He no longer had anything to lose, and everything to gamble. He crossed his thin arms over his chest in triumph.
Swimming slowly, Edrik drifted close to the plaz wall. The swirls of orange gas were hypnotic. "The new melange has not been proved in practice."
"No matter. Its chemistry has been proved."
Edrik's voice grew louder through the speakers. "I am troubled. In its original form, melange has complexities that cannot be revealed in any laboratory analysis."
"You worry unnecessarily," Waff said. "Seaworm spice is more potent than anything you have ever consumed. Try it yourself, if you do not believe me."
"You are in no position to make demands."
"No one else could have accomplished what I did. Buzzell will be your new source of melange. Seaworm hunters will harvest more ultraspice than you can possibly use, and Navigators will no longer be dependent upon the Bene Gesserit witches or the black market. Even if the Sisters decide to harvest the seaworms and try to create another monopoly, you can ignore them. By changing the worms, instead of the planet, we can place them anywhere. I have given you the road to freedom."
Waff snorted, raised his voice. "Now I demand my payment."
"We kept you alive after the Honored Matres were overthrown on Tleilax. Is that not sufficient compensation?"
With a conciliatory sigh, the Tleilaxu ghola held his hands out. "What I ask will cost you little and gain you much honor, a blessing from God."
The Navigator wore a look of displeasure on his distorted face. "What do you desire, little man?"
"I repeat: Take me to Rakis."
"Absurd. The world is dead." Edrik's words were flat.
"Rakis is where my last body perished, so consider it a pilgrimage." He continued in a rush, saying more than he had intended. "In my laboratory I created more small worms from the remaining sandtrout specimens. I have strengthened them, made them capable of surviving in the harshest environment. I can repopulate Rakis and bring back the Prophet--" He abruptly fell silent.
At the first rumors that the seaworms were thriving, Waff had turned his efforts to the last few sandtrout in his original stock. Sculpting worm chromosomes for survival in a comfortable ocean environment had been a challenge; much more difficult, though, was the task of toughening the monsters to survive out in the blasted wastelands of Rakis. But Waff did not turn his back on difficulty. All along, his goal had been to bring the sandworms back where they belonged. God's Messenger must return to Dune.
He studied Edrik, who stroked with webbed hands as he considered the request. "Our Oracle recently sent us a message, calling upon Navigators to leave the Guild and join her in a great battle. That must be my priority now."
"I implore you, take me to Rakis." As if to remind Waff of his imminent mortality, a twinge of pain shot through his chest and down his spine. He needed all his effort not to show the anguish of dying, the misery of failure. He had so little time remaining. "Is that so much to ask? Grant me this one favor at the end of my life."
"That is all you wish to do? Die there?"
"I will spend my last energies on my sandworm specimens. Perhaps there is a way of reintroducing them to Rakis and regenerating the ecological systems. Think of it: If I succeed, you will have yet another source of melange."
"You will not be pleased with what you find there. Even with moisture recycling, shelters, and equipment, survi
val on Rakis is more difficult than it has ever been. Your expectations are unrealistic. Nothing useful remains."
Waff tried unsuccessfully to keep desperation out of his voice. "Rakis is my home, my spiritual compass."
Edrik thought it over, then said, "I can fold space to Rakis, but I cannot promise to return. The Oracle has called me."
"I will remain there as long as necessary. God will provide for me."
Waff rushed back to his private research levels. Intending to stay on the desert planet, undoubtedly for the rest of his life, he requisitioned all the supplies and equipment he might need for years, allowing him to be entirely self-sufficient on that bleak and lifeless world. After placing the order, he looked at his tanks where the new armored sandworms writhed, eager to be released.
Rakis . . . Dune . . . was his destiny. He felt in his heart that God had summoned him there, and if Waff perished on the planet . . . then so be it. He felt a warm, soothing wave of contentment. He understood his place in the universe.
THE BLACKENED, FAINTLY coppery ball appeared in the Heighliner's private viewing plates. Waff had been so anxious gathering his things that he hadn't even felt the activation of the Holtzman engines, the folding of space.
