The mammoth factory was crushed and blasted to pieces, scattered like lost rags in a Coriolis storm.
“What the devil happened?” The Baron’s dark eyes went wide in disbelief at the sheer magnitude of the disaster. All that precious spice gone, swallowed in an instant. All the equipment destroyed. The loss in lives hardly occurred to him, except for the wasted costs of crew training.
“Hang on, m’Lord,” the pilot cried. His knuckles turned white on the controls.
A hammer-blast of wind struck them. The armored ornithopter turned end over end in the air, wings flailing. The engines whined and groaned, trying to maintain stability. Pellets of high-velocity sand struck the plaz windowports. Dust-clogged, the ’thopter’s motors made sick, coughing sounds. The craft lost altitude, dropping toward the seething maw of the desert.
The pilot shouted unintelligible words. The Baron clutched his crash restraints, saw the ground coming toward them like an inverted bootheel to squash an insect.
As head of House Harkonnen, he had always thought he would die by a treacherous assassin’s hand . . . but to fall prey to an unpredictable natural disaster instead— the Baron found it almost humorous.
As they plunged, he saw the sand open like a festering sore. The dust and raw melange were being sucked down, turned over by convection currents and chemical reactions. The rich spice vein of only moments before had turned into a leprous mouth ready to swallow them.
But the pilot, who had seemed weak and distractible during their flight, became rigid with concentration and determination. His fingers flew over sky rudder and engine throttle controls, working to ride the currents, switching flow from one motor to another to discharge dust strangulation in the air intakes.
Finally the ornithopter leveled off, steadied itself again, and cruised low over the dune plain. The pilot emitted an audible sigh of relief.
Where the great opening had been ripped into the layered sand, the Baron now saw glittering translucent shapes like maggots on a carcass: sandtrout, rushing toward the explosion. Soon giant worms would come, too. The monsters couldn’t possibly resist this.
Try as he might, the Baron couldn’t understand spice. Not at all.
The ’thopter gained altitude, taking them toward the spotters and the carryalls that had been caught unawares. They hadn’t been able to retrieve the spice factory and its precious cargo before the explosion, and he could blame no one for it— no one but himself. The Baron had given them explicit orders to remain out of reach.
“You just saved my life, pilot. What is your name?”
“Kryubi, sir.”
“All right, then, Kryubi— have you ever seen such a thing? What happened down there? What caused that explosion?”
The pilot took a deep breath. “I’ve heard the Fremen talking about something they call a . . . spice blow.” He seemed like a statue now, as if the terror had transformed him into something much stronger. “It happens in the deep desert, where few people can see.”
“Who cares what the Fremen say?” He curled his lip at the thought of the dirty, nomadic indigents of the great desert. “We’ve all heard of spice blows, but nobody’s ever actually seen one. Crazy superstitions.”
“Yes, but superstition usually has some kind of basis. They see many things out in the desert.” Now the Baron admired the man for his willingness to speak out, though Kryubi must know of his temper and vindictiveness. Perhaps it would be wise to promote him. . . .
“They say a spice blow is a chemical explosion,” Kryubi continued, “probably the result of a pre-spice mass beneath the sands.”
The Baron considered this; he couldn’t deny the evidence of his own eyes. One day maybe someone would understand the true nature of melange and be able to prevent disasters like this. So far, because the spice was seemingly inexhaustible to those willing to make the effort, no one had bothered with a detailed analysis. Why waste time on tests, when fortunes waited to be made? The Baron had a monopoly on Arrakis— but it was also a monopoly based on ignorance.
He gritted his teeth and knew that once they returned to Carthag he would be forced to blow off some steam, to release his pent-up tensions on “amusements,” perhaps a bit more vigorously than he had earlier intended. He would have to find a special candidate this time— not one of his regular lovers, but someone he would never have use for again. That would free him of restraint.
Looking down, he thought, No longer any need to hide this site from