Holtzmann invisibility project and most of their stock of mirrors— was a monumental setback to their economy.
Old Count Richese, surrounded by his tribe of children and grandchildren, went to the visitor’s gallery of the spaceport for the ceremonial function of greeting the supply ship crews. Four of his daughters and one grandson had been blinded in the falling rain of activated Richesian mirrors, and his nephew Haloa Rund had been killed on Korona itself. As members of the noble family of Richese, they would be among the first to receive help.
The Count was resplendent in thick robes of state, his chest weighted by dozens of medals (many of them handmade trinkets from his family). The old man raised both hands. “It is with deepest gratitude that we accept this assistance from my grandson Duke Leto Atreides. He is a fine nobleman, with a good heart. His mother always said so.” Ilban’s face creased with a maudlin smile of gratitude, and tears sparkled in his grief-reddened eyes.
Within hours, prefabricated distribution centers were set up, interlocked tentments built in court areas around Triad Center. Atreides soldiers worked to keep the crowds in line and performed triage to find the patients who needed help the most. From a rooftop garden spot where he would not be interrupted, Premier Calimar observed it all, avoiding contact with the relief forces.
Duke Leto was doing his best, and would be commended for it. But as far as Calimar was concerned, the Atreides had come too late to be treated as true saviors. The Tleilaxu had arrived first.
Very soon after the crowds had been burned and blinded by the debris, Tleilaxu organ merchants had descended on Richese, bringing shipments of artificial eyes. Though clearly opportunistic, the genetic wizards had been welcomed nonetheless, for they offered more than hope, more than consolation. They brought tangible cures.
Out of habit, Calimar pushed his gold spectacles up on his nose. He no longer needed the glasses, but their presence comforted him. He stared across the spaceport landing field to where Atreides troops unloaded supplies. He didn’t blink, merely drank in the details with his new metal Tleilaxu eyes….
There is much of ruin in everyday life. Even so, we need to see beyond the wreckage to the magnificence that once was.
— LADY SHANDO VERNIUS
Concealed with his men in the cool crevices of a rock formation, Liet-Kynes watched a flat salt pan through binoculars. Heat and bright light rippled off the powdery gypsum, creating mirages. He handed the binoculars to the Fremen beside him, then peered into the distance with his bare eyes.
At precisely the appointed time, a black ornithopter swooped out of the sky, flying so high they could not hear the whir of articulated wings until the last moment. The vessel landed in a cloud of stirred dust and sand. This time the vehicle had no egregious sandworm painted on the front.
Liet smiled tightly. Ailric has decided the Guild will play no more games. At least, not the obvious ones.
The ‘thopter engines whined to a stop, and Liet’s sharp eyes detected nothing out of the ordinary. He glanced at the desert men with him, and they all nodded.
After the front of the ‘thopter folded open and the ramp thumped onto the hard ground, Liet led his men out of concealment. They strode forward, brushing dust from their stillsuits and straightening their camouflaged robes. As before, four Fremen carried a heavy litter of spice, melange that had been processed and condensed from the ghanima, or spoils of war, captured during the raid on the Harkonnen stockpile at Bilar Camp.
They had met the Guild’s outrageous demands.
This time when the wheeled vehicle rolled down the ramp, the deformed representative wore a modified stillsuit— one that was of poor workmanship and not well fitted. The bottom of Ailric’s slick gray suit was loose, wrapped around his fused mass of lower-body flesh.
The Guildsman didn’t realize how ludicrous he looked in the outfit. Rolling closer to the Fremen, he acted as if he were an experienced man of the desert. Opening his face mask with a flourish, Ailric remarked in his synthesized voice, “I have been ordered to remain here on Arrakis for a time, since Heighliner travel has become increasingly… uncertain.”
Liet did not respond; Fremen tended to avoid pointless banter. Ailric shifted to a stiffer, more formal position. “I did not expect to see you again, half-Fremen. I thought you would choose a pureblood desert man to act as intermediary from now on.”