we must do everything in our power to assure that we succeed.”
He turned and led the Swordmaster and the Mentat out of the kitchens, back to where they could continue their work.
Survival demands vigor and fitness, and an understanding of limitations. You must learn what your world asks of you, what it needs of you. Each organism plays its part in keeping the ecosystem operational. Each has its niche.
— IMPERIAL PLANETOLOGIST LIET-KYNES
Though it was the primary headquarters of the Spacing Guild, Junction was not a world where any visitor would choose to live.
“I don’t know how much more of this waiting I can take,” Rhombur groused. “I want to be on Ix!”
Restricted to a passenger-recreation area that was far from the majestic Heighliner yards and maintenance docks, he and Gurney Halleck walked along a barren blakgras field. Rhombur thought it must be the site of an out-of-session Navigator school, but no one would answer any questions. The midday sun cast dim, murky light.
Despite repeated pleas and attempted bribes, the two would-be infiltrators had been unable to send a message to Caladan. The Guild had completely isolated all passengers from the lost Heighliner, kept them prisoners here on Junction, as if trying to bottle the news of the troubled ship and the dead Navigator. In all likelihood, Duke Leto knew nothing about it. By now, he must assume that both of his operatives were inside Ix, already rallying the disenchanted populace. House Atreides was counting on them.
But unless Rhombur could accomplish something soon, that assumption could be a serious danger to Atreides forces.
With his mental turmoil, the cyborg Prince’s stride was jerky. Gurney could hear the clicking of the mechanical parts. Hundreds of other passengers from the rescued Heighliner milled about on the blackgras grounds; now that they were safe, the stranded travelers grumbled with a steady stream of complaints, infuriated at the inconvenience. Junction was escape-proof: They could not get off the planet until the Guild took them.
“ ’One comes to know God only through patience,’ ” Gurney quoted, a passage his mother used to read from the Orange Catholic Bible. “They have no reason to hold us much longer. The investigation must be almost concluded.”
“What do they expect to learn from isolated passengers? Why won’t they let us contact Leto? Damn them!” Rhombur lowered his voice.
“If you could send a message, would you tell the Duke to delay the strike?” he asked, already knowing Rhombur’s answer.
“Never, Gurney. Never.” He stared across the bleak field. “But I do want to be there when it happens. We have to make this work.”
Though the Prince had been an unacknowledged hero of the Heighliner disaster, Guild representatives now treated the two men as ordinary, waylaid human cargo, to be transferred to another ship that would take them to their previously guaranteed destination (presumably with their camouflaged combat pod intact). For a full month they had been held on the austere world, interrogated about every event, every moment, on the lost Heighliner. The Guild seemed very concerned about the origin of the poisoned melange, but Rhombur and Gurney had no more answers to give.
As a small display of protest, the two men refused to shave; Gurney’s beard was pale and patchy over his inkvine scar, while the Ixian Prince’s was thicker and a little longer on the fleshy side of his face, which gave him bragging rights.
The gray, bulge-shaped building that housed the visitors contained a curious mixture of metal-barred cells, offices, and studio apartments. Surveillance comeyes were everywhere in various states of concealment. Guildsmen watched the passengers constantly.
All of the buildings in this zone looked ancient, showing evidence of numerous repairs and alterations. With no ornamentation whatsoever, the structures were designed for function and practicality.
Through hidden speakers, a droning voice seemed to come from everywhere at once. “All passengers are hereby released. Proceed to the central processing terminal to arrange for transport to your original destination.” After a pause, the voice added an afterthought, as if from a script, “We are sorry to have inconvenienced you.”
“I’ll make certain our combat pod gets loaded, if I have to carry it on my own shoulders,” Gurney said.
“I might be better equipped for such labors, my friend— if it comes to that.” Rhombur took powerful mechanical strides toward the central processing terminal, ready to go back home, back to the battleground, at last.
The War for Ix was about to begin.
The Tleilaxu are vile creatures who crawled from the darkest depths of the gene pool. We know