He arrived at the headquarters of Combined Mercantiles and saw that a veritable army of guards was stationed outside. Mercenary troops huddled in sealed pillbox turrets, alert for bandits or, more likely, a move by Imperial forces.
He was glad to see the security. He chose only his most trusted administrators to run the spice operations. Before the crisis had forced him to reassign his Mentat to more pressing matters, Draigo Roget had been in charge here, a model of efficiency. Josef felt another flash of anger over how dramatically the situation had changed. If only Salvador had left well enough alone and focused his efforts against the Butlerians!
After passing through all the layers of security, Josef was wryly amused to watch Norma Cenva’s tank simply appear in the meeting chamber with a rush of displaced air.
The two Mentat administrators, Rogin and Tomkir, had begun their training under Gilbertus Albans and then transitioned to final instruction under Draigo Roget. The two men were around the same age, though Tomkir’s skin was much darker, and Rogin’s complexion had been ravaged by the pockmarks of disease. They had already assembled summary data for him to peruse.
The third man in the meeting room looked furtive and out of place. He was thin and dirty, as if he had been left in the sun to dry out from a storm, and he regarded Norma’s tank with superstitious horror.
Josef knew about the desert people on Arrakis, tribes that haughtily called themselves the “Freemen,” although their freedom on this dry, bleak world seemed more miserable than the civilized slavery from which they had escaped more than a century ago. Yet he knew the desert wanderers had been useful before, and he expected that Rogin and Tomkir had enlisted this man for the important new stockpile project.
Tomkir indicated the desert man. “Modoc here was about to depart after delivering his report, Directeur, but we prevented him from doing so. We thought you would like to meet him.”
Rogin interjected, “Thanks to Modoc’s tribe, we will have an established, secure location that we can repurpose for the facility you requested.”
The desert man shrank away from Norma’s mutated, naked body drifting in the spice gases. “You captured a demon?” He looked up with his unnaturally blue eyes, caused by a lifetime of spice ingestion. “Are we safe from it?”
“She is my great-grandmother,” Josef said. “Her mind can encompass the entire universe in ways that your desert gods could never comprehend.”
Modoc took a tentative step forward, fascinated. “I always laughed at my brother Taref for imagining so many fantastical things. I didn’t believe him.”
Josef raised his eyebrows. “You are from Taref’s tribe?” He remembered the desert operative he had trained, and trusted — for a time. Until the man had simply abandoned his responsibilities and walked away.
Modoc lifted his chin, gazed at him with irritation. “I am the Naib of my sietch, and yes, Taref was cast out. He was worthless, of no more use to my people.”
“He was of no use to me, either,” Josef muttered. He remembered that the man’s guilt and silly superstitions had driven him mad, and he had wandered off into the desert. “Taref told us you had no interest in civilization or spice production, and that it was futile to negotiate with you.”
With a shake of his head, Modoc said, “That was when my father served as Naib, but thanks to his recent and fortuitous death, I am the leader now. And your representatives here”—he nodded toward the two Mentat administrators—“offered our tribe an extraordinary amount of your foreign money … money that allows us to obtain certain things.”
Rogin said, “We bought their sietch outright, Directeur — an entire cave city in the deep desert. They have kept it hidden and secure for generations. It will make a perfect protected location.” The Mentats were careful not to explain what exactly Josef intended to do with this place.
“That doesn’t sound like a bargain the Freemen would make. Abandoning their sietch for any amount of money?” He looked at the desert man. “Where will you go?”
Modoc merely shrugged. “The desert has countless hiding places, and we know where to find them. Our scouts discovered another network of caves even farther out in the Tanzerouft, so we will move there. We can build a new sietch, outfit the caves, install moisture seals. Our tribe will live as before, but now we will also have great wealth.” He spread his callused hands on the clean metal table and smiled. “As Naib, I made the most pragmatic decision.”
From inside her tank, Norma said, “Prepare Modoc’s sietch quickly. Fill it with spice for my Navigators. A large stockpile is necessary for our security.” Her inhuman voice startled them.
Josef flashed a surprised look at Norma. He had not intended to reveal to this desert man that the facility would be a spice bank. “We have not yet determined what we will put inside the storehouse.”
“Spice for my Navigators,” Norma said. “Enough to last for years.”
The Freeman faced her, strangely delighted to hear the mutated woman speak from the tank. “My tribe is already preparing to move out, and we will leave our old caves for you. I will guide your representatives there. You’ll be satisfied, I promise. You can store all the spice you like.”
Josef hardened his voice. “I did not say what the sietch will be used for.”
Modoc narrowed his eyes in a cagy expression. “Come now, Directeur. Such a secure facility would only be used to store something of great value. On Arrakis, that means either spice or water, and since I know you offworlders do not place the proper value on water, then I assume you would fill my sietch with spice, just like the many spice silos and guarded vaults you already have.” He grinned, looking flippant. “But my people can go out into the desert and glean whatever spice we need for ourselves, and with your money, we can purchase all the water we desire.”
Josef grumbled, wondering what it would take to buy this man’s silence. He even considered killing him.
Yet if Josef drove out the Imperial guardians that Roderick had left here, and placed enough VenHold security around the planet, as well as around the spice bank, no one would be able to threaten it. He wasn’t worried about a few bandits and black marketeers.
Modoc continued, annoyingly persistent. “So much melange! My sietch is large and spacious, Directeur. How will you ever get all that spice?”
Tomkir said, “We are running feasibility studies. The amount of spice the facility would hold is indeed beyond our present production capabilities.”
Josef announced, “Then we acquire spice in other ways. Increase our raids on Imperial ships and spice silos, seize any available melange in Arrakis City and in desert outposts. Divert part of our exports to the stockpile and blame the shorter supply on the present turmoil in the Imperium, which will also drive up prices. Our spice bank will be complete in no time.” Grinning, he turned back to the tank. “Grandmother, we will then be safe against any crisis that cuts off our supply.”
Modoc looked perplexed and amused. “Like my brother Taref, I do not understand offworlder foolishness. What is the point of hoarding spice in an empty sietch, when one can simply go out into the desert and gather more? There will always be spice.”
Josef’s respect for the desert man diminished. “I have encountered enough obstacles that I no longer believe in the concept of infinite resources.”