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fluctuating temperatures and tides of sand, the local weather is dangerously unpredictable. Each of these poles has a signal beeper. As they bend and twist in the wind, the transmissions help us chart storms. Blowing grains etch lines into the waxy surfaces of the poles. Some natives claim they can read the patterns.” He shrugged. “I’ve never been able to see it myself, but their reports are as accurate as anything else we have.”
    One of the questing men on the far side of the basin plunged his pole into the sand and suddenly let out a loud yelp. He threw up his arms, wailing; his feet went out from under him as if a great mouth was trying to suck him down.
    The alarmed spice foreman stood where he was, feet planted safely on the more stable dune, but Tuek and Gurney sprinted toward the man. By the time they neared the spot, the hapless worker had already vanished beneath the powdery surface. Not even his fingers or a stirring of movement showed where he had been.
    Gurney grabbed Tuek’s shoulder and pulled him back. “Best stay far away, General! Maybe it’s another worm.”
    Tuek whirled to face William English, who walked grimly up to them, picking his footsteps carefully. “Sweet affection! Couldn’t you do anything to help him?”
    The desert man shook his head. “He was lost the moment he stepped on the wrong spot. Sand whirlpools appear in unpredictable places, sinkholes that spiral downward.”
    Hesitant to move, Tuek remained where he was for a minute, his jaw muscles working like a tiny imitation of a worm. “Gods! What kind of demon world is this?”
    4

Even in the most barren wasteland, a flower always grows. Recognize this, and learn to adapt to your surroundings.
—DR. BRYCE HAYNES,
planetary ecologist assigned to study Duneworld

    W ith her family balanced on the cusp of survival, Dorothy Mapes vowed that every moment on Duneworld and every action would count. “This is a serious planet that demands undivided attention,” she observed, gazing out the oval porthole as the Linkam transport ship cruised over the sea of dunes toward a line of stark, black mountains.
    Seated with Jesse on the starboard side of the transport, she saw his attention focused on a looming dust cloud that approached like an inexorable Catalan tide. Moments ago, he had said he was having second thoughts about this side excursion he had ordered the pilot to take after the cross-space journey, flying over the desert for a hundred kilometers instead of landing directly at Carthage. But he had wanted to see what the planet was like, showing his concubine and son where they were going to live for at least two years.
    Now she hoped it wasn’t a dangerous mistake.
    “I think we can beat that storm,” the pilot said. “I sure hope so, because we don’t have enough fuel to go back into orbit.”
    Jesse did not say anything, and neither did Dorothy. He squeezed her hand in a private way that imparted reassurance, telling her that he wouldn’t let anything happen to her, or to young Barri, who sat at another window, transfixed by the alien vistas outside. After more than a decade together, the nobleman and his concubine had ways of communicating through only a look or a touch. He ran a fingertip across her diagem promise ring.
    Though Jesse was the patriarch of the Noble House, Dorothy Mapes took care of important business details and family matters. She had once compared herself to the wife of an Old Earth samurai, with her access to and control over a great deal. She understood full well that the spousal analogy was only her wishful thinking. Because of the Empire’s strict and convoluted society, Jesse could never marry a commoner, no matter how deeply he cared for her and how essential she was to him.
    Dorothy was the mother of his son, the male heir to House Linkam. Although she taught the boy important skills, she also pampered him—too much, according to Jesse. The nobleman wanted Barri to face enough adversity to