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heads of production teams in the deep desert, flinched, also fearing Josef’s wrath. Only a dusty woman sitting at the back showed no fear. She scowled as she watched the proceedings.
    “I did not want to come here in the first place,” Josef continued. “I prefer that these operations run independently, but if another company is stealing my spice— my spice! —I need to stop it. Immediately. I want to know who is behind the other harvesting operations here, who is funding them, and where the damn spice is going.”
    Anyone who had worked his or her way to a position of authority in VenHold understood that when anyone failed Josef, he insisted on balancing the books. And if his overseers and administrators did not want to become targets of his wrath, they had better find a more appropriate recipient for punishment.
    “Give us your instructions, sir, and we’ll take care of it,” said the woman in the conference room, whose dusty rags covered a well-fitted and maintained reclamation suit. “Whatever you need.” Among those here, she was the only one he considered competent. She was also the only one who didn’t like to be in the cool, humidified air.
    The cracks and wrinkles around her eyes suggested age, though the desiccating desert environment, as well as the life-prolongation properties of melange, made any guess of age problematic. Her eyes were the eerie blue-within-blue that indicated constant spice consumption, even addiction.
    Josef regarded her with satisfaction. “You know the situation, Ishanti. Tell us what you recommend.” He shot a withering glance at the crew chiefs who had made excuses rather than suggestions.
    She shrugged. “It should not be too difficult to find a name or two.”
    “But how?” said Arvo. “We have to find the poachers first. Their machinery is unmarked, and the desert is vast.”
    “One simply needs to know where to look.” Ishanti smiled, without showing her teeth. She had rich brown hair bound in a colorful scarf. She wore two pendants of a typical Buddislamic design, no surprise since most of the sheltered deep-desert tribes were Zensunni, primarily refugees from slavers.
    Though she held no formal position in Venport Holdings or its commercial subsidiary Combined Mercantiles, Josef paid her well for her useful services. Ishanti came from the deep desert, moving easily from isolated tribal caves to the spaceport and the surrounding settlements. She kept an eye on Venport’s spice-harvesting operations, traded with merchants in Arrakis City, and then vanished like a dust-devil into the dunes again. Josef had never tried to follow her, and he’d given the others strict instructions to let Ishanti have her privacy.
    He addressed the listeners. “I want you all to send out messages. Spread bribes if you need to, dispatch spotters to search the desert. Combined Mercantiles will offer a large reward to any spice team that exposes an off-the-books operation out there. I will not leave this planet until I have answers.” His eyebrows drew together. “And I do not want to remain here long.”
    Ishanti smiled at him again, and Josef wondered what standards of beauty the Zensunnis used out here. Was she trying to flirt with him? He didn’t find the hard-bitten desert woman attractive at all, but he did respect her skills. He had his own wife to get back to on Kolhar, an intelligent Sisterhood-trained woman named Cioba—the only person he trusted to watch the conglomerated VenHold business operations while he was away.
    “We’ll make your stay as short as possible, sir,” Arvo said. “I’ll get on it right away.” In truth, Josef put more stock in Ishanti.
    He lectured them all. “My ancestor, Aurelius Venport, saw the potential in spice-harvesting operations and risked much, invested much, to make it profitable.” He leaned forward. “My family has generations of blood and money on this planet, and I refuse to let any upstart competitor dance on the foundation the