No, this had not been what Taref expected when he joyously convinced his friends to join him on a great adventure.

Taref’s sietch brothers and sisters felt they already knew everything they needed to know, but now that he had been to other places far away — and he still had so much more to see — he could tell his people that so much more awaited them out there. He would extend Directeur Venport’s offer, inviting them to see the things he had seen. Some might feel the same pull of dreams, though he’d always been a misfit in his own sietch.…

Before Taref set out on the new mission to Arrakis, Draigo Roget had given him a brand-new distilling suit, claiming that the old one wasn’t worth repairing, even though Taref had meticulously maintained it for years. The young man checked over the new suit, noting the improvements that had been implemented, how the seams were double-sealed, the inner lining reinforced, the filter pads made more efficient. This stillsuit was finer than anything he had seen in his old sietch, better even than the one worn by a Naib. Taref would claim that this was just a hint of the rewards volunteers might receive if they joined him in working for Venport Holdings.

He wished his fellow saboteurs could come back with him, but Draigo had shaken his head. “They have their own assignments for VenHold, dispatched to deal with various EsconTran operations.” His friends missed the dunes, especially Lillis, and the loss of Shurko had hit them all hard.

Taref’s heart ached to know that his friend would never return to the desert, that he had vanished somewhere out in space where his body’s water would not be recovered. Offworlders did not think about such things; water meant nothing to them, and sometimes their lives were cheap, as well…

HE TRAVELED DOWN to Arrakis City, where he mingled with surly workers who’d come to join the Combined Mercantiles spice-harvesting operations. Taref was going home, but these workers saw the desert planet as their last chance. Most of them would never leave here.

Pretending to be one of the spice crew volunteers, he left the spaceport for the Combined Mercantiles headquarters. Most of these new workers had no experience at all in desert operations, and some wouldn’t survive the first year. They reminded him of himself, and his friends, leaving what they knew for what they imagined would be a better life elsewhere, far away. He’d never thought much about the offworld workers before, and now he felt sorry for them.

Taref carried a special, coded dispensation from Directeur Venport that guaranteed him a spot on any crew he chose. He presented his credentials, a recorded message from Draigo Roget, and a VenHold-backed credit chit. One of the Mentat workers recognized him from his initial recruitment, sized him up. “You have matured and adapted, young man.”

“I’ve learned much in my time away. Now my assignment is to recruit other Freemen so they can have the same opportunities as I did. For that, I need to go into the deep desert.”

The Mentat nodded. “I hope you haven’t forgotten how to survive out there. The dunes will always be a perilous place.”

After Taref identified the general location of his sietch, the Mentat checked schedules and assigned him to a spice crew that would work in the vicinity. Taref could stay with the crew as long as he liked and draw a regular paycheck; whenever he felt it appropriate, he could leave to find his people.

He spent a week with the spice operations, readapting himself to Arrakis, and found that his fondest memories of the desert were now discolored by reality. As soon as he returned to the arid wasteland, smelled the spice-cinnamon air, and felt the grit in his teeth, Taref realized he had forgotten much, and changed much. He felt like a pair of stiff new boots that needed to be broken in again.

Before reappearing at the sietch, he remembered what it was like to live out here. He had never noticed the daily details before, since they had been part of his routine existence. By the time he left the spice crew, Taref still hadn’t regained his sharp edge, but at least he was no longer so soft and rounded, and he did not perspire so profusely into the distilling suit.

His own people had no knowledge of what had happened to him or his companions, because no one had sent any message back to the sietch. Young Freemen often took solo journeys on unknown adventures; many didn’t come back. No one would have guessed that Taref and his friends had traveled to distant planets. He had little to show for it, except for his own tales … which they probably would not believe.

Trudging away from the rocky camp as night fell and the desert cooled, he left the spice operations and struck out across the open dunes with his well-practiced random walk. Taref could have summoned a sandworm, which would have been a spectacular way to return: riding one of the huge creatures up to the cliffside, dismounting with a flourish, and running to the rocks before the leviathan could devour him. But he had no companions, no spotters, and only rudimentary equipment. He would have needed to plan better for such a grand entrance. Instead, Taref walked at night with irregular steps, found shelter during the day, and moved on again at nightfall.

His first sip from the suit’s catch-pocket tasted flat and foul, and he thought something was wrong with the new stillsuit. But he realized that was the way reprocessed water had always tasted. He calculated how long he could last alone in the desert, and hoped he could reach the sietch in time. He had only a guess of the distance involved because he didn’t know the exact position of the spice-harvesting operations. If he arrived at the warren settlement parched, dying, and begging for mercy, then his argument about the advantages of Venport Holdings would sway none of his people.

He crossed the desert for four days, picking up the pace, fighting back his thirst. He drained all the catch-pockets in his distilling suit and hoarded the last literjon of water he carried with him. In a few days he would have to worry about survival rather than discomfort.

Taref shuddered with relief when he saw the familiar cliff wall on the horizon, much closer than he had expected. A miracle! He arrived with enough water left for a day and a half, a great luxury, so he took the time to rest, drink, and refresh himself before climbing the hidden but familiar trail. Finally he picked his way up the rocks and presented himself at the moisture door. The guards were astonished to see him.

He had thought much about what he would say, how he would deliver his offer to the sietch — if Naib Rurik even allowed him to address the tribe. He faced the guards. “I have returned with an opportunity.”

“Where are your companions?” asked a young male.

“They are having remarkable adventures on faraway worlds,” Taref exaggerated, not wanting to tell them about Shurko just yet.

They opened the door to let Taref in. “The Naib will want an explanation from you.”

“Everyone in the sietch will want to hear my story. It could change our way of life.” Taref was smiling, but the hardscrabble people who emerged from their quarters and workshop rooms seemed more unsettled than happy to see him. They acknowledged the young man’s return, but without a warm welcome. They had always looked askance at him, considered him odd. They had never been his close friends when he lived with them, but he at least expected them to be curious. He could tell them stories about water from the sky, white snow that piled up on the ground, and lakes so immense that it would take days to walk around them.

The Naib and Taref’s two older brothers sat together in a cool chamber, drinking spice coffee, discussing politics and marriage prospects, planning a response to a petty feud with another desert tribe. As Taref listened to their conversation, their concerns sounded small to him, especially now that he knew of much vaster conflicts out in the Imperium involving Manford Torondo’s Butlerians and Josef Venport, the fleet of EsconTran and the ships of VenHold.