The universe may change, but the desert does not. Arrakis keeps its own clock. The man who refuses to acknowledge this must face his own folly.
— The Legend of Selim Wormrider
As soon as the day’s heat began to diminish, the group of Zensunni men emerged from their shaded hiding places and prepared to continue their journey down from the Shield Wall. Ishmael was not overly anxious to get to the noise and stink of civilization, but he would not let El’hiim go unsupervised to the VenKee settlement. The son of Selim Wormrider too often chose a dangerously comfortable path around offworlders.
Ishmael covered his exposed leathery skin with protective garments, showing common sense, even if the brash younger members of his tribe did not. He wore a mask across his wizened face to retain moisture exhaled in breathing, while filtration layers of sandwiched fabric acted as a distilling suit to save his perspiration. He wasted nothing.
The other men, though, were careless with their water, assuming they could always purchase more. They wore garments of foreign manufacture, designs chosen for fashion rather than desert utility. Even El’hiim sported bright colors, spurning desert camouflage.
Ishmael had promised the boy’s mother on her deathbed that he would watch over him, and he had tried— perhaps too often— to make the younger man understand. But El’hiim and his friends were another generation entirely; they looked on him as an ancient relic.
The rift between him and Ishmael ran deep. When his mother was dying, El’hiim had begged her to seek outside medical treatment in Arrakis City, but Ishmael had adamantly opposed the influence of untrustworthy outsiders. Marha had listened to her husband instead of her son. In El’hiim’s view that had led directly to her death.
The young man ran away, stowing aboard a VenKee ship that took him to distant worlds— including Poritrin, still devastated from the slave uprising in which Ishmael and his followers had escaped to Arrakis. Eventually El’hiim came back home to his tribe, but he was forever shaped by what he had seen and learned. His experiences had convinced him more than ever that the Zensunni should adopt outside practices— including the gathering and selling of spice.
To Ishmael, it was anathema, a slap in the face to Selim Wormrider’s mission. But he would not abandon his earlier promise to Marha, so he reluctantly accompanied El’hiim, even in his folly.
“Let us pack up and redistribute the weight,” El’hiim said, his voice bright with anticipation. “We can easily make the VenKee settlement in a few hours, and then we’ll have the rest of the night to ourselves.”
The Zensunni men chuckled and moved eagerly, already anticipating how they would spend their tainted money. Ishmael frowned, but he kept his words to himself. He had already said them so often he sounded like a nagging harpy. El’hiim, the new Naib of the villagers, had his own ideas on how to lead the people.
Ishmael realized he was just a stubborn old man himself, with the weight of one hundred and three years on his aching bones. A hard life in the desert, as well as a steady diet of the spice melange, had kept him strong and healthy, while these others had grown soft. Though he looked like a Methuselah from the ancient scriptures, he was convinced he could still outwit and outfight any of these young whelps, should they challenge him to a duel.
None ever would, though. That was another way in which they failed to follow the old ways.
They picked up their heavy packages of condensed, purified melange, which they had harvested from the sands. Though he disagreed with the idea of selling spice, Ishmael shouldered a burden at least as heavy as the others carried. He was ready to depart before his younger companions had finished fumbling with their equipment, then waited in stoic silence until finally El’hiim set off with a noisy and lighthearted step. The band emerged into the sunset and picked their way down the steep slopes.
In the elongated shadows of approaching dusk, twinkling lights from the VenKee settlement shone out in the protected lee of the Shield Wall. The buildings were a jumble of alien structures, erected with no plan whatsoever. It was like a cancerous growth of prefabricated houses and offices that had spewed from cargo ships.
Ishmael narrowed his blue-within-blue eyes and stared ahead. “My people built this settlement, after arriving from Poritrin.”
El’hiim smiled and nodded. “Yes, it has grown quite substantially, hasn’t it?” The younger Naib was more talkative, wasting the moisture of breath from his uncovered mouth. “Adrien Venport pays well and always has a standing order for our spice.”
Ishmael trudged onward, sure-footed on the loose rocks. “Do you not remember your father’s visions?”
“No,” El’hiim said sharply. “I do not remember my father at all. He allowed a worm to swallow him before I was even born, and all I have are legends. How can I know what is truth and what is myth?”
“He recognized that offworld trade in spice will destroy our Zensunni way of life and eventually kill Shai-Hulud— unless we can stop it.”
“That would be like trying to stop sand from blowing in through door seals. I choose another path, and over the past ten years we have seen plenty of prosperity.” He smiled at his stepfather. “But you always find a way to complain, don’t you? Isn’t it better that we natives of Arrakis gather the spice and profit from it, rather than someone else? Should we not be the ones who harvest melange and bring it to VenKee? Otherwise, they will send in their own outsiders, their own teams— “
“They already have,” one of the other men said.
“You ask which sin is more palatable,” Ishmael said. “I choose neither.”
El’hiim shook his head, looking at his companions as if to indicate how hopeless the old man was.
Many years before, after Ishmael had accepted El’hiim’s mother as his wife, he’d tried to raise the young man according to traditional values, following the visions of Selim Wormrider. Perhaps Ishmael had applied too much pressure, unwittingly forcing his stepson to turn in another direction.
Before Marha died, she had made him swear to shelter and advise her son, but over the years that promise had become like a sharp rock caught in his shoe. Though he harbored grave concerns, he’d had no choice but to support El’hiim in becoming Naib. From that point on, Ishmael felt as if he were sliding down the shifting slope of a steep dune.
Recently, El’hiim had shown his poor judgment when he’d arranged for two small carrier craft to come to one of the hidden Zensunni camps in the deep desert. El’hiim saw it as a convenient way to exchange supplies that were too heavy to carry far, but to Ishmael the small aircraft looked too much like the slaver ships that had captured him as a boy.
“You are leaving us vulnerable!” Ishmael had strained to keep his voice down so as not to embarrass the Naib. “What if these men mean to abduct us?”
But El’hiim had brushed aside his concerns. “These aren’t slavers, Ishmael. They are merchants and traders.”
“You have placed us at risk.”
“We’ve entered into a business relationship. These men are trustworthy.”
Ishmael shook his head, letting his anger grow. “You have been seduced by your own comfort. We should be trying to bring to an end all spice-exporting operations and refuse the tempting conveniences.”
El’hiim had sighed. “I respect you, Ishmael… but sometimes you are incredibly shortsighted.” He had walked off to meet with the visiting VenKee merchants, leaving Ishmael behind in rage….
Now, as night fell, the group of men reached the base of the Shield Wall. Outlying buildings, moisture condensers, and solar-power generating stations had sprung up like mold from sheltered places against the high cliff.
Ishmael maintained his steady pace, though the other desert men hurried, eager to partake of so-called civilization. In town, the background noise was a cacophony unlike anything heard in the open bled. Many people talked, machinery pounded and boomed, generators buzzed. The lights and smells were an offense to him.
Already, word of their arrival had passed up and down the VenKee town streets. Company employees came out of their dwellings to meet them, dressed in odd costumes and carrying incomprehensible gadgets. When the news reached the VenKee offices, a merchant representative strutted down the street, happy to receive them. He raised his hands in welcome, but Ishmael thought his smile was oily and unpleasant.
El’hiim offered the man a hale greeting. “We have brought another shipment, and you may buy it— if the price is the same.”
“Melange is as valuable as always. And our town’s amenities are yours if you desire them.”
El’hiim’s men gave a boisterous acknowledgment. Ishmael’s eyes narrowed, but he said nothing. Stiffly, he removed his pack of spice and dropped it on the dusty ground at his feet, as if it were no more than garbage.
The VenKee representative cheerfully called for porters to relieve the desert men of their burdens, taking the melange packages to an assay office where they could be weighed, graded, and paid for.
As the artificial lights grew brighter to fend off the desert darkness, raucous alien music pummeled Ishmael’s ears. El’hiim and his men indulged themselves, spending newfound money from the spice shipment. They watched water-fat dancers with pale and unappetizing skin; they drank copious quantities of spice beer, allowing themselves to become embarrassingly drunk.
Ishmael did not participate. He simply sat and watched them, hating every minute and wanting to return home, to the safe and quiet desert.