See, what you don’t understand is the importance of my work. You think the Harkonnens extract enough spice to satiate the rest of the universe? You think they ever would? No, they’re greedy bastards, like the rest of us. Spice is everywhere, and everyone needs it. The world runs on spice, it is the currency of the universe, of the Imperium. And I intend to get filthy rich as I smuggle it to those who can’t get it otherwise.

We had another spice blow today. It is like Arrakis decided to make up for its otherwise less than comfortable conditions, by giving us exactly what we’re here for. There’s something mesmerizing about it, the way those enormous purple clouds fire into the air, the smell, the sound. The Fremen used to say the spice blows signaled the birth of a new worm, but fortunately those superstitious primitives are gone now. All that is left is spice, machinery, and the men willing to use the latter to extract the former.

They all laughed like idiots. About the dark chants coming from the leaking deathstill, and the purple sky, and then the worm that was my friend and that talked to me about things terrible and impossible to understand.

Spice will do that to you, they said. As if it was just some trippy drug-fueled dream. Yes, it was a dream! But it had been infected with something. A purpose. Something greater than me. That is reaching out. Voices from another time. From another place.

They couldn't possibly understand that. Their mind is small. They are no better than the flesh they sell. No better than animals.