Ha! You’re nothing but nothing but right. My missing arm is due to a gambling problem. You guess true, but I bet you double or nothing that you can’t guess the particulars of its removal. Come now. You’re no shrinking violet, no trembling flower sucker. Take the wager!

Ha-ha! Wrong! Let me tell it true. When you owe a band of slavers money, and you don’t have it, they take recompense through your freedom or through cruel sport. These devils chose the later.

Never underestimate a sandstorm. I know better than any sinner. A bad one raged outside, winds over 400 km/h. They cut off my sleeve, stuck my exposed arm out a little message slot in the door. Took four of them to hold me down. Sand and wind can conspire to become a million scalpels. Let’s just say, when it was over, a red skeleton waved back at me. Seeing your own wet bones changes you forever…

Anyway, I’m going to need that money before nightfall.

Arrakeen: Agamemnon, come in. Agamemnon, are you there?

Agamemnon: We— trying too—

Arrakeen: Agamemnon, can you hear me? This is Arrakeen. We advise you to turn around. The coriolis storm has unexpectedly changed direction. Winds nearly 700 kilometers per hour. Agamemnon, do you copy?

Agamemnon: Negative, Arrakeen. No way back. Only way, through. We’re going to try and skirt the edge of the storm and land. We—

Arrakeen: Agamemnon? You cut out at the end. Agamemnon?

Agamemnon: Dear God…

Arrakeen: Agamemnon?

Agamemnon: We’re not going to make it…

Arrakeen: Agamemnon?

Agamemnon: It’s… the hand of God.

Arrakeen: Agamemnon?

Agamemnon: The hand of God!

Arrakeen: Agamemnon, come in. Agamemnon?