It had been a long day. The hot-shit new supervisor, who looked about sixteen and probably hadn’t even started shaving yet, had written me up twice. I’d crumpled both slips in front of him, thrown them in the trash.
On the way home, the 48-Arrakeen worm died at the base of the hill, and we all had to hop off into the sand. The thing was already starting to stink as I began the trudge uphill, bone-tired and thirsty.
Then a bit of luck: the neon sign at the Rack was lit. Soon I was at the bar with a decent spice-drunk going. It was an hour before last call, and the regulars and spicers were in fine form.
I heard a woman’s voice behind me: “Look who it is. The famous writer.”
I ignored her, focused on my drink.
“What are you drinking?” she asked.
“Spice and water,” I said.
“Two spice and waters,” she said to the bartender.
I turned and looked at her. I’d seen her around, a former Gesserit turned spicer. Her eyes were permanently blue and her front teeth were chipped from fighting, but otherwise she wasn’t much worse for wear.