As the 'thopter settled onto the churned sands, Kiel popped open the hatch. The temperature-controlled atmosphere hissed out, replaced by a wave of heat. He coughed dust. Garan leaned over from the cockpit and sniffed hard. The odor of burnt cinnamon struck his nostrils.
Spice blow for sure.
Josten squeezed past Kiel and dropped onto the soft ground. Amazed, he bent down, picked up a handful of ochre sand and touched it to his lips. Must be worth a fortune. Kiel had been thinking the same thing, but now he turned to the newcomer with scorn. We don't have the processing equipment.