Дюна
Book Two: Muad‘dib
“Thisisprettyfarsouthintothedesert,”hesaid.Heloweredhisbinoculars,rubbedbeneathhisfilterbaffle,feelinghowdryandchappedhislipswere,sensingthedustytasteofthirstinhismouth.“ThishasthefeelingofaFremenplace,”hesaid.
“ArewecertaintheFremenwillbefriendly?”sheasked.
“Kynespromisedtheirhelp.”
Butthere’sdesperationinthepeopleofthisdesert,shethought.Ifeltsomeofitmyselftoday.Desperatepeoplemightkillusforourwater.
Sheclosedhereyesand,againstthiswasteland,conjuredinhermindascenefromCaladan.TherehadbeenavacationtriponceonCaladan—sheandtheDukeLeto,beforePaul’sbirth.They’dflownoverthesouthernjungles,abovetheweed-wildshoutingleavesandricepaddiesofthedeltas.Andtheyhadseentheantlinesinthegreenery—man-gangscarryingtheirloadsonsuspensor-buoyedshoulderpoles.Andintheseareachesthere’dbeenthewhitepetalsoftrimarandhows.
Allofitgone.
Jessicaopenedhereyestothedesertstillness,tothemountingwarmthoftheday.Restlessheatdevilswerebeginningtosettheairaquiveroutontheopensand.Theotherrockfaceacrossfromthemwaslikeathingseenthroughcheapglass.
Aspillofsandspreaditsbriefcurtainacrosstheopenendofthefissure.Thesandhisseddown,loosedbypuffsofmorningbreeze,bythehawksthatwerebeginningtoliftawayfromtheclifftop.Whenthesand-fallwasgone,shestillheardithissing.Itgrewlouder,asoundthatonceheard,wasneverforgotten.
“Worm,”Paulwhispered.
