Дюна
Book Two: Muad‘dib
Smugglermedicsweremovingamongthemtendingthewounded.Littercaseswereassembledinoneareadowntotheleft,eachwoundedmanwithanAtreidescompanion.
TheAtreidestraining—“Wecareforourown!”—itheldlikeacoreofnativerockinthem,Hallecknoted.
OneofhislieutenantssteppedforwardcarryingHalleck’snine-stringbalisetoutofitscase.Themansnappedasalute,said:“Sir,themedicsheresaythere’snohopeforMattai.Theyhavenoboneandorganbankshere—onlyoutpostmedicine.Mattaican’tlast,theysay,andhehasarequestofyou.”
“Whatisit?”
Thelieutenantthrustthebalisetforward.“Mattaiwantsasongtoeasehisgoing,sir.Hesaysyou’llknowtheone...he’saskeditofyouoftenenough.”
Thelieutenantswallowed.“It’stheonecalled‘MyWoman,’sir.Ifyou—”
“Iknow.”Hallecktookthebaliset,flickedthemultipickoutofitscatchonthefingerboard.Hedrewasoftchordfromtheinstrument,foundthatsomeonehadalreadytunedit.Therewasaburninginhiseyes,buthedrovethatoutofhisthoughtsashestrolledforward,strummingthetune,forcinghimselftosmilecasually.
Severalofhismenandasmugglermedicwerebentoveroneofthelitters.
OneofthemenbegansingingsoftlyasHalleckapproached,catchingthecounter-beatwiththeeaseoflongfamiliarity:
“Mywomanstandsatherwindow,
Curvedlines‘gainstsquareglass.
Uprais’darms...bent...downfolded.
’Gainstsunsetredandgolded—
Cometome...
Cometome,warmarmsofmylass.
Forme...
Forme,thewarmarmsofmylass.
