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- Фрэнк Герберт
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“
Run
for
.
.
.
.
”
She
fell
silent
,
nodded
.
“
Worms
.
”
“
Our
friends
,
the
worms
,
”
he
corrected
her
.
“
They
’
ll
get
this
’
thopter
.
There
’
ll
be
no
evidence
of
where
we
landed
.
”
How
direct
his
thinking
,
she
thought
.
They
glided
lower
.
.
.
lower
.
.
.
There
came
a
rushing
sense
of
motion
to
their
passage
—
blurred
shadows
of
dunes
,
rocks
lifting
like
islands
.
The
’
thopter
touched
a
dune
top
with
a
soft
lurch
,
skipped
a
sand
valley
,
touched
another
dune
.
He
’
s
killing
our
speed
against
the
sand
,
Jessica
thought
,
and
permitted
herself
to
admire
his
competence
.
“
Brace
yourself
!
”
Paul
warned
.
He
pulled
back
on
the
wing
brakes
,
gently
at
first
,
then
harder
and
harder
.
He
felt
them
cup
the
air
,
their
aspect
ratio
dropping
faster
and
faster
.
Wind
screamed
through
the
lapped
coverts
and
primaries
of
the
wings
’
leaves
.
