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It
grew
louder
.
“
Faster
!
”
Paul
gasped
.
The
first
rock
shingle
,
like
a
beach
slanting
from
the
sand
,
lay
no
more
than
ten
meters
ahead
when
they
heard
metal
crunch
and
shatter
behind
them
.
Paul
shifted
his
pack
to
his
right
arm
,
holding
it
by
the
straps
.
It
slapped
his
side
as
he
ran
.
He
took
his
mother
’
s
arm
with
his
other
hand
.
They
scrambled
onto
the
lifting
rock
,
up
a
pebble
-
littered
surface
through
a
twisted
,
wind
-
carved
channel
.
Breath
came
dry
and
gasping
in
their
throats
.
“
I
can
’
t
run
any
farther
,
”
Jessica
panted
.
Paul
stopped
,
pressed
her
into
a
gut
of
rock
,
turned
and
looked
down
onto
the
desert
.
A
mound
-
in
-
motion
ran
parallel
to
their
rock
island
—
moonlit
ripples
,
sand
waves
,
a
cresting
burrow
almost
level
with
Paul
’
s
eyes
at
a
distance
of
about
a
kilometer
.
The
flattened
dunes
of
its
track
curved
once
—
a
short
loop
crossing
the
patch
of
desert
where
they
had
abandoned
their
wrecked
ornithopter
.
Where
the
worm
had
been
there
was
no
sign
of
the
aircraft
.
The
burrow
mound
moved
outward
into
the
desert
,
coursed
back
across
its
own
path
,
questing
.
“
It
’
s
bigger
than
a
Guild
spaceship
,
”
Paul
whispered
.
“
I
was
told
worms
grew
large
in
the
deep
desert
,
but
I
didn
’
t
realize
.
.
.
how
big
.
”
