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- Фрэнк Герберт
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- Стр. 457/972
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She
caught
the
tone
of
his
voice
,
the
way
he
spoke
as
of
someone
dead
,
thought
:
And
well
poor
Gurney
might
be
dead
.
The
Atreides
forces
were
either
dead
or
captive
or
lost
like
themselves
in
this
waterless
void
.
“
Gurney
always
had
the
right
quotation
,
”
Paul
said
.
“
I
can
hear
him
now
:
‘
And
I
will
make
the
rivers
dry
,
and
sell
the
land
into
the
hand
of
the
wicked
:
and
I
will
make
the
land
waste
,
and
all
that
is
therein
,
by
the
hand
of
strangers
.
’
”
Jessica
closed
her
eyes
,
found
herself
moved
close
to
tears
by
the
pathos
in
her
son
’
s
voice
.
Presently
,
Paul
said
:
“
How
do
you
.
.
.
feel
?
”
She
recognized
that
his
question
was
directed
at
her
pregnancy
,
said
:
“
Your
sister
won
’
t
be
born
for
many
months
yet
.
I
still
feel
.
.
.
physically
adequate
.
”
And
she
thought
:
How
stiffly
formal
I
speak
to
my
own
son
!
Then
,
because
it
was
the
Bene
Gesserit
way
to
seek
within
for
the
answer
to
such
an
oddity
,
she
searched
and
found
the
source
of
her
formality
:
I
’
m
afraid
of
my
son
;
Ifearhis
strangeness
;
I
fear
what
he
may
see
ahead
of
us
,
what
he
may
tell
me
.
Paul
pulled
his
hood
down
over
his
eyes
,
listened
to
the
bug
-
hustling
sounds
of
the
night
.
His
lungs
were
charged
with
his
own
silence
.
His
nose
itched
.
He
rubbed
it
,
removed
the
filter
and
grew
conscious
of
the
rich
smell
of
cinnamon
.
“
There
’
s
melange
spice
nearby
,
”
he
said
.
