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- Фрэнк Герберт
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- Стр. 490/972
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“
Whenever
I
light
its
candle
it
’
ll
give
us
about
thirty
minutes
.
”
“
Thirty
minutes
?
”
“
Before
it
starts
calling
.
.
.
a
.
.
.
worm
.
”
“
Oh
.
I
’
m
ready
to
go
.
”
He
slipped
away
from
her
side
and
she
heard
his
progress
back
up
their
fissure
.
The
night
is
a
tunnel
,
she
thought
,
a
hole
into
tomorrow
.
.
.
if
we
’
re
to
have
a
tomorrow
.
She
shook
her
head
.
Why
must
I
be
so
morbid
?
I
was
trained
better
than
that
!
Paul
returned
,
took
up
the
pack
,
led
the
way
down
to
the
first
spreading
dune
where
he
stopped
and
listened
as
his
mother
came
up
behind
him
.
He
heard
her
soft
progress
and
the
cold
single
-
grain
dribbles
of
sound
—
the
desert
’
s
own
code
spelling
out
its
measure
of
safety
.
“
We
must
walk
without
rhythm
,
”
Paul
said
and
he
called
up
memory
of
men
walking
the
sand
.
.
.
both
prescient
memory
and
real
memory
.
“
Watch
how
I
do
it
,
”
he
said
.
“
This
is
how
Fremen
walk
the
sand
.
”
