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Spreading
away
in
front
of
her
stretched
desert
growth
—
bushes
,
cacti
,
tiny
clumps
of
leaves
—
all
trembling
in
the
moonlight
.
The
ringwalls
were
dark
to
her
left
,
moonfrosted
on
her
right
.
“
This
must
be
a
Fremen
place
,
”
Paul
said
.
“
There
would
have
to
be
people
for
this
many
plants
to
survive
,
”
she
agreed
.
She
uncapped
the
tube
to
her
stillsuit
’
s
catchpockets
,
sipped
at
it
.
Warm
,
faintly
acrid
wetness
slipped
down
her
throat
.
She
marked
how
it
refreshed
her
.
The
tube
’
s
cap
grated
against
flakes
of
sand
as
she
replaced
it
.
Movement
caught
Paul
’
s
attention
—
to
his
right
and
down
on
the
basin
floor
curving
out
beneath
them
.
He
stared
down
through
smoke
bushes
and
weeds
into
a
wedged
slab
sand
-
surface
of
moonlight
inhabited
by
an
up
-
hop
,
jump
,
pop
-
hop
of
tiny
motion
.
“
Mice
!
”
he
hissed
.
Pop
-
hop
-
hop
!
they
went
,
into
shadows
and
out
.
Something
fell
soundlessly
past
their
eyes
into
the
mice
.
There
came
a
thin
screech
,
a
flapping
of
wings
,
and
a
ghostly
gray
bird
lifted
away
across
the
basin
with
a
small
,
dark
shadow
in
its
talons
.
We
needed
that
reminder
,
Jessica
thought
.
Paul
continued
to
stare
across
the
basin
.
He
inhaled
,
sensed
the
softly
cutting
contralto
smell
of
sage
climbing
the
night
.
The
predatory
bird
—
he
thought
of
it
as
the
way
of
this
desert
.
It
had
brought
a
stillness
to
the
basin
so
unuttered
that
the
blue
-
milk
moonlight
could
almost
be
heard
flowing
across
sentinel
saguaro
and
spiked
paintbush
.
There
was
a
low
humming
of
light
here
more
basic
in
its
harmony
than
any
other
music
in
his
universe
.
