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All
around
him
,
Paul
saw
the
Fremen
throwing
back
their
hoods
,
removing
nose
plugs
,
breathing
deeply
.
Someone
sighed
.
Paul
looked
for
Chani
,
found
that
she
had
left
his
side
.
He
was
hemmed
in
by
a
press
of
robed
bodies
.
Someone
jostled
him
,
said
,
“
Excuse
me
,
Usul
.
What
a
crush
!
It
’
s
always
this
way
.
”
On
his
left
,
the
narrow
bearded
face
of
the
one
called
Farok
turned
toward
Paul
.
The
stained
eyepits
and
blue
darkness
of
eyes
appeared
even
darker
under
the
yellow
globes
.
“
Throw
off
your
hood
,
Usul
,
”
Farok
said
.
“
You
’
re
home
.
”
And
he
helped
Paul
,
releasing
the
hood
catch
,
elbowing
a
space
around
them
.
Paul
slipped
out
his
nose
plugs
,
swung
the
mouth
baffle
aside
.
The
odor
of
the
place
assailed
him
:
unwashed
bodies
,
distillate
esthers
of
reclaimed
wastes
,
everywhere
the
sour
effluvia
of
humanity
with
,
over
it
all
,
a
turbulence
of
spice
and
spicelike
harmonics
.
“
Why
are
we
waiting
,
Farok
?
”
Paul
asked
.
“
For
the
Reverend
Mother
,
I
think
.
You
heard
the
message
—
poor
Chani
.
”
Poor
Chani
?
Paul
asked
himself
.
He
looked
around
,
wondering
where
she
was
,
where
his
mother
had
got
to
in
all
this
crush
.
Farok
took
a
deep
breath
.
“
The
smells
of
home
,
”
he
said
.
Paul
saw
that
the
man
was
enjoying
the
stink
of
this
air
,
that
there
was
no
irony
in
his
tone
.
He
heard
his
mother
cough
then
,
and
her
voice
came
back
to
him
through
the
press
of
the
troop
:
“
How
rich
the
odors
of
your
sietch
,
Stilgar
.
I
see
you
do
much
working
with
the
spice
.
.
.
you
make
paper
.
.
.
plastics
.
.
.
and
isn
’
t
that
chemical
explosives
?
”
