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- Стр. 643/972
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We
’
re
alike
in
that
,
he
thought
.
A
wailing
cry
sounded
from
the
outer
corridors
,
its
volume
muffled
by
the
intervening
hangings
.
It
was
repeated
,
a
bit
more
distant
.
And
again
.
Paul
realized
someone
was
calling
the
time
.
He
focused
on
the
fact
that
he
had
seen
no
clocks
.
The
faint
smell
of
burning
creosote
bush
came
to
his
nostrils
,
riding
on
the
omnipresent
stink
of
the
sietch
.
Paul
saw
that
he
had
already
suppressed
the
odorous
assault
on
his
senses
.
And
he
wondered
again
about
his
mother
,
how
the
moving
montage
of
the
future
would
incorporate
her
.
.
.
and
the
daughter
she
bore
.
Mutable
time
-
awareness
danced
around
him
.
He
shook
his
head
sharply
,
focusing
his
attention
on
the
evidences
that
spoke
of
profound
depth
and
breadth
in
this
Fremen
culture
that
had
swallowed
them
.
With
its
subtle
oddities
.
He
had
seen
a
thing
about
the
caverns
and
this
room
,
a
thing
that
suggested
far
greater
differences
than
anything
he
had
yet
encountered
.
There
was
no
sign
of
a
poison
snooper
here
,
no
indication
of
their
use
anywhere
in
the
cave
warren
.
Yet
he
could
smell
poisons
in
the
sietch
stench
—
strong
ones
,
common
ones
.
He
heard
a
rustle
of
hangings
,
thought
it
was
Harah
returning
with
food
,
and
turned
to
watch
her
.
Instead
,
from
beneath
a
displaced
pattern
of
hangings
,
he
saw
two
young
boys
—
perhaps
aged
nine
and
ten
—
staring
out
at
him
with
greedy
eyes
.
Each
wore
a
small
kindjal
-
type
of
crysknife
,
rested
a
hand
on
the
hilt
.
And
Paul
recalled
the
stories
of
the
Fremen
—
that
their
children
fought
as
ferociously
as
the
adults
.
*
*
*
