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Paul
followed
her
.
He
felt
that
his
head
had
been
separated
from
his
body
and
restored
with
odd
connections
.
His
legs
were
remote
and
rubbery
.
They
entered
a
narrow
side
passage
,
its
walls
dimly
lighted
by
spaced
-
out
glowglobes
.
Paul
felt
the
drug
beginning
to
have
its
unique
effect
on
him
,
opening
time
like
a
flower
.
He
found
need
to
steady
himself
against
Chani
as
they
turned
through
another
shadowed
tunnel
.
The
mixture
of
whipcord
and
softness
he
felt
beneath
her
robe
stirred
his
blood
.
The
sensation
mingled
with
the
work
of
the
drug
,
folding
future
and
past
into
the
present
,
leaving
him
the
thinnest
margin
of
trinocular
focus
.
“
I
know
you
,
Chani
,
”
he
whispered
.
“
We
’
ve
sat
upon
a
ledge
above
the
sand
while
I
soothed
your
fears
.
We
’
ve
caressed
in
the
dark
of
the
sietch
.
We
’
ve
.
.
.
.
”
He
found
himself
losing
focus
,
tried
to
shake
his
head
,
stumbled
.
Chani
steadied
him
,
led
him
through
thick
hangings
into
the
yellow
warmth
of
a
private
apartment
—
low
tables
,
cushions
,
a
sleeping
pad
beneath
an
orange
spread
.
Paul
grew
aware
that
they
had
stopped
,
that
Chani
stood
facing
him
,
and
that
her
eyes
betrayed
a
look
of
quiet
terror
.
“
You
must
tell
me
,
”
she
whispered
.
“
You
are
Sihaya
,
”
he
said
,
“
the
desert
spring
.
”
“
When
the
tribe
shares
the
Water
,
”
she
said
,
“
we
’
re
together
—
ail
of
us
.
We
.
.
.
share
.
I
can
.
.
.
sense
the
others
with
me
,
but
I
’
m
afraid
to
share
with
you
.
”
