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- Фрэнк Герберт
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“
Aye
.
”
“
In
case
of
trouble
,
”
Gurney
said
,
“
save
the
factory
.
We
’
ll
lift
in
the
’
thopters
.
”
The
factory
commander
saluted
.
“
Aye
,
sir
.
”
He
popped
back
down
through
the
hatch
.
Again
Gurney
scanned
the
horizon
.
He
had
to
respect
the
possibility
that
there
were
Fremen
here
and
he
was
trespassing
.
Fremen
worried
him
,
their
toughness
and
unpredictability
.
Many
things
about
this
business
worried
him
,
but
the
rewards
were
great
.
The
fact
that
he
couldn
’
t
send
spotters
high
overhead
worried
him
,
too
.
The
necessity
of
radio
silence
added
to
his
uneasiness
.
The
factory
crawler
turned
,
began
to
descend
.
Gently
it
glided
down
to
the
dry
beach
at
the
foot
of
the
ridge
.
Treads
touched
sand
.
Gurney
opened
the
bubble
dome
,
released
his
safety
straps
.
The
instant
the
factory
stopped
,
he
was
out
,
slamming
the
bubble
closed
behind
him
,
scrambling
out
over
the
tread
guards
to
swing
down
to
the
sand
beyond
the
emergency
netting
.
The
five
men
of
his
personal
guard
were
out
with
him
,
emerging
from
the
nose
hatch
.
Others
released
the
factory
’
s
carrier
wing
.
It
detached
,
lifted
away
to
fly
in
a
parking
circle
low
overhead
.
Immediately
the
big
factory
crawler
lurched
off
,
swinging
away
from
the
ridge
toward
the
dark
patch
of
spice
out
on
the
sand
.
A
’
thopter
swooped
down
nearby
,
skidded
to
a
stop
.
Another
followed
and
another
.
They
disgorged
Gurney
’
s
platoon
and
lifted
to
hoverflight
.
Gurney
tested
his
muscles
in
his
stillsuit
,
stretching
.
He
left
the
filter
mask
off
his
face
,
losing
moisture
for
the
sake
of
a
greater
need
—
the
carrying
power
of
his
voice
if
he
had
to
shout
commands
.
He
began
climbing
up
into
the
rocks
,
checking
the
terrain
—
pebbles
and
pea
sand
underfoot
,
the
smell
of
spice
.
