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- Фрэнк Герберт
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- Стр. 843/972
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“
I
’
m
getting
a
message
,
Muad
’
Dib
,
”
said
the
signalman
at
the
communications
equipment
.
The
man
shook
his
head
,
pressed
a
receiver
phone
against
his
ear
.
“
Much
static
!
”
He
began
scribbling
on
a
pad
in
front
of
him
,
shaking
his
head
waiting
,
writing
.
.
.
waiting
.
Paul
crossed
to
the
signalman
’
s
side
.
The
Fedaykin
stepped
back
,
giving
him
room
.
He
looked
down
at
what
the
man
had
written
,
read
:
“
Raid
.
.
.
on
Sietch
Tabr
.
.
.
captives
.
.
.
Alia
(
blank
)
families
of
(
blank
)
dead
are
.
.
.
they
(
blank
)
son
of
Muad
’
Dib
.
.
.
.
”
Again
,
the
signalman
shook
his
head
.
Paul
looked
up
to
see
Gurney
staring
at
him
.
“
The
message
is
garbled
,
”
Gurney
said
.
“
The
static
.
You
don
’
t
know
that
.
.
.
.
”
“
My
son
is
dead
,
”
Paul
said
,
and
knew
as
he
spoke
that
it
was
true
.
“
My
son
is
dead
.
.
.
and
Alia
is
a
captive
.
.
.
hostage
.
”
He
felt
emptied
,
a
shell
without
emotions
.
Everything
he
touched
brought
death
and
grief
.
And
it
was
like
a
disease
that
could
spread
across
the
universe
.
He
could
feel
the
old
-
man
wisdom
,
the
accumulation
out
of
the
experiences
from
countless
possible
lives
.
Something
seemed
to
chuckle
and
rub
its
hands
within
him
.
