"B. Dune - House Harkonnen" - читать интересную книгу автора (Herbert Brian & Frank)

Under the desert sun, they hiked up the rugged path to the safety of the sietch.










Behold, O Man, you can create life. You can destroy life. But, lo, you have no choice but to experience life. And therein lies both your greatest strength and your greatest weakness.

-Orange Catholic Bible, Book of Kimla Septima, 5:3


ON OIL-SOAKED GIEDI PRIME, the work crew left the fields at the end of a typically interminable day. Encrusted with perspiration and dirt, the workers slogged from trench-lined plots under a lowering red sun, making their way back home.

In their midst, Gurney Halleck, his blond hair a sweaty tangle, clapped his hands rhythmically. It was the only way he could keep going, his way of resisting the oppression of Harkonnen overlords, who for the moment were not within earshot. He made up a work song with nonsense lyrics, trying to get his companions to join in, or at least to mumble along with the chorus.

We toil all day, the Harkonnen way,
Hour after hour, we long for a shower,
Just workin' and workin' and workin' . . .

The people trudged along silently. Too tired after eleven hours in the rocky fields, they hardly gave the would-be troubadour a notice. With a resigned sigh, Gurney finally gave up his efforts, though he maintained his wry smile. "We are indeed miserable, my friends, but we don't have to be dismal about it."

Ahead lay a low village of prefabricated buildings -- a settlement called Dmitri in honor of the previous Harkonnen patriarch, the father of Baron Vladimir. After the Baron had taken control of House Harkonnen decades ago, he'd scrutinized the maps of Giedi Prime, renaming land features to his own tastes. In the process he had added a melodramatic flair to the stark formations: Isle of Sorrows, Perdition Shallows, Cliff of Death. . . .

No doubt a few generations hence, someone else would rename the landmarks all over again.

Such concerns were beyond Gurney Halleck. Though poorly educated, he did know the Imperium was vast, with a million planets and decillions of people . . . but it wasn't likely he'd travel even as far as Harko City, the densely packed, smoky metropolis that shed a perpetual ruddy glow on the northern horizon.

Gurney studied the crew around him, the people he saw every day. Eyes downcast, they marched like machines back to their squalid homes, so sullen that he had to laugh aloud. "Get some soup in your bellies, and I'll expect you to start singing tonight. Doesn't the O. C. Bible say, 'Make cheer from your own heart, for the sun rises and sets according to your perspective on the universe'?"

A few workers mumbled with faint enthusiasm; it was better than nothing. At least he had managed to cheer them up some. With a life so dreary, any spot of color was worth the effort.

Gurney was twenty-one, his skin already rough and leathery from working in the fields since the age of eight. By habit, his bright blue eyes drank in every detail . . . though the village of Dmitri and the desolate fields gave him little to look at. With an angular jaw, a too-round nose, and flat features, he already looked like an old farmer and would no doubt marry one of the washed-out, tired-looking girls from the village.

Gurney had spent the day up to his armpits in a trench, wielding a spade to throw out piles of stony earth. After so many years of tilling the same ground, the villagers had to dig deep in order to find nutrients in the soil. The Baron certainly didn't waste solaris on fertilizers -- not for these people.

During their centuries of stewardship on Giedi Prime, the Harkonnens had made a habit of wringing the land for all it was worth. It was their right -- no, their duty -- to exploit this world, and then move the villages to new land and new pickings. One day when Giedi Prime was a barren shell, the leader of House Harkonnen would undoubtedly request a different fief, a new reward for serving the Padishah Emperors. There were, after all, many worlds to choose from in the Imperium.

But galactic politics were of no interest to Gurney. His goals were limited to enjoying the upcoming evening, sharing a bit of entertainment and relaxation down at the meeting place. Tomorrow would be another day of back-breaking work.

Only stringy, starchy krall tubers grew profitably in these fields; though most of the crop was exported as animal feed, the bland tubers were nutritious enough to keep people working. Gurney ate them every day, as did everyone else. Poor soil leads to poor taste.

His parents and coworkers were full of proverbs, many from the Orange Catholic Bible; Gurney memorized them all and often set them to tunes. Music was the one treasure he was allowed to have, and he shared it freely.

The workers spread out to their separate but identical dwellings, defective prefabricated units House Harkonnen had bought at discount and dumped there. Gurney gazed ahead to where he lived with his parents and his younger sister, Bheth.