"Frank Herbert - Dune 4 - God Emporer of Dune" - читать интересную книгу автора (Herbert Brian & Frank)

from the folds of his uniform robe. What a surprise!
Leto loved surprises, even nasty ones.
It is something I did not predict! And he said as much to Duncan, who had stood
there oddly undecided now that decision was absolutely demanded of him.
"This could kill you," the Duncan said.
"I'm sorry, Duncan. It will do a small amount of injury, no more."
"But you said you didn't predict this!" The Duncan's voice had grown shrill.
"Duncan, Duncan, it is absolute prediction which equals death to me. How
unutterably boring death is."
At the last instant, the Duncan had tried to throw the explosive to one side,
but the material in it had been unstable and it had gone off too soon. The
Duncan had died. Ahh, well-the Tleilaxu always had another in their axlotl
tanks.
One of the drifting glowglobes above Leto began to blink. Excitement gripped
him. Moneo's signal! Faithful Moneo had alerted his God Emperor that the Duncan
was descending to the crypt.
The door to the human lift between two spoked passages in the northwest arc of
the hub swung open. The Duncan strode forth, a small figure at that distance,
but Leto's eyes discerned even tiny details, a wrinkle on the uniform elbow
which said the man had been leaning somewhere, chin in hand. Yes, there were
still the marks of his hand on the chin. The Duncan's odor preceded him: the man
was high on his own adrenalin.
Leto remained silent while the Duncan approached, observing details. The Duncan
still walked with the spring of youth despite all of his long service. He could
thank a minimal ingestion of melange for that. The man wore the old Atreides
uniform, black with a golden hawk at the left breast. An interesting statement,
that: "I serve the honor of the old Atreides!" His hair was still the black cap
of karakul, the features fixed in stony sharpness with high cheekbones.
The Tleilaxu make their gholas well, Leto thought.
The Duncan carried a thin briefcase woven of dark brown fibers, one he had
carried for many years. It usually contained the material upon which he based
his reports, but today it bulged with some heavier weight.
The Ixian lasgun.
Idaho kept his attention on Leto's face as he walked. The face remained
disconcertingly Atreides, lean features with eyes
of total blue which the nervous felt as a physical intrusion. It lurked deep
within a gray cowl of sandtrout skin which, Idaho knew, could roll forward
protectively in a flickering reflex, a face blink rather than an eye blink. The
skin was pink within its gray frame. It was difficult avoiding the thought that
Leto's face was an obscenity, a lost bit of humanity trapped in something alien.
Stopping only six paces from the Royal Cart, Idaho did not attempt to conceal
his angry determination. He did not even think about whether Leto knew of the
lasgun. This Imperium had wandered too far from the old Atreides morality, had
become an impersonal juggernaut which crushed the innocent in its path. It had
to be ended.
"I have come to talk to you about Siona and other matters," Idaho said. He
brought the case into position where he could withdraw the lasgun easily.
"Very well." Leto's voice was full of boredom.
"Siona was the only one who escaped, but she still has a base of rebel
companions."