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

labyrinthine series of similar chambers, one of which was conveniently stocked
with a supply of stiff folding chairs intended for the small sleeping chambers
of the service personnel. Nineteen of Siona's fellow rebels now occupied these
chairs around her, with a few empty for any latecomers who might still make the
meeting.
The time had been set between the midnight and morning
shifts to mask the flow of extra people in the service warrens. Most of the
rebels wore energy-worker disguises-thin gray disposable trousers and jackets.
Some few, including Siona, were garbed in the green of machinery inspectors.
Topri's voice was an insistent monotone in the room. He did not squeak at all
while conducting the ceremony. In fact, Siona had to admit he was rather good at
it, especially with new recruits. Since Nayla's flat statement that she did not
trust the man, though, Siona had looked at Topri in a different way. Nayla could
speak with a cutting naivetщ which pulled away masks. And there were things that
Siona had learned about Topri since that confrontation.
Siona turned at last and looked at the man. The cold silvery light did not help
Topri's pale skin. He used a copy of a crysknife in the ceremony, a contraband
copy bought from the Museum Fremen. Siona recalled the transaction as she looked
at the blade in Topri's hands. It had been Topri's idea, and she had thought it
a good one at the time. He had led her to the rendezvous in a hovel on the
city's outskirts, leaving Onn just at dusk. They had waited well into the night
until darkness could mask the Museum Freemen's coming. Fremen were not supposed
to leave their sietch quarters without a special dispensation from the God
Emperor.
She had almost given up on him when the Fremen arrived, slipping in out of the
night, his escort left behind to guard the door. Topri and Siona had been
waiting on a crude bench against a dank wall of the absolutely plain room. The
only light had come from a dim yellow torch supported on a stick driven into the
crumbling mud wall.
The Fremen's first words had filled Siona with misgivings.
"Have you brought the money?"
Both Topri and Siona had risen at his entry. Topri did not appear bothered by
the question. He tapped the pouch beneath his robe, making it jingle.
"I have the money right here."
The Fremen was a wizened figure, crabbed and bent, wearing a copy of the old
Fremen robes and some glistening garment underneath, probably their version of a
stillsuit. His hood was drawn forward, shading his features. The torchlight sent
shadows dancing across his face.
He peered first at Topri then at Siona before removing an object wrapped in
cloth from beneath his robe.
"It is a true copy, but it is made of plastic," he said. "It will not cut cold
grease."
He pulled the blade from its wrappings then and held it up.
Siona, who had seen crysknives only in museums and in the rare old visual
recordings of her family's archives, had found herself oddly gripped by the
sight of the blade in this setting. She felt something atavistic working on her
and imagined this poor Museum Fremen with his plastic crysknife as a real Fremen
of the old days. The thing he held was suddenly a silver-bladed crysknife
shimmering in the yellow shadows.
"I guarantee the authenticity of the blade from which we copied it," the Fremen