SubscribeHarroway, his forehead shining with considerably more than mere enthusiasm, passed it over a second time.I'm sorry, I can't type any more of that crap. It has all the verbal fire and verve of Agatha Christie on an off day. "Harroway had no doubts on the point of to whom he owed his job"—you want to offer this to someone who reads books written by actual writers? I don't want to be unkind to Asimov, who was a fine fellow and came up with some brilliant ideas, but a writer (in the sense in which blahblahblah's wife, grumblebee, and myself understand the word) he was not.
Bryerly said evenly, "I read here as the description of what you're to search; I quote: 'the dwelling place belonging to Stephen Allan Byerley, located at 355 Willow Grove, Evanstron, together with any garage, storehouse, or other structures or buildings thereto appertaining, together with all grounds thereto appertaining' ... um ... and so on. Quite in order. But, my good man, it doesn't say anything about searching my interior. I'm not part of the premises. You may search my clothes if you think I've got a robot hidden in my pocket."
Harroway had no doubts on the point of to whom he owed his job. He did not propose to be backward, given a chance to earn a much better—i.e., more highly paid—job.
He said, in a faint echo of bluster...
Paul felt Chani's hand on his arm, heard a faint dripping sound in the chill air, felt an utter stillness come over the Fremen in the cathedral presence of water.Say what you will about the book, but the last thing I would ever have expected to hear from somebody is that we aren't really let in on Paul's inner struggle. Vast chunks of the book center around his inner conflict and character development.
I have seen this place in a dream, he thought.
The thought was both reassuring and frustrating. Somewhere ahead of him on this path, the fanatic hordes cut their glory path across the universe in his name. The green and black Atreides banner would become a symbol of terror. Wild legions would charge into battle screaming their war cry: "Maud'Dib!"
It must not be, he thought. I cannot let it happen.
But he could feel the demanding race consciousness within him, his own terrible purpose, and he knew that no small thing could deflect the juggernaut. It was gathering weight and momentum. If he died this instant, the thing would go on through his mother and his unborn sister. Nothing less than the deaths of all the troop gathered here and now -- himself and his mother included -- could stop the thing.
posted by donovan at 11:03 PM on April 30, 2006