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“
We
do
,
indeed
,
lose
something
,
”
she
said
.
She
glanced
out
to
the
right
at
a
slope
humped
with
a
wind
-
troubled
gray
-
green
of
bushes
—
dusty
leaves
and
dry
claw
branches
.
The
too
-
dark
sky
hung
over
the
slope
like
a
blot
,
and
the
milky
light
of
the
Arrakeen
sun
gave
the
scene
a
silver
cast
—
light
like
the
crysknife
concealed
in
her
bodice
.
“
The
sky
’
s
so
dark
,
”
she
said
.
“
That
’
s
partly
the
lack
of
moisture
,
”
he
said
.
“
Water
!
”
she
snapped
.
“
Everywhere
you
turn
here
,
you
’
re
involved
with
the
lack
of
water
!
”
“
It
’
s
the
precious
mystery
of
Arrakis
,
”
he
said
.
“
Why
is
there
so
little
of
it
?
There
’
s
volcanic
rock
here
.
There
’
re
a
dozen
power
sources
I
could
name
.
There
’
s
polar
ice
.
They
say
you
can
’
t
drill
in
the
desert
—
storms
and
sandtides
destroy
equipment
faster
than
it
can
be
installed
,
if
the
worms
don
’
t
get
you
first
.
They
’
ve
never
found
water
traces
there
,
anyway
.
But
the
mystery
,
Wellington
,
the
real
mystery
is
the
wells
that
’
ve
been
drilled
up
here
in
the
sinks
and
basins
.
Have
you
read
about
those
?
”
“
First
a
trickle
,
then
nothing
,
”
he
said
.
