There is a seaward bulge of stratocumulus. Sun glint and littoral drift. I see blooms of plankton in a blue of such Persian richness it seems an animal rapture, a colour change to express some form of intuitive delight.

When I was a child, we always had wine on the table, no matter how simple the meal. The wine had no special identity; it was just &#39;the wine,&#39; from the cellar cask. The rules were general: white with the first course, red with the main course.

Then came the Butlerian Jihad—two generations of chaos. The god of machine-logic was overthrown among the masses and a new concept was raised: “Man may not be replaced.” Those

Written By Frank Herbert

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