The Prophet
Шрифт:
"You know, I've read your... opuses. You write well. But it's no good to follow the plot so closely. For as far as I remember, the next scene you've got is torture. And shooting."
Antisthenes kept silent.
"All right then, let's not restrict the author's imagination. No elixirs, though. And we will not suspend the sentence 'till tomorrow. – Crustill!"
Heels clicked together behind Antisthenes' back.
Unable to walk by himself, Antisthenes had to be carried by the arms and legs. Then the guards stood him leaning against the wall. Antisthenes staggered, but managed to steady himself. The square was reeling before his eyes. He had known the sentence – short and clear as a burst of tommy-gun fire. By the end of the sentence reading the town-hall clock began striking noon, their chime drowning the words. Words, words, words... Who said that? Hamlet. Four soldiers lined up facing him. Tommy-gun locks went clicking. The gold-laced officer raised his hand. Now... Torn flames blew up at him. But Antisthenes was still standing there watching in dumb amazement the bullets chipping pieces of plaster off the wall around him.