Мор - ученик смерти
Thisisthebrightcandlelitroom wherethelife-timersarestored –shelfuponshelfofthem,squathourglasses, oneforeverylivingperson,pouringtheirfinesandfromthefutureintothepast. Theaccumulatedhissofthefallinggrainsmakestheroomroarlikethesea.
Thisistheowneroftheroom,stalkingthroughitwithapreoccupiedair. HisnameisDeath.
ButnotanyDeath. ThisistheDeathwhoseparticularsphereofoperationsis,well,notasphereatall, buttheDiscworld, whichisflatandridesonthebackoffourgiantelephants whostandontheshelloftheenormousstarturtleGreatA’Tuin, andwhichisboundedbyawaterfallthatcascadesendlesslyintospace.
Scientistshavecalculatedthatthechanceofanythingsopatentlyabsurdactuallyexistingaremillionstoone.
Butmagicianshavecalculatedthatmillion-to-onechancescropupninetimesoutoften.
Deathclicksacrosstheblackandwhitetiledfloor ontoesofbone,mutteringinsidehiscowlashisskeletalfingerscountalongtherowsofbusyhourglasses.
Finallyhefindsonethatseemstosatisfyhim, liftsitcarefullyfromitsshelfandcarriesitacrosstothenearestcandle. Heholdsitsothatthelightlintsoffit, andstaresatthelittlepointofreflectedbrilliance.
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