Мор - ученик смерти

           That’stheword.Fifty-threetimessofar.Orfifty-four.’

           Binkylookedupastheyapproachedandgaveashortneighofrecognitionwhentheabbotpattedhisnose.Mortmountedupandhelpedtheabbotupbehindhim.

           ’Itmustbeveryinteresting,’hesaid,asBinkyclimbedawayfromthetemple.Ontheabsolutescaleofsmalltalkthiscommentmustrateminusquitealot,butMortcouldn’tthinkofanythingbetter.

           ’No,itmustn’t,’saidtheabbot.’YouthinkitmustbebecauseyoubelieveIcanrememberallmylives,butofcourseIcan’t.NotwhileI’malive,anyway.’

           ’Ihadn’tthoughtofthat,’Mortconceded.

           ’Imaginetoilettrainingfiftytimes.’

           ’Nothingtolookbackon,Iimagine,’saidMort.

           ’You’reright.IfIhadmytimealloveragainIwouldn’treincarnate.AndjustwhenI’mgettingthehangofthings,theladscomedownfromthetemplelookingforaboyconceivedatthehourtheoldabbotdied.Talkaboutunimaginative.Stophereamoment,please.’

           Mortlookeddown.

           ’We’reinmid-air,’hesaiddoubtfully.

           ’Iwon’tkeepyouaminute.’TheabbotsliddownfromBinky’sback,walkedafewstepsonthinair,andshouted.

           Itseemedtogoonforalongtime.Thentheabbotclimbedbackagain.