Мор - ученик смерти

           IT’LLDO,saidDeath,rollingupthemaps.ANDNOW,BOY,IFYOU’VEFINISHEDTHESTABLEYOUCANGOANDSEEIFALBERTHASANYJOBSHEWANTSDOING.IFYOULIKE,YOUCANCOMEOUTONTHEROUNDWITHMETHISEVENING.

           Mortnodded.Deathwentbacktohisbigleatherbook,tookupapen,staredatitforamoment,andthenlookedupatMortwithhisskullononeside.

           HAVEYOUMETMYDAUGHTER?hesaid.

           ’Er.Yes,sir,’saidMort,hishandonthedoorknob.

           SHEISAVERYPLEASANTGIRL,saidDeath,BUTITHINKSHEQUITELIKESHAVINGSOMEONEOFHEROWNAGEAROUNDTOTALKTO.

           ’Sir?’

           AND,OFCOURSE,ONEDAYALLTHISWILLBELONGTOHER.

           Somethinglikeasmallbluesupernovaflaredforamomentinthedepthsofhiseyesockets.ItdawnedonMortthat,withsomeembarrassmentandcompletelackofexpertise,Deathwastryingtowink.

           Inalandscapethatowednothingtotimeandspace,whichappearedonnomap,whichexistedonlyinthosefarreachesofthemultiplexedcosmosknowntothefewastrophysicistswhohavetakenreallybadacid,MortspenttheafternoonhelpingAlbertplantoutbroccoli.Itwasblack,tintedwithpurple.

           ’Hetries,see,’saidAlbert,flourishingthedibber.’It’sjustthatwhenitcomestocolour,hehasn’tgotmuchimagination.’