Saturday, December 5, 2009

You sure you know what you're doing?" asked Caswell feeling lightheaded. The machine snapped back its pilot light blazing. "Mechanotherapy today is an exact science and admits no significant errors. We will.

Drove them like - like pigs at Brightling Fair. He called us English all pigs. We suffered it because he was a master in his craft. If he misliked any work that a man had done with his own great hands he'd rive it out and tear it down before us all. "Ah you pig - you English pig!" he'd scream in the dumb wretch's face. "You answer me? You look at me? You think at me?.
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With the men who were hanged in the shed?" "Dug a grave. Waiting for a priest to say the burial service over them. Some might have been good Catholics. " "There will be no burial service. Some were assuredly heretics. Heretics so vile they deserve no burial if it were not for the stench they leave in the nostrils. But the stench of these books is greater. Before you fill in the grave Sieghart throw these in. Let them not go to clean flame but lie and corrupt with the corruption of their authors. And Sieghart. . . " The two men's eyes met a faint nod. Sieghart freed his dagger noiselessly mouthed the word "Now?" Another nod. Catching some hint of what was meant Richier struggled forward to the knees of the deacon babbling still "I brought you the /graal/ I deserve a reward. . . " The dagger sank.
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