"E. C. Tubb - Dumarest 18 - Incident on Ath" - читать интересную книгу автора (Tubb E. C)

come by asphyxiation but before that would be the struggle to
survive, muscles tensing to ease the constriction, those muscles
turning into areas of screaming torment when assailed by
cramps. And even when they failed to support the weight and so
ease the constriction death would not come swiftly. A man could
hang in such a position for days and, if provided with a block on
which to support his weight, even longer.

A thought, and for a moment he considered it, then shook his
head. To add a block, while enhancing the symbolism, would
ruin the composition. A second cross-beam would have to be
added lower down and would provide a distraction to the eye. An
upright surmounted by a cross-piece would serve, but that would
eliminate the frame in which the suspended man was centered.
No—man was trapped in a prison and the beams were symbols
of that. A cage grounded in dirt in which he could find nothing
but death and pain. A limited universe which held only anguish.

But how to convey the message?

How to eliminate the distracting hints of amusement in eyes
and mouth? The touch of the bizarre? The glint and twist, the
subtle but damning suggestion that everything was a joke and
death itself the final comedy?

"Cornelius!" The voice came from beyond the arched doorway
causing little tinklings to murmur from the crystal chimes
hanging beside the portal. Ursula, of course. Who else could
create music from shaped and suspended fragments of glass?
"Cornelius?"

She entered heralded by the whispering chimes, tall, slim,
graceful as she crossed the tessellated floor to stand beside his
chair. She was all in blue, a variety of shades which included her
eyes, her lips, the sheen of her hair. Deep colors rising from the
sandals which hugged her feet, to her cinctured waist, the swell
of high and prominent breasts, paling as they rose to frame her
softly rounded shoulders with azure, deepening again at her lips,
her brows, the crested mane of jewel-set tresses.

"Cornelius." Her hand fell to rest on his shoulder, long fingers
tipped with richly blue nails, tinted skin a background to the
gleam of gems set in wide bands of silver. Looking at the
painting she said, "Another composition. It's superb!"

"No."

"You are too critical. That man—I can feel his pain."

"And?" He shrugged as she frowned. "Is that all you see? A