"I believe," said Felg quickly, without passion, without conviction.
The mace was high over Matlin's head now. The crowd came close, watching. Someone touched the single mace remaining on its hook, and the mace swung slowly. The swinging motion caught Felg's eye and he watched, fascinated. But the mace was out of reach and he must have known it. Everything but death was now out of reach, forever out of reach.
"That death is not a cold sleep from which there is no awakening?"
"Yes, yes!"
"That reincarnation will come to you?" Why am I doing this, Matlin wondered. It was to prove a point: but he knew not what point he wished to prove.
"Yes, yes...."
"That the loss of life is to be suffered before the loss of honor?"
"Yes. By the holy pages of The Book of the Dead, kill me!"
"All this you believe?"
Light caught the spikes of the mace. They flashed. Someone had to carry the Polarian tourist to a chair and settle her there. Sweat made her clothing cling to her body, revealing a figure like a sow's. Sweat beaded her face, but her ugly little eyes gazed on Matlin as if he'd made love to her.