“You are dying, Georgi! The first step is your death—!”
“Won’t you warn the town? Do you want to be an accessory?”
“Come!” said Freder.
He raised Georgi up. With his hand pressed to his wound, the man began to run.
“Pick up your lamp and come!” said Georgi. He ran so that Freder could hardly follow him. Into the ten-thousand-year-old dust dripped the blood which welled up from the freshly inflicted wound. He held Freder’s arm clasped, pulling him forwards.
“Hurry!” he murmured. “Hurry—there’s not time to lose!”
Passages—crossings—passages—steps—passages—a flight of stairs which led steeply upward.... Georgi fell at the first step. Freder wanted to hold him. He pushed him away.
“Hurry!” he said. He indicated the stairs with his head. “Up—! You can’t go wrong now ... hurry up—!”
“And you, Georgi?—and you—?”
“I—” said Georgi, turning his head to the wall—“I am not going to answer any more questions....”