The man bent back his head into the nape of his neck and stared at the roof suspended above him.
On the roof there flamed the word:
Yoshiwara....
The word Yoshiwara became rockets of light which showered around him, paralysing his limbs. He sat motionless, covered in a cold sweat. He clawed his fingers into the leather of the cushions. His back was stiff, as though his spine were made of cold iron. His jaws chattered.
“No—!” said Georgi, tearing his fists down. But before his eyes which stared into space, the word flamed up:
“Yoshiwara....”
Music was in the air, hurled into the nocturnal streets by enormous loud-speakers. Wanton was the music, most heated of rhythm, of a shrieking, lashing gaiety....
“No—!” panted the man. Blood trickled in drops from his bitten lips.
But a hundred multi-coloured rockets wrote in the velvet-black sky of Metropolis, the word:
“Yoshiwara....”