room. It seemed to him that Death would remain standing there, and
would not go away until those people had been captured, until the
bombs had been taken from them, until they had been placed in a strong
prison. There Death was standing in the corner, and would not go
away-it could not go away, even as an obedient sentinel stationed on
guard by a superior's will and order.

"At one o'clock in the afternoon, your Excellency!" this phrase kept
ringing, changing its tone continually: now it was cheerfully mocking,
now angry, now dull and obstinate. It sounded as if a hundred wound-up
gramophones had been placed in his room, and all of them, one after
another, were shouting with idiotic repetition the words they had been
made to shout:

"At one o'clock in the afternoon, your Excellency!"

And suddenly, this one o'clock in the afternoon to-morrow, which but a
short while ago was not in any way different from other hours, which
was only a quiet movement of the hand along the dial of his gold
watch, assumed an ominous finality, sprang out of the dial, began to
live separately, stretched itself into an enormously huge black pole
which cut all life in two. It seemed as if no other hours had existed
before it and no other hours would exist after it-as if this hour
alone, insolent and presumptuous, had a right to a certain peculiar
existence.

"Well, what do you want?" asked the Minister angrily, muttering
between his teeth.

The gramophone shouted: