disttsc%bart.nl 901482d14c From Small Gods, by Terry Pratchett: ... The light was brilliant, crystalline, in a black sky filled with stars. 'Ah. There really is a desert. Does everyone get this?' said Brutha. WHO KNOWS? 'And what is at the end of the desert?' JUDGEMENT. Brutha considered this. 'Which end?' Death grinned and stepped aside. What Brutha had thought was a rock in the sand was a hunched figure, sitting clutching its knees. It looked paralysed with fear. He stared. 'Vorbis?' he said. He looked at Death. 'But Vobis died a hundred years ago!' YES. HE HAD TO WALK IT ALL ALONE. ALL ALONE WITH HIMSELF. IF HE DARED. 'He's been here fore a hundred years?' POSSIBLY NOT. TIME IS DIFFERENT HERE. IT IS . . . MORE PERSONAL. 'Ah. You mean a hundred years can pass like a few seconds?' A HUNDRED YEARS CAN PASS LIKE INFINITY. The black-on-black eyes stared imploringly at Brutha, who reached out automatically, without thinking . . . and then hesitated. HE WAS A MURDERER, said Death. AND A CREATOR OF MURDERERS. A TORTURER. WITHOUT PASSION. CRUEL. CALLOUS. COMPASSIONLESS. 'Yes. I know. He's Vorbis,' said Brutha. Vorbis changed people. Sometimes he changed them into dead people. But he always changed them. That was his triumph. He sighed. 'But I'm me,' he said. Vobis stood up, uncertainly, and followed Brutha across the desert. Death watched them walk away. The End.		2001-02-12 03:12:57 +00:00
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public	Adding an interface for the creation of elements. Converting the HTML	2000-01-19 03:10:06 +00:00
src	From Small Gods, by Terry Pratchett:	2001-02-12 03:12:57 +00:00