Curiously, the instrument’s murderer had transported the wreck from the original crime scene and laid the carcass here like an offering to the passers-by. Trams came and went, the passengers circumnavigating the thing, rapidly finding anything else to look at, each in turn silently rejecting the implied responsibility thrust upon him by the killer.
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Being the judge’s understudy was staining Zimn’s soul. Propelled inexorably ahead on rails of faith and obligation, Zimn carried out his grim assignment. He told himself, as the judge did, that high stakes warranted extraordinary action. It was hard to believe.
“Am I the sacrifice, or am I the cause?”
He felt sick.