-
Главная
-
- Книги
-
- Авторы
-
- Терри Пратчетт
-
- Мор - ученик смерти
-
- Стр. 102/357
Для того чтобы воспользоваться озвучкой предложений, необходимо
Войти или зарегистрироваться
Озвучка предложений доступна при наличии PRO-доступа
Купить PRO-доступ
The
fact
is
that
the
Listeners
are
trying
to
work
out
precisely
what
it
was
that
the
Creator
said
when
He
made
the
universe
.
The
theory
is
quite
straightforward
.
Clearly
,
nothing
that
the
Creator
makes
could
ever
be
destroyed
,
which
means
that
the
echoes
of
those
first
syllables
must
still
be
around
somewhere
,
bouncing
and
rebounding
off
all
the
matter
in
the
cosmos
but
still
audible
to
a
really
good
listener
.
Eons
ago
the
Listeners
had
found
that
ice
and
chance
had
carved
this
one
valley
into
the
perfect
acoustic
opposite
of
an
echo
valley
,
and
had
built
their
multi
-
chambered
temple
in
the
exact
position
that
the
one
comfy
chair
always
occupies
in
the
home
of
a
rabid
hi
-
fi
fanatic
.
Complex
baffles
caught
and
amplified
the
sound
that
was
funnelled
up
the
chilly
valley
,
steering
it
ever
inwards
to
the
central
chamber
where
,
at
any
hour
of
the
day
or
night
,
three
monks
always
sat
.
Listening
.
There
were
certain
problems
caused
by
the
fact
that
they
didn
’
t
hear
only
the
subtle
echoes
of
the
first
words
,
but
every
other
sound
made
on
the
Disc
.
In
order
to
recognise
the
sound
of
the
Words
,
they
had
to
learn
to
recognise
all
the
other
noises
.
This
called
for
a
certain
talent
,
and
a
novice
was
only
accepted
for
training
if
he
could
distinguish
by
sound
alone
,
at
a
distance
of
a
thousand
yards
,
which
side
a
dropped
coin
landed
.
He
wasn
’
t
actually
accepted
into
the
order
until
he
could
tell
what
colour
it
was
.
And
although
the
Holy
Listeners
were
so
remote
,
many
people
took
the
extremely
long
and
dangerous
path
to
their
temple
,
travelling
through
frozen
,
troll
-
haunted
lands
,
fording
swift
icy
rivers
,
climbing
forbidding
mountains
,
trekking
across
inhospitable
tundra
,
in
order
to
climb
the
narrow
stairway
that
led
into
the
hidden
valley
and
seek
with
an
open
heart
the
secrets
of
being
.
And
the
monks
would
cry
unto
them
,
’
Keep
the
bloody
noise
down
!
’
Binky
came
through
the
mountain
tops
like
a
white
blur
,
touching
down
in
the
snowy
emptiness
of
a
courtyard
made
spectral
by
the
disco
light
from
the
sky
.
Mort
leapt
from
his
back
and
ran
through
the
silent
cloisters
to
the
room
where
the
88th
abbot
lay
dying
,
surrounded
by
his
devout
followers
.
Mort
’
s
footsteps
boomed
as
he
hurried
across
the
intricate
mosaic
floor
.
The
monks
themselves
wore
woollen
overshoes
.
