papers into Marek's lap, then buried himself in the documents on his desk.
"I haven't been for a fortnight," said Marek gloomily.
"Haven't been where?"
"I haven't been to my little factory out at Břevnov for a fortnight. I—I daren't go there. Is anything being done there?"
"Mphm."
"And what about my Karburator?" asked Marek, controlling his anxiety.
"It's still running."
"And what about . . . the other thing?"
The Chief sighed and laid down his pen. "Do you know that we had to have Mixa Street closed?"
"Why?"
"People kept going there to pray. Whole processions of them. The police tried to disperse them, and seven people lost their lives. They let themselves be knocked over like sheep."
"I feared as much, I feared as much," muttered Marek in despair.
"We've blocked the street with barbed wire," Bondy went on. "We had to clear the people out of the neighbouring houses—religious manifestations all over them, you know. A commission of the Ministries of Health and Education is occupying them now."
