Luoth had already fought and wanted only to hide at home, too tired and challenged to even plan his own departure. Yet he followed the procession in a desperate impulse, fear gripping his throat, horror choking him.

  His secretary had never given him reason to doubt his sanity. It was true that Batracids did not excel in communication, and reading their facial expressions — if they had any— was impossible. But when he had hired him as an accountant, and even more so when he had promoted him to his personal assistant, he had chosen him precisely for his air of solidity. He fulfilled his duties, and he was attentive and precise, without frills. Now he realized that he did not know him at all.

  He had waited in vain for him all morning, and his failure to appear without warning was in itself an event of ominous significance. And then, when he had arrived, he had appeared in the garb of a penitent, chattering nonsense in the company of other madmen who were blocking the entrance to the bank.

  According to them, it was necessary to get rid of all earthly possessions, to destroy everything, in order to get back into Faspath's good graces and stop its wrath. Good thinking, Luoth had thought, how brilliant to take everything from us before the others take it from us! There's a benefit —what?

  Incredulous, Luoth had approached the secretary, hoping to reason with him.

  Now he could no longer remember what he had said to him, or even if the guy had responded before the fight broke out.

  One of the windows had been hit squarely by a brick; the safety glass had partially resisted, not shattering but bending inward, leaving an irregular hole as silica dust peeled off the frame in grains. The bank was full of people, a lot of work in those days when everyone was rushing to either take their belongings or collect insurance and coupons to be redeemed later, should they arrive safely in a city on the surface.

  Headquarters had issued orders to reassure the customers and show their willingness to accommodate any request, but it would take a lot to make people realize that the branch's coffers were being emptied and it would not be possible to return cash to everyone.

  So for the first few moments, Luoth thought it was an attack by savers who feared they were being swindled. He waved for the guards to intervene without too much force; he was ready to go out and talk to the people himself.

  “Your money is safe and you can withdraw it at any other bank location,” he had repeated hundreds of times. One more could not make a difference.

  But that was not the point. It was immediately clear from the sounds in the street that something unusual and terrible was happening; it was not the shouts of an angry crowd or the cries of an individual, but rather the out-of-tune and distorted music of blown-out flutes, somber drums, the tinkling of beaten metal pipes.

  His ex-secretary and his comrades joined in the cacophony with a raucous hymn, their arms raised high in the center of a wide empty space from which every other person present had hurried away. It was a mistake to let them in, Luoth thought in a panic.

  A cashier screamed, and customers piled into a corner. More pounding on the door, already bolted shut by guards. Behind the triple-thick reinforced glass, wildly moving figures waved, beating sistrums with one hand and hammering the other against the transparent surface already fogged with their sweat.

  Instinctively, Luoth made his way between the muscular bodies of the guards, creeping between their broad hips to place the fingers of his right hand on the notched handle, while with his left he slipped the key into the keyhole and turned it.

  The Batracid jumped onto a bench, unrecognizable in his madness. He flapped his webbed paws loudly, reciting a rhythmic litany in response to the bellowing verses of his two companions. He seemed in every way a beast, devoid of intellect, prey to violent and irrepressible instincts.

  Luoth found himself crawling along the wall, his only thought being to reach his office and desk, the bottom drawer of which held the gun he had bought in his youth and never thought he would need to use.

  Someone had tripped the alarm, and a buzzer chirped from the back of the room, but none of the insurgents cared. The dance continued, the shoving at the door continued, the noise became deafening. Actually, they weren't trying very hard to break in, Luoth admitted. The shattered window, already propped up by the guards pressing a piece of furniture against it, would have been a much easier way in than the armored door.

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  The dogged pounding of the madmen outside now seemed to provide a rhythmic counterpoint to their demented hymns.

  “Go away, you madmen!” thundered Luoth in a deep, manly voice he did not believe he possessed.

  Then the Batracid fell silent and stared at him, his eyes so bulging that they looked like black marbles stuck to his greenish face.

  “There is only one salvation,” it croaked, bowing deeply to some being out there.

  The other two roared in unison.

  “Thank you for telling us, really. We'll think about it,” Luoth replied, forcing a smile. He had to stretch his lips, which didn't want to move, but he hoped that his look conveyed a sufficiently concrete threat.

  Don't make me take the gun. The secretary was well aware that he had one.

  The guards, on the other hand, were only armed with a truncheon. They could keep the three fanatics inside at bay, but not a riot spreading from the outside. Under normal circumstances, the alarm would have sent the police to the scene. Only twice had that bell been rung since Luoth had been bank manager, he recalled with regret, clutching the base of his nose to counter the tingling sensation that burned his eyes and made them water. And always the situation had been resolved without the use of force.

  But would anyone come now? With all the problems in every part of Nelatte?

  He had made it to the threshold of his office, the amphora-shaped umbrella stand to his right. He stretched out his hand and was able to grasp the silver handle of his old walking stick, which he had used so much until a few years ago, when advancing age had made him wonder if someone seeing it might think he really needed a cane.

  A new clatter of glass and shouts in the street made him fear another attack. But whatever had been smashed was not inside the bank, and the voices had changed in pitch and register; a bizarre sound, like the rolling of many pebbles or marbles on the cobblestones, gradually increasing in volume until it was a kind of howling, a flow of wind, a never-ending roar.

  It was a scream he had to recognize, one that clung to every nerve ending, pulling them like a rubber band almost to the breaking point, a voice that shook him like a puppet and made his teeth chatter. A horror that Luoth fought against with all his might, to banish it from his mind, to deny it. But the memory and the instinct to flee from danger prevailed.

  FIRE!

  Leaning forward, he put all his weight on the stick, his eyes closed in his own private universe of sandbags, waiting for his father's strong embrace to take him away...

  Mother!

  He didn't want to run anymore, didn't want to go without her, without ever being recognized, without ever being loved.

  The shrill siren of the fire department. Thank the Water there was still someone willing to intervene for public safety.

  One of the guards called him with a grunt. The Batracid had finished his prayer, stepped down to the marble floor and now stood calmly with his companions in front of the locked door. The street was clear. The siren had dispersed the last clusters of crazed penitents still clinging to the bank door. From the vents came a whiff of burning, an acrid stench that briefly caused coughing fits among all those crowded together in anticipation, their faces distorted with tension.

  But it was over. Luoth went to unlock the front door, and the three idiots left in silence, among the standing guards whose obtuse faces were still turned toward the manager, waiting in vain for instructions.

  But what instructions could he have given to anyone? What did this madman want to prove? What would have happened if someone had not set fire to something in the street?

  He turned to look around the hall, lost in the spot where the mosaic tiles of the polished floor formed a white oval. The customers had not moved, even after the all-clear. Water jets extinguished the flames with a resounding crackle, the bright uniforms of the firefighters clearly visible through the glass, a guarantee that the danger on the street had passed. The fanatics had retreated. But everyone seemed to be waiting for a nod from the banker, as if he were a schoolmaster who had to dismiss the children at the end of the lesson.

  He said nothing. He didn't feel like it. He looked outward. He had to know; he had to understand.

  And he was swept away.