Ностромо

           Swifterthanaflashoflightningfollowedtheimpressionofhisconstrained,topplingattitude—theshouldersprojectingforward,theheadsunklowuponthebreast.Thenhedistinguishedthearmsbehindhisback,andwrenchedsoterriblythatthetwoclenchedfists,lashedtogether,hadbeenforceduphigherthantheshoulder-blades.Fromtherehiseyestracedinoneinstantaneousglancethehideropegoingupwardsfromthetiedwristsoveraheavybeamanddowntoastapleinthewall.Hedidnotwanttolookattherigidlegs,atthefeethangingdownnervelessly,withtheirbaretoessomesixinchesabovethefloor,toknowthatthemanhadbeengiventheestrapadetillhehadswooned.Hisfirstimpulsewastodashforwardandsevertheropeatoneblow.Hefeltforhisknife.Hehadnoknife—notevenaknife.Hestoodquivering,andthedoctor,perchedontheedgeofthetable,facingthoughtfullythecruelandlamentablesight,hischininhishand,uttered,withoutstirring—

           “Tortured—andshotdeadthroughthebreast—gettingcold.”

           ThisinformationcalmedtheCapataz.Oneofthecandlesflickeringinthesocketwentout.“Whodidthis?”heasked.

           “Sotillo,Itellyou.Whoelse?Tortured—ofcourse.Butwhyshot?”ThedoctorlookedfixedlyatNostromo,whoshruggedhisshouldersslightly.“Andmark,shotsuddenly,onimpulse.Itisevident.IwishIhadhissecret.”

           Nostromohadadvanced,andstoopedslightlytolook.