She stood there–mute, blind, her eyes still open. The bells ringing in her head became deafening she wanted to concentrate on one last thought, but was unable to articulate this thought. She was still breathing, but breathing was hard work and she was running out of strength. If someone had blinded her, she would have felt no sense of loss. Her eyes–which had read Homer, Izvestia, Huckleberry Finn and Mayne Reid, that had looked at good people and bad people, that had seen the geese in the green meadows of Kursk, the stars above the observatory at Pulkovo, the glitter of surgical steel, the Mona Lisa in the Louvre, tomatoes and turnips in the bins at market, the blue water of Issyk-Kul–her eyes were no longer of any use to her. When David moved his head and neck, it didn’t make Sofya Levinson want to turn and see what he was looking at. Speech was no longer of any use to people, nor was action action is directed towards the future and there no longer was any future.
The shuffling quietened down all you could hear were occasional screams, groans and barely audible words.
It looked like a grey rat, but he realized it was a fan beginning to turn.
High up, behind a rectangular metal grating in the wall, David saw something stir. David watched the door close: gently, smoothly, as though drawn by a magnet, the steel door drew closer to its steel frame.
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