Soldiers scrambled over it, swords drawn.
“Ah, gentlemen,” said Didactylos. “Pray don't disturb my circles.”
The corporal in charge looked at him blankly, and then down at the floor.
“What circles?” he said.
“Hey, how about giving me a pair of compasses and coming back in, say, half an hour?”
“Leave him, corporal,” said Brutha.
He stepped over the door.
“I said leave him.”
"But I got orders to-
“Are you deaf? If you are, the Quisition can cure that,” said Brutha, astonished at the steadiness of his own voice.
“You don't belong to the Quisition,” said the corporal.
“No. But I know a man who does,” said Brutha. “You are to search the palace for books. Leave him with me. He's an old man. What harm can he do?”
The corporal looked hesitantly from Brutha to his prisoners.
“Very good, corporal. I will take over.”
They all turned.
“Did you hear me?” said Sergeant Simony, pushing his way forward.
"But the deacon told us-
“Corporal?”
“Yes, sergeant?”
“The deacon is far away. I am right here.”
“Yes, sergeant.” Go.
“Yes, sergeant.”
Simony cocked an ear as the soldiers marched away.
Then he stuck his sword in the door and turned to Didactylos. He made a fist with his left hand and brought his right hand down on it, palm extended.
“The Turtle Moves,” he said.
“That all depends,” said the philosopher, cautiously.
“I mean I am . . . a friend,” he said.
“Why should we trust you?” said Urn.
“Because you haven't got any choice,” said Sergeant Simony briskly.
“Can you get us out of here?” said Brutha.