Even with such titles as “Bitches’ Lament” or “The Isle of Sappho,” hardly a muscle twitched until the intermission, when all but a few rushed for the door, congregating outside to vent their rage. They crowded around the stack of Malany’s books, almost forcing Beckman, who now fearfully scanned the semicircle of angry, distorted faces, against the wall. He really began to fear for his life.
The table tipped over and books scattered, with explosive force, into the crowd. One book, thrown out of the crowd, hit the wall a foot away from Beckman’s head. Then another and another until it seemed like a barrage of artillery shells arching toward him. Beckman covered his head with his arms and dropped to the floor. The barrage slammed against the wall above him, and books fluttered down around h
