欧宝娱乐

The guards ushered Frank into the office. As usual, the Reverend Publisher was seated at her desk, writing.

So many lives touched by her decisions, he thought.

"Well?"

She looked up. He had promised himself that he would not flinch before the fire of her gaze, and once more he broke his promise.

"It is... almost finished."

"Almost." Her irony was palpable, a force. "Almost is not enough. You know that, Frank. When will it be done?"

"I think... a month. At most two. I am working as hard as I can, Reverend Publisher. I am... not well."

He hated himself for his servility.

"So, why then did you found a dynasty? Your son can assist you. He will continue when you are gone. There are many books left to write."

His throat was suddenly dry. But of course there was no pitcher of water. It would have been unthinkable.

"I am... preparing him. He will be ready in time."

She glanced at him again, and again he flinched.

"There is a transcriber on that desk. Write a page now. I want to see how you work."

He sat down, and fed a sheet of paper into the machine. His lips moved soundlessly. She knew what he was saying. By now, the Litany was stamped deep into his psyche, impossible to eradicate. She smiled secretly to herself. The training was brutal, but it was effective. She watched his mouth, as it formed the words it had spoken so many times before:

I have no taste.
Taste is the sales-killer, the hesitation that brings total profit meltdown.
I will conquer my taste.
When I have stamped it out, I will look at what I have written.
I will read through it from start to finish.
There will be nothing left of a great series.
Only crap will remain.