The smile faded. The lips tightened. Napoleon put his hand on his friend's arm. “Help me, Illya. Please, help me.”
The Russian's fingers brushed almost imperceptibly his temple before resting on his shoulder. “It's what I've been doing for days...”
Napoleon wrenched himself free and stood up. For days? He banged his fist on the pedestal, immediately cursing at himself. How stupid...
He froze. Every knuckles hurt. He could feel scratches... he didn't see. No bruises, just pain.
“Napoleon...The caravan of digits that is pi Does not stop at the edge of the page But runs off the table...”
“The hell with pi, I told you, whoever you are!”
The blond man pounced on him, pinning him against the pedestal. “You don't have much time, Napoleon. Believe me. Trust me.” He tightened his grip, without violence, however. He acted as if he were driven on by urgency, almost despair. ...But runs off the table...”
Suddenly, the grip was released. The Russian had taken some steps aside and cleared the ground. “Look!”
Napoleon hadn't budged an inch. The man – Illya? - was struggling with what looked like to be a trapdoor and eventually slipped in a dark hole.