"We Can Build You" - читать интересную книгу автора (Dick Philip K.)

15

For some time the Lincoln simulacrum coached me as to exactly what I should say on the phone to Mrs. Silvia Devorac. I practiced it again and again, but a dreadful foreboding filled me.

However, at last I was ready. I got her number from the Seattle phone book and dialed. Presently a melodious, cultivated, middle-aged type of woman's voice said in my ear:

"Yes?"

"Mrs. Devorac? I'm sorry to bother you. I'm interested in Green Peach Hat and your project to have it torn down. My name is Louis Rosen and I'm from Ontario, Oregon."

"I had no idea our committee had attracted notice that far away."

"What! was wondering is, can I drop over with my attorney for a few minutes to your house and chat with you?"

"Your attorney! Oh goodness, is anything wrong?"

"There is something wrong," I said, "but not with your committee. It has to do--" I glanced at the simulacrum; it nodded yes to me. "Well," I said heavily, "it has to do with Sam K. Barrows."

"I see."

"I know Mr. Barrows through an unfortunate business association which I had with him in Ontario. I thought possibly you could give me some assistance."

"You do have an attorney, you say... I don't know what I could do for you that he can't." Mrs. Devorac's voice was measured and firm. "But you're welcome to drop by if we can keep it down to, say, half an hour; I have guests expected at eight."

Thanking her, I rang off.

The Lincoln said, "That was satisfactorily done, Louis." It rose to its feet. "We shall go at once, by cab." It started toward the door.

"Wait," I said.

At the door it glanced back at me.

"I can't do it."

"Then," the simulacrum said, "let us go for a walk instead." It held the door open for me. "Let us enjoy the night air, it smells of mountains."

Together the two of us walked up the dark sidewalk.

"What do you think will become of Miss Pris?" the simulacrum asked.

"She'll be okay. She'll stay with Barrows; he'll give her everything she wants out of life."

At a service station the simulacrum halted. "You will have to call Mrs. Devorac back to tell her we are not coming." There was an outdoor public phone booth.

Shutting myself in the booth I dialed Mrs. Devorac's number once more. I felt even worse than I had earlier; I could hardly get my finger into the proper slots.

"Yes?" the courteous voice came in my ear.

"This is Mr. Rosen again. I'm sorry but I'm afraid I don't have my facts completely in order yet, Mrs. Devorac."

"And you want to put off seeing me until a later time?"

"Yeah."

"That's perfectly all right. Any time that's convenient for you. Mr. Rosen, before you ring off--have you ever been to Green Peach Hat?"

"Naw."

"It is quite bad."

"I'm not surprised."

"Please try to visit it."

"Okay, I will," I told her.

She rang off. I stood holding the receiver and then at last I hung it up and walked out of the phone booth.

The Lincoln was nowhere in sight.

Has he gone off? I asked myself. Am I alone, now? I peered into the darkness of the Seattle night.

The simulacrum sat inside the building of the service station, in a chair opposite the boy in the white uniform; rocking the chair back and forth it chatted amiably. I opened the door. "Let's go," I said. The simulacrum said goodnight to the boy and together the two of us walked on in silence.

"Why not drop by and visit Miss Pris?" the simulacrum said.

"Oh no," I said, horrified. "There may be a flight back to Boise tonight; if so we should take it."

"She frightens you. In any case we would not find her and Mr. Barrows home; they no doubt are out enjoying themselves in the public eye. The lad in the fuel station tells me that world-famous people of the entertainment arts, some even from Europe, appear in Seattle and perform. I believe he said that Earl Grant is here now. Is he esteemed?"

"Very."

"The lad said they generally appear but one night and then fly on. Since Mr. Grant is here tonight I would suppose he was not here last night, and so possibly Mr. Barrows and Miss Pris are attending his performance."

"He sings," I said, "and very well."

"Do we have enough money to go?"

"Yes."

"Why not, then?"

I gestured. Why not? "I don't want to," I said.

The simulacrum said softly, "I journeyed a great distance to be of assistance to you, Louis. I think in exchange you should do me a favor; I would enjoy hearing Mr. Grant rendering the songs of the day. Would you be obliging enough to accompany me?"

"You're deliberately putting me on the spot."

"I want you to visit the place where you will most likely see Mr. Barrows and Miss Pris."

Evidently I had no choice. "All right, we'll go." I began to look up and down the street for a taxi, feeling bitter.

An enormous crowd had turned out to hear the legendary Earl Grant; we were barely able to squeeze in. However, there was no sign of Pris and Sam Barrows. We seated ourselves at the bar, ordered drinks, and watched from there. They probably won't show up, I said to myself. I felt a little better. One chance in a thousand .

"He sings beautifully," the simulacrum said, between numbers.

"Yeah."

"The Negro has music in his bones."

I glanced at it. Was it being sarcastic? That banal remark, that cliche--but it had a serious expression on its face. In its time, perhaps, the remark had not meant what it did now. So many years had gone by.

"I recall," the simulacrum said, "my trips to New Orleans when a boy. I first experienced the Negro and his pitiable condition, then. It was in, I believe, 1826. I was astonished at the Spanish nature of that city; it was totally different from the America I had grown up in."

"That was when Denton Offcutt engaged you? That peddler?"

"You are well-apprised of my early life." It seemed puzzled at my knowledge.

"Hell," I said, "I looked it up. In 1835 Ann Rutledge died. In 1841--" I broke off. Why had I mentioned that? I could have kicked myself around the block. The simulacrum's face, even in the gloom of the bar, showed pain and deep, pervasive shock. "I'm sorry," I said.

Meantime, thank god, Grant had begun another number. It was a mild, sorrowful blues, however. Feeling increasingly nervous, I waved the bartender over and ordered myself a double Scotch.

Broodingly, the simulacrum sat hunched over, its legs drawn up so that it could place its feet on the rungs of the barstool. After Earl Grant had finished singing it remained silent, as if unaware of its surroundings. Its face was blank and downcast.

"I'm sorry to have depressed you," I said to it; I was beginning to worry about it.

"It is not your fault; these moods come upon me. I am, do you know, grossly superstitious. Is that a fault? In any case I cannot prevent it; it is a part of me." Its words emerged haltingly, as if with vast effort; as if, I thought, it could hardly find the energy in it to speak.

"Have another drink," I said, and then I discovered that it had not touched its first and only drink.

The simulacrum mutely shook its head no.

"Listen," I said, "let's get out of here and on the rocket flight; let's get back to Boise." I jumped from my stool. "_Come on_."

The simulacrum remained where it was.

"Don't get so down in the dumps. I should have realized-- blues singing affects everyone that way."

"It is not the colored man's singing," the simulacrum said. "It is my own self. Don't blame him for it, Louis, nor yourself. On the flight here I saw down onto the wild forests and thought to myself of my early days and the travels of my family and especially of the death of my mother and our trip to Illinois by oxen."

"For chrissakes, this place is too gloomy; let's take a cab to the Sea-Tac Airport and--" I broke off.

Pris and Sam had entered the room; a waitress was showing them to a reserved table.

Seeing them the simulacrum smiled. "Well, Louis, I should have heeded you. Now it is too late, I fear."

I stood rigid by my barstool.