"Adam Roberts - Balancing" - читать интересную книгу автора (Adams Robert)

He shook his head. It was ridiculous. But, on the other hand, there was
the pleasure. Idly scratching a puppy's stomach might be a barely
registered distraction to the person doing the scratching, but it might
send the puppy into paroxysms of pleasure of the intensest sort. Was all
that recorded too?
Of course, Allen was fairly sure that the Devil had specified human
interaction. But, presumably the same principle applied. Maybe a friend
had seen Allen in the street, but Allen had simply not noticed him (his
eyesight was not good these days without his contacts, and he often didn't
put them in because he didn't like the sensation against his eyeball).
Maybe that friend had been hurt, offended, upset -- could Allen help that?
And yet, would that pain be added to his account? How many forgotten
birthdays, how many overheard remarks not intended for the eavesdropper's
ears, how many cruel but necessary breakings-up with old girlfriends, or
firm talks to junior staff? It was surely not possible to get through life
without causing a certain quantity of pain, if only in the necessary
briskness of human dealings. Could Allen be blamed for that? Would it
still be added to his account?
But, on the other hand (and with a certain dawning sense of the cunning of
the diabolic offer) the pain was only ever relative to the pleasure,
wasn't it? Say, criticising a junior -- as Allen remembered doing a year
and some ago with Francesca Harrow, or Barrow, or was it Frances (he
couldn't quite remember). Large pinkish face. Beer-coloured hair in bangs.
Allen had been forced to lecture her over her sloppy interpersonal skills
on an assignment with a difficult client -- perhaps that had caused pain
in the short term. But in the longer term, it had surely helped her with
her career. What if they looked back and thought that the week of
discomfort Allen had caused had been in the service of a greater good?
Wouldn't that person's many years of being better at their job outweigh
the more temporary immediate hurt? Assuming, of course, that the
individual recognised that Allen had only been being cruel to be kind. So,
again, the question of perspective reasserted itself. What mattered? Maybe
the person had held a grudge -- an irrational grudge, perhaps -- for all
those years. Would that count as pain to be chalked up against Allen's
account? Even if the original incident had been in the individual's best
interests?
Allen was back at his own front door now, with a white plastic bag
dangling from his wrist carrying some stem ginger and a tub of organic
single cream. He tried to swat the circularly buzzing thoughts out of his
mind. It was ridiculous. Some strange fantasy. Too much bookkeeping in his
accountancy exams; it had bubbled under and come up again as this bizarre
notion that pleasure and pain could be added up like money in twin
columns.
And through the door with his keys in hand, Emma was running down the hall
to greet him, carrying shreds of grey felt before her like a prize. 'Miss
Sanders said I could keep this,' she said, hugging him and showing him her
ragged trophy. The way Emma pronounced her teacher's name: Miz Saanders.
She folded the felt carefully. 'They were left over from the trunk, and
now they're mine.'
'What will you do with them, sweetheart?' Allen asked. Emma looked