"Alfred Bester - Demolished Man, The" - читать интересную книгу автора (Bester Alfred)

"He won't have to stop it. I'll stop it myself. He won't have to
protect me. I'll protect myself. It's self-defense, Tate... not murder!
Self-defense! You've done a good job. This is all I need."
"You need much more, Reich. Among other things, time. This is Monday.
You'll have to be ready by Wednesday."
"I'll be ready," Reich growled. "You'd better be ready too."
"We can't afford to fail, Reich. If we do---it's Demolition. You
realized that?"
"Demolition for both of us. I realize that." Reich's voice began to
crack. "Yes, Tate, you're in this with me, and I'm in it straight to the
finish... all the way to Demolition."
He planned all through Monday, audaciously, bravely, with confidence.
He pencilled the outlines as an artist fills a sheet with delicate tracery
before the bold inking-in; but he did no final inking. That was to be left
for the killer-instinct on Wednesday. He put the plan away and slept Monday
night... and awoke screaming, dreaming again of The Man With No Face.
Tuesday afternoon, Reich left Monarch Tower early and dropped in at
the Century Audio-bookstore on Sheridan Place. It specialized mostly in
piezoelectric crystal recordings... tiny jewels mounted in elegant
settings. The latest vogue was brooch-operas for M'lady. ("She Shall Have
Music Wherever She Goes.") Century also had shelves of obsolete printed
books.
"I want something special for a friend I've neglected," Reich told the
salesman.
He was bombarded with merchandise.
"Not special enough," he complained. "Why don't you people hire a
peeper and save your clients this trouble? How quaint and old-fashioned can
you get?" He began sauntering around the shop, tailed by a retinue of
anxious clerks.
After he had dissembled sufficiently, and before the worried manager
could send out for a peeper salesman, Reich stopped before the bookshelves.
"What's this?" he inquired in surprise.
"Antique books, Mr. Reich." The sales staff began explaining the
theory and practice of the archaic visual book while Reich slowly searched
for the tattered brown volume that was his goal. He remembered it well. He
had glanced through it five years ago and made a note in his little black
opportunity book. Old Geoffry Reich wasn't the only Reich who believed in
preparedness.
"Interesting. Yes. Fascinating. What's this one?" Reich pulled down
the brown volume." `Let's Play Party.' What's the date on it? Not Really.
You mean to say they had parties that long ago?"
The staff assured him that the ancients were very modern in many
astonishing ways.
"Look at the contents," Reich chuckled. "`Honeymoon Bridge'...
`Prussian Whist'... `Post Office'... `Sardine.' What in the world could
that be? Page ninety-six. Let's have a look."
Reich flipped pages until he came to a bold-face heading: HILARIOUS
MIXED PARTY GAMES. "Look at this," he laughed, pretending surprise. He
pointed to the well-remembered paragraph.