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

toward Church. With the other he drew the gun toward himself. At that
instant, Church changed again. The air of chirpy madness left him. He
grasped Reich's wrists with iron claws and bent across the counter with
blazing intensity.
"No, Ben," he said, using the name for the first time. "That isn't the
price. You know it. Despite that crazy song in your head, I know you know
it."
"All right, Jerry," Reich said steadily, never relaxing his hold on
the gun. "What is the price? How much?"
"I want to be reinstated," the peeper said. "I want to get back into
the Guild. I want to be alive again. That's the price."
"What can I do? I'm not a peeper. I don't belong to the Guild."
"You're not helpless, Ben. You've got ways and means. You could get to
the Guild. You could have me reinstated."
"Impossible."
"You can bribe, blackmail, intimidate... bless, dazzle, fascinate. You
can do it, Ben. You can do it for me. Help me, Ben. I helped you, once."
"I paid through the nose for that help."
"And I? What did I pay?" the peeper screamed. "I paid with my life!"
"You paid with your stupidity."
"For God's sake, Ben. Help me. Help me or kill me. I'm dead already. I
just haven't the guts to commit suicide."
After a pause, Reich said brutally: "I think the best thing for you,
Jerry, would be suicide."
The peeper flung himself back as though he had been branded. In his
bruised face his eyes stared glassily at Reich.
"Now tell me the price," Reich said.
Quite deliberately, Church spat on the money, then levelled a glance
of hurtling hatred at Reich. "There will be no charge," he said, and turned
and disappeared into the shadows of the cellar.

--------------------------------------

4

Until it was destroyed for reasons lost in the misty confusion of the
late XXth Century, the Pennsylvania Station in New York City was, unknown
to millions of travellers, a link in time. The interior of the giant
terminal was a replica of the mighty Baths of Caracalla in ancient Rome. So
also was the sprawling mansion of Madame Maria Beaumont, known to her
thousand most intimate enemies as The Gilt Corpse.
As Ben Reich glided down the east ramp with Dr. Tate at his side and
murder in his pocket, he communicated with his senses in staccatto spurts.
The sight of the guests on the floor below... The glitter of uniforms, of
dress, of phosphorescent flesh, of beams of pastel light swaying on stilt
legs... Tenser, said the Tensor...
The sound of voices, of music, of annunciators, of echoes... Tension,
apprehension, and dissension... The wonderful potpourri of flesh and
perfume, of food, of wine, of gilt ostentation... Tension, apprehension...
The gilt trappings of death... Of something, by God, which has failed